Present Day

I’m up earlier than usual for a Sunday morning. The events of last night generated an endless parade of questions, ensuring I didn’t sleep well. I slide out of bed, trying not to wake Ryan, and slip downstairs to the kitchen. I need to use the next couple of hours contemplating what to do while I wait for Mr. Smith’s next move.

I start the coffee machine before flipping on the small television in the breakfast nook. An old black- and-white movie hums along in the background while I stare at the steady drip of dark liquid.

The rumble thundering down the stairs has me spinning in that direction. Ryan skids into the kitchen, his phone clutched to his ear. He snaps his fingers at me then points to the TV. Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he says, “Put it on three.”

He looks panicked.

“I’ll call you back,” he says, then ends the call.

I change the channel and the local newscaster fills the screen. She’s on the side of the road, the warm glow of the rising sun behind her highlighting the bridge that crosses the lake.

“The accident happened shortly after eleven last night. Authorities say the car was going at a high rate of speed when it swerved off the road, breaking through the guardrail at the foot of the bridge, and crashing into the lake. When asked if the driver was impaired, police said they wouldn’t have that answer until the toxicology results came back.”

The camera pans the scene and a wave of nausea rolls through me. The same car that backed out of our driveway last night is currently being pulled out of the water by a huge tow truck. And then the picture from the Derby party of James and the woman fills the screen.

“James Bernard and his companion, Lucca Marino, were visiting from Baton Rouge. Both were pronounced dead at the scene, and the Bernard family was notified shortly after,” the newswoman says.

Holy shit.

Then they cut back to the anchor desk. “Chrissy, this must be awful for Mr. Bernard’s family.”

And then Chrissy is on a split screen. “Yes, Ed. Mr. Bernard’s father is currently at home recovering from a fall, and his son, James, had come to help his mother with his care. They are asking for privacy during this very difficult time. We’ve made some calls to our affiliate station in Lucca Marino’s hometown of Eden, North Carolina, and we’ll be sharing what we learn about her on this evening’s broadcast.”

Ryan stares at the small screen with his hand over his mouth. His expression is blank, as if he is still processing what he’s seeing.

When the news moves to the next story, I shut the TV off. Ryan drops down in the closest chair, his head in his hands. I go to him, my fingers brushing through his long strands.

“I can’t believe this. We left things in a bad way last night, and now this. He’s been a fuckup his whole life. Getting into shit, stealing from me . . . but I thought maybe he was better. And then when we were playing around with that football last night, he asked me for money. I was drunk and I lost it. Told him I was done with him for good.”

I don’t say anything, just continue to stroke his hair while I consider how this could have happened and what it means.

“We need to go see his parents,” he says as he looks up at me. “Was she drunk? Should we have stopped her from driving?”

I shake my head, and it takes a moment for me to find my voice. “No. She had two glasses throughout the night. She was fine to drive.” I refuse to let him blame himself for any of this.

This seems to give him some relief but it’s short lived. He hops up from the chair like he was sitting on a spring. “I need to see his parents. His mom is going to be heartbroken. His dad too. Fuck, the cops are going to want to talk to us.” He squeezes his eyes closed. “We were the last ones to see them alive. They’ll have questions for us.”

He’s rambling, and I’ve got to center him. And hopefully talk him out of calling the cops. The absolute last thing I need is for the cops to know anything about me.

“One thing at a time. Let’s get dressed and go visit James’s parents. See if they need any help making the arrangements. We’ll worry about the rest of it later.”

He nods as he walks in a tight circle in the middle of the kitchen.

“Yeah, let’s do that.” Then he stops. “What about Lucca? Should we call her parents? Are you still in contact with your high school friend who has family there? Maybe she knows them.”

Deep breath in. Hold it. Slowly release.

“Let’s start with James’s parents. They may have already called her family.” He nods again then sprints toward the stairs. “I can be ready in ten minutes.” I drop down in the chair Ryan vacated.

Run.

Mentally, I’m hauling ass out of this town without looking back. Breathe.

I need to think this through. I need to think about this as if I were Mr. Smith. Would he be willing to exert the time and energy it would take to groom her for this job and use the connections he’d need to insert her here only to kill her off just a short time after she arrived?

