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  "Your mission, should you choose to accept it:

  Track down the money man who paid the assassin known as The Priest, determine the target of the third hit, uncover who paid for the hits, and eliminate the threat. Please proceed to London today and await further instructions. And happy birthday."

  I'm about to comment when Ari's phone pings. He clicks the link and reads it.

  "Your mission, should you choose to accept it:

  Determine what, if any, information can be uncovered from the items taken from the second hit's home. Track down further leads to discover the reason behind the hits. Please proceed to London today and await further instructions. And happy birthday."

  "Wow," I say. "Is it just me, or does the happy birthday piss you off? All my years at Blackwood, I never got to celebrate a birthday. Now, they wish me one, proving they suck."

  "It also proves they wanted you to know," Terrance says.

  "Maybe we should just say no," Ari suggests as he puts his arm around my shoulder to console me.

  I lean my head against his broad chest. It feels good to have someone on my side.

  "You can't say no," Terrance argues.

  "Why not?" I ask.

  "Whatever this is, it's got to be big."

  "How big could it be? It took them six years to train me," I counter.

  "That's my point," he says. "Each of your missions has led you further up the food chain. Don't you want to know why they spent six years training you? Don't you want to know what your mother got mixed up in? It's all got to be connected. Someone is planning something big. They tried to take out the Montrovian monarchy, and they killed the president of the United States. What's next?"

  "He's got a point, Huntley," Ari says, looking thoughtful. "I also think the more we learn, the more we will discover about our own pasts. I want to know who our biological parents were, don't you?"

  "Yeah. Maybe we should just ask them. Tell them we won't go if they don't give us the information we need."

  "I think we're better off making them think we're just doing our missions," Terrance says. "That's what they want. And, in the meantime, we keep digging."

  A memory flashes in my head. My mother down on her knees in the dirt, digging a little hole.

  "What?" Ari asks me.

  "I just remembered something. When Terrance said, 'keep digging,' a picture flashed in my brain of my mom digging up some dirt with her hands. But I don't remember where we were or why she was doing that."

  "Honestly, Huntley," Terrance says, "I think you are the key to unraveling all this."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I checked your passport as Calliope Ann Cassleberry. You were in and out of the country all the time, but you were not during the three weeks prior to her death. Which brings us to the question of where were you, and what were you doing?"

  "Did you check under the name, Charlotte Cassleberry?"

  "Yes. Same thing."

  "That's wrong," I tell him.

  "How do you know?" Ari asks softly, his arm still on my shoulder.

  "I'm not sure," I answer truthfully. "But I do remember sitting on her bed, folding a load of laundry, while she finished unpacking."

  "Was there much laundry?" Terrance asks, jotting down notes.

  "Yeah. Why?"

  "The more laundry, the longer the trip, right?" Ari interjects.

  "Exactly."

  "Wait." I move away from them and pace across the room. "Don't say anything for a second."

  There's something in my brain. Something poking at it. But it doesn't have to do with the trip. It's more recent.

  "I know!" I shout. "After I saved Lorenzo, his secret service gave him a background report on me. I suggested it was a dull read, but he found it interesting because of how much I had traveled. How I had been all over the world, even from a young age. When he said that, I freaked out a little because that wasn't in my legend. And I remember wondering if my real story was my backstory, just with a different name."

  "I don't get it," Terrance says.

  But Ari does. He's nodding along with me.

  "See if there is a Huntley Bond passport and compare it to Calliope's," he says.

  "But, if that were the case, that would mean that my mom, our mom, was both Kelley Bond and Charlotte Cassleberry."

  Terrance considers that. "It's not uncommon for covert agents to have multiple legends. It would also mean that someone kept up the Kelley Bond legend, even after she had passed. And isn't there a Calliope in ancient Greek history as well?"

