A Brilliant Deception Read Online Free

of Sunset Boulevard. The wind whipped my hair as I continued along palm tree–lined boulevards under the sparkling LA sun. An exhilarated grin threatened to split my face as relief washed over me, and the warm tingle of a job successfully done spread throughout my limbs.
    Once again, it never ceased to amaze me how shockingly good it felt to behave so spectacularly bad.
     
    Several minutes later my phone rang. I glanced down, still driving, and saw a familiar number flash on the screen—Templeton, my handler at AB&T, the Agency of Burglary and Theft. I answered the encrypted call and put it on speaker. “Templeton, you must be clairvoyant!” I said, laughing. “I just finished the job, you’ll be happy to know. It’s in hand, in all its sparkling glory.”
    There was a moment’s hesitation. “I beg your pardon?” he said, then mumbled and answered his own question. “Oh, the Briolette. Yes, jolly good, my dear.” My eyebrows knotted slightly. He sounded distracted, and—something else I couldn’t place. “But that’s not why I’m calling,” he said.
    A bristle of warning traced up my scalp.
    “Petal, you need to come home right away. Your mother is in the hospital. She was hurt.”
    My chest collapsed inward as all the air left me. “What? How?”
    “I’m not sure how to tell you this—”
    “ Templeton. Tell me. Now.”
    A moment’s pause. Then, “She was shot. Because . . . well, you see, Catherine—she tried to stop a burglar.”

Chapter Two
    I got back to Seattle as fast as I possibly could. The flight was brief but agonizing, and I went to the hospital straight from the airport. I arrived just after 8 p.m.
    The antiseptic environment of the hospital—smelling of industrial cleaner and vomit—slammed into me as soon as I walked in. The fluorescent lights didn’t help my growing headache. But I ignored the pain. It didn’t matter; I only cared about getting up to the trauma ward.
    I arrived at the doorway to my mom’s room. She was as white as the starched sheets that covered her. She gazed out the window at the darkening sky, the tubes and wires running out of her to various IV poles and monitors clustered around the bedside. It was all so—invasive-looking. One of the machines was bleeping. Another was making a whirring sound. A white-coated doctor—a resident, maybe?—stood by the bedside, making notes on Mom’s chart. He looked impossibly young, as well as tired. The greens under his white coat were creased and rumpled, like he’d been sleeping in them. He looked up at me—through glasses with smudge marks on the lenses—forcing me to enter the room before I was ready.
    A panicky feeling crawled up my throat as I crept in and stood by the foot of her bed. The room smelled of bleach. Her gaze turned to me, an oxygen tube under her nose. My heart squeezed at the sight of my mother like that.
    As she saw me, her face softened into a weak smile. “Cat. Darling, I’m so glad you’re here.” Her voice was hoarse.
    I wanted to say something but didn’t know quite what. So I settled for smiling back at her and hoped I made it look convincing.
    “It looks like your mother is going to be fine,” the resident said, clicking his pen and sliding it back into the breast pocket of his white coat. “The surgery went well, there should be no permanent damage. Recovery will take some time, of course.”
    “How much time?” I asked. “Did you get the bullet out?” I peppered him with a million other questions, barely giving him time to answer, until my mom reached a cool hand out from under her sheets and gripped my hand.
    “Sweetheart, stop . Everything will be fine. Let the doctor go see his other patients. There will be time to talk later.”
    She was right. I glanced apologetically at the resident.
    “I’ll be here in the morning,” he said. “I can answer more of your questions then.”
    I nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.”
    “I’ll leave you two alone,” he said and strode