The only way that scenario seems likely is if she completed the task she was sent to perform and her usefulness had run its course. I don’t see how that would have been possible.

I came into this job knowing it was a test—not the first test he’s given me in the eight years I’ve worked for him—so I expected there was more going on here than I was originally told. The only thing that’s certain is that woman’s appearance here was linked to my boss’s displeasure over my performance on my last job, and now she’s dead.

For now, I will accompany Ryan to James’s parents’ home, where we will provide comfort by telling them how happy James was in his last hours of life. I will learn everything I can about the woman who was sent here to impersonate me. I will hold Ryan’s hand while he grieves the loss of his friend. Regardless of the harsh words, I know Ryan would rather James had not died in that car wreck last night. Death has a way of letting those hard feelings go.

But most importantly, I will finish what I started.

Two cop cars are parked in front of James’s parents’ house when we pull up. I knew this was a possibility, although I was hoping they had already come and gone.

Ryan parks on their street two houses down, the closest spot he can find.

The Bernards live in an older neighborhood on the other side of the lake from Ryan, where the houses were built in the mideighties, in various shades of brown brick with low-slung roofs and narrow driveways.

There is a steady stream of people walking toward the front door, just as we are.

“Why are there so many people here right now? This seems like the kind of crowd that shows up to the funeral home,” I whisper to Ryan as he maneuvers us through the crowd to the side of the house. I knew he and James grew up together and he spent a lot of time here as a kid so I’m not surprised he’s bypassing the front door.

“These are probably mostly neighbors and members of their church. It will be twice this at the funeral home visitation. A lot of these women keep a casserole in the freezer for just this occasion.” He looks back at me from over his shoulder and rolls his eyes, adding, “Plus, they’re here for the gossip.”

Ryan lets us in through the side door and we move down the narrow back hall toward the main living area. There are people wall to wall, and the low ceilings intensify the claustrophobic feel. A group of little old ladies wearing very official-looking name tags and matching smock aprons—probably the Bible

brigade from the Bernards’ church, if I’m guessing right—scurry around offering water or coffee to those visiting as well as making sure the room stays tidy.

“They aren’t in here,” Ryan mumbles, then pulls me back into the hall and through another open doorway that leads to a small office.

Rose Bernard’s thin, frail body is wedged into the corner of an oversize chair, while Wayne Bernard is stuffed into a wingback chair next to her with his bum leg propped up on a small ottoman. One uniformed officer sits on a stool in front of them while two other officers stand behind him.

The cops’ attention pivots to us the second we fill the doorway.

Ryan and I both take a step back. “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to interrupt . . .”

Mrs. Bernard lets out an anguished cry when she sees Ryan. “Don’t leave,” she cries. “How did this happen, Ryan? Was he okay at your house last night? Did something happen?”

Ryan moves into the room and crouches down next to her, his hands covering hers. “Nothing happened. He was great! They both were. I wouldn’t have let them leave if I didn’t think they were okay.”

The officers share a look with each other when they realize the deceased were at our house before the crash. We’ve gone from random visitors to possible witnesses to their state of mind before the accident.

Mrs. Bernard leans forward just enough that Ryan can embrace her. Mr. Bernard swallows thickly as he reaches over to clutch his wife’s hand in support.

I shouldn’t have come. I should have let Ryan handle this alone. Assured him this was a private matter, not a place for a stranger like me, but I was so desperate for any shred of information about the woman that I ignored the risk of what I could face here.

Now I realize how big my mistake is. The officer who was sitting on the stool now has his sights set on us. And because it seems like the only thing stopping Mrs. Bernard from completely falling apart is Ryan’s arms around her, the officer approaches me first.

“Hello,” he says, as he turns the pages in his notebook. “I’m Deputy Bullock. I’m gathering as much information as I can. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

I’m stuck. I can’t say I don’t know anything because obviously they were with us last night. And as much as I would like to answer those questions on my terms, now will have to do.

“Of course,” I say, then nod toward Ryan. “We rushed right over as soon as we heard what happened.

