“That’s not true?”

  I shrug. “Only way it kills you outright is if you’re a very unlucky-with-blowback death worker, and even then it doesn’t matter how old you are. But my brothers knew when they were pretty young. Barron won stuff by other people losing, you know? And Philip was always doing too well in a fight.” I remember Mom getting called into the junior high when Philip had broken the legs of three guys much bigger than he was. The blowback made him sick for a month, but no one ever messed with him again. I don’t know how she managed it, but no one reported him to the law, either. I try to think of an example with Barron in it, but nothing comes to mind. That’s one good thing about working luck, I guess. “Once you find out you’re a worker, you learn secret stuff from other workers. I can’t tell you that part because I don’t know it.”

  “Are you supposed to tell me any of that?”

  “Nope,” I say, turning on the car. “But you’re so drunk that I’m pretty sure you won’t remember anyway.”

  Somewhere between apologizing to Mrs. Yu for bringing Sam home so late, dumping him onto his bed, and backing out of the driveway of his huge brick colonial, I realize something.

  I’ve been so focused on the possibility that Lila might be a cat that I’ve glossed over the ramification of there being a transformation worker, here in the United States. Working with Anton—or maybe Anton himself. Either way, that’s a big secret. The government would fall all over itself to hire that person. The crime families would be desperate to recruit them. That’s what Anton and Philip are conspiring about. That’s why they needed to scramble my memories.

  They’ve got a real transformation worker.

  That’s something worth making me forget.

  10

  SAM AND DANECA MEET me outside the coffeehouse. They’re sitting on the hood of his 1978 vintage Cadillac Superior side-loading hearse in the parking lot, and Sam looks awful, taking tons of tiny sips from his cup like he’s got the shakes. The car is perfectly polished; its waxed metallic black paint is marred only by the sticker reading POWERED BY 100% VEGETABLE OIL pasted just above the chrome bumper. Sam’s wearing a suit jacket over a white shirt with a tie, but the jacket is too short in the arms, as if maybe it’s been in the back of his closet for a long time.

  Daneca looks strange out of uniform. Her jeans are worn along the bottom, above her thin flip-flops, but her white shirt is perfectly ironed.

  “I see your car is out of the shop,” I say to Sam.

  He looks confused. “My car’s—”

  Daneca talks over him. “I thought I’d come along anyway, since I already said I would.”

  I take a deep breath and wipe my damp palms against my pants. I’m too nervous to care that they lied. “I really appreciate you guys giving up your Saturday to help me,” I say, turning over a new leaf of gentlemanly behavior.

  “So, what’s the deal with this cat?” Daneca asks.

  “It’s a family friend,” I say, hoping they’ll laugh.

  Sam looks up from his cup. I can see the shimmer of sweat on his face. He looks massively hungover. “I thought you said the cat was yours.”

  “Well, it is. It was. It was mine.” I am confusing myself. I am forgetting the basics of lying. Keep it simple. The truth is complicated, which is why no one ever believes it over a halfway decent lie. “Here’s what I need you to do—I guess you didn’t get my text?”

  “Am I not dressed rich enough?” Sam asks, leaning back so that we can appreciate the full glory of his suit. “Don’t be drinking the Haterade.”

  “You look crazy,” I say, shaking my head. “Like a crazy valet. Or a waiter.”

  He looks over at Daneca, and she bursts out laughing. “Is that why you’re dressed like that?”

  Sam flops back on the car. “This is so not good for my ego.”

  “Daneca can do it,” I say. “Daneca looks the part.”

  “Humiliation on top of humiliation,” Sam groans. “Daneca looks rich because she is rich.”

  “So are you,” she tells him, which makes him put his sunglasses over his eyes and groan again. Sam’s parents own a string of car dealerships, which makes it ironic that he both drives a hearse and opposes big oil.

  “It won’t be hard,” I tell her, trying to push out of my head all the times I blew her off. “You’re going to be a nice well-to-do girl who was supposed to be taking care of her grandmother’s long-haired white cat. Its name is Coconut, but it has a longer show name that you don’t know. The cat also had a Swarovski crystal collar worth thousands.”

