Scammed Page 17

  “Break time’s over,” she snaps. “Half of the senator’s group is already here for a meeting.”

  I frown as Myra scurries away. The campaign staff usually doesn’t meet for another half hour. I can’t help wondering if something’s happened.

  As I rush to the front of the restaurant, I see three staffers I recognize bypassing the hostess stand and making their way to the back room, brows drawn and frowns tight. Myra’s already hustling that direction carrying a water jug, and I grab another on the bar and hurry after her.

  Inside, every seat around the oak table is filled, and people are filling in behind the chairs.

  Everyone is talking. Hands are moving, faces are red.

  Fear makes my heartbeat stutter. They know about Susan. They know about Grayson. There wouldn’t be this much frenzy over what happened between Mark and me the other night.

  Something big has leaked, and I need to warn Dr. O.

  My eyes catch on Mark, standing in the front of the room, nodding grimly as a man with orange hair reads something off his cell phone.

  “What’s going on?” Myra asks Ben as we start filling glasses on the table at the back of the room. There’s so much commotion, no one else seems to notice we’re there.

  “The news just broke,” says Ben. He shows us the open screen on his phone, which has Senator Sterling’s smiling photo on one side, and a news anchor on the other.

  Illinois Senator Pulls 180 on Vote says the caption below.

  “He was presenting the drug bill today,” says Ben, pulling anxiously on the collar of his shirt.

  “The what?” I ask.

  He tucks his phone into his pocket. “Decreasing the price of pharmaceutical medication.”

  “Right,” Myra says with a weak smile.

  Ben lowers his head so we can hear what he has to say.

  “It’s been a huge deal getting the support in-house. All the other politicians are funded by big money—big drug companies, like Pfizer and Biotech and—”

  “And Wednesday Pharmaceuticals,” I say.

  “Yes,” Ben whispers. “Exactly. And those big companies are going to lose a ton of money by supporting this bill, so they’ve been buying out their senators so they’ll vote against it.”

  “But not Sterling?”

  Ben shakes his head. “Are you kidding? Sterling consistently votes for the people. He’d never be bought out by some giant company like Wednesday. At least, until now.”

  “He was bought out by Wednesday?” I ask, panic fluttering inside me. Dr. O owns Wednesday Pharmaceuticals. Why would he bribe Sterling when he wants to see the man in jail for covering up Susan’s death?

  “No one knows,” says Ben. “That’s why everyone’s freaking out. He was supposed to propose this bill today that would save people millions of dollars countrywide on their medicine, but he changed his mind last minute and voted with the opposition.”

  “In support of the big drug companies?” I ask.

  Ben nods. “Someone got to him. The staff had no idea this was coming.”

  Someone got to him. There are millions of people who could bribe or threaten Sterling, but only one I know of who’s connected to a big drug company—who would stand to profit off a bill that gouged the public on medicine prices.

  Dr. O.

  As the man with orange hair stands at the front of the room, I think of Vale Hall, a giant mansion supported by a rich benefactor that gives away laptops and clothing like candy, and sends students to college without breaking stride.

  I knew Dr. O’s money came, at least in part, from Wednesday Pharmaceuticals, but I never thought about how much he needs that money to continue his operation. We only con for him because of what he does for us, and all he provides comes down to money.

  If someone tried to take away his money, how far would he go to stop them? Would he use Wednesday’s wealth to bribe a senator he would rather see rot in jail? Or would he threaten that senator with intimate knowledge of a covered-up murder, provided by me, and a missing family member, now hidden away in Vale Hall?

  I keep my head low, filling water glasses slowly to make my presence here warranted.

  It’s too coincidental. Dr. O wants Matthew Sterling to pay for what he did to Susan. He wouldn’t let the senator walk the streets if he could crush him, even if Matthew Sterling could vote in ways that would bring Dr. O more money.