James and Lucca were at our house last night.”

With his pen poised over the clean sheet of paper, he asks, “And your name is . . . ?”

I hesitate only a second before I answer, “Evie Porter.” I’ve now officially lied to the police. “Is Evie your full name or is it short for something else?”

“Evelyn.”

“Okay, Miss Porter, how did you know Mr. Bernard and Miss Marino?”

Ryan disengages himself from Mrs. Bernard, promising her he will return shortly, then comes to stand next to me. His right arm slips around my waist and I’m not sure if he’s trying to show a united front or if he needs any comfort I can give him.

“Hi, I’m Ryan Sumner. James was an old friend of mine. Evie and I had him and Lucca over for dinner last night.”

Deputy Bullock scribbles away and doesn’t look up when he asks the next question. “Was Miss Marino drinking last night?”

Ryan looks at me before answering, the pause causing the deputy’s pen to stop and his eyes to move from the notepad to us.

“She had one glass of wine when they first arrived around six and then one more glass with dinner.

James had a considerable amount more to drink, which is why she was driving,” I answer.

Deputy Bullock waits a beat then goes back to his notes. “Would you say she seemed in control of her faculties when she left your home?”

“Yes,” Ryan answers.

“Is it possible she had more to drink than you witnessed? Maybe she snuck another glass or two that you weren’t aware of?”

“I guess it’s possible but I think that’s unlikely. She was around us the entire evening except for when she went to the bathroom.”

Drunk driving is the most obvious reason for an accident like this. The question of her alcohol consumption will eventually be answered when the autopsy comes back, but I know she couldn’t have had more than two glasses.

“Did Mr. Bernard put up a fight about not being able to drive home?” he asks.

Mrs. Bernard clutches her chest at his question. Ryan, realizing how upset she is, motions for us to move into the hallway.

“No. Not at all. He willingly and gladly got into the passenger seat,” Ryan finally says when we’ve cleared the room.

The deputy nods. He’s writing more than what we’re saying, but the way the pad is angled I can’t see his notes.

“How were things between Mr. Bernard and Miss Marino last night? Any arguing? Fighting?” “No, not at all,” I answer.

“Anything happen that could have caused Miss Marino to be distracted? Upset?” The officer looks at Ryan, shrugging as he adds, “Any talk of old girlfriends? I know how reminiscing with old friends can be. Did she have to sit and listen to Mr. Bernard’s glory days and maybe didn’t like what she was hearing?”

“No, it wasn’t anything like that,” Ryan says, his words tinged with anger. “Neither of us would have wanted Lucca or Evie to be uncomfortable.”

The officer holds a hand up. “Okay, I get it, but I have to ask. Just trying to figure out what was going on inside of her head while she was behind the wheel last night.”

I know what was going through her head. I not only outed her, I all but threatened that Mr. Smith would turn on her as quickly as he turned on me. And Ryan had just told James he was done with him after he asked Ryan for money. Neither of them was in a good place.

“What time did they leave your home?” he asks. “A little before eleven,” I say.

We answer every question, laying out the evening, starting with the dinner invitation made yesterday morning in Home Depot all the way through our day, until we saw their taillights disappear down our quiet street. Deputy Bullock only looks up when Ryan stumbles over an answer, but mostly his haziness on the details comes from the fact that he matched James drink for drink, and I’m sure the evening is a bit blurry for him.

“When was the last time you’d been in contact with Mr. Bernard before he came back to town?”

Ryan stares off into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. He finally answers. “Maybe a year ago. He needed money. I sent it to him.” He keeps his answer to the bare minimum, and he doesn’t mention James’s most recent request for financial help.

The deputy looks at me. “And when was the last time you’ve interacted with Mr. Bernard before his return home?”

I shake my head. “I just met him for the first time a week ago.”

Ryan adds before I can stop him, “Evie moved here from Brookwood, Alabama, a few months ago.

She didn’t know James.”

Oh fuck. I watch as he scribbles down that last helpful tidbit from Ryan, hoping the background put in place for Evelyn Porter holds up.

Finally, the deputy pockets his notebook and pen. “We’ll be in contact if we have any further questions.”

