Mind Games Read Free Page B

unfortunately common occurrence. I need to get out of here.
    I point across the floor. “I’m going home to do some paperwork. When I walk in here tomorrow, I want to see that mannequin wearing one of those scarves in a way that makes it look fabulous.”
    The girls smile. They love mannequin challenges.

          Chapter
          Three
    I T’S NOON when I get back to my sunny neighborhood of apartments, houses, and shops. It’s at the edge of the university area, the kind of neighborhood where people have dogs and marriages, but not yet children. I smile as I pass Mr. K., the Greek jeweler, smoking in front of his storefront; then I almost fall over when I see the couple from last night sitting on the stoop of my building. Ringlet girl and the blond guy.
    How’d they find where I live? Did Foley send them? I continue my approach like I’m not worried.
    The blond fellow stands and smiles. “I bet you didn’t expect to see us.” He puts out his hand. “I’m Carter.” The smattering of freckles across Carter’s wide, frank face stretches almost to his ears. He’s of medium height and build but wound up, compact. Everything about him says
contents under pressure
.
    “Justine,” I say, taking his hand.
    Ringlets stands and smiles, revealing a chipped front tooth, which gives her a strange, carnivorous beauty. “I’m Shelby.” Her outfit—a green flowered shirt and striped velvet pants—is a little crazy.
    Carter says, “Our boss wants to talk with you.”
    So Foley’s their boss? “You can tell Foley I don’t want anything to do with him. And by the way, Foley
is
his real name.”
    Shelby curls her pouty lips into a sneer and enunciates his name with breathy, phlegmy disgust. “Foley.” She plops down on the stoop, as if her communication is now complete. She is beautiful and grim all at the same time.
    “Foley’s not our boss,” Carter says. “He’s one of our targets.”
    “Please,” Shelby says. “Do not speak to Foley again or you will ruin whole thing.” Her accent sounds Russian; she’s definitely one of the most un-Shelby-like people I have ever met. “Our boss told you he will help you and he will. He has offer you must hear. You will like it.”
    “Hold on.” I begin to feel unaccountably hot. “Are you talking about that guy—” I gesture to my shoulder to indicate the restaurateur’s cinnamon curls, just a little too long. “He’s …” I’m thinking about his pale green eyes, thick rosy lips; his heft, his presence, the sense of excitement I felt around him. “He’s …” I pause, searching for the words.
    “That is him, yes,” Shelby says. “Packard. He will prove he can help you.”
    “Packard saved my life,” Carter says. “Packard saved both our lives. Just come to the restaurant and hear his offer.”
    “How do I know you’re not working with Foley?”
    Shelby crosses her arms. “Because Foley is buffoon. And we will destroy him.”
    Sometimes truth really does have a ring. I hear it now. Which makes me wonder if these two are telling the truth about this Packard saving their lives.
Is
it possible he can help me? What’s his offer? Maybe it’s not so terribly Faustian after all.
    Shelby points to a sporty black convertible. “We will drive you there.”
    It’s crazy to take rides from strangers, crazy to hopesome guy in a Mongolian restaurant can do what medications and therapy never could. Crazy—unless you’re desperate. Packard was right about that.
    “If you become frightened, you can throw yourself out of car,” she says.
    Five minutes later I’m in the back of Carter’s convertible. I could at least hear this Packard’s offer and see his proof. That’s my thinking.
    I ask about how Packard saved their lives, but they insist I have to wait to talk to him. Maybe he doesn’t like them telling people he’s a highcap. They say most highcaps try to pass as normal.
    I’m surprised when Carter merges onto “the