Page 42 of Twisted Enemy
I force myself to offer a confused frown. “I…”
“I learn a lot from the kids on the robotics team,” Mr. A says. “One boy, his father wanted him playing baseball instead of plugging in circuit boards and running all sorts of calculations. The kid thought he was being smart. Every day, he checked out all the high school teams. He memorized the box scores for every game—who got a hit, who scored a run, everything that happened in every game. But his father still found out the boy was coming to robotics.”
“He dropped in on a game?”
Mr. A shakes his head. “No. He worked a warehouse job. Couldn’t get off shift.”
“Then how’d he know?”
“The boy stopped talking about robotics completely. Math, engineering, coding, he never said a word about them. Only baseball. All the time.”
“I’m not sure I follow?—”
“I can’t remember the last time I heard you mention one of your mother’s cons. I know she left you with bad memories, son. But I remember when we used to talk about her grifts, about howthey worked, about what it took to land a mark. You never bring them up now. Not a word.”
I swallow hard as I start building an answer. “That’s because I?—”
“Don’t lie to me, son. Memorize the box scores. Talk about baseball. But don’t tell me any more lies.”
I’m still fumbling for words when the kitchen door swings open. Mrs. A brings in a triple-layer strawberry cake and Kate carries plates. The room fills with laughter, with meaningless conversation about recipes and movies and stories from the Andersons’ youth.
As always, I insist on doing the dishes. I take the opportunity to check the oatmeal box where Mrs. A hides her cash. I slip in a couple of extra twenties, figuring she’ll attribute the difference to a little forgetfulness.
The Andersons send us home with enough leftovers to feed a family of four for a week. Kate clutches a set of index cards, each one bearing careful instructions for meatloaf or chili, for stuffed peppers or tuna casserole.
Mr. A clasps my hand on the front porch. It takes an effort for me to meet his gaze. “Mr. A…” I say.
“I know,” he says, and he cups the back of my neck with one hand. “Don’t be a stranger.”
We’re halfway home before Kate says a word. “Well, that went well,” she says with a sarcastic lilt.
“Don’t start.”
“Let me get this straight,” she says. “I’m the one who made a dog’s dinner out of things. But you’re the reason we’re carrying home food those people could actually use.”
“They need to feel like they’re helping.”
“They helped. Years ago. You’re not a little boy anymore. There’s only so much they can do.”
I could explain how I pay them back. How I refinanced their mortgage, creating fake paperwork to offer them a special rate to celebrate their bank’s fiftieth anniversary. How I hack into the electric company and lower their monthly payments. How I divert deliveries, making them think they’ve been selected as secret shoppers.
But for the first time in years, I’m not sure of any of it. I don’t know if I’m the good guy or the bad guy.
When we arrive at the house, Kate carries all the food over to the guards at the gate. “Here you go, boys,” she says. “A little something extra.”
It’s a good thought. A kind thought. But it makes something burn inside me. I should have been the one to think about my employees. It’s one more thing I’ve let slip.
Once we’re standing in the foyer, Kate plants her hands on her hips. “That’s it? I don’t get a thank you? You aren’t going to say I did a good job?”
“A good job doing what?”
“Covering your sorry arse. I held up your feckin’ story. I delivered on your eejit lies.”
“You cleaned up the mess you made. That doesn’t warrant athank youin my book.”
“Whatdoesit warrant then? Punishment?”
She tosses off the word as if it means nothing. I might scold her. Ground her. Take away her TV privileges.