I nod, but Ryan stops him before he walks away. “Have you notified Lucca’s family yet?” His arm, which is still anchored around my waist, pulls me closer. “I thought they may want to talk with us since we were the last ones to see her.”

“We’ve called the local police in Eden and are waiting for them to get back to us. They are trying to track down any relatives of hers now.”

There are no relatives of Lucca Marino in Eden, North Carolina, but he will find that out soon enough. “Well, if they have any questions or just want to talk, will you please forward my number to them?”

Ryan asks.

Deputy Bullock nods. “Of course.”

We help the Bernards back into the main living room after the police depart. Even though there is a line of people wanting to offer their condolences, Mrs. Bernard latches on to Ryan again. He sits down beside her on the couch while she speaks to each person who steps forward. It seems we’re stuck here for the foreseeable future. I opt to help out in the kitchen, where most of the church ladies have migrated. No one gossips more than God-fearing, casserole-toting women, so I settle near the coffee pot, offering to refill any mug that comes my way, and hope to hear something interesting until I see an opening to snoop the room James and the woman were staying in.

There are three women in the kitchen with me. Francie seems to be the cook of the group and has taken the wild assortment of food that was brought in and divided it into portions that will go in the fridge for the Bernards to eat later. The other half is being put out buffet style on the dining-room table for visitors to enjoy. Toni is what Mama called a “latherer.” She does a good job of looking busy without actually getting anything done. And Jane is the list master. There’s a list of people to call. A list of things to buy. A list of dishes that have been dropped off. A list of people who have dropped by. And a list of people who will write notes to thank anyone who brought a dish or dropped by.

Death requires a lot of organization.

Francie disappears into the small laundry room off the kitchen for a few minutes then reappears with a large basket of folded clothes. “I’m going to run these to James’s room,” she says.

It’s clear the weight of the basket is more than she can manage, so I grab this opportunity.

“Please, let me help. I can handle this if you point me in the right direction,” I say, my hands already on the basket.

Francie seems relieved. “Honey, that’s sweet of you. These were James’s and Lucca’s things. I didn’t want Rose to have to fool with them just yet. His room is the second door on the right,” she says, pointing to a hall off the kitchen.

I bolt out of the kitchen and down the hall. It’s startling to see this room as they left it last night, thinking they would be back. After dropping the basket of clothes on the unmade bed, I spend time going through the papers on the small desk, but there’s nothing of any significance there.

Two open suitcases sit side by side on the floor next to the bed, with clothes spilling out. Toiletries and makeup litter the bathroom countertop. I dig through the woman’s bag first, only finding clothes and shoes. I’m surprised they never unpacked, making use of the empty closet and chest, given how long they’ve been here. I run my fingers around the inside edge of her suitcase, stopping when I pass over a rough, raised area. I dig into the lining and find the Velcro closure then see the familiar brown color of a 4×6 manila envelope as soon as I pry it open.

The same type of manila envelope my instructions come in.

I pull it out and open it, my heart pounding when I see the single sheet of paper still inside.

Subject: Evie Porter

Since initial contact has been made, prepare to engage subject again. If the opportunity to enter subject’s residence presents itself, use it to search her belongings. Concentrate on her personal space and possessions. Report anything that she deemed important enough to hide,

regardless of what it is. When in doubt, document it and send it to me. Proceed with extreme caution when dealing with her things and leave no trace behind.

I study the outside of the envelope and see the address of a shipping store and the mailbox number 2870. He’s desperate if he sent her to look through my stuff. He knows I wouldn’t ever keep anything of value at Ryan’s.

Tucking the instructions back into the envelope, I fold it then stuff it in the back pocket of my jeans. “Everything okay in here?” Francie asks from the open doorway, startling me.

I glance at her over my shoulder while grabbing a stack of clothes I had removed from the bag. “I thought I’d save Mrs. Bernard the trouble of repacking Lucca’s clothes since I’m sure she’ll need to send her stuff back to her family. I didn’t want her to have to do it.”

That gets me a big smile. “Oh, wonderful. I’ll help you finish up in here. I’m hiding from Jane. She’ll make me wash the dishes.”