  The man with the orange hair—Lewis, the campaign manager, from what I gather from people talking—is telling us to expect an uproar from Sterling’s constituents. People will be calling—constituents, press, donors—demanding an explanation for this betrayal. The staff needs to stick to a consistent message and keep things vague until “Matt” returns Lewis’s calls. Yes—Greener Tomorrow is still on. Yes—the senator still fights for the working class.

  The sound of cell phones ringing is already filling the air, overriding the raised voices. Ben joins Emmett and a few other interns huddled around their phones, while Myra heads out of the room. She waits a moment for me to follow, but I hesitate, holding my gaze steady until Mark Stitz looks up.

  His cheeks turn rosy as his eyes hold mine. A moment later, he rises and slips through the crowd in my direction.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, leading me outside the room. Instead of crossing the pavilion, I tilt my head toward the hallway where we talked before, and after a reluctant moment, he follows me in that direction.

  “This isn’t…” His nostrils flare as I pull to a stop, not far out of sight. “This isn’t a good time, Jaime.”

  “We need to talk.” I step closer.

  He eases back.

  An echo of fear ripples through me—a memory from his drunk fumbling in the dark parking lot across from Risa’s. He’s come to his senses now, but that doesn’t mean all is forgiven.

  “I want to know about Jimmy Balder.”

  He glances back as a cacophony of strained voices stretches around the corner. “Not now.”

  “I think now is perfect, actually.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, we have work to do.”

  “I heard,” I say. “It’s hard when people don’t do what you want, isn’t it?”

  The muscles of his neck pull tight.

  I smile grimly. “Let’s make this quick. You said Matt didn’t like Jimmy. Why?”

  “Did you not hear me? We have a crisis…”

  “Remember what happened in the parking lot last week? How that guy had to step in because you wouldn’t keep your hands to yourself? I’m not sure your team could handle more drama today.”

  The color drains from his face.

  “What did Matt tell you about Jimmy?” I ask.

  “Is this extortion?” He looks shocked that I could even think of it.

  “That’s a big word, Mark. I’m only eighteen. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?”

  His nostrils flare as he exhales. “Nothing happened.”

  “You sure about that?”

  His hands lift to the sides of his face. “You bitch.”

  “Careful,” I tell him. “Don’t want to add any more fuel to my harassment complaint.”

  He’s crumbling, panic seizing him, but I feel no pity. He played his cards from the beginning and took advantage of his power. Myra was right; if we let people like this get away with mistreating us, they’ll continue to do it.

  “Jimmy,” I tell him. “The senator didn’t like him. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try harder. He was a rock-star intern. He pulled in tons of donation money. What did he do to piss off the boss?”

  Mark blinks up at me as if I’ve transformed into a monster in front of his eyes.

  “That guy with the red hair is your boss, right? Lewis? Convenient that he’s here today. I’d love to meet the people in charge of this operation.”

  “Okay,” says Mark, holding up his hands. “Okay. Fine. Matt has limited contact with the interns. I didn’t even know he knew
who Jimmy was.”

  I hold Mark’s gaze. I will not be bullied, intentionally or not, by him again. He needs to know that.

  “We were working late one night. It was after that fund-raiser at the art gallery.” I picture the photo on Ben’s phone. Jimmy, rocking forward in laughter.

  Mark scratches the back of his head. “Some of the staff and interns came back here to count up the donations. Matt showed up as people were starting to leave. He and the artist wanted to thank everyone.”

  My pulse spikes.

  “What artist?”

  “Some woman, I don’t remember her name. All the proceeds from her paintings went to the campaign.”

  Susan Griffin was an artist. She painted the portrait of herself that hangs in Dr. O’s office.

  “When was this?”

  “Last year sometime. I don’t remember.”

  “But you could look it up.”

  “Probably. I guess. What does it matter? I thought you wanted to know about Jimmy.”

  “I do,” I say. “What happened then?”

  “They thanked people, and everyone headed out. It was late. After midnight sometime. I was packing my stuff up when I heard voices in Lewis’s office.” Mark glances down the hall. “Matt and Jimmy were in there arguing.”

