Beating Ruby by Camilla Monk Page A

opened his and helped me out. He was about to close the door when the Caterpillar’s deep voice echoed one last time from inside the car.
    “Island. Choose your friends carefully. I’d be sorry to see you end up like Léa.”
    In spite of everything that had happened—his lies, the broken bond between us—I was grateful for Alex’s presence and his gentle grip on my arm. Under my feet, it seemed the ground had collapsed, and there was this pressure in my chest, like I was free-falling.
    The Caterpillar had known my mother.
    Alex slammed the door shut, and the Cadillac’s engine started. I watched it drive away across the parking lot and past the SUV inside which Murrell and Di Stefano still waited. Alex waved in their direction and walked me back to the Corvette, hand still hovering behind my back, occasionally brushing my shoulder blades. We climbed in as the SUV left in the same direction the Caterpillar’s limo had.
    As we drove away from the docks, I mulled over the events of the morning. Part of me was dying to ask Alex what he knew about the Cullinan affair and March, but that would basically be admitting I had lied to his boss back in the limo. Not only that, but I was pretty certain Alex would lie to me again. There was a bitter taste in my mouth as I came to terms with the fact that he was more skilled than I was at the spy game . . . and couldn’t be trusted. Ever again.
    I rubbed my eyes. The aftereffects of the constant stress I had been subjected to since dawn were creeping in. I felt exhausted, a little sluggish, and my temples were starting to throb unpleasantly.
    I looked through the window and focused on the cars gliding past ours in Battery Tunnel, unwilling to meet Alex’s eyes as I finally spoke. “So . . . I gather that Poppy exists, but what about the rest? Was it all lies? Like, do you even live in Silver Spring?”
    There was a beat of hesitation, a low sigh, and to my amazement, he answered. “No, I live in Washington.”
    I shifted in my seat to look at him. “Does that house you told me about exist? With the garden, the lilacs, and the dog?”
    “Yes, it was my parents’ house, but there was no dog. Poppy and I live in an apartment.”
    I pondered this. Alex’s parents had been killed in a plane crash in Egypt six years prior. He wouldn’t say much about it, but, unable to resist my curiosity, I had spent hours combing the net for some details—I wondered if he knew about that too . . . At any rate, some pieces of the puzzle were starting to click together. I could see how the event had branded him so deeply that he’d made the choices he had, and unconsciously weaved the happy family portrait of his childhood into the web of his lies.
    I let out a weary sigh. “Now, at least, I understand why you didn’t want me to come to your place. What would you have done if I had insisted?”
    He ducked his chin, lips curling in a sheepish smile. “I guess I’d have invited you—I actually wanted to. I figured I’d tell you we had moved and the dog had been run over.”
    “Okay, so the real Alexander Morgan likes sports cars, doesn’t live in a suburban house with a white porch, doesn’t have a dog . . . Anything else major? An actual girlfriend waiting in Washington, maybe?” I had meant to say this casually, but as the words escaped my lips, I cursed myself for their cutting edge.
    I saw the muscles twitching in his jaw, and the Corvette sped up, passing several cars. “ You are my girlfriend, Island.”
    I closed my eyes as EMT’s building came in sight. Was I?

EIGHT
    The Chicken
    “ ‘Clara, without you, I’m like a chicken: I have wings, but I can’t fly. ’ ”
    —Emmy Lee Jolly, The Pioneer’s Last Chance at Love
     
    When we stepped into the garage elevator and I saw Alex use a key and press the button for the fifth floor, I got this strange feeling, as if just being allowed up there the regular way was even worse a transgression than my little stunt in the