A Spy Like Me Page 4

  Four

  “You look pale.” Dad sounded like he cared. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah.” Except I’d made a huge mistake. I never should’ve tried to play the role of the flirty date. I never should’ve tied him up. What had I been thinking?

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” He folded his newspaper twice over, which always meant the talk was serious. Usually it meant chatting about my future, especially since I was eighteen. This year I was exploring my options before college, in other words, helping my dad with the business, while experiencing a new culture.

  “Can we talk later?” My words came out kind of breathless, like I’d run ten miles. “I’m meeting Aimee early this morning.” And I had to see about a body.

  He clasped his hands together. “I guess. We’ll talk later then.”

  I nodded while under the table I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands. I had to know if Malcolm was okay. Maybe he’d gotten home last night, wrapped up his arm, and would be at work today. I hoped.

  “Okay, but be careful. Stay with the crowds.” He pushed back the chair and it banged into the cupboard. He dumped the rest of his cold coffee into the sink. “You up for the fiver or the tenner this afternoon?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.” And then I felt worse, if that was possible. I hadn’t run more than a mile since we got to France.

  “Great. I’ll be at the warehouse preparing for the debriefing at nine sharp. I’ll see you there.”

  I nodded and downed a glass of water before slipping outside. Resting my head against the front door, I traced my fingers along the grains of wood. Dad wanted to talk to me, really talk to me, and I’d said no? What if he’d wanted to tell me about Mom? Or say he was sorry? That had to wait. My priority was finding Malcolm.

  I turned to leave and tripped over a brown paper package on the step. Every piece of mail we get addressed to Mom makes her absence that much worse. She should be here to get them herself. I kicked it off to the side and it landed behind a bush with a satisfying thud. The birds singing in the trees needed to be shot. I sprinted to the corner before slowing to a jog. Prayers slipped from my lips, me making a deal with God. Something about Malcolm being alive and at work, and me never eating cookies again.

  Aimee waved ecstatically from the far corner of Les Pouffant’s, our favorite café. I speed-walked through the black wrought iron tables searching everywhere, behind every person and pillar. No sign of Malcolm.

  “Oof!” I walked right into a big somebody.

  “Excuse-moi, Madamoiselle!” His big round belly puffed into me, knocking me back, and his long, curly grey beard had bits of frosting stuck in it. Cinnamon dusted his shoulders. He frowned at me, his shaggy eyebrows almost touching his nose.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, then rushed past him. Aimee had already ordered for me: an extra-tall latte and a croissant filled with strips of chocolate.

  “Oo la la, you look terrible!” The sun gilded Aimee’s blonde frizzy hair and speckled her blue eyes. “You know that was the Pouffant of Les Pouffant’s who you just bumped into.”

  I waved my hand. I had bigger concerns than poofy pastry chefs. As soon as my butt hit the chair, I opened two menus and propped them at the edge of our table. I leaned forward and nibbled on my croissant.

  “What is up?” she asked.

  I wrapped my hands around the warmth of the cup. “I don’t think I can do Spy Games today.”

  She crinkled her nose and laughed. “You are never in the mood. Have you talked to your papa about this yet?”

  “No.” I poked my finger into the melting chocolate, which I’d normally be devouring. “But have you talked with your grandmother about backpacking across the world yet? And touring ancient castles?”

  Aimee puckered her lips to the side. “No. That is different.”

  Customers streamed in and out of the café, a sea of strangers, but none of them were Malcolm. If he didn’t walk out of the café in the next minute, I’d scream.

  After tapping the side of her cup and staring intensely, Aimee squealed. “I can not stand it anymore.”

  “Stand what?” I tested my latte before taking a sip.

  “Your date! With the cute waiter?”

  “Shh.” I didn’t want to talk to Aimee about my date. Her friendship was too important. What if she wrote me off as a total jerk? And then slowly backed out of our friendship? I couldn’t handle losing my only friend.

  Aimee waved her hand. “Put away the menus. He did not show for work this morning.”