  Sam sits up. “Your cat is a Persian? I love their little pushed-in faces. They always look so angry.”

  “No,” I say as calmly as I can, even though I want to knock Sam in the head. “Not my cat. Her cat. Just let me finish.”

  “But she doesn’t have a cat.” He holds up his hands at my look. “Fine.”

  “First you go in looking for Coconut, but then you ask if they have any fluffy white cats. You’re desperate. Your grandmother is going to be home on Monday and she’s going to kill you. You’ll pay the person behind the desk five hundred bucks for any all-white fluffy cat—no questions asked.” They’re staring at me strangely. “There aren’t any monitors on the desk, I checked.”

  “So then they give me the cat and I give them the money?” Daneca asks.

  I shake my head. “No. They don’t have a fluffy white cat. Our cat is a shorthair.”

  “Dude, I think your plan has a flaw,” Sam says slowly.

  “Trust me,” I tell them, and smile my biggest, charmingest smile.

  * * *

  Daneca goes over to the Rumelt Animal Shelter and comes back, looking a little shaken.

  “How did it go?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says, and for a moment I’m furious that I couldn’t have played her part too. I am furious that her parents haven’t taught her how to lie and cheat properly, so that now I am betrayed by her inexperience.

  “Was there a woman there?” I ask, biting the inside of my mouth.

  “No, it was a skinny guy. In his twenties, I’d guess.”

  “What did he say when you talked about the money? Or the collar?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “He didn’t have any fluffy white cats. I don’t know if I did it right. I was just so freaked out.”

  “It’s okay.” I take her hand. “Freaked out is good. You just lost Granny’s Coconut. Anyone would be freaked out. Just tell me you gave him your number.”

  “That was the only time he seemed interested in what I was saying.” She laughs. “Now what?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Now we wait. Next part can’t happen for an hour—at least.” I look over at Daneca, and she gives me the same look she gave me when I refused to sign up for any of her causes. The look that said I’d betrayed who she thought I should be. But she doesn’t take her gloved hand out of mine.

  “Is that when I get to do my part?” Sam asks. I’m sick with nerves. This part is delicate and if it doesn’t work, my only backup plan is recruiting homeless guys to try and adopt the cat.

  “I can handle it,” I say.

  He gives me a hurt look. “I want to come watch you work your magic.”

  I feel bad for dragging him out here on a Saturday for no reason. “Okay,” I say finally. “Just follow my lead.”

  We wait an hour and a half, drinking coffee and hot chocolate until my skin feels jumpy. Finally I take a bracelet out of a Claire’s bag, put it in my pocket, and pull out a bunch of flyers from my bag. Daneca’s eating a package of chocolate-covered coffee beans and looking at me strangely. I wonder if I can ever go back to Wallingford or if I’ve already revealed too much of myself.

  I wonder if I should tell her that her part’s over and she can go home, but if I was going to tell her that, I should have told her more than an hour ago, so I decide that I better not do it now.

  “What are those for?” Sam asks, pointing to the flyers.

  “You’ll see,” I say. We cross the highway, which involves running across two lanes of traffic when the light changes, and then walk down a side street until we get to the shelter. There’s a lot of people there on a Saturday, most of them in a cat room where giant carpet-covered trees are perched upon by dozens and dozens of hissing, dozing, and clawing felines. I feel my heart drop when I see that Lila is not in there. The possibility that she’s been taken home with a family already stutters my heart.

  Lila.

  I’m not pretending or considering anymore when I think it.

  The white cat is Lila.

  Sam looks at me like he’s just realized that I have no idea what I’m doing. I clear my throat. The guy at the desk looks up. His face is a mess of pimples.

  “Hey, can I hang this here?” I say, and hold up a flyer.

  It’s on bright white paper, and there’s a photograph I downloaded off the Internet of the cutest fluffy white Persian cat I could find without a collar. A dead ringer for our description of Coconut. Above it is the word “FOUND” and then a phone number. I put the flyer on the desk in front of the guy.

