Wren
This isn’t the first time I’ve been stopped by airport security, but it is the most annoying.
Maybe because this time, I’m not actually doing anything wrong.
The room I’m in is small and gray with a storage shelf against the wall that looks like it’s full of items taken during security and customs—a little water gun stacked next to uncured meat. I stare at it, a laugh bubbling in my throat when I wonder if the items came from the same guy.
Across the metal table, two airport security guards are frowning at me. One sits, and the other stands against the wall. Even though I’m the most relaxed perp ever—leaning back in mychair, answering all their questions, not a single nervous glance in the forty-five minutes I’ve been here—they still won’t let me go.
Granted, I would have been relaxed even if Iwasdoing something wrong. But aren’t the police always saying they can tell? They can smell guilt a mile away? So, right now they should be aware that I haven’t violated a single detail of my special parole situation.
“Were you or were you not in Japan in 2015?”
The security guard asking the questions can’t be more than twenty years old, his skinny little arms shaking in the uniform that’s too big for him. I count at least twelve pimples on his face, what I think might be fungal acne. If he was nicer, maybe I’d tell him about the miracle cure—Head & Shoulders—that helped me get rid of mine.
Instead of giving him skin care tips, I groan and let my head drop back. “I’ve already answered these questions. Look—the Japan thing was dropped. And Ecuador? I’m not permitted to talk to you about that unless you have the proper clearance.”
Skinny balks, and his mustached, beer-bellied boss—who, up until now, has been leaning against the wall—scowls, pushing away from it and walking toward me, a toothpick hanging out of his mouth.
I get the impression that he’s trying to play bad cop to the kid’s good cop. The only problem is that neither of them are realpolice officers, and I’m pretty sure Mustache is putting on a fake Boston accent, which is only making me crack up. If either of them came face-to-face with the FBI agents that handled my case, they’d piss themselves.
“Listen up,” Mustache says, clearly trying to be intimidating. “You’re going to answer these questions, and you’re gonna tell us the truth.”
I tilt my head, biting my tongue to keep from smiling at him. I get the feeling he would not like that. “Iamtelling you the truth. Is there any way we could possibly hurry this up? I’m going to be late for a very important meeting.”
My first real job after working for the government. I can practically taste the freedom—and the fat paycheck. I need that money, and after everything I went through to land the position, the last thing I want is for Skinny and Mustache here to ruin everything for me.
“You’re going to be late for a lot more than that, lady,” Mustache says, leaning forward, his cheeks getting ruddy with anger.
Thatputs a bad taste in my mouth—lady? Who the hell is he talking about?
“What am I, forty?”
“You tell me,” he grouses, looking down at the papers spread out on the table. “According to this, you’ve been a lot of ages, a lot ofdifferent people. How do we even know Wren Beaumont is your real name?”
“Because it’s on my passport. Look, you can call the district judge in Maryland, he’ll help me explain all this—”
“You used your one phone call,” he snaps, his frown bending his mustache into a horseshoe shape. “And I sure as hell am not making one on your behalf.”
I glance at the takeout container in the trash—my one phone call to get an Italian beef sandwich with extra pickles. Who can blame me? You can’t work your way out of a situation on an empty stomach.
Besides, airport food is stupid expensive, and my life has been pretty expensive lately. After the price of this ticket, the deposit for Gran’s first six months at the home, and the nice new dress I’m wearing, it’s not like I was flush with cash to spend on dinner.
Shrugging, I turn back to Mustache. “It was worth it.”
His mustache quivers with anger, and he clears his throat, straightening the papers in front of him for the fifth time. I knew I shouldn’t have flown—it would’ve been much easier to make the drive to Milwaukee. A lot less likely for my name to show up on a screen, travel flags lighting up like a Christmas tree for a bunch of bored assholes.
“You should really be taking this more seriously,” he says, crossing his arms. “We could deport you for this.”
“Back to Maryland?” I shudder involuntarily, then laugh. “Okay—on second thought, please, don’t make me go back there.” Not that Milwaukee is much better. “What do you want to know?”
He actually claps his hands together, sliding them like a movie villain, and I start to prepare a juicy string of lies for him. It doesn’t matter what I say here—they’re not even recording. Besides, after my five-star service, I’ll have the weight of the Bureau behind me.
But it will be fun to spin up some stories for him, get his middle-aged heart racing. It’ll be even more fun because he’s wasting my time.
Before I can start to tell him all about a heist to steal the Milwaukee River, there’s a knock on the door.
A different, third security person—a woman, with a slick blonde ponytail—sticks her head in, looking uneasy as her gaze skips to Mustache.
