Page 54 of Twisted Enemy
The only problem was, I left the AI conference early. I knew more about large language models than any of the presenters at the lectern. Everyone had solid facts, but there wasn’t a glimmer of imagination among the lot of them. After four days of shaking hands and exchanging business contacts, I was ready to come home. I flew commercial and had a driver pick me up at Dulles.
I walked in three hours before Megan was scheduled to welcome her first buyer.
I fired the security company. Had the fence rebuilt to twenty feet. I added biometrics on the gate. Every window in the house was replaced with bulletproof glass. And that was the last time I allowed my sister to set foot inside my home.
I recovered my originals from the basement and stored her copies in the attic because I didn’t know what else to do with them. I kept the provenance documents in the safe in my office, right next to my own legitimate papers.
I’d never admit that I saved the forgeries so I could one day work Megan’s con on my own. But I could admire a job very well done. Shannon taught me never to squander an opportunity.
“Get these crated up,” I say to Nilsson. “I need them delivered after five on Friday. Arrange with Diamond Freeport to have them placed inside my secure gallery. The courier who takes them to Delaware can bring the documentation too.” I’m certain there will be surcharges involved. There always are.
“Sir,” Nilsson says, reaching for his slim phone so he can do my bidding. He’s making his first call as I head downstairs to my office.
23
KATE
Megan shifts from foot to foot as I ask the host for a table in the corner. The restaurant is outfitted in neutral grays and beige. Everything is soft. Everything screams luxury.
As I settle into the seat against the wall, I think about Da. He’s the one who taught me never to have my back to the room. It’s good advice in general. But today, I especially don’t want Megan having the chance to signal any conspirators as we eat.
From what I’ve read, running a good con is a lot like working magic. The trick is to distract people, to keep them from seeing your real goal until it’s too late for them to respond. That, and con artists harness the evil twins of greed and shame. They offer their marks something too good to be true, then embarrass them so badly they won’t go to the authorities for payback.
I don’t distract easily, and I’m wary of anything that seems to break in my favor. I’m also a Lynch, so I’m perfectly capable of getting my own payback.
As I place my starched white napkin on my lap, I study Megan. Her hair is shorter than I’ve seen it before. It’s messy, like she’s been running her fingers through the spikes she’s dyed a bright yellow-green. Her face is thinner than I remember. She fingers her silver fork, and I wonder if she’s calculating what it would bring in a pawn shop.
“That was smart,” I say. “Getting a message to me with that boyo. How do you know him?”
She looks around, as if she suspects a hidden microphone. When she answers, she whispers like a spy transferring state secrets on a lonely bridge at midnight. “I sleep on his mother’s couch sometimes.”
“He was very good at slipping me that paper.”
Her shrug is barely perceptible. “I taught him.”
“He learned well. And Smoky played his part too.”
Another tiny twitch of her shoulders. “He’s a good boy.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking about the dog or the child. I wait for her to clarify, but we’ve squeezed all the juice we can out of that topic of conversation.
I wonder why she’s lured me here if she’s so reluctant to talk. I’m curious enough to say, “I’m glad you reached out. I’ve been wanting to apologize.”
“For what?” Her voice sounds creaky, as if she isn’t used to speaking out loud, and she doesn’t get the volume right. Two tables over, a man looks up from his mobile. Megan winces and hunches her shoulders. “Sorry,” she says, dropping her tone to a whisper.
“That day,” I say. “Back at the house.”
She nods, because there’s only one day we can be talking about. Just the thought of saying Tarasov’s name floods my mouth with the metallic taste of a dirty penny. I set my shoulders and take a breath, reminding myself I wanted to contact Meganthat night. I would have, if Cole hadn’t forbidden me to speak to her.
My mouth goes dry as I remember his command. I take a sip of water as a server appears with two heavy menus.
“Ladies,” he says. “Welcome to Seasons. In addition to our regular menu, the chef has prepared a phenomenal lobster ravioli in yuzu sauce. We also have…”
As he rattles off three more specials, I study Megan. I have to be careful. Cole has told me in a dozen different ways his sister cannot be trusted. She manipulates everyone she sees. It’s impossible for her to speak without calculating precisely what advantage her words can bring her.
But the girl sitting across from me looks harmless. No. She looksharmed.
She flinches as two women exclaim across the restaurant, loudly complimenting each other on their unexpected weight loss. Megan twists her fingers in her lap as if she’s trying to open a door to another dimension. She tucks her chin into her chest as the server finishes his recital.
