anymore, and each word exchanged between us now rang strained, stilted?
“Alex.”
“Island?”
“Don’t play with me like that again. This is difficult enough as it is.”
I registered the cotton of his shirt grazing my forearms as he moved closer, felt his drawn-out sigh breeze against my forehead. “I’m sorry. This isn’t easy for me either.”
Alex’s hand brushed mine—perhaps a substitute for the kiss he knew he couldn’t risk with people watching us—and he walked past me toward the elevators.
I heard the doors slide shut with an odd mixture of regret and relief.
Colin and I were, in many regards, the same. For example, when I have a problem with someone, I never dare to bring it up; I just keep stealing anxious glances at them until either they react or I give up and go eat some brownies. Which was exactly what Colin was doing at the moment. No need to ask whether he had seen Alex play trust games with his gun and touch my cheeks earlier; the answer was written all over his face.
When his eyes darted to me for the hundredth time in five minutes, I abandoned my scrupulous analysis of the activity logs on Thom’s Mac and spun my chair around to face Colin. He seemed to shrink in his own chair and allowed his long black bangs to fall in front of his glasses in an attempt to conceal his discomfort. Too bad I already knew this technique—it was my favorite one too.
“Did you find anything new?” I asked casually.
More shrinking.
“Is there something you’d like to say?”
Raisin-level shrinking.
“About Agent Morgan, perhaps?”
Subatomic particle–level shrinking. Before my eyes, the Wall Street Avenger was now threatening to disappear. A low gasp indicated he was trying to force words out of his throat. “No . . . I mean—” Slender fingers left the laptop’s keyboard to play with the black cotton of his T-shirt. “Look. I know . . . I’ve heard you guys were sort of . . . close. But I think you should be more careful around him.”
I stole a guilty glance at the hallway, where I knew Alex might show up at any moment. I knew Colin and I were alone, but I whispered anyway. “What do you mean?”
“They had an eye on you, even before this Ruby thing,” Colin hissed back.
I shook my head, half-relieved. “It’s okay, I know about that. Alex and that old guy—they made it clear that they have a file on me. That’s actually why I have to work for them. I guess . . . I guess my life is a little complicated.”
Colin’s eyes widened in apparent outrage. “ A little complicated? You’re the South African’s daughter!”
A prickling sensation spread across my cheeks as if I had just been slapped. The only man I had ever heard being called that was March. But we were clearly talking about Dries, my biological father. I looked down at the laptop’s keyboard, unnerved by Colin’s intense scrutiny. “I’m Simon Halder ’s daughter.”
“No, you’re not. I managed to access part of your file. You’re his daughter. The older South African, I mean—” I noticed his hands were trembling a little, but that energy radiating out of him seemed more like childish excitement than fear. “And the young one , his disciple . . . You’ve met him too, right? What’s he like in real life? I mean, I’ve read some crazy stuff.”
The first words my brain conjured upon hearing this were “bazooka” and “sniper rifle.” I mentally cringed. March was, indeed, capable of some crazy stuff.
“Do you know what the NSA’s code name is for him, the young one?” Colin asked, his tone turning conspiratorial.
“Um, no.”
“The Tomato Guy.”
I gave him a wary look. “Do I want to ask?”
The grimace twisting his mouth was an answer in itself. “Have you seen The Goonies ?”
“Oh no . . .”
“Oh yeah . They actually have him on some old Russian surveillance tape doing that . . . Well, they’re pretty sure it’s him, anyway. You can’t really see his
“Alex.”
“Island?”
“Don’t play with me like that again. This is difficult enough as it is.”
I registered the cotton of his shirt grazing my forearms as he moved closer, felt his drawn-out sigh breeze against my forehead. “I’m sorry. This isn’t easy for me either.”
Alex’s hand brushed mine—perhaps a substitute for the kiss he knew he couldn’t risk with people watching us—and he walked past me toward the elevators.
I heard the doors slide shut with an odd mixture of regret and relief.
Colin and I were, in many regards, the same. For example, when I have a problem with someone, I never dare to bring it up; I just keep stealing anxious glances at them until either they react or I give up and go eat some brownies. Which was exactly what Colin was doing at the moment. No need to ask whether he had seen Alex play trust games with his gun and touch my cheeks earlier; the answer was written all over his face.
When his eyes darted to me for the hundredth time in five minutes, I abandoned my scrupulous analysis of the activity logs on Thom’s Mac and spun my chair around to face Colin. He seemed to shrink in his own chair and allowed his long black bangs to fall in front of his glasses in an attempt to conceal his discomfort. Too bad I already knew this technique—it was my favorite one too.
“Did you find anything new?” I asked casually.
More shrinking.
“Is there something you’d like to say?”
Raisin-level shrinking.
“About Agent Morgan, perhaps?”
Subatomic particle–level shrinking. Before my eyes, the Wall Street Avenger was now threatening to disappear. A low gasp indicated he was trying to force words out of his throat. “No . . . I mean—” Slender fingers left the laptop’s keyboard to play with the black cotton of his T-shirt. “Look. I know . . . I’ve heard you guys were sort of . . . close. But I think you should be more careful around him.”
I stole a guilty glance at the hallway, where I knew Alex might show up at any moment. I knew Colin and I were alone, but I whispered anyway. “What do you mean?”
“They had an eye on you, even before this Ruby thing,” Colin hissed back.
I shook my head, half-relieved. “It’s okay, I know about that. Alex and that old guy—they made it clear that they have a file on me. That’s actually why I have to work for them. I guess . . . I guess my life is a little complicated.”
Colin’s eyes widened in apparent outrage. “ A little complicated? You’re the South African’s daughter!”
A prickling sensation spread across my cheeks as if I had just been slapped. The only man I had ever heard being called that was March. But we were clearly talking about Dries, my biological father. I looked down at the laptop’s keyboard, unnerved by Colin’s intense scrutiny. “I’m Simon Halder ’s daughter.”
“No, you’re not. I managed to access part of your file. You’re his daughter. The older South African, I mean—” I noticed his hands were trembling a little, but that energy radiating out of him seemed more like childish excitement than fear. “And the young one , his disciple . . . You’ve met him too, right? What’s he like in real life? I mean, I’ve read some crazy stuff.”
The first words my brain conjured upon hearing this were “bazooka” and “sniper rifle.” I mentally cringed. March was, indeed, capable of some crazy stuff.
“Do you know what the NSA’s code name is for him, the young one?” Colin asked, his tone turning conspiratorial.
“Um, no.”
“The Tomato Guy.”
I gave him a wary look. “Do I want to ask?”
The grimace twisting his mouth was an answer in itself. “Have you seen The Goonies ?”
“Oh no . . .”
“Oh yeah . They actually have him on some old Russian surveillance tape doing that . . . Well, they’re pretty sure it’s him, anyway. You can’t really see his
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