LOGINAt twenty, Aubrey Hale expected to be planning midterms. Instead, she's planning a wedding — to a stranger. Dante Vescari, the widowed underboss of Kansas City, needs a wife to keep his seat. He chooses Aubrey for one cold reason: marrying her puts her father — the family's trusted advisor — under his own roof, where Dante can watch him. Because Dante knows the secret that could burn the whole family down: Edmund Hale has been meeting a federal agent. What Dante doesn't know is that Aubrey already knows too. She followed her father to the courthouse. She saw the badge. She heard the deal. Now the girl with paint on her hands is marrying the most dangerous man in the city, hiding the secret that could hang her father — while the man she's marrying hides the very same secret, for a very different reason. Two liars. One house. Six weeks until the wedding. And someone is already setting fires to see which of them breaks first.
View MoreTuesday, 6:10 p.m. — Ward Parkway house, my bedroom.Mom zips me into a blue dress and steams the wrinkles out with her hands."Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile like you mean it.""Which lie is tonight?" I ask."Aubrey." She says my name like a warning, checks my collar, and leaves.I scrub my hands at the sink until the last blue paint is gone. Then I make my rules, because rules are the only thing I have left.Rule one: smile. Rule two: say little. Rule three: watch everything.Dad waits at the front door in his gray suit, keys in his fist, eyes anywhere but me."You look beautiful," he says."Thank you," I say, and it's the first lie we've ever traded at the door.* * *7:00 p.m. — Mission Hills mansion, the dining room.The dining room is the size of our whole downstairs. One long table. White candles. A wall of windows going black with night.The Don sits at the head of the table in his wheelchair, gray blanket over his knees, sharp eyes over a water glass. On his right, Pietro
Friday, 9:20 p.m. — Loose Park house, kitchen.The baby monitor sits on my kitchen counter, glowing green. Millie is asleep. Three good nights in a row now. I'd trade every truck in the fleet to keep it that way.Marc spreads a folder across my kitchen table like he's dealing cards."Three days on Edmund Hale," he says. "Wednesday, office to lunch to home. Thursday, same. Boring. Today, not boring."He lays the photos out in a row.Sam Colton drives my gray pickup. Best mechanic I have and a better shadow. He sat across from the plaza in front of the federal courthouse all morning with a camera under a moving blanket."Nine fifty-five, a man sits on the bench by the fountain," Marc says. "Silver hair. Charcoal suit. Edmund arrives at nine fifty-eight. They talk for nine minutes. Then Edmund walks into the courthouse and comes out at twelve forty, alone, and the briefcase looks heavier than it did going in."I pick up the third photo.The silver-haired man is standing, buttoning his co
7:50 a.m. — Ward Parkway house, kitchen.Friday. My father eats his eggs in his dark suit, with his briefcase standing by the door like a third guest."Meetings downtown," he says. "I'll be back by two.""What meetings?" Mom asks. She doesn't look up from her coffee."Trust things."The answer is ready. Too ready. When Mom asks about groceries, he has to think. When she asks about his morning, the sentence was already built.Dad rinses his plate, kisses the top of my head, and holds on one second longer than usual."Be good, Aubrey-girl.""I'm always good.""Don't I know it," he says, and something in his voice bends on the words.The door closes. His Lincoln rolls down the drive. Mom stares at the window like she's counting something.I look at my planner. My only class today is a one o'clock lecture. His "meeting" is this morning.My father taught me to drive in this neighborhood when I was sixteen. He said the same thing every lesson: "Check your mirrors twice. Once for cars. Once
Wednesday, 7:00 a.m. — Doyle's Garage, Brooklyn Avenue, East Side.Marc's garage smells like motor oil and burnt coffee. It's the only place in this city where nobody watches us. That's why he wouldn't talk on the phone. "Not over the phone," he'd said. "Come to the garage."Marc Doyle has been my right hand since we were seventeen. Buzz cut, flannel shirt, forearms like steel cable. Today he looks like a man who didn't sleep — and like the thing he found kept him up.Under the work light sits what's left of Truck 12. A black shell. Melted tires. The paint burned down to bare metal. I look at it for one second too long, and I'm back in a hospital hallway fourteen months ago, looking at photographs of another wreck."Alonzo's okay," Marc says. "Shook. He quit on the spot.""Show me."He turns an old laptop around on the workbench. "Corner store on Sixth Street. There's a camera behind the beer sign in the window. Nobody knows it's there. Not even the O'Fallons."The video is gray and g






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