The Conspiracy of Us (The Conspiracy of Us 1)

With a start, I realized I could get one on my seventeenth birthday if I wanted. I was a Saxon.

I shook my head. We only had about twelve hours until the Order’s deadline. I flipped the paper back over and stared at the phone number until my eyes crossed. We were at a dead end with the clues. Maybe my father could help us find the Order and take Mr. Emerson back by force, if I could get him to care enough about me to go to the trouble.

I rolled off the bed and crossed the room to the window. Should I suck it up and call Jack and have him get Saxon to start a search? I really, really didn’t want to talk to him right now.

I slid the window open, letting the smell of the storm that had been threatening all afternoon wash over me. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and I leaned on the window frame and looked out over the Louvre courtyard.

“There you are,” said a deep voice next to me.

I whipped around. There on the balcony, leaning against the wall outside my window, was Jack.

CHAPTER 33

What are you doing here?” I demanded. It came out part angry, part relieved, a lot worried.

He scrambled to his feet. “Please let me explain.”

“Coming to my room in the middle of the night? Are you crazy?” I whispered, pointing at the bedroom door and putting my finger to my lips. I kicked off my shoes and climbed out the window onto the thin balcony. I refused Jack’s hand when he held it out to help, and I eased the window closed behind me.

I stared him down. “Why did you lie to me?” The breeze flapped my dress.

“Avery, I’m so sorry.” And he looked it. He looked as broken as I felt, from his pleading eyes to the loose bow tie around his neck, obviously forgotten. “I was wrong. I was going to tell you, so many times.”

“How long have you known?”

I could tell he wanted to avert his eyes, but he didn’t. “Since Prada. It’s not exactly that you look like him, but I could see it, once I realized your father had to be one of the twelve.”

I swallowed. “So you and the Saxons were just stringing me along that whole time? Why?”

“He didn’t know until tonight.”

“What?” I looked up, my eyes swimming.

“He found out at the ball, and it wasn’t me who told him,” Jack went on. “Lydia figured it out. She recognized you somehow.”

Just like I’d recognized her. She looked like my sister. I still hadn’t processed that.

I crossed to the railing. Even though the museum was long closed, people still milled around the square below, taking photos of the pyramid gleaming against the softer lights on the Louvre’s stone facade.

“It was never my intention to hurt you,” Jack said quietly. “Trust me on that.”

“I can’t!” I whirled around. “That’s the point. I can’t trust you. You knew how much this meant to me, and you lied over and over about having no idea who he was.”

He paced a few steps down the balcony. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted to know what Fitz meant before I let you walk into something dangerous. Or because you might run. Or . . . I don’t know. I should have told you.” His dark hair flopped onto his forehead, like even it felt defeated. “I thought it would be better for everyone if I told you when you were in the same place and let you approach him yourself. We were so busy, the ball was the first opportunity.”

That was what he’d been about to say before Lydia interrupted us, I realized. “And what if I hadn’t wanted to talk to him?”

“I was going to let you leave.”

“You would have let me get away again? They’d kill you for that. Especially if they found out you knew who I really was,” I said, half jokingly, looking at the spot on his arm where I knew his tattoo was. Beautiful. Deadly.

“I know,” he said, not jokingly at all.

I leaned on the railing, not sure whether he was making me feel better or worse. “You can’t say things like this, then do something completely different and expect me to believe you. To trust you.”

If I shattered one more time, I might not be able to put the pieces back together.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Jack said again, quietly. “That’s what I came here to say.” He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out an envelope with my name on it. “Saxon wrote you this. It was my excuse for coming to see you.”

Avery,

I understand this is a shock. It is one for me, too, but a welcome one. I wish I could speak with you tonight, but I think it’s best not to arouse unnecessary suspicion. I’ll come get you in the morning. Security at the Dauphins’ is tight—you’ll be safe.

Best, Alistair Saxon

I read the note again. “So does he want to marry me off to somebody in the morning?”

Jack shook his head. “He doesn’t know about the purple eyes. I should have told him, but I wanted you to at least be able to do that yourself.”

I held the note so hard, it crumpled between my fingers. I turned back to Jack, who was rubbing the back of his neck uneasily.

“Why couldn’t you have told me?” I said again. My voice cracked.

The confusion, the uncertainty, the relief still flowing through me at seeing Jack. The euphoric jump in my heart knowing that my father did care. The sound of the killer’s head hitting the floor at Prada. The last thing I said to my mom—a lie about how I’d stay home from prom and pack.

I was falling. Falling, falling, falling. I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob that escaped anyway.

Jack’s jaw clenched, and he crossed the balcony in one stride.

He folded me into his arms.

I pushed him away, but he didn’t let me. He tucked me under his chin and wrapped his arms around me tight. And then I crumbled. I clung to him with everything I had, handfuls of his shirt balled up in my fists, sobbing the huge, choking sobs I’d been holding back for days.

It felt like the tears would never stop.

Jack held me close, and I felt his heart beat and his chest rise and fall under my cheek, and breathed in the inexplicable, musky sweetness of his skin—apples, I decided through the haze of tears. He smelled like fall, like autumn sun and ripe apples. Finally, I felt my shoulders relax and the sobs taper off.

I nuzzled my head into his chest and he tangled his fingers in my hair. “Sorry,” I whispered, but that wasn’t the right thing to say. “Thanks,” I said, but that wasn’t quite right either. I pulled away an inch and stared at his chest, where my tears had left a wet, mascarasmeared blotch.