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.