Orlando cocks a grin right back. He likes her. Of course he does.
“Will you c’mon?” Orlando begs, focused just on her. “The President’s not scheduled here until”-he looks at his watch-“ya got at least an hour, even more if he’s late. Plus, the cart with his files isn’t even in there yet. Who cares if she sees an empty room?”
I stare at the pale blue door and the combination lock, which of course I know by heart. No doubt, it’d be easy, but the rules say-
“Sweet Christmas, Beecher-
He heads for a call box and presses the silver intercom button. A small red indicator light blinks awake as a soft-spoken voice answers, “Security.”
“Venkat, it’s Orlando,” he says, speaking close to the intercom. I recognize the name from our staff list. Venkat Khazei. Deputy chief of security. “I’m opening SCIF 12E1,” Orlando says. “Just doing spot checks.”
“Sounds good. Just remember: Moses is on his way, eh,” Khazei replies through the intercom, using our own internal code name for the President.
“That’s why I’m checking the room first,” Orlando barks back.
The intercom goes quiet, then crackles once more. “Enjoy.”
As Orlando strides back toward us, his toothy grin spreads even wider.
Under my shirt, I wear a thin leather necklace with an old house key on it. During high school, when I worked at Farris’s secondhand bookshop, I found the key being used as a bookmark in some old dictionary. It’s kooky, but that day was the same day I got accepted to Wisconsin, the first step in escaping my little town. The magic key stayed. I’ve been wearing it so long now, I barely even feel it. Except when I’m sweaty and it starts sticking to my chest. Like now.
“Beecher,” Clementine whispers, “if this is skeeving you out, let’s just skip the room and-”
“I’m fine. No skeeving at all,” I tell her, knowing full well that Iris would’ve had me leave ten minutes ago.
“Here, hold this,” Orlando says, offering me his cup of coffee so he can work on the combo lock.
“No food or drinks allowed in the SCIFs,” I remind him, refusing to take it.
“Really, are those the rules, Beecher?” he shoots back. Before I can answer, he hands Clementine his coffee cup and gives a few quick spins to the lock.
With a click and a low
Even Orlando is careful as he cranes his neck and glances inside, just in case someone’s in there.
I do the same, already up on my tiptoes to peer over Orlando’s shoulder and make sure we’re all clear.
Clementine’s different. She doesn’t rush-she’s not overeager in the least bit-but with a quick, confident step she heads inside, totally unafraid. It’s even sexier than telling me to stare at her breasts.
“Our own little Oval Office,” Orlando adds, motioning palms-up like a flight attendant showing off the emergency rows. Yet unlike the Oval and its grand decor, the small windowless room is beige, beige, and more beige, centered around a wide oak table, a secure phone that sits on top, and two wooden library chairs.
When they first see it, most staffers blurt, “
Clementine circles the desk, studying each beige wall like she’s taking in a Picasso. “I like the poster,” she finally says.
Behind me, stuck to the back of the metal door, is a poster featuring a steaming hot cup of coffee and a red- lettered warning:
Yet as I read the words, my brain backflips to-
“No,
I reach to grab it; she jerks her hand to protect it. That’s all it takes. The back of my hand brushes against the styrofoam-the cup tips-and the light brown liquid splashes across the desk, racing to Clementine’s side of the table.
A waterfall of coffee pours down, tap-dancing in a fine neat kick-line across the polished floor.
We need to get this clean before the President…
Clementine jumps back to avoid the mess, and her legs slam into her chair, sending the wooden seat toppling backward.
“Orlando, go get paper towels!” I yell, ripping off my blue lab coat to use it as a sponge.
The wooden chair hits the floor with a crack…
… followed by an odd, hollow
I turn just in time to see the exposed bottom of the chair, where a square piece of wood pops out from the underside, falls to the floor-and reveals the shadow of an object hidden within.
From the table, coffee continues to drip down, slowing its kick-line across the linoleum.
My throat constricts.
And I get my first good look at what was clearly tucked inside the chair’s little hiding spot and is now sitting on the floor, right in the path of the spreading puddle of coffee. It looks like a small file folder.
“Beech?” Orlando whispers behind me.
“Yeah?”
“Please tell me you had no idea that was in there.”
“No idea. Swear to God.”
He picks up the coffee cup and takes a final swig of whatever’s left. As my magic key spot-welds to my chest, I know he’s thinking the same thing I am: If this was put here
“Beech?” he repeats as the puddled coffee slowly seeps into the folder.
“Yeah?”
“We’re dead.”
“Yeah.”
4
Running up the snowy front path, young Clementine Kaye bounced up the wooden staircase toward the small house with the dangling green shutter. She made sure her left foot was always the first one to touch the steps. Her mom told her most people lead with their
Even now, at thirteen years old, Clementine knew the answer.
Reaching the front door, she didn’t ring the doorbell that went
She was prepared. She had a key and let herself inside.
As the door swung open and the whiff of rosewater perfume washed over her, she didn’t call out or ask if anybody was home. She knew no one would answer. Her mom was still traveling-three shows in St. Louis-which meant she’d be gone until next week.
Clementine didn’t even worry about getting help with homework, or what she’d eat for dinner. She’d grown accustomed to figuring things out. Plus, she knew how to cook. Maybe tonight she’d make her sausage stew.
In fact, as Clementine twisted out of her winter coat and let it drop to the linoleum floor, where it deflated and sagged like a body with no bones, she was all smiles. Giving quick chin-tickles to two of the three ginger cats her mom had brought back from various trips, Clementine was still moving quickly as she burst into the
