Wait a minute.
Why did Caesar’s head just bounce? That thing was made of plaster, right? Plaster should shatter or at least just fall, not bounce.
“Found it!” Roux cried, and apparently Jesse hadn’t locked the wine storage yet because Roux disappeared down the hall, followed by several other people. I didn’t have time to chase her, though, because I realized that I had found the safe.
I scrambled to my feet and grabbed the bust off the ground. It was surprisingly light in my hands, plastic instead of plaster, and I found the nearly invisible hinge at the back of his head. When I opened it up, I saw the key sitting inside.
I had to hand it to Armand, he knew how to make a job challenging.
I fished it out and put Caesar back on his pedestal, then hurried over to that ugly sailboat painting. I was right, Armand didn’t do anything cheap. And this wasn’t a cheap picture, it was a secret safe.
There was no one in the library, but I moved fast and quick, just like I had been trained. I lifted the picture off the wall and sure enough, it was one of those safes hidden behind a painting. They’re notoriously easy to open, even without the key. All it needs is a four-digit code, and most people don’t get creative enough.
But it didn’t matter. I had the key.
The back of the painting came shooting out when I turned the key in the lock, revealing shelves that looked like they belonged in a medicine cabinet. There was a flash drive on the bottom shelf and I grabbed it.
“Where’s that Bordeaux?” I heard Roux yelling, but she sounded far away. She’s fine, I told myself as I hid the flash drive in the front pocket of my jeans. The party was still raging just outside the library, and I knew that anyone could come walking in at any minute, see me standing there with a painting and a broken plastic head, and ask what I was doing.
Ten seconds later, the safe was back on the wall and Caesar was back on his pedestal. I had done it. I had the files. I could leave.
“There you are,” Jesse said when he saw me come out of the library. “What are you, a bookworm?”
“That was last year’s costume,” I said. I was feeling magnanimous toward him, now that I had incriminating evidence that would probably ruin his dad’s big story and possibly his dad’s big magazine, too. I wondered if they would lose their apartment, or if Jesse would have to leave school. Would he end up homeless?
My elation at finding the safe was starting to ebb. I wasn’t used to seeing the people involved in the case. Usually it was just me, some combination locks, and maybe a few fancy keys if the safe was doubly secured. But now I was looking at Jesse and he seemed kind of drunk and pretty happy and all I could think was, I am so, so sorry.
“I like books,” I told him now, glancing at the safe to make sure that it was hung straight on the wall. “Are some of these yours?”
“Nah, my dad’s. Some are my mom’s, though.” He pointed to an old-looking title up on the top shelf. “First edition of The Great Gatsby. That was … That’s her favorite.”
“Why is that everyone’s favorite?” I said. “Has nobody read Tender Is the Night? It’s so annoying.”
And then I realized that I had just insulted Jesse’s mother’s taste.
“Not that Gatsby is bad.” I backtracked. “I mean, it’s fine. I mean …”
Jesse was watching me with a little half smile that was becoming less annoying by the minute. “Do you want something to drink?”
Believe it or not, I’ve had wine before. I may have been raised in the insular world of international spies, but in Europe, they’re cool with kids having wine. Still, there’s a huge difference between your mother giving you the eagle eye while you sip half a glass of champagne, and a cute boy—I mean, a guy I was assigned to—offering you something in a red plastic cup at a Halloween party.
And I mean, c’mon, I’m supposed to blend in, right?
Right.
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You want apple juice?”
“That’s not scotch?”
He tipped his glass toward me so I could see into it. “Can you keep the secret?”
I just smiled. “I’ll do my best,” I said.
Chapter 10
Half an hour later, I knew a lot about Jesse.
He hated Gatsby, too, but not as much as he hated The Catcher in the Rye. He hadn’t had a drink since his dad got sober last year. His favorite color was blue, and his dog, Max, the same one that had tried to lick me to death, was sleeping upstairs in his bedroom, blissfully oblivious to the racket that was happening around us.
“Then why did you throw this party?” I said. We were sitting on the massive steel staircase, shifting every time people walked around us. “I mean, if you don’t drink and your dog doesn’t like crowds.”
He shrugged. “I dunno. People expect it. And when people expect you to do something …”
“You do it,” I finished, understanding all too well what he meant. “Does anyone else know that you’re totally sober right now?”
“Just you,” he said, then clinked his glass against my plastic cup. “And besides, I thought if I threw a party, you might show up.”
I immediately choked on my water and Jesse whacked me on the back. “You okay?”
“Ow. That’s not very helpful,” I sputtered.
“Sorry.”