“Well, you can’t stay here.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I say. A flash of fear spikes through me as I realize he might out me to the cops. “You have to promise you won’t tell anyone.”
“Julep, you aren’t actually considering staying here—”
“Of course I am. He might call or come back.”
“But—”
“Sam, please. You can’t tell anyone or I’ll get shipped off to some foster farm. No more St. Aggie’s.”
Sam opens his mouth to protest but closes it when he realizes I’m right.
“You still can’t stay here,” he says after a pause. “You can stay with us.”
“Your mom thinks I’m a ‘bad influence,’ remember?” I put air quotes around bad influence to soften the sore point he hates talking about.
“She’ll just have to deal.” He’s irritated despite my air quotes.
“We’re not in grade school anymore, anyway,” I say. “Sleepovers aren’t exactly kosher.”
“This is serious, Julep. You can’t just brush it off. What if whoever did this”—he nods at the linoleum strips—“comes back?”
I hate to admit it, but he’s right. If the thugs decide to try again, it will be tonight.
“Fine. I’ll stay with you for one night.”
He lets go a breath I didn’t realized he was holding.
“Good,” he says.
I give him a sour look. “Just one. I’m pretty sure they won’t come back. Why would they waste their time? They either found what they were looking for or they didn’t because it isn’t here.”
“What would they be looking for?”
“No idea. Maybe nothing. But I found this.” I show him the note. Then I slowly pull out the gun. “And this.”
His expression turns stormy again, and he takes the gun from me, dropping the note into the chicken drippings.
“Hey!” I say, rescuing it.
He ignores me, ejecting the bullet-holder thingy and checking the chamber with expert skill.
“Since when do you know anything about guns?” I glare at him as I wipe off the note.
“The colonel’s been taking me shooting since I was twelve, Julep.”
Sam’s dad, who he lovingly refers to as “the colonel,” in addition to being a CEO, is a retired army colonel with the military bearing, ambitious drive, and strict governance of Sam to go with the rank. Of course the man would teach his son how to shoot a handgun.
“I thought it was, like, duck hunting or something.”
He shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder if you know me at all.”
I wrinkle my nose, not wanting to admit that I might be a little hurt by that, mostly because there’s a chance it’s partially true. Very partially. Like, a minuscule amount.
“Anyway, it’s not loaded,” he says.
“My dad gave me an unloaded gun?”
“So it appears.” He puts the gun back together and hands it to me. Then he reaches for the note. “What does it say?”
“ ‘Beware the Field of Miracles.’ ”
He scans the note. “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But it’s just like my dad. Riddles.”
“Do you think it’ll lead us to whatever it is these people want?”
“Possibly,” I say, shifting uncomfortably.
“But … you think it leads to something else?”
“It could lead to the missing millions or whatever. Or it could lead to my dad. But the note is definitely from him, and he clearly wants me to do something.”
Sam sighs and takes my hand. I let him keep it.
After I pack a bag and we move our party to Sam’s house, Sam and I have a perfectly uneventful sleepover, involving sneaking me in through his bedroom window and arguing over who’ll be taking the bed versus the Star Wars beanbag chair. I win the argument for the beanbag chair and yet somehow wake up in the bed anyway, and so I am extremely grumpy the next morning. I then sneak back out his bedroom window when the maid knocks on his door. I give half a thought to hot-wiring Sam’s car and taking off without him, but he shows up with the keys and drives us to school.
St. Agatha’s Preparatory School, fondly referred to as St. Aggie’s by most of its attendees, was Chicago’s first private all-girls academy. But due to various recessions and other natural catastrophes over the years, it became a coed institution. It’s still true to its Catholic roots, however, holding Mass on Wednesdays in the chapel, lighting candles for every holy day, and passing the presidency from nun to nun.
The campus itself is gorgeous. Several turn-of-the-century buildings form a perimeter around a large, grassy quad complete with fountain and triumphal arch. The southern side is bordered by Holy Mother of God Church, while the northern end is bound by the gymnasium and theater building. The other two buildings house the classes as well as the administrative offices for the various school authorities.
The smallish parking lot is tucked under the shadow of the church’s steeples, adding to the chill I feel through my wool coat and school-mandated tights. Despite the warmth yesterday, September is fast fading into October, and Chicago’s famous wind is already starting to blow.
Sam tugs one of my braids and I smack the back of his head, which is our loving way of saying “See you later.” I need a coffee and some research time before starting my day. First period is one of those things I consider optional. Like nuts in brownies. And flossing. So as Sam goes into the nearest building, I head in the direction of the Ballou.
“Hey, Julep. Got a sec?” Murphy Donovan—a soft, bespectacled nerd from my biology class—stops me before I get very far.
“You happen to have a decent cup of espresso on your person?” I say.
“Not on me, no.”
“Then if you want to talk, you’ll have to walk me.”
He falls into step like a well-trained puppy, but he seems to need a little prodding in the talking department.
“So is this a social call?” I ask.
“No. That is, um, I’d like to”—he lowers his voice and looks over his shoulder at the students flitting hither and yon around us—“hire you.”
“I see. How can I be of service?”
“I want you to get Bryn Halverson to go to the fall formal with me,” he all but whispers.
I consider his request as I shift my bag. I could do it. Easily, in fact. All it takes is a modified fiddle game. My brain is already spinning the con, assessing resources, gauging the mark. But I’d like a little more information before I take the job.
“The Bryn Halverson?” I say. “Head JV cheerleader, homecoming court, failing Spanish—that Bryn Halverson?”
“She’s failing Spanish?”
“Focus, Murphy.”
“Yes, her,” Murphy answers.
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
He drops his gaze to his hands. “I like her,” he mumbles.
“You and every other straight, red-blooded American male,” I say, more truthful than kind. I don’t need to drag this out of him. I can do the job without it. But how I approach the job affects him, and understanding his motivations lets me know how far I can go.