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“Hang out?”
“Yes, Olive.” Another laugh. Does it at all sound real? I am not good at this. I’m much better at forcing my way in… I should just do that. “Like friendly neighbors do.”
“Oh.” She looks behind her inside her apartment while I look both ways down the hall. No one in sight.
I’m just about to shove her backward, out of my way, when she takes a hesitant step to the side to let me in.
Letting my hand slide off the door, I walk inside, the wine bottle I’m not sure I’ll use firmly in her grasp. The princess takes it to the kitchen while I let my gaze roam. I come up to a shelf where a lone photo is propped up without a frame, a layer of dust blanketing the film. It’s of the special agent’s family in front of a Christmas tree wearing matching pajamas. It’s so corny, I could puke.
“I don’t have a corkscrew, so it may take me a minute.”
What kind of person doesn’t have a corkscrew?
“No problem.”
I keep staring at the photo. The princess looks younger here, probably a teenager, but she has the same shy gaze. Her hair is different. It’s short and pulled back with a headband instead of long and in her face. She doesn’t look happy. Not in the photo and not in real life, so I wonder what the point is in having this here.
“Got it.” The princess appears with two plastic cups that she places on the coffee table. Once she’s perched on the edge of her ratty-looking sofa, I go to sit next to her, plucking my cup from the table as I do. I let the liquid splash against my lips, then watch as she tips her own cup back.
“Wow,” she says, resting the cup on her knee. “That’s really good.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
She nods and looks down at her feet while I take another fake sip.
“How do you know my name?”
Her voice is so innocent and nervous. I swear, if I didn’t peg it as part of her personality, I would think for sure she was onto me.
“The mail I gave back to you the other night was addressed to an Olive Solace.”
“Oh, right.” She shakes her head like she’s reprimanding herself. “Duh.”
“Kind of a unique last name.” I lean back on the couch. “You’re not related to Arthur Solace, are you?”
She sets her cup on the table, making my teeth clench, before she puts her hands in her lap. “He’s my dad.”
“Yourdad?” I cringe. “Oof.”
Creases form over the bridge of her nose. “How do you know him?”
“I don’t. But he’s the head of the DEA, isn’t he? Don’t most people know of him?”
She shrugs. “Most criminals, maybe. And politicians. I don’t think most regular people take interest in the DEA’s chain of command, though.” She stares me dead in the eyes while she swallows. “Are you a politician?”
I wait a moment to see if she’ll break eye contact. So many people have trouble meeting my eyes, and I didn’t think this girl was an exception, but the more she stares, the more I don’t think she has a problem with my scar. I get the strange urge to ask, but it isn’t what’s on her mind. She isn’t asking if I’m a politician, no one in their right mind would mistake me for one. She’s asking if I’m a criminal. And by the looks of it, she already knows the answer.
It doesn’t matter what I tell her. I’m the last person who will ever see her alive.
“No.” I bring my cup to my lips to encourage her to do the same, but she doesn’t. Why isn’t she drinking?
“What’s your name?”
My cup rests on my thigh while I tap the rim. “Alik.”
“Did you come here to ask me about my father, Alik?”
Warmth spreads down my spine at the way she says my name. It isn’t with disgust or even contempt. She doesn’t appear angry. She sits with her hands in her lap and stares at me wide-eyed like she’s watching my every move closely, calculating everything I do, everything I say. I was wrong, she isn’t stupid. She kind of reminds me of me.