Francie and I spend the next thirty minutes getting all their belongings back into the two suitcases. I continue to search for the previous instructions and detailed description of me as the subject that she

would have received, but I don’t find anything else.

I head out to the main room to look for Ryan. I need to get out of here and go talk to the one person who can help me decide what to do next.

‌Alias: Mia Bianchi—Six Years Ago

There are lots of people trying to be the brightest and best help to Andrew Marshall. Smoke blowing and ass kissing are the two main qualities every employee and volunteer possesses. I decide to take the opposite route. It’s risky for sure, but I don’t care how inflated your ego is, blunt honesty has more value than blind worship, and if Andrew’s smart enough to get this far, he knows it.

I’m currently embedded in Andrew Marshall’s political campaign as he makes his bid for governor of Tennessee. When I got my first set of instructions for this job, which listed my new identity as Mia Bianchi and the address of my new apartment in Knoxville, Tennessee, there was a handwritten note on the bottom of the page that said: You’re moving to the big leagues so don’t fuck this up.

Even though I’ve been working for Mr. Smith for a little over two years, I have never met him in person or talked to him on the phone since the Kingston job, so I’m guessing that added footnote was from Matt.

Everything goes through Matt.

The second set of instructions came a week after I settled in Knoxville. It listed Andrew Marshall as the mark and informed me that Mia Bianchi would start work on his campaign the next week. My hair, makeup, and clothing were to be flawless. I was to be the brightest person in the room. I was to make myself indispensable. There were seven days to do a deep dive into Andrew Marshall’s life and everyone associated with him, including his opponents, so I’d be ready for my first day on the job. Moving up is all I’ve wanted, so there was no way I wasn’t going to be prepared.

I’ve come a long way from that first job. I was reckless just like Mr. Smith said. It was messy. And luck had been on my side. Jenny was in a medically induced coma for a week. The hit on the head mixed with all the drinking and pills made for a bad combination. When she came to, she had no memory of the entire twenty-four hours before the fall. I was in the clear. Or rather, Izzy Williams was.

I have checked in on Miles a couple of times over the last two years. The Kingstons are divorced now, and it looks like Miles lives with Mr. Kingston and the latest Mrs. Kingston. The last time I stalked the new wife’s Facebook page there was a post she shared from an interior design company she’d hired to remove all traces of Jenny. The post showed interior shots of the newly renovated home, including one of Miles’s room. When I zoomed in on the bookshelf, I spotted an origami swan sitting on one of the shelves. I’ll never know if it’s the same one I made with him that day or if he’s learned to make them on his own, but seeing that swan displayed as if it holds some importance is proof that I existed there, even if only for a very short amount of time.

Maybe I’m not quite the ghost I thought I was.

The Andrew Marshall job is the first time I’ve had to settle in, because I was told in the beginning it would be a couple of months before I got any further instructions. It is also the first job that came with a thick packet of cash for expenses, like rent and utilities, and other incidentals needed to become Mia Bianchi. This next rung on the ladder is pretty sweet.

It’s taken me three months, but now Andrew Marshall turns to me for my reaction on anything from which tie to wear to whether he should attend a certain event. A nod or quick shake of my head is all it takes to blow someone else’s carefully made plans for him.

Andrew Marshall is the only one okay with this.

I don’t need eyes in the back of my head to see the target painted there. His staff has dug into my background, trying to find anything that will knock me from my throne, but they’ve come up empty.

I am Mia Bianchi. Even though I’m only twenty-two, new-hire paperwork shows I’m twenty-seven. The right clothes and makeup are key. I’m a graduate of Clemson University—Go Tigers!—and I excelled in my public policy classes and killed it on the debate team. I can’t even begin to understand how someone was able to add my image into a pic of a debate against UNC a few years ago. But there it was. Just grainy enough that if you were looking for me you’d find me, but not so clear as to draw questions from the students who were actually present.

After two years of working with Matt, I know he isn’t capable of what it would take to insert me so fully into this engineered life, and I grow more and more curious about the team behind Mr. Smith. I

wonder how many people he has out there doing jobs like this.

