All the Missing Pieces - Julianna Keyes Page 0,103

his closet so I root around until I find a shoulder-length brunette wig.

Normally I love walking out into a crowd, hearing them shout my name, cameras flashing as they take my picture. I love my unmistakable pink Maserati, the way it’s guaranteed to get noticed.

Alex hates the attention at home as much as he loves it at the theater. Since opening a few years earlier, he’s spent every waking moment there, desperate to prove to my father that he can be a success even if he doesn’t care about money the way we do. He’s got a dark gray Lexus that blends easily into the throng of luxury cars that fill the streets of downtown Holden, but there’s no way anyone’s leaving this building tonight without picking up some sort of tail. That’s the kind of thing you get used to when you cultivate a following the way I have; it’s the kind of thing you need to avoid when your dad has stolen two hundred and twenty million dollars.

Fortunately, Alex has a system in place for this. I used to tease him and say there’s no reason to have a system, since he never goes anywhere interesting, but a UTI and a frantic early-morning visit to the doctor in utter obscurity was enough to show me the value of flying under the radar on occasion.

I grab my purse and a garbage bag, then take the elevator to the second level of the parking garage. I pluck my sticky T-shirt away from my chest and try to walk quickly but casually through the parkade. It’s dark and humid down here, the air thick and gross with the smell of gasoline. I see no one as I make my way to Alex’s crappy second car, parked on the fourth level of a garage two blocks over.

To further the idea that it’s a car not worth stealing, Alex doesn’t even lock the doors and keeps a key stashed under the driver’s seat. When I reach the car, I keep going, just in case there’s a reporter hiding nearby, waiting to see which vehicle I get in. I circle the lot, using my own car keys as both a ploy and a possible weapon, doing my best to look like I’ve forgotten where I parked.

When two laps of the garage turn up no unwanted guests, I return to Alex’s car, snag the key, and stick the garbage bag in the glove box. It smells like pot and old leather in here, and I roll down the driver’s side window a crack, expecting a hand to reach in and grab me at any second. I’m sweating profusely when I leave the safety of the garage, the darkness interrupted by the brightly lit mob scene two blocks away. I turn in the opposite direction, disappearing into the night as I picture our wealthy neighbors cursing the Carlisle family for turning them into hostages in their own homes.

THE THEATER IS DARK, the parking lot empty. I stare at the garish tiger wing doors as I cruise past, the only light coming from the tiny gas lamps hanging on either side. There are no cars out front, and none in the back where the staff parks.

I check my watch. A little after eleven. Alex said he had a show tonight, but if there was a show, there would be people here, cleaning up, going home. Maybe I got the day wrong. He always accuses me of being self-absorbed and not paying enough attention to him.

I reach for my phone, fingers fumbling on the cheap leather seat before I remember I left it at home. It’s probably for the best. I’ve watched enough television to know the police check cell phone records, and the last thing I want is to lead them here. I feel bereft without my phone, but that’s the least of my twenty million worries.

I park the car, lock the doors, and wait as long as my nerves will hold out. Five minutes, maybe ten. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Alex? My dad? The police? No one comes. There aren’t a lot of good reasons to hang out in this area after dark, and plenty of reasons not to. Maybe it’s better if no one shows up.

I take a steadying breath, grab my purse and the garbage bag, and get out of the car. No one jumps me. My footsteps are the only sound as I cover the short distance to the back