I raised an eyebrow. “You never escort me.”
He shrugged. “I thought I taught you not to ask too many questions. You should get your answers by listening.”
“I’m listening now,” I said. “Did you follow me last night, too?”
He just smiled and started toward the subway entrance two blocks away. “Let’s just say that safety in numbers has never been a bad thing.”
“Why do we need safety?”
Just as the words were out of my mouth, a cab came barreling across the intersection, swerving out of the way of a delivery van and nearly coming up on the curb next to us. Angelo’s arm immediately cut in front of me, pushing me out of the way like it was nothing, but I didn’t miss the look that ghosted across his face: worry, anger, and suspicion all wrapped up in a split-second gaze.
“Asshole!” I yelled. “Sorry, Angelo.”
“Well, yes, sometimes certain words do convey emotion better than others.” His face had smoothed back into its normal, calm expression, and we continued walking.
This time, I held on to his arm and didn’t ask any more questions.
His face had told me everything I needed to know.
Chapter 6
Grand Army Plaza was teeming with both tourists and locals alike, which came as no surprise. Angelo was always having me meet him in the most crowded places: the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a rainy school field trip morning, the Statue of Liberty on the Fourth of July, the High Line on the most beautiful spring day. Last March, we held a whole conversation while walking next to the St. Killian’s marching band during the St. Patrick’s Day parade. (We happened to be next to the bagpipe players. I was hoarse and nearly deaf for a week afterward.)
“So,” Angelo said as we made our way toward the statue. “Tell me, darling. How did you sleep last night?”
“Late,” I said. “Very late. Too late, actually. I thought it was all a dream at first.”
“Some tossing and turning, I assume. That’s to be expected. You got quite a jolt yesterday.”
I nodded and leaned against the statue’s granite pedestals. “You could say that.” I turned to look at Angelo and forced a smile. “But that’s the game, right?”
“Yes, my dear, but you’ve been out of the game for some time. I wasn’t sure if you still wanted to play.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and watched as two tourists, both wearing Statue of Liberty foam hats, took a picture in front of the Plaza Hotel. Someone rushing toward the subway interrupted their shot and they frowned and tried to take it again. “What do you think?” I asked, secretly pointing at them. “Honeymooners?”
Angelo reached out and took my hand in his. “Maggie, my love, you know you don’t have to do this.”
“And you know that I do,” I replied, suddenly feeling the weight of everything we weren’t saying. “There’s paperwork hidden somewhere, isn’t there?”
“Not paperwork, but yes.”
“Well, whatever it is, it’s probably locked away.”
Angelo nodded again. “It is a safe assumption.”
“Then I don’t have a choice. They’re my parents, Angelo. What am I supposed to do, just let the Collective lie about them? Kick them out? All of us out?” I took my hand away, then felt bad about it. “Sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m just … frustrated, I guess. I’m pissed off. And it’s hot. And it smells like horses.”
Angelo chuckled to himself. “I thought you loved animals.”
I just looked at him. “This is really bad, isn’t it, Angelo.”
Angelo came over and patted the granite. “You picked the right one,” he said. “This statue is the reason I brought you here.”
I looked up at it. The bronze was dingy and green in some places, but it was still pretty impressive. It was of a man riding a (let’s be honest here) pretty terrified-looking horse while a winged woman stood in front of them.
“That horse does not look happy,” I told Angelo. “You should call PETA. They’ll regulate.”
He smiled and ran his finger over the writing on the plaque. “What do you know about gold coins?”
“Well, if they’re filled with chocolate, I love them, and if they’re filled with gold, I love them even more. Why, is that what’s missing?” Gold coins were a lot more interesting than paperwork and I stood up straight, suddenly intrigued.
Angelo pulled a photo out of his wallet and handed it to me. “Does this look familiar?” he asked.
It was a photo of a gold coin that had clearly been taken from a government file. There was a serial number at the top and the coin itself was being held by tweezers under a harsh light that only served to illuminate it. There was a woman embossed on the front, just under the word LIBERTY, holding a staff with her arms flung apart, rays of sunlight shining up at her feet.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured. “It actually looks like …” I trailed off and glanced up at the woman above me in the statue. “Is that supposed to be the same woman?”
Angelo nodded, a smirk playing at his mouth. He loves when I connect the dots by myself. “The same artist designed both of these pieces,” he told me. “A man named Augustus Saint-Gaudens. Quite a talent, don’t you agree?”
“I’ll say. I think I ate the Play-Doh when I was a kid instead of actually sculpting anything.”