  “About what?”

  “I didn’t catch all of it. Just that Matt wanted him to leave. That night. He told Jimmy he should never come back.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. Jimmy must have said something at the gallery. Offended him or made the campaign look bad. I’d never heard Matt so upset.”

  “But Jimmy was a good intern, everyone says so.”

  “I’m just telling you what I heard,” Mark says. “I can’t be everywhere at once.”

  This doesn’t fit. Why would the senator tell Jimmy to disappear when he could make him disappear? If Sterling wanted Jimmy gone, he wouldn’t warn him. Giving a head start wouldn’t have worked in the senator’s favor.

  “Why didn’t Matt talk to you about it?” I ask. “You’re the internship supervisor. If Jimmy messed up, wouldn’t you be in charge of discipline?”

  “Normally, yes.” Mark’s face warps with annoyance. “Matt has control, though. If he doesn’t like what he sees, he can make the call to fire someone.”

  I tap my fingers against my thigh. Jimmy couldn’t have been fired. Something else was said in that room, or Mark misunderstood. If Jimmy had been cut loose, human resources would still have his file.

  “So Jimmy didn’t come back after that?”

  “That night was the last time I saw him.”

  “Where was the artist?”

  Mark groans. “In the room with them. Are we done?”

  “She didn’t say anything?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “Well, what did she look like? Was she mad? Was she offended? Did Jimmy say the wrong thing to her?”

  “I don’t remember what she looked like. This was forever ago.”

  “What about she and Sterling? Were they together?”

  “He’s married.”

  “And?”

  Mark’s hands rest on his hips. “They weren’t messing around in the office if that’s what you’re asking. Look, we have things to do, so if you’re all done, go smile and take people to their tables.”

  A good con knows when the ice is growing thin. Mark’s done talking, and I’ve gotten what I need, even if I’m not sure what it means.

  I’ve turned and am striding away when I hear him say, “You think you’re so smart, but you don’t have nearly the power you think you do.”

  I glance at him over my shoulder, mildly amused by the wings in his shirt sleeves and the daggers in his glare.

  “You’re a minimum wage waitress,” he says. “And we were out. No one’s going to believe your word over mine when I tell them you were the one acting inappropriately—that I tried to spare your feelings to be nice, but you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

  “Is that your defense, Mark?”

  “It’s my offense.”

  “Oh.” I crinkle my nose. “To be your offense, wouldn’t you have had to tell someone before I made the complaint?”

  His jaw drops open.

  “Did I forget that part?” My smile is pure ice. “I called your human resources department on my way in and reported your behavior. Apparently I’m not the first girl you’ve known to make this kind of claim. I’m sure they’ll be calling for your side of the story at some point, once the smoke clears from the current crisis.”

  As I stride back to the hostess station, I catch Myra’s worried expression and give her a reassuring nod.

  Mark will no longer be a problem.

  CHAPTER 20

  At the end of our shift, Myra and I walk to the parking lot together so I can fill her in on my report to HR, but before we step onto the sidewalk she pauses, digging through her purse.

  “Can’t find my keys,” she says, then glances up. “Fancy car waiting over there. Must be for Lewis.”

  I follow her gaze to where Moore, bundled in a long wool coat the color of ash, is leaning against the outside of a gleaming black sedan parked behind a utilities truck. With a wince, I consider taking a lap around the block so she won’t see me get inside. This wouldn’t be an issue if I could just drive myself.

  “Actually, that’s my ride,” I say.

  She stops digging, brows hiked halfway up her forehead. “Seriously?”

  I ball my hands inside my sweater, pulling the sleeves into my fists. A year ago, I never thought being waited on by a driver and a fancy car would make me uncomfortable, or that I’d feel anything but pride that someone could feel jealous over something I had. But judgment, whether intentional or not, is painted all over Myra’s face, and I wish I’d told Moore to meet me around the corner at the train station.