But those are ponderings for another day.

The subject up for debate today for Andrew Marshall is the American Bar Association event at some fancy hotel in Hilton Head, South Carolina. It’s a weekend conference at which lawyers, including those like Andrew, who no longer practice but still keep their license up to date, will get continuing ed credits in between a morning round of golf and afternoon happy hour. It’s as much for rubbing elbows and networking as it is for thirty-minute crash courses, like the latest tech for small firms. And since my third set of instructions finally arrived and made it clear that Andrew most definitely should be there, that’s what I’m pushing.

But there is another opportunity for him, one that is better for his campaign, in Memphis at the same time. And given he’s running for governor in Tennessee and not in South Carolina, it’s an uphill battle.

Andrew’s wife, Marie, is weary of me. I have not given her a single reason to think I want her husband in any way, but women are funny. I don’t have to give her a reason for her to still expect it.

The surprising thing about Andrew Marshall is that he’s a good man. I have searched through every file and personal record I can get my hands on. And since he doesn’t suspect a thing from me, I’ve had access to all of it. There’s not a hint of stealing or skimming money, no back-door deals, no promises he wouldn’t admit to publicly, he’s as in love with his wife now as the day he met her, and he’s good to his employees. Even his pets are rescue dogs.

All my past jobs centered around me getting something Mr. Smith wanted or needed—whether it was computer files or documents or any other piece of physical goods or property. But this job was different from the beginning.

Now I know why I’m here. Andrew Marshall will be the next governor of Tennessee and Mr. Smith wants to own him on day one.

Since there was no blackmail to be found, I will have to create it.

His chief of staff has just finished laying out all the very good reasons to pick Memphis over Hilton Head. My very good reasons for picking the convention have already been laid out. The Hilton Head choice is a regional event, not just for South Carolina, and there will be some pretty big hitters attending, since the keynote speaker has just announced he’s running for president, so media coverage will be on the national level. The networking and potential for new campaign donors is greater. And with social media transforming the landscape of politics the way it has, to become the governor of Tennessee you need to think bigger than Tennessee.

The room is quiet as everyone present waits for Andrew to either accept or reject the invitation to the Memphis event.

Andrew knows my choice. He looks at me and I’ve got a few seconds to decide if I’m going to help ruin a perfectly good man.

A quick shake of my head seals his fate.

Andrew believed I left for Hilton Head a day ahead of him and the rest of the team to get everything set up so we could make the most out of his time there. But that wasn’t the reason I headed east a day early, and Georgia was my destination, not South Carolina. On Friday morning I’m in Savannah, an hour south of Hilton Head, waiting for the first ride of the day on the Hop on-Hop off Old Town Trolley.

When it’s time to board, I go straight to the back, taking the aisle seat on the last row on the driver’s side, hoping no one asks to squeeze past me for the window seat.

The tour company is efficient enough that we are loaded and on the move within a few minutes. An enthusiastic older man is on the mic, his booming voice so loud that not only the occupants of the bus but everyone on the street we pass gets schooled on all things Savannah.

By the time we finish the first loop, I’m the only passenger left from the group I started with, since the others disembarked at different stops along the route.

On the second stop of my third pass, a tall, thin Black man boards the bus and ambles down the center aisle, stopping in front of me.

He’s wearing an Atlanta Braves tee and hat and his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses. “Is that seat taken?” he asks, pointing to the window seat I’ve been guarding.

I pull my legs in tight and gesture for him to help himself.

He scoots in past me, sits down, and sets his backpack in his lap.

“Devon, I presume,” I say. “I appreciate all the cloak-and-dagger but I have a lot to do and wasting two hours riding in a circle wasn’t in my plans.”

He nods toward the speaker set in the ceiling of the trolley, and I notice for the first time the tiny little red light hiding behind the mesh material. “You can tell a lot about a person by the way they act when they are left waiting too long.”

I focus my attention back on him. “I guess I passed.”

His smirk appears for just a second then it’s gone. “With flying colors, Mrs. Smith.”

