Waking Storms by Sarah Porter Page A

of jeans onto the bed. Dorian forced himself to be casual, even obnoxious.
    “So?”
    “Well, I’ve explained to them that these extortionists are smart people. They recruit someone on board to help out. Someone impressionable, like a teenager. Naturally, I told them, young Mr. Hurst will want to do whatever he can to help us bring these fiends to justice.” A gray sweater flew after the jeans, landing on Dorian’s knees. That freckled hand couldn’t be more than half an inch away from grazing the stacks of paper.
    “Wait!” Dorian yelped the word, and the agent straightened and raised his eyebrows, his pink lips puckering. “Of course I want to help. I just didn’t see why it had to be Anchorage.”
    “Can’t stand the thought of getting out of this dump for a day or two?”
    Dorian stared him down. “Can I get dressed, please?”
    “You hadn’t exactly studied for that test, anyway, had you? I’m doing you a favor.”
    “Are you trying to see me with my clothes off?”
    “You think you’re the first person to come up with that line?” The agent was sneering, but he still backed off, slapping the pale lavender door shut behind him.
    Dorian wasn’t about to put on the clothes the agent had flung at him. He picked out an outfit that was as obviously different as possible: a red hoodie over a ragged Mr. Bubble T-shirt marked all over with his own sketches, a pair of black cargo pants. Then he reached through the tangled clothes in the bottom drawer and stroked the paper. Even without looking he was painfully aware that he was touching an image of Luce’s face. He stared around the room, but there was really no better place to hide the drawings. Not from someone who might search, anyway.
    After a minute’s thought, he pulled the drawings out and slipped them under a pile of Lindy’s knitting magazines. He didn’t think she ever looked at them.
    A day or two? What would Luce think if he wasn’t at the beach tonight?
    He walked out into the kitchen and found Lindy nervously flipping pancakes while the tall agent leaned on the counter. He gave Dorian’s outfit a sharp once-over but didn’t say anything. Lindy caught the look, though, and turned to Dorian reproachfully.
    “Dorian, couldn’t you wear something nicer? For your trip with Agent Smitt?”
    “Oh, that doesn’t matter, Mrs. Basel. We don’t care how our young man here looks. External appearances are so unimportant.” He gave Dorian a wide, sickly smile. “Don’t you agree, Dorian? What matters is what’s on the inside.”
    ***
    After the first shock of Smitt’s arrival Dorian’s thoughts began to drift again. As he went through the motions of stuffing an overnight bag and layering on extra sweaters in place of his missing parka, he was thinking of Luce, imagining how he’d explain: I thought if I didn’t go along with it maybe they’d start following me or something. I had to throw them off ... She was already worried about the police. She would understand that he had to act in a way that would keep them from getting suspicious. At least, she’d understand if she ever gave him a chance to explain. Maybe she’d get so angry at waiting around for him tonight that she’d never come back. The idea sat inside Dorian like something cold and gelatinous clogging his heart. Real life was wherever she was, in her face where every curve held a kind of shuddering brilliance, in her disarming bursts of honesty. I’m supposed to make sure you die tonight. And I just blew it completely. Maybe it was crazy, but Dorian couldn’t help grinning at the memory of those words.
    Everything else in his life was just something other people expected from him. He kissed Lindy on the cheek, carried his bag to the car, and sat silent next to Smitt as they drove to the airfield. Whatever happened, Dorian thought, it shouldn’t be too hard to convince them he was totally ignorant. The FBI thought a criminal gang had brought down the Dear Melissa, Smitt had