Page 12 of A Spy is Born
His eyes flash green. “Not yet, anyway.”
A chill runs over me, raising goosebumps. I hug Archie closer, feeling the small warmth of him, the steadiness of his little heart behind his chest wall. “I’m not an assassin,” I say again, my voice strong.
Temperance shakes his head and sits forward as if I have misunderstood. “It would be unusual—very rare—for me to ask something like that of you. It's more about going to parties and telling me what you see.”
“You want me to be a spy?”
“A spy,” he says, rolling the word around in his mouth.He likes the taste. A smile blooms across his face—one that looks incredibly genuine. But I live in Hollywood. I work with the best. And I know that anything can be faked. “An asset,” he says. “Though”—another shrug—“we can call you a spy if you like the sound of that better.”
“I don't like the sound of any of it,” I say, sitting back into the chair, feeling the hard lines of it pressing against the raw burns from the rug. “How do I explain this?” I wave a hand up and down my body to the blooming bruises and the cuts and scrapes.
“We can make up a fender bender.” He nods, almost to himself. “That offers you an iron-clad alibi, too.” My eyes widen, and he goes on. “No one will suspect what happened. Why would you kill Jack Axelrod? The man offered you a bright future.” He says it like he's now the man offering me the bright future. I'm cold all of a sudden—so cold.
I killed him.
I killed the director of my freaking starring role.I mean, I had to. No, I didn’t—it was an accident. I try to think back to the moment when I grabbed that statue. I wasn't thinking of killing him; I just wanted to get him off me. I just wanted Jack to stop.
Some strange humor comes over me and a laugh tickles my gut, working its way up my throat until a strange and distorted sound escapes me…a sob? A guffaw?
Temperance cocks a brow.
My gaze drops to his chest—rising and falling the way chests do when a person is alive. I close my eyes as that strange laughter rises in me again.What is so funny about life and death?
The hysteria passes, and my eyes, damp with tears, open. Temperance is still there. I’m still in this kitchen meant for staff.A kitchen should be for family.There should be comfort here, but it’s all bright lights and hard stone, with a stove big enough to feed a soup kitchen but largely used for just one man.
The man I killed.
"Angela?" Temperance’s voice thrums low. "Can I drive you home?"
My leased Lexus, dark blue with tan leather seats, is parked out front. The payments, which six months ago felt like a burden, are now such a small portion of my pay that it's a miracle.
Mary Genovese is going to be upset if the truth of this evening comes out—dramatically so. Her tear-filled green eyes, thick mascara running down her cheeks, flash before my mind's eye.
The thudding of my heartbeat is suddenly loud.Am I going to accept Temperance's offer?
"What?" I'm not even sure what to ask. This feels like the wrong time to make a decision which will affect the rest of my life.
"I can answer any questions you have on the drive," Temperance says, standing. I stare up at him. He's tall and strong, his muscles moving smoothly under his suit jacket. Ishea spy? Of course he is—what a dumb thought.
"But, which agency do you even work for?” I ask, grasping the question out of the air, just one of many that float by me.
A faint, knowing smile graces his lips. "We don't have a name, Angela. Officially, I don't exist. And your role with us won't either."
I nod, as if I can handle that. Which Isocan't. I am the person who tells the waitress when she forgets to charge me for a glass of wine. I'm not a thief…or a killer. Certainly not a spy.
Temperance stands next to the table, waiting, as if my decision has been made.But I never said yes. That thought firms my will. "Just wait a second now," I say, pulling out an old character, a sassy hairdresser I played in high school. "You can't just say I'm going to work for you. I have to agree.” I meet his eyes. They grow shadowed and deeply, terrifyingly knowing.
"Say yes," he commands in a voice that brokers no argument. Not from me. But I’m not me right now. I'm a character who is brash and brave and takes no crap from anyone.
I stand, holding Archie tight to my borrowed scrubs. Reaching my full height, which without my heels is just barely to Temperance's chest—which is still doing that rising and falling thing—I stare up into his dark, knowing eyes.
"I just killed someone by accident. In self-defense. The fact is I've got nothing to be ashamed of. I don't have any reason to lie. I should tell the world what happened here. You have to know I’m not his first victim."
Temperance does not respond—not a twitch of a facial muscle. Not a hint of anything. He is a statue, as solid as the Oscar I used to bludgeon Jack to death.
"You can't make me." It comes out petulant, but I'm not backing down. I'm not walking off with this man—walking away from the truth and into the dark without a fight, without a decision on my part. I won't be walked into my future with a hand at my lower back.
"I can.” Temperance says it low, so low. "I can do anything I want."