  “Sure,” he says.

  He’s a perfect mark. Young enough to want the money and the glory of helping out a pretty girl. I’m suddenly very glad Daneca decided to be part of the plan.

  I start tacking another copy to the board, praying that in the chaos the desk guy looks at the flyer I left for him. An older woman starts asking him about a pit bull mix, distracting him. Sam is fidgeting next to me like he has no idea what’s going on. I drop the copy as if it’s an accident and pick it up again.

  Finally the woman leaves.

  “Thanks for letting me post this,” I say to get the guy’s attention, and he finally looks down at the flyer. I can see the gears move behind his eyes.

  “Hey, you found this cat?” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m hoping to keep her.” People love to help. It makes them feel good. Greed is the icing on the cake. “My little sister is super excited. She’s been wanting a cat for a while.”

  Sam gives me a look when I say “super.” He’s probably right; I need to tone it down.

  I slip my hand into my pocket and take out the bracelet. It shines in the fluorescent lights. “Look at this gaudy collar.” I laugh. “Who puts a cat in something like this?”

  “I think I might know the owner,” the guy says slowly. His eyes sparkle like the stones.

  As convincers go, I’ve seen worse.

  “Man, my sister’s going to be disappointed.” I take a breath, let it out again. “Well, tell your friend to call me.”

  This is the moment of truth, and when I look into the face of the mark at the counter, I can tell that I’ve got him. He’s probably not a bad guy, but that five hundred dollars is quite a lure. Plus the collar.

  Plus, he’d have an excuse to call Daneca.

  “Wait,” he says. “Maybe you could bring the cat here. I’m sure I know the owner. The cat’s name is Coconut.”

  I turn toward the door and then back to him. “I was stupid to tell my sister, but now she’s all excited and—well, I don’t suppose you have a white cat here? All I told her about it was the color.”

  He looks eager. “We do. Sure.”

  I let out my breath. I’m not faking the relief that I know floods my face. “Oh, great. I’d love to have a white cat to take home to her.”

  He grins. Like I said, people love to help, especially when they can help themselves in doing so.

  “Cool,” I say. “Let me fill out the paperwork and we’ll take the cat. Your friend’s fluffy kitty is at this guy’s house, so we’ll go get her and bring her right to you.” I gesture toward Sam.

  “The thing’s probably giving fleas to my mother’s couch,” Sam says, which is perfect. I wish I could tell him that, but all I can do is give him a grateful glance.

  The mark hands me the form, and this time I know what to do. I write down my age as nineteen, specify a veterinarian, and make up a name that’s not even close to my own.

  “Do you have any ID?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, and reach into my back pocket for my wallet. I flip it open and touch the place where driver’s licenses go. Mine’s not there.

  “Oh, man,” I say. “This isn’t my day.”

  “Where’d you leave it?” the guy asks.

  I shake my head. “No idea. Look, I totally understand if that breaks the rules or whatever. I have one other place to hang up fliers, then I’ll go look for my license. Maybe your friend can give me a call and I can just drop the cat with her. My sister will understand.”

  The guy gives me a long evaluating look.

  “You have the adoption fee?” he asks.

  I look down at the paper, but I already know what it says. “Fifty bucks, sure.”

  The door rings, and some people walk through it, but the man behind the desk keeps his eyes on me. He licks his lips.

  I take out the cash and set it down on the counter in front of him. I’ve blown through a chunk of my savings in the last few days, between bad bets and spending. I’m going to have to be careful if Lila and I wind up having to get out of town on the rest.

  “Okay, I’ll hook you up,” the mark says, taking the money.

  “Oh,” I say. “Cool. Thanks.” I know better than to overplay it.

  “So, this long-haired cat,” Sam says, and I freeze, willing him not to stick his foot in it. He’s looking at the guy behind the counter. “Do you need to call your friend or anything?”

