“You can say what you want from there.”
I nod and think about the best way to proceed. “I need to talk to you about the Tate job in Fort Worth.”
Raised eyebrows are the only reaction I get from her.
“We have the same employer,” I add.
Her arms cross in front of her chest. “You should leave.”
Damn. I can see it in her eyes. She’s about to take off.
I hold up my hand as if I’m going to stop her from fleeing. “I would feel the same way you do right now if someone showed up at my place like this. We really need to talk, but I’m going to put the when and where in your hands.” Digging in my bag, I pull out a pen and a receipt from the gas station where I just filled up, then scribble my info on the back. Looking right at her so my sincerity is clear, I say, “My number. And my real name. The one only a few people have. It’s important that we speak. I’ll be in Panama City Beach until I hear from you.”
I walk back to the street, put the paper in her mailbox, and leave without her saying another word. I’m taking a huge risk by doing this, but I don’t have another choice.
It’s five days before she makes contact.
She gives me only fifteen minutes’ notice to meet her at a farmer’s market near the beach. It’s crowded and loud and exactly the place I would have suggested if I were her.
“The only Lucca Marino matching your age and ethnicity was the one mentioned in an obituary for Angelina Marino of Eden, North Carolina.”
I nod. “And that’s all anyone will find until I decide otherwise.”
We walk through the stalls, dodging little kids, until we get to a small area full of picnic tables. There’s an empty one in the back corner, and she sits down on one side while I sit down on the other.
“So, talk.”
I jump right in. “I have a friend who helps me on jobs. He piggybacked on the security system prior to me going in on the Tate job. You were there right after me. You lifted the forgery I left behind.”
She’s quiet for a moment then finally says, “I got my ass chewed out that I handed over a fake and didn’t know it.”
“That was probably the ugliest painting I’ve ever seen. I can see why you wouldn’t think anyone would re-create it,” I say to break the tension.
She laughs. It’s quiet and short lived but I’ll take it.
Then my smile fades when I think about what I’ll have to tell her. “Did you know we weren’t the only ones there trying to recover it?”
She nods. “Yeah, I was told it was some sort of bullshit test. Winner got a bonus.”
“I think it was more than a test,” I say quietly. “My friend was able to identify everyone else, and I went looking for them, just like I did you.”
“And?”
I clear my throat. “And it’s just us. We’re the only ones left.”
Amy sits up a little straighter. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Smith was cleaning house, and this was his way of determining who he was keeping and who he wasn’t. And it’s not like he can just fire us after the things we’ve seen and done.”
I list the names of the others and causes of death while she stares at me, unblinking.
“I think you were spared since you actually figured out the puzzle by going to the laundry room even though you walked away with the fake.”
When I asked Devon to locate everyone he had on video, it was for selfish reasons. This is such a solitary way of life, constantly moving and lying about who you really are. I didn’t see the others only as competition. I saw them as potential friends. Others who would understand the challenges of living and working like this. A group where we could be our true selves and possibly even help one another, even if just as sounding boards when tasked with a difficult job. Devon was a bit more hesitant to track down the others, but I won him over. Neither of us were prepared to learn that everyone but Amy was a victim of some grave accident or sudden fatal illness shortly after that job.
Amy still hasn’t said anything.
“It’s only a matter of time before we’re on the wrong side of one of his tests. If it wasn’t for my friend, I wouldn’t have known to go to the laundry room. He literally saved my life.”
She looks away from me and stares out into the crowd.
“I’m not waiting around for him to take me out,” I say.
Finally, I get a reaction. She frowns as she considers my words and what they mean. “So you’re what, quitting? I tried that . . . there’s no quitting.” Her voice cracks, and it’s clear there is so much she’s not saying.