Free Double Crossed by Ally Carter

head. “There is no list. There’s just—”
    “Dad.” Kat sat for a moment, thinking, then sighed. “So?” she asked. Suddenly it all seemed preposterous. “So what? This is what he does, Hale. This is what we all do. What makes this time any different?”
    She stood and started for the door, but in a flash, Hale was standing; his hand was around her wrist.
    “It’s different because it’s different, Kat. This guy—this guy with the paintings—he’s a bad guy.”
    “I’m Bobby Bishop’s daughter, Hale. I know a lot of bad guys.”
    She tried to pull away, but Hale’s chest was pressed against hers. His hands were warm against her skin. There was a new urgency in his voice as he whispered, “Listen to me, Kat. He’s not a bad guy like your dad and Uncle Eddie are bad guys.” He took a deep breath. “Like I’m a bad guy. This guy? His name’s Arturo Taccone, and he’s a whole different kind of bad.”
    In the two years since she’d met him, Kat had seen Hale wear a lot of expressions: playful, intrigued, bored. But she had never seen him scared before, and that, more than anything, made her shiver.
    “He wants his paintings back.” Hale’s voice was softer now. The hard edge had left him, and something else had settled in its place. “If he doesn’t have them in two weeks, then…” Hale obviously didn’t want to say what came next, which was just as well. Kat didn’t want to hear it.
    As she dropped back onto the sofa, Kat couldn’t remember the last time she’d been speechless. Then again, she also couldn’t remember the last time she’d been framed for a crime she didn’t commit, kicked out of a boarding school that it had taken her three whole months to con her way into, and then, technically, kidnapped by a guy who could buy a Monet and yet couldn’t resist stealing a Vermeer. Speechless seemed okay under the circumstances.
    “My dad used to be more careful than this,” she said softly.
    “Your dad used to have you.”
    Kat ate her corned beef sandwich. She drank some lemonade. She was aware, faintly, of Hale watching her, but that was only because he was Hale, and the part of Kat that made her a girl wouldn’t let her forget that he was in the room. Otherwise, she was as quiet as a church mouse. She would have made her family proud.
    An hour later Marcus was leading Kat up the sweeping staircase, and Kat was staring, trying to guess whether the silver-haired man was closer in age to fifty or eighty. She was listening, trying to determine whether his accent was more Scottish than Welsh. But most of all, Kat was wondering why Marcus was the only servant she had ever seen orbiting around Planet Hale.
    “I’ve taken the liberty of putting you in Mrs. Hale’s room, miss.”
    Marcus opened a wide set of double doors, and Kat started to protest—the mansion had fourteen bedrooms, after all. But then Marcus switched on the lights, and Kat breathed in the stale air of a room that was clean but neglected. It had a king-size bed, a chaise lounge, and at least twenty silk-covered pillows, all in varying shades of blue. It was beautiful but sad, Kat thought. It needed to feel a beating heart.
    “If there is anything you need, miss,” Marcus told her from the door, “I’m number seven on the house phone.”
    “No,” Kat mumbled. “I mean, yes. I mean…I don’t need anything. Thank you.”
    “Very well, miss,” he said, reaching for the doors.
    “Marcus?” She stopped him. “Have Hale’s parents…I mean Mr. and Mrs. Hale…How long will they be away?” Kat asked, wondering which was sadder: having parents who’ve died or ones who’ve simply floated away.
    “The lady of the house will not be needing the room, miss.”
    “Are you ever going to call me Kat, Marcus?”
    “Not today, miss.” He repeated softly, “Not today.”
    He closed the door, and Kat listened to his footsteps receding down the long hallway. She lay down on Hale’s mother’s empty bed, the duvet