  "Yes, and it's a little creepy. She was the oldest of Zeus and Mnemosyne's nine daughters. She was the muse of epic poetry and believed to be the inspiration of Homer, who wrote the Odyssey, which is the poem of Odysseus's ten-year quest to return home to his wife, Penelope, after the Trojan War." I pause and shake my head. I feel like I'm pulling threads, waiting for things to unravel. "But, if Kelley and Charlotte are the same person, wouldn't that be stupid? I mean, all it would take is for someone to see a photo of my mom, and they would know that she and the spy they had assassinated were one in the same. And, remember, even the CIA thinks I'm dead. They couldn't have known about Kelley either."

  "Let's stop theorizing and take a look," Ari says, moving back toward the computer.

  Terrance stretches out his fingers and adjusts his glasses before he starts typing away. A few moments later, he says, "This is going to take a while. You should probably get some sleep if you have to be in London today."

  Ari grins at me. "I think we're being dismissed."

  When we're back upstairs, Ari follows me to my room and whispers in my ear, "Are we being watched?"

  I nod and then pull him into my room. "But my room is clean. I took the surveillance gear out, and no one has put it back so far."

  "Is that why you took me downstairs?"

  "Yeah. I just felt like it was a private moment. Normally, I don't care, but . . ."

  "You don't have to explain it to me. I get it. I haven't accepted my mission yet. Do you think we should?"

  "I think, if we keep working for them, eventually, we'll figure out who they are. Maybe they are in danger, too."

  "So they are sending us to London, because that's where the money man is supposed to be?"

  "We will be seeing someone else in London, too. Malcolm Prescott. In fact, we'll be staying at his house. Remember that picture we saw in Ares's office? His friends are dying. First, Ares, then King Vallenta, and then Jack Junior. All of them dead in the last six months. Maybe Malcolm Prescott or Viktor's father will be next. Maybe one of them is the third hit."

  "Wait a second. We know the president was assassinated. Are you suggesting that Ares and the King of Montrovia didn't die of natural causes?" he asks, his eyes bugging out.

  "I think it's a possibility. Something is definitely going on with Montrovia. Regardless of the official cause of death, four out of the top five in line for the throne are dead. Maybe Prescott is using us to figure it out. Maybe he knows all about us because Ares told him. Maybe he's worried that he's next."

  "It was his son who we were told to befriend," Ari agrees. "That could have been an easy way to get us into his life that wouldn't attract attention."

  "I say we do a little investigating on our own in London. Maybe Malcolm is the leader of Black X."

  "He's got power and money," Ari says. "But, if The Priest was telling the truth, Jack Junior's dad ordered the hit on your mother. Prescott could also be the enemy."

  "Or he could have nothing to do with any of it," I say, feeling exasperated. "In other words, we have no idea who we can trust."

  "Except each other," Ari says.

  A few hours later, I wake up in a cold sweat with Lorenzo on my mind. I had the strangest dream. I was at his castle, pulling flowers out of the ground, and he admonished me for it, saying they were his mother's prized begonias. He was upset and ran off, so I chased after him. But, as I rounded the corner, I heard a gunshot and watched helplessly as
he fell to the ground.

  And I know what my subconscious is trying to tell me. He's not out of danger yet.

  I glance at the clock, noting the early hour but calling him anyway.

  "My sweet," he answers in his dreamy voice. "I am missing you terribly. Will you be arriving soon?"

  "Our charter to London is scheduled to leave in a couple of hours. Shall we meet you at your home or at the match?"

  "Let us meet at the airport. We'll helicopter to the polo club and then spend the next few nights at Prescott Manor."

  "How's Chauncey doing?"

  "Spectacular. He will start school tomorrow, so his new nanny is taking him shopping for all his gear. Any word on his father?"

  "No. I thought, if he were still alive, he would have contacted me by now."

  "It's only been a short time, Huntley. Let's talk about more pleasant things. Like what are you wearing?"

  I can't help but laugh. "Well, I am still in bed. That's actually the reason for my call."

  "Oh, do you wish for me to be in it with you?" he asks, his voice sultry.