It was probably dumb but I couldn’t resist using the same fake name my boss does. I found Devon on the internet a year ago when I was looking for some tech I couldn’t get on my own that I needed for a job. This is the first time we’re meeting in person, which is why he made me jump through hoops before showing his face.

I appreciate the level of paranoia though. “What is it you require, Mrs. Smith?”

This is where it gets a little tricky. “I’m not exactly sure yet. I have a job in Hilton Head but won’t get full instructions until I get there and therefore won’t know my needs. Once I do, I’ll need it quick, so I’m asking that you be on hand to offer goods and support as needed.”

He looks out of the window and doesn’t speak. It’s a big ask, which is why I wanted to do it in person rather than our usual channels of online communication.

Since the night I was almost arrested at the country club, I’ve understood the value of having people in place to ensure someone will protect me if things go wrong. The help Mr. Smith sends will take care of me as long as it doesn’t hurt him, though. I need to have someone who’s looking out for me, and only me. It’s time I start building my own team.

Finally, Devon turns back to me. “What if you require something I can’t put my hands on at such short notice?”

“Then I’m hoping you can work the problem with me and offer another solution.”

He’s looking out the window again while the trolley stops to load and unload passengers. “It sounds like you are expecting a problem,” he says.

I nod, even though he’s not looking at me. “I am. Call it a gut instinct. The job is being set up by someone who doesn’t understand the players as well as I do. I’m trying to get ahead of the moment when I’m presented with my instructions and determine the plan won’t work.”

“This is not how I normally do things,” he says.

“I understand. I will make it worth your time. Also, if you ever need help from me, I will be there.”

He gets what I’m asking for—a partnership. We’ve had a solid working relationship the last year; he knows I pay well and I know he delivers.

“We are in a trial phase, Mrs. Smith. The first hint of a problem and I’m gone.”

I nod as I pass him a slip of paper from my bag that includes all pertinent information for the weekend. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Just as the trolley stops, I ask one last question before I get off. “How did I pass with flying colors?”

“You sat here like you had all the time in the world when I knew that wasn’t the case. And that tells me everything I need to know.”

Andrew Marshall and the rest of the team have arrived in Hilton Head. Once I get Andrew settled in his suite, I check into my much smaller room, four floors below. I’ve just kicked off my shoes and unzipped my bag when there is a quick knock on the door.

A guy in the hotel’s uniform smiles at me when I open the door. I look down at the domed covered plate that’s sitting on the pushcart in front of him.

“Wrong room. I didn’t order room service,” I say, and go to close the door.

The guy pushes the cart toward the door just enough to keep it from closing. “Matt sends this with his compliments.” His voice is low and deep.

This stops me cold. I’ve never met anyone else who works for Matt. Doing a quick scan, this guy looks like he’s in his midthirties. His hair is short, streaked with gray around the temples, and he’s only a few inches taller than me. The name tag on his uniform says George. His face and body are plain enough to make him easily forgettable. But the way his eyes never leave me ensures I won’t.

I pull the door open farther and motion for him to come inside. He parks the cart in the center of the room then leaves without another word. Lifting the domed cover reveals a piece of carrot cake and an envelope similar to what I would typically find in the mailbox.

It’s unsettling that they know carrot cake is my favorite.

I take the cake and the envelope to the small table so I can dig in while I see what’s in store for the weekend.

But after reading his instructions, I’m sure the chances of this plan working are slim. It’s a weak plan.

Super weak.

Just as I feared it would be.

Matt had bragged that he would be in charge on this job, which led me to believe Mr. Smith wanted to see what he was capable of. I guess I wasn’t the only one moving up. But after dealing with Matt for the last two years, I wasn’t confident he was ready to be let loose like this, so I reached out to Devon.

The next time there’s a knock on the door, I know what to expect. A bellhop, not the uniformed George, pushes a luggage cart into the room then unloads three large boxes. I tip him and off he goes. I get the monitors set up and hook up the laptop, logging into the site on the paper I received earlier. The screen fills with small blocks, showing every angle of Andrew’s room and balcony.

Matt somehow got Andrew’s wife, Marie, an invite to a very coveted event in Nashville to guarantee she won’t be around when a woman approaches Andrew during the cocktail reception tonight to entice him to take her to his room. And I’ll be here making sure it’s all captured on camera.