  “My mom’s kind of paranoid about safety,” I say as Moore glares at a bike messenger who rides too close.

  “That’s … awesome,” she says, though I can’t tell if she really thinks so. “I think I left my keys in my locker. Fill me in tomorrow on what happened.”

  She’s already walking back inside.

  “I’ll help you,” I say.

  “No, it’s cool. See you tomorrow.”

  The driver thing has made it weird. Definitely need to work on my own ride.

  With a sigh, I walk around the utilities truck that’s blocked Myra and me from Moore’s watchful gaze. My security guard gives me a curt nod, then slips into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

  Awkwardness prickles between us. He’s still mad about my boundaries with Grayson, and I’m still trying to pretend he didn’t catch us kissing. It’s going well. Every time I glance his way, I feel the need to sink deeper into my seat.

  We’re nearly out of Uptown before he speaks.

  “How’d it go today?”

  I have more information about Jimmy Balder than I did three hours ago—maybe enough to stop this job. But I keep thinking about Matthew Sterling’s change of heart, and if his support of companies like Wednesday Pharmaceuticals has anything to do with Dr. O’s interference.

  And what it means for Grayson if it does.

  “All right.”

  Moore’s not one for small talk, but since Grayson’s arrival, he’s been around a lot. It was nice when the tether was longer, but the truth is, apart from the kissing Grayson debacle, I don’t mind so much. Picking up my mom for Family Day was a stand-up thing to do, and even if Moore’s got the personality of an icicle, he’s from my neighborhood, and he gets me in a way other people can’t.

  He grunts, and we drive on.

  Twilight is bruising the sky as he pulls off the highway. I think he’s trying to avoid traffic—this isn’t our usual route—but when he pulls into a high school parking lot, I lean forward in my seat.

  “What are we doing here?” There are no other cars in the lot, and the yellow lights paint the
cracked asphalt with oval shadows.

  “Got a flat,” he says.

  “No we don’t.”

  Is this a test? What has Dr. O put him up to?

  Moore grabs his coat from the backseat, giving me a look when I don’t move.

  “You want to learn how to drive or not?”

  I gape at him.

  He shakes his head, the equivalent of a Moore eye roll.

  “Get out,” he says.

  I get out. I’m in such a hurry to zip up my coat, I get my sweater caught and fray the bottom of the white knit.

  I’m sure I’ve cared less about things, but I can’t think of what they are now.

  “If you’re doing this, you’re going to be responsible about it,” he says, and I get the sense he’s not talking just about the car, but my assignment.

  He pulls on his leather gloves. “Rule number one. You want to learn how to drive, ask an adult with a license. Don’t steal someone’s car unless you’re asked to do so.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Images of the day I took the SATs slide through my excitement, reminding me of Caleb and how things were before Grayson came.

  Before everything got screwed up.

  I can’t think about that now.

  “Rule number two,” says Moore. “Driving’s a privilege. You get it when you learn to take care of a car.”

  “I’ll feed it twice a day and tuck it in every night, scout’s honor.” I hold up three fingers.

  “I’m regretting this already,” he says.

  I follow him to the trunk, where he pulls out a metal crossbar and hands it to me. Each beam is the length of my arm, and it’s heavy enough to knock someone out if you swing it right.

  “Tire iron,” he says, then opens a wide plastic case. “Jack. Wedges. Jumper cables. Road flares.”

  “Not to be confused with firecrackers.”

  “A car’s a weapon, Brynn,” he says. “This stuff’s important.”

  I glance over at him, finding it suddenly hard to swallow. I know a car’s a weapon. I remember every time Grayson lets me see beyond his shield to the brokenness beneath.

  “Right,” he says grimly. It’s an apology, and we move on.

  Removing the jack from the trunk, he sets it behind the front driver’s side tire. He calls for the wedges—twin metal triangles hanging from thick rope handles—and tells me to put them behind the back tires to make sure we don’t roll.