  "I had a bad dream, Lorenzo. You got shot. I'll fill you in when I see you, but until I can get there and protect you, please be careful. I'm worried that you could be the third hit."

  "If it means I get to hold you in my arms again, rest assured, I will be a very careful man."

  "It's my birthday," I whisper.

  "Well, happy birthday," he whispers back. "Is your birthday a secret?"

  "No, I just--I guess I'll see you soon."

  "Not soon enough," he says.

  I get up and shower. Then I text Ellis, asking for hair and makeup to be sent up to my room in an hour along with a breakfast smoothie.

  I pop on my computer and search for information about the Cartier Queen's Cup that we will be attending today. I find that the club where it is held was founded in 1955 and that Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh, has been their president since that time. I also discover that our host, Malcolm Prescott, is on the board of directors.

  Polo teams have been competing for the last three weeks, and it all culminates in the championship game today, which will be played by some of the sport's greatest players. The queen of England herself historically attends and presents the cup to the winning patron.

  Polo is not a game I'm familiar with. I consider watching a few videos, so I can understand the rules but decide not to. After all, this world is new to both me and Huntley Von Allister.

  Huntley. Lee.

  I can't help but wonder if my mother called me that because it was short for my real name. I close my eyes for a moment and try to remember the days leading up to her death, but it just won't come, so I grab a suitcase and stand in my closet, wondering what I should pack. I look at the tags on all the clothes, choosing a few basics--dresses for dinners and formal gowns--that quickly fill one suitcase. As I open another suitcase, I glance at my tattered backpack. It's funny that I used to be able to travel at a moment's notice with just it. Huntley, not so much.

  I grab my phone and call Dr. Kate.

  "I was just getting ready to call you," she says. "I understand you're traveling to London and attending the Cartier Queen's Cup. It's a highly photographed event. Have you chosen something to wear?"

  "No, I was just packing."

  "Where will you and Ari be staying?"

  "At Prescott Manor."

  "Very nice. What else will you be doing?"

  "Depending on when we start our next mission, I might also be attending a tennis championship and some big horse race."

  "I will email you a packing list in a few moments. Each of your outfit tags has a number on it, so you can match it to the email. I'll also have a messenger get a few additional pieces to you. Designers are dying to dress you," she says before saying goodbye and ending the call.

  I turn my arm over to check the time, but the watch that has been a fixture on my wrist for the last six years is gone. I grab my phone and glance at it instead. I have just enough time to run down to the vault.

  When I get there, I find Terrance hunched over his computer, the area around him littered with empty energy drinks.

  "Have you slept at all?" I ask.

  "No," he says, "I was just going to wake you up. I found something. Um, you might want to sit down."

  "What did you find?"

  "Kelley Bond." A photo pops up on his computer screen. "I tracked down where she went to high school from a reunion post she was tagged in on social media. Then I found out the school has all their yearbooks online. This is her senior photo. Is this the mother you knew? Are Kelley and Charlotte the same person?"

  I give it a cursory glance and shake my head. "It doesn't look like her. My mom had a perfect nose. Kelley's is large and slightly hooked. It's hard to get past the big permed hair, but Kelley is blonde. My mom was a brunette."

  "I have a few more photos," he says.

  He quickly scrolls through them, but nothing I see changes my mind. But then a detail catches my eye.

  "Wait, stop!" I yell out.

  "What?"

  "Go back to that prom photo."

  Terrance clicks back. The photo is of Kelley with four other girls in long pastel dresses.

  I tilt my head, studying it. Then I trace my finger down the screen, stopping at her hands. "See how all the girls have their hands crossed in front of them? Look at hers. Notice how she has her middle finger tucked under one hand? My mom did that. She didn't talk about it much, but her stepfather was physically abusive. He was compulsive and always telling her to act like a lady--which, to him, meant standing up straight and crossing your hands in front of your body, just like she's doing. Understandably, she hated him. One way she got back at him, in her mind, was by complying but secretly flipping him off. It became a habit. Go back to the senior picture. Show me just her eyes."

