Double Deal by John M. Green

Author:John M. Green
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pantera Press

65

Barcelona

Tori left Frank perched on the edge of the shop’s front counter, partly to keep guard while he sent the photos she’d taken inside Bar Canona to Thatcher, and partly to allow her a modicum of privacy while she used the washroom down the back to freshen up and change.

Her clothes, now piled on the floor and covered in dust and fragments of things she didn’t want to think about, reeked of smoke. As she shook her wig out multiple times, she couldn’t avoid visualising a little girl hugging her teddy bear as the blast tore it and her to shreds.

She’d scrubbed her face so hard it was feeling raw, and as she emerged out of the racks, washed, clothed and wigged, she hoped the dim store light would stop Frank noticing that she wasn’t able to keep her eyes dry.

His hand went to his mouth. He’d noticed.

She wiped her eyes, again, with her sleeve. ‘I can’t get those kids out of my head,’ she confessed. ‘If it wasn’t for me …’ She let the words hang like a sentence, the judgemental kind.

‘Tori, he did that, not you. All we can do for those kids and their families is bring him to justice, so let’s get moving and stop moping.’

Tori looked down. He was right about the moving part. But she couldn’t help feeling responsible. She looked back up and saw his expression had changed, like he’d sucked on a lemon. ‘What?’ she said.

‘Your outfit. It’s like you’ve got a green neon arrow pointing at you and it’s flashing Hey, look at me! I was kind of expecting a more blend-into-the-shadows get-up.’

‘Even the wig?’

‘The wig’s fine, especially now you’ve flipped it blonde side up. The hair is the least offensive part … You are definitely not the Invisible Woman you need to be.’

Was he right? She hadn’t thought so when she’d picked the clothes out. Perhaps it was the incredibly poor light filtering through to the back of the store. Plus her tears. And her exhaustion. Or maybe the drugs were still in her system and clouding her judgement. She could attribute her gaffe to lots of things, but paying less attention to creating a disguise than was prudent was a rookie error.

She pulled her shirt – green paisley – over her head and held it out in front of her to check it out. Frank was right. Here, nearer the window, it was flashy. Garish, even. As she stood in her bra and slacks and reset her wig, she noticed Frank had turned his head away.

He really was Mr Decent, she thought, as she rifled through another rack of shirts.

She slipped another shirt off the rack, dark grey, plain, no pattern, long-sleeved. After undoing the top two buttons of its Peter Pan collar, she pulled it over her head. ‘Ta da! You can look now.’ She pulled the shirt cuffs down over her wrists and, as Frank turned back to face her, she spun on her toes in the sneakers she’d found in the washroom.

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