  I gagged on my drink and spit it out on the patio. “What?”

  “He did not show. I already asked.”

  Images of Malcolm being pulled from the bottom of the Seine flashed in front of me, his body deathly white, eyes vacantly staring at me. I groaned.

  “I have heard that groan before. After you used your papa’s spy equipment to see if he ever talked to your mother and he caught you.”

  I fiddled with the menu and sipped my latte. I tried to focus on the good parts of last night: the picnic and the effort Malcolm took to make it romantic, probably spending the last of his money for the week. I remembered his quick kiss. I remembered his fine-looking bare chest. But the color red bled into my images and ruined the memory.

  “Share now, before I make a scene.” Aimee stared me down, her grip tightening on her cup, and the blue flecks in her eyes turning stormy.

  I whipped the cash out of my shoulder bag and slammed it on the table next to a small metal tray. “We’ve got to go. Now!”

  “Something must be terribly wrong if you leave half your latte.” Aimee placed her hand on my arm. “What happened?”

  I combed my fingers through my hair and tried not to hyperventilate. “I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s go.” I grabbed the tray from the table, and while Aimee fiddled with her chair, I shoved the tray up my shirt. A girl can never have too much protection.

  We half ran, half walked toward the Eiffel. When we were almost there, I breathed a bit easier. Within minutes I’d know whether or not my date took a big drink in the Seine.

  A little out of breath, Aimee said, “Start talking.”

  That’s what I loved about her. Ever since we met, she always cared. Wanting to know what was wrong without wanting anything back. I took several deep breaths then summed up the previous evening.

  “Beautiful sunset. Sparkling cider. Fruit-filled pastries. Great conversation. A kiss.”

  Aimee clasped her hands together with a dreamy look on her face. “Sounds romantic.”

  Then I told her the rest, almost. I talked about his admission of guilt and the mock trial. And the part where I tied him up and the fact that Malcolm wears boxer briefs, not tighty-whities. When I tried to talk about the shooting and that I didn’t know if he was dead or alive, my throat closed up. I couldn’t do it.

  At first, her face showed nothing. Then her lips twitched, and her eyes crinkled. She lowered her head while her shoulders shook. Several times, she tried to rein it in and act casual but to no avail.

  “Go ahead. Laugh. I get it. I’m an idiot.” But the truth was nothing to laugh at.

  She stopped giggling, wiped at her tears, and then grabbed my hand. “Oh, Savvy. How do you get into these messes?”

  “No clue. I just need to know he escaped.” A part of me wished I’d told her the truth.

  “I’m positive someone found him last night after you left. I’m sure.” She cocked her head and suppressed a grin. “Almost sure.”

  At the Eiffel Tower, I sprinted toward our picnic spot, with Aimee right behind me. The cops were already gone. The river searched. Not even a bit of yellow police tape was visible. The dewy grass soaked my sneakers, and I shivered at the bite in the air. He was nowhere.

  “You sure about all this?” Aimee asked, a hand on my arm.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” I slumped to the ground, not caring that my homemade bullet-proof vest jabbed into my stomach or that the wet
dew was seeping into my pants, and I’d have a spot on my butt for the next hour. What if he was lying in a foreign hospital or tied up as a hostage? I couldn’t let myself think he might’ve died. “What if something terrible happened?”

  “I doubt that.” Aimee crouched next to me. “Do you like him?”

  “Heck, no.” Even if I did, what did it matter? He’d gone missing and could very well be dead. And I had no idea why or what he was mixed up in.

  Aimee nodded as if to say, yeah right. Then she tapped her watch. “You might not get fired from this job because your dad is the boss, but I can.”

  She stood and slung her backpack over her shoulder. The whole ride on the Metro, I tried not to think about Malcolm. We got off at our stop after throwing out all sorts of conspiracy theories like my dad being overprotective and sending his goons to shadow us or Malcolm working for the Mafia. But I had bigger things to worry about.

  Like what the hell happened to Malcolm.