Beneath This Mask (Beneath, #1)(66)

His mother’s condition? Decided not to run?

“What happened to Mrs. Duchesne?”

“It all hit the papers at the same time. She had a stroke. Spent several weeks in a coma. She’s only been out of the hospital and home for a week or so now. I’ve been following it rather closely, given the circumstances.”

I stumbled to a chair and sat.

Oh my God. Simon.

“She’s okay, though? She’s going to be all right?” I asked, my chest aching for him. For his father. Jesus Christ.

“The extent of her recovery is unclear from the papers, and the family has released very little information. I came to bring you some things so you’d be properly attired when you rushed to his side to comfort him during his time of need. It’s just unfortunate it’s taken so long for the FBI to sort out this ridiculous mess.”

Mercenary. Bitch.

She crossed the lobby to retrieve a garment bag from the sofa on the opposite side of the room.

“This is for you.”

I eyed the bag like it held hazardous waste. If it contained trappings of my former life, that description wasn’t far off in my mind.

“Keep it.”

“But Charlotte, you need to—”

I crossed my arms. “Don’t tell me what I need to do.” I fought to keep my voice steady, but my success was marginal. “You don’t know me. You never did.”

Her gaze hardened as she straightened her already perfect posture.

“You have a chance to pull us out of the gutter where your father dragged us.” She hissed the quiet words from between clenched teeth. “And you will not waste it. Do you hear me, Charlotte? If there’s a chance that man will take you back after all of the shameful publicity you’ve brought on yourself—You. Will. Not. Waste. It.” She reached down and grabbed my arm, her nails biting into my skin.


“Let. Me. Go.”

She glanced down and released her hold as if she was surprised to find my arm in her grip.

Smoothing her pristine linen suit jacket, she attempted to tuck away the flare of emotion. It was probably the most honest reaction I’d ever seen from her. But she couldn’t quite hide the desperate look of a drowning woman. One who thought to use her daughter as a life raft. Well, Mother, I thought, I’m not even sure if I can save myself. But she needed to know that Simon wasn’t going to be her ticket back into the social circles from which she’d fallen. I wouldn’t let anyone use him. Not even my own mother.

“My relationship—or lack thereof—with Simon, is none of your business. And it will never be any of your business. Please don’t come looking for me again until you’ve decided to act like a decent human being instead of a manipulative bitch. I have to go. Good luck, Mother.”

She stayed frozen in place as I stepped around her to make my way to the elevator. As the doors shut, I wondered if it would be the last time I saw her.



Although the papers had referred to it as ‘Club Fed,’ the razor wire, stony-face guards, and shifty-eyed inmates of FCI Otisville reminded me all too much of Rikers. A chill slid through me at the memory. If not for Ivers’s intervention at Simon’s direction, I might be spending the rest of my life in a place like this.

I followed one of the guards to a large room filled with chipped, gray formica-covered tables and orange chairs, all bolted to the floor. I studied my surroundings as I waited for the door to open.

My father still walked like a king, a man certain of his superiority to all of those in his domain. Neither prison, nor the khaki-colored jumpsuit, had diminished his air of authority. His silver hair had thinned on top and had lost the perfect style ensured by weekly five hundred dollar haircuts. His eyes widened upon entering the room. Apparently he hadn’t seen pictures of the new me.

He settled into the chair across from me as the guard backed away.

“You’ve got twenty minutes, Agoston.” My father didn’t bother to reply to the guard’s statement. His focus had shifted entirely to me.

“Charlotte. Jesus, I’ve been worried sick about you.”

I stilled. Parental concern was the last thing I’d expected from him.

“Excuse me?”

“You disappear for a damn year, no word to anyone, and then you reappear out of the blue and throw yourself on the mercy of the FBI. Which, God knows, they have none. What the hell were you thinking? I thought you were smarter than that. I know you’re smarter than that.”

Seriously? He was going to criticize me? I leaned forward, fingers gripping the edge of the table.

“Apparently I wasn’t smart enough to realize that my own father tried to frame me. Who does that to their own kid?”

He blinked in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The notebook. The one that was hidden in my closet. The one with all of the account numbers and deposits. The one that linked me to everything you did. I’m lucky I’m not still sitting in a cell because of you. Why would you do that?”

His jaw dropped.

“I never … It wasn’t … You weren’t…” I’d never heard my father stutter before. I’d never heard him speak except with absolute, unwavering confidence. He cleared his throat, seemed to pull himself together, and leaned forward to whisper, “I was taking care of my family. You were supposed to use that damn brain of yours and get the hell out of the country. I knew your mother would never figure it out, but I knew you could. I left the book in your room so you’d have the means to get your hands on resources to look after yourself and your mother when everything fell apart.”