  Terrance does as I requested, and it's then when I know for sure. Charlotte and Kelley are one in the same.

  But I'm worried my own desire might be unjustly influencing me. I need concrete proof. "Did you run a photo of them both through facial recognition?"

  "Yes," he says. "A seventy-nine percent match on a very advanced program. It doesn't just measure the features; it measures the pixels forming the features. A simple rhinoplasty would affect the accuracy, but I would expect the percentage to be higher because it's just one feature. But her cheekbones don't match either."

  "Retinal scans?" I ask.

  "Tried that. The photos in the yearbook are not high resolution and are too grainy to tell." He turns to look at me directly. "Regardless of what this data tells us, you knew her the best. Is it her?"

  "Yeah," I admit, "I believe it is."

  His taps his fist on my thigh and smiles. "Guess what else I discovered in this yearbook? Ares Von Allister and your mother were classmates."

  I take a moment to let that sink in. "He really could be my father."

  "Yes. That's good, right?"

  "I guess. I'm not really sure how I feel about it. My mom and dad took me to Ares Von Allister's lab. I met his dog but not him. How could she do that? Lie to me all that time? Take me to where my biological father worked and not at least introduce me to the man? And who the hell was the man I thought was my father?"

  "Spies live a different life; you know that. It's all about the lies. It's what keeps them alive."

  "Or gets them killed," I mutter. "Want to know what's weird? I thought that I was living a lie. But I think my past is the lie. It also makes much more sense as to why they would be willing to blow my cover for one mission."

  "Because it's the truth, not a cover?"

  "Exactly." I glance up at the clock. "Crap. Hair and makeup should be here shortly. I'd better get going. Are you staying here? Do you have a new mission?"

  "I don't really get missions like you do. I'm just told what to work on. Olivia is trying to track down the money man while I am going through Clarice's belongings, which is something I don't exactly understand
."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, why didn't they have me look into Ophelia after she kidnapped Lorenzo and Ari? Why wait until Clarice was killed and all the clues were gone?"

  "Because maybe, like me," I suggest, "they stupidly assumed that, once she was dead, the threat was gone. It wasn't until Clarice was killed that we could assume there was more to it. Or that she knew something she shouldn't have."

  "The last words Clarice spoke to Ari were, 'Ophelia's money,'" Terrance says. "It's driving me nuts, trying to figure it out. I've spent hours scouring their financial history, and I can't find anything noteworthy."

  "Maybe Ophelia's money isn't in an account. You know, my mom used to keep different currencies of cash stashed in an empty shoebox. Some people keep money under their mattress. In the freezer. Inside books. All sorts of crazy places."

  Terrance's eyes get huge. "Wait. Go back. What did you just say?"

  "Uh, crazy places."

  He holds up his hand, thinking. Then he gets up and rushes over to the table with the items Ari took from Clarice's home. "Shoebox."

  I take off the lid. "Except there's no money in it."

  "There are numbers on this sticker here. Maybe it's an account number."

  "I don't think so. It looks like a normal shoe sticker with the manufacturer's style number along with the name of the shoe. And it doesn't appear to have been altered in any way." I pick at the sticker, carefully pulling it off the box. "Nothing underneath either." I look at Terrance. "May I?"

  He shrugs. "Have at it. I've already photographed it from every single angle."

  "Look here. There's glue on this seam."

  "Probably someone messy made the box."

  "Or someone hid something inside," I counter as I carefully undo the flap wrapped inside the box. When I do, a note pops out.

  "What is that?"

  "Money," I say, taking in what appears to be a one-hundred-dollar bill in a new currency.

  Ophelia's photo is featured in an oval on the upper right. She's wearing a jeweled crown, which I'm pretty sure is the same one put on Lorenzo's head at his coronation.

  "What the hell is this?" Terrance asks, pulling the bill out of my hand and studying it. "This looks very real. And I thought, in the Terra Project, they bartered and didn't have currency."

  "That's what Clarice said, but maybe Ophelia was in it for the power."