The Conspiracy of Us (The Conspiracy of Us 1)

“Russia? Near his family?”

An ice cream vendor pushed a cart down the street, tinny music blaring from his speakers.

“Near his sister. His parents are dead.”

Stellan hadn’t mentioned that. The more I learned about the Circle and the Keepers, though, the more I wasn’t surprised he didn’t have a normal, happy childhood. He’d clearly thought about the concept of toska way before we met. Something’s missing, he’d said. You ache for it down to your bones.

I could tell Jack didn’t want to talk about Stellan, but I couldn’t help asking how his parents died.

“There was a gas leak, and their building blew up. Stellan and his sister survived,” Jack said. “That’s why he came to the Circle later than usual . . . Long story.”

Wow. That was awful.

“Was it the Order?”

Jack shook his head. “Accident.”

“Why do you hate the Order so much?” I said. It had been weighing on me since Mr. Emerson’s apartment. Jack had looked ready to rip someone’s head off with his bare hands. That was more than anger over Mr. Emerson.

Jack rubbed a hand over his face. “Alistair Saxon wasn’t meant to be head of the Saxon family. His older brother was. Almost twenty years ago, the Order killed him and their father, and it caused a lot of upheaval. The Saxons’ animosity toward them is . . . special. Even before the recent attacks.”

So Jack had been trained to hate the Order. And it wasn’t unjustified.

We sat in silence for a minute. Finally Jack took another bite of his food, and I followed suit. My eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy at the spicy lamb and warm flatbread and the creamy, minty sauce. I’d had no idea I was this hungry.

“How long have you been with the Saxons?” I asked, taking another bite.

Jack finished his kebab and folded his foil wrapper in half, and in half again. He didn’t answer for a second, and I wiped my fingers on a napkin. Maybe this was an off-limits topic.

He unfolded the piece of foil and cleared his throat. “I’ve been with the Saxons from age four.”

I stared at him. I should have assumed it had been a while—he would have been about ten when Mr. Emerson started giving me Charlie updates—but the thought of the Circle training little kids shocked me. Especially training them to be Keepers. I’d seen Stellan kill someone, and the way Jack handled a gun made it clear he was very comfortable with it, which I didn’t like to think about. Their training obviously involved a lot more than a kid should be exposed to. “Four years old?”

“Yes.” Jack stared straight ahead, elbows on his knees. The breeze rustled the palm trees.

“Why . . . ?” I trailed off, already regretting the question. Whatever the answer was, it couldn’t be good.

“My mother died giving birth to me. My father gave me up.” He must have anticipated my next question. “It’s good money, and my father never wanted kids anyway.”

I opened my mouth, and closed it again.

Jack sat up straight, and wiped at a spot of blood on his shirt. My blood. Again. “Everyone who works for the families is related to them. Usually in-laws . . . not in the direct bloodline. Enough for us to have an ingrained loyalty, but not enough to make it inappropriate to be employed by them,” he said, like he had to justify his life to me. Explain choices he didn’t even make for himself.

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me,” he said defensively, even though I hadn’t said anything. He crushed the foil in his fist. “I’ve never wanted for anything.”

I choked down a bite of lamb that had gone dry in my mouth. If he really believed that, he’d led an even sadder, lonelier life than I had.

“Saxon took me in when no one else wanted me,” he said. “He’s the closest thing to a father I have. Him and Fitz. But it’s enough.”

He stood and crossed to a nearby trash can. I watched his back.

Jack was so confident, and strong, and mature, and if you didn’t look closely, there was nothing about him to suggest the little boy he used to be. But I could see it. It was in his eyes or in the set of his shoulders. In those rare seconds when he was less guarded, there was something a little lost.

“I’ve never had a father,” I said when he came back. “I don’t even know what it’s like to kind of have one.”

“You don’t know anything about him at all?” Jack said after a second. “You haven’t seen a photo?”

I grasped my locket. “One picture, but it’s really old and fuzzy.” I sat up straighter. “He seemed to look kind of like me. Dark hair, dark brows. Do any of them look like that?”

Jack rubbed his jaw with one thumb. “I don’t know. I mean, most of them have dark hair.”

I bottled up the thoughts of my dad and put them away. I’d let my desperation to know something about him override my good judgment once, when I said yes to coming to France, and I wasn’t going to let it happen again. And right now, my good judgment still said to help Mr. Emerson, then get as far away from the Circle as I could, as fast as I could, whether I’d figured out who he was or not.

Jack checked his watch again and glanced from the guards, to the other side of the plaza, to a group of drunk tourists meandering in the street. Occasionally, spray from the fountains misted our backs.

The duo of bored-looking guards crossed in front of us again, then disappeared around the side of the building. Like clockwork, another guard strolled to the front doors, said a few words to the sentry posted there, and continued on his rounds. If our calculations were correct, this would mean the door guard would be alone for the next thirteen minutes.

“Ready?” Jack said.

I nodded and put on his sunglasses. The gold-rimmed Aviators were way too big for my face, which was perfect.

Jack stood and marched toward the doors. After a minute, the guard peered around him at me, and I held my breath. We were counting on an American pop star being famous enough all over the world for this random security guard to recognize her.

Jack waved me over. Heart knocking against my rib cage, I walked up to the doors, feeling very, very small as I took in how big the building really was. I tried not to show it. Krissy Silver would think she was entitled to be here. She had had six number one Billboard hits last year alone—or at least, that’s what they said at the awards show where she wore this dress. Elodie had said I looked like her, and it was true enough—Stellan probably would have called her a porcelain doll, too. I could only hope the guard agreed. I thrust my shoulders back and put a bored, haughty look on my face.