City of Spies by Nina Berry

Pagan missed pressing her cheek against that soft head of blond hair, missed making crazy faces to turn that that serious, frowning expression into a laugh. Pagan’s and Ava’s fingers had warred over the piano keys in furious duets. Their voices had meshed and clashed as they read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe out loud in tandem. They were so different yet so close.
    What would Ava be like now if she had survived the accident Pagan had caused? What would Ava say about Pagan’s quest to find the mysterious Dr. Someone who had visited them so many years ago?
    â€œI wouldn’t mind having kids if they were like Ava,” Pagan said. It was getting easier to say her sister’s name, but still it made her throat close, her fists clench.
    â€œYou’d be a fun mom,” Mercedes said.
    â€œI’m still figuring out how to go a day without drinking,” Pagan said. “One thing at a time, please. Mostly I wish I didn’t have to go back to the movie shoot tomorrow. I used to think the tango was wonderful, but now...”
    â€œMaybe you haven’t found the right partner,” Mercedes said tartly. She glanced over her shoulder again and a frown had creased the smooth skin between her eyebrows. Her almond eyes flicked briefly over her shoulder again. But she kept walking.
    â€œWhat?” Pagan said.
    â€œDon’t look. But the same man that’s behind us now was behind us before, in front of the Casa Rosada.”
    It took all of Pagan’s self-control not to look over her shoulder. Her stomach tightened, but inwardly she told herself to remain calm. “He’s probably a tourist, like us. You said this is a popular street.”
    Mercedes shook her head. “He’s not acting like a tourist. The café’s a block up on the other side. Let’s cross here.”
    Pagan didn’t want to question M’s instincts. In reform school, she could look at someone once and know if they were an actual threat or bluffing. But the real world was more complicated, and Mercedes wasn’t running with a gang now.
    They crossed to the southern side of the street, and Pagan took a casual glance back the way they’d come. Two men talked and smoked as they walked together, a young woman pushed a stroller and a bent old woman all in black crossed the street behind them.
    Mercedes scanned the same people as they reached the other side. “He’s not there now. He was wearing a gray suit and hat. He must’ve seen that I noticed him.”
    They reached the dark-wood-and-glass doors of the Café Tortoni with its flamboyant art nouveau sign above in red.
    Pagan opened the door as Mercedes said sharply, “There he is again.”
    â€œThe man in gray?” Pagan stepped back out and looked down the street, but saw no man in gray.
    â€œGone again,” Mercedes said. “I took my eyes off him for one second, and poof!”
    â€œMaybe he thinks you’re cute,” Pagan said, and hauled open the heavy door again.
    M gave her the side eye and walked in. Past the curtained-covered glass door, the Café Tortoni became a glorious high-ceilinged fin de siècle restaurant, its glittering chandeliers shrouded in cigarette smoke. Greek columns with curlicues on top held up a ceiling with a stained-glass skylight in the center. The murmuring voices of the patrons bounced off the glowing wood walls covered with Cubist paintings and autographed photos of patrons. Pagan recognized the shock of white hair belonging to Albert Einstein in one of them. The warm smell of steak make her stomach grumble.
    â€œMy guidebook called it one of the ten most beautiful café’s in the world,” Mercedes said.
    It was indeed trés elegant . They could have been in the chicest café in Paris. A waiter in a white shirt and black pants ushered them over to a table under the gold-and-black stained-glass skylight. The chairs were red leather and dark