  “I will,” he says, and I can see the red creeping up his neck. “I want to surprise her.”

  A woman walks up to the desk, a filled out form clutched in her hand. She looks impatient. I have to push.

  “Can we take the cat now?” I ask. I put the bracelet down on the counter. “Oh, your friend will probably want her collar back too.”

  He looks at the woman and then at me. Then his hand closes over the bracelet and he heads into the back and comes back a few minutes later swinging a cardboard pet carrier.

  My hand shakes when I take it. Sam grins at me in amazement, but all I can think of is that I have her. I did it. She’s right here in my hands. I look through the air holes and I can see her, prowling back and forth. Lila. A cold jolt of terror runs through me at the wrongness of her imprisoned in that tiny body.

  “Be back in an hour,” I tell the guy, hoping I never see him again.

  I hate this part.

  I always hate the part where I know they are going to wait, their hope souring into shame at their own gullibility.

  But I clench my jaw, take the cat carrier with Lila in it, and walk out the door.

  When I open it up in the parking lot of the coffeehouse, the first thing she does is bite me hard on the heel of my hand. The next thing she does is purr.

  * * *

  Mom says that because she can make people feel what she wants, she’s learned how to see into their hearts. She says that if I was like her, I’d have the instinct too. Maybe being a worker tempts you to be all mystical, but I think mom knows about people because she watches faces very closely. There’re these looks people get that last less than a second—micro-expressions, fleeting clues that reveal a lot more than we wish they did. I think my mother pays attention to those without being aware of what she’s doing. Me, I had to practice.

  Like, walking back toward the coffee shop with the cat in my arms, I can tell that Sam is freaked out by the con, by his part in it, by my planning it. I can tell. No matter how much he smiles.

  I’m not my mother, though. I’m no emotion worker. Knowing that he’s freaked out doesn’t help me. I can’t make him feel any different.

  * * *

  I dump the cat onto one of the café tables and grab some napkins to wipe the blood off my wrist. My hand’s throbbing. Daneca is smiling down at the cat like she’s a full set of Gorham silver recently fallen off a truck.

  This whole thing might be a delusion, the fantasy of a guilty conscience. But I am going with it.

  Lila cries, and the barista looks over from behind the espresso machine. The cat cries again, then takes a lick of the foam on the edge of Daneca’s paper cup.

  I just stare at Lila the cat, utterly incapable of doing more than smothering the strange keening sound that’s crawling up the back of my throat.

  “Don’t,” Daneca says, waving the cat off. The cat hisses and then slumps down on the tabletop. She starts licking her leg.

  “You won’t believe how he did it,” Sam tells Daneca, leaning forward eagerly.

  I look at the barista, at the other customers, and then back at him. Everyone’s already paying us too much attention. The cat starts chewing on the end of a claw.

  “Sam,” I say, cautioning.

  “You know, Sharpe,” he says, looking at me and then around. “You’ve got some interesting skills. And some interesting paranoia.”

  I smile in acknowledgment of his words, but it hurts. I’ve been so careful not to let anyone at school see the other side of me, to see what I am, and now I’ve blown that in a half hour.

  Daneca tilts her head. “It’s sweet. All this trouble for a kitty.” She brushes the top of the cat’s head, rubbing behind her ears.

  My cell rings in my pocket, vibrating. I stand up, dropping the bloody napkins into the trash can, and answer the phone. “Hey.”

  “You better get over here with my car,” Grandad says. “Before I call the cops and tell them you stole it.”

  “Sorry,” I say contritely. Then the rest of what he said sinks in and I laugh. “Wait, did you just threaten me with calling the police? Because that I’d like to see.”

  Grandad grunts, and I think maybe he’s laughing too. “Drive on over to Philip’s—he wants to have some kind of dinner with us. He says Maura’s going to cook. You think she’s a good cook?”

  “How about I pick up a pizza?” I say, looking at the cat. She’s rubbing against Daneca’s hand. “Let’s just chill out at the house.” I don’t think I’m ready to see Philip and not spit in his face.