I step on the acceleration pedal and we coast down a highway in Morocco, the wind hot against my face. I have a new pair of Cartier sunglasses. I have a new yellow sundress which I bought for about a dollar at a flea market. I have a new everything. We left everything behind in England, except the money. That's the kind of thing you have to get used to, if you live like this.
"Done with Morocco," Sparky says from the passenger seat. He actually doesn't like driving. I'm a far better driver than him. He says it's because he's getting old. "Want to hit Algeria then Tunisia?"
I sigh. The sun is brilliant and blinding in Morocco. I know I said I always wanted to go to Morocco—and I did—but now that I've gotten here, it's all a bit tiring.
"Can we just buy a house in Chicago?" I ask. "I'm tired. I just want to be normal for a year."
"Can't go to Chicago. I'm still wanted there," Sparky reminds me.
I laugh. That's true. That's how Sparky got his name after all. He survived the electric chair because one of his buddies messed with the wiring, and as they were debating whether or not to put him in again, he escaped. That's where he found me, starved on some urban street. I don't even remember. The only reason he took me in was because I was nine and pretty. You can get into a lot of places as a cute nine-year old that adult men who look like (and are) hardened criminals can't. And when you grow up, being pretty can get you a lot of places too.
So that's how it's been for eight years. Me and Sparky, a little crime family of our own, moving from place to place once our cover got busted or we finished the job. He taught me everything I know. How to have a poker face. How to act like someone I'm not. He taught me how to get rid of my Chicagoan accent. You wouldn't believe how heavy it was originally. Dead giveaway.
It's all in the confidence, he always tells me. It's all in making someone believe that you believe you are what you say you are.
I think I believed it a little too much back at Arbourne. I think I got a little too deep in their club of heirs and heiresses. I think I fell in love with that glamour, that wealth. It's hard not to. Jasper might have thought I was different, but I really wasn't. All I wanted was diamonds and private flights to Ibiza and four billion dollars of his fortune.
I liked Jasper more than I should have.
I think I'm stupid for still wanting him. Someone like him could have never truly loved someone like me.
"Colorado," I suggest to him. "I want to go skiing at Aspen."
Sparky shakes his head decisively. "That's dangerous too. I'm thinking Florida. Far away from Miami. Everyone there is so wacko, we'll fit right in."
I sigh. "I miss him."
Sparky looks at me judgmentally over his glasses. "It's important not to get attached."
"I know, I just—I got attached."
I'm still attached. I still have his gold ring. I should've tossed it in a ditch the first chance I had, because it's something recognisable, but I couldn't bring myself to.
"I like Florida," Sparky decides, ignoring my inner turmoil. "We'll buy a house in Florida. You gonna go to high school?"
"I hate high school."
"Okay."
"That wasn't a no."
"Okay."
I guess a house in Florida will be nice. I don't know how nice though. I was just getting used to the cold of England. I'll get a lot more tan in Florida. And I doubt any law enforcement, or more likely private investigators, will come looking for us in Florida. The world's a big place.
Thirteen billion's a lot of money, but it's not a lot if you've got fifty billion. Thirteen billion's a lot for us though. It's our biggest heist probably ever. I don't think we're going to repeat it. If you scam too many billionaires, they're going to start catching on eventually.
Anyways, thirteen billion's too much money for one person to have. Sparky's arranging things to give away nearly all of it to some charities or whatever, leaving us with ten million (already a lot). What the hell are we even going to do with thirteen billion? There isn't that much designer in the world to buy.
I guess it's not the actual money that's important to people. It's the exclusive clubs they get to join, the superiority that comes with it.
"I think I'd suck at being a rich person," I tell Sparky.
Sparky grins. "Your acting was phenomenal. What are you talking about?"
I shake my head. "Not my acting. Just everything else about it. It felt way too real."
"It was real. We are rich. Thirteen billion in the bank."
"You're giving it all away," I remind him. "That's the worst thing a rich person can do—be not-rich again."
Sparky smiles at me. "The worst? Or the best?"
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