I’m almost offended by how dumb this plan is.

Because what Matt doesn’t understand is that, if given the opportunity, Andrew will not cheat on his wife. It doesn’t matter how many beautiful, scantily clad women throw themselves at him. It doesn’t matter that he’s got a room to himself. It doesn’t matter how many drinks get fed to him. He’s not a cheater.

Matt didn’t do his homework for this job and it shows.

But I can’t come out of this weekend empty-handed. It’s clear I’m playing a bigger game now with a lot more at stake. I’m past petty theft.

Relief that I brought Devon on board is the only thing that keeps me from panicking. I make the call, and within half an hour, we have a new plan. A better plan.

While Devon scrambles to get what we need, I pick up my cell phone to call Andrew. He answers on the second ring.

“Hey!” he says. “All settled in?”

Andrew’s room is one of the largest suites this hotel offers. There is a huge sitting area and dining room in addition to the bedroom. And there’s a camera covering every inch, allowing me to watch as he paces the room, his phone to his ear.

“Yes. All settled. How about you?”

He drops down in one of the large chairs near the window. “Yes. All good here. Looking forward to a little downtime since I don’t really need to be at the conference until tomorrow morning. I think I’ll skip the cocktail thing tonight and just see everyone at breakfast. Plenty of time to rub elbows at the

conference and the dinner tomorrow night. I’ll just get some room service then hopefully a good night’s sleep.”

And that’s Andrew Marshall. Squeaky clean and a tad dull.

“You know I’m supposed to fill every minute you’re here with things that will help your campaign,” I say, laughing into the phone. “Especially since we pissed everyone off by coming here rather than Memphis.”

I see him hang his head low. “Mia, I need one night off.”

Guilt bubbles to the surface until I remember the Kingston job. This is not my world. I’m just a ghost passing through. It’s enough that I’m able to shove those feelings way down deep and press forward. “How about this—I’ve looked at the list of attendees and there are some big hitters here. Why don’t I pick a handful for a private cocktail hour in your suite? Very low-key. Mingle with them for an hour then I’ll clear the room and let you have the rest of the night to yourself.”

Now his head is lying against the back of the chair, his hand rubbing his face. “One hour.”

“Got it! I’ll have room service send up a bar setup and some food.” I disconnect the call and put the rest of my plan into place.

Every man I invited to Andrew’s private cocktail party jumped at the invitation. I was very particular with my list, choosing men from all over the South, since this was a regional conference and not just one for South Carolina. And since all my jobs from the last two years have taken place in the South, I’m up to date on the political climate in each state, including the good and bad on every big name here.

Like Andrew, there are a handful of lawyers attending who also hold a range of elected positions, from local government office to the Senate. But I only invited the bad boys looking to play. The same ones who will quote the Bible along with their great love of family, faith, and God at their next rally.

Might as well make the most of this for him politically while I’m at it.

Andrew works the room with one eye on his watch as he counts down the minutes until this is over. The booze is flowing freely, thanks to the girls I brought in to serve it. I hand Andrew a beer and he nods his thanks. He rarely drinks, but when he does, it’s always a Miller Lite. Just one.

He sips his beer then says quietly, “Not sure I would have invited Senator Nelson or Congressman Burke.”

I’m not surprised by his comment. Both are self-serving pricks, but then so are all the men I’ve invited here tonight. “I know, but this is part of playing the game. Like it or not, these are the guys who have the most pull.”

I nod to one of the girls and the music becomes a little louder. Ties are being loosened. Hands start to stray.

Andrew senses the change in the party, and he looks at me in confusion. He’s also sweating a little.

His eyes glazing over.

He leans in close. “Maybe we should call it a night. I’m not feeling good.”

I give him a sympathetic look. “You don’t look good. Let’s get you some air.” I lead him to the balcony, then help him onto the lounge chair. By the time his head hits the headrest, he’s out. The beer in his hand falls to the floor, the spiked liquid spreading across the tile.

“Sorry, Andrew,” I whisper, then head back into the party. It’s time for the girls to make their move.