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7

It’s an intense two hours. Flynn underlines crucial members of the prime minister’s family-and-friends tree, delineating her most frequent known associates, and I do my best to memorize the fifty-page fact sheet about her, reading it aloud. (She was born on the southern coast of Summerland; likes show horses; is allergic to cucumbers; graduated third in her class at law school. Politics is a family business; her mother was a lobbyist, her father was finance officer for the Council of State, and her brother’s the special advisor to the deputy prime minister.) From the driver’s seat, Flynn colors in more detail as we hug the coastline, all the way down to Positano.

The sea is a different blue than Maine’s, brighter and more inviting than the waters I’m used to swimming in, and every time I look up, the gorgeous vistas make the breath catch in my throat: multicolored houses perched on craggy rocks, lush gardens and sailboats tucked into half-hidden coves. Roadside flowers burst in plumes of orange, and we pass several lemon groves, fruit ripe and ready for picking. We’re buoyed by the sweet sounds of—

“I’m sorry, but what is this?” I ask, pointing to the stereo.

“Summerlandian polka!” he shouts over the song. “I thought it might help put you in the right frame of mind. What, you don’t like it? No sexier instruments than an accordion and the arctic flute!”

“You know those middle school dances?” I half yell over the sound. “Where chaperones come around with flashlights and tell you to make room for Jesus?”

“I’m familiar!”

“Well, they wouldn’t have to do that if they just played this music! No one would go near each other.”

He laughs again, boyish, waiting until the song finishes before shutting it off.

Near the end of the journey, after I’ve covered up the small cooking scars on my hands with makeup, we resettle into our roles—him, the friendly and upbeat handler; me, the mildly aloof asset—and he goes over the switch one more time: The prime minister’s Range Rover will pull up right alongside ours for the swap. When we trade places, it’s also a test—a vetting process, to make sure there are no leaks in the security personnel. “We need to trust her people,” Flynn says. “Confirm that they won’t talk to the press—or, worse, enemies of the state. There’s a plan every step of the way. You’ll be driving with Lars. He’s part of Prime Minister Christiansen’s special protection group, Summerland’s equivalent of the Secret Service. He’ll take you straight to the hotel. He’s in on it—knows that you’re the body double—but even with him, never break character.”

I swallow heavily. I wish I had some water. Or some lemonade. Or honestly, some of that whiskey-water from back home. Yes, it’s nine thirty in the morning; no, I’m not a big drinker. But even with the upbeat polka break, reality is crashing in with the force of a boot-kick.

We’re approaching the tunnel.

Jesus Christ , we’re approaching the tunnel.

“Max?” Flynn asks. In my peripheral vision, I catch his head swiveling, the concerned look on his face. “Max, hey-hey-hey, breathe.”

His voice is coming from a far-off place. I’ve managed to stave off a good chunk of the paranoia, the anxiety, the all-consuming what-the-fuck -ness, because up until now, this experience has felt like a dream. A nightmarish dream, yes—the kind where I may or may not end up running down the street, screaming—but now that we’re so close, now that this is happening …

I’m vaguely aware that my face is heating. My chest feels like a firework, fizzing, exploding. I can’t get enough air, even though I’m gulping it. Big, gasping gulps.

“Okay, it’s okay, just try to keep on breathing,” I hear Flynn say, too far away from me. Darkness almost consumes us as we plunge into the tunnel, the eggshell blue sky disappearing. “I’m going to pull over. Max, I’m pulling over, all right? You just hang in there.” The tone he’s giving me, it’s quiet and calm. Soothing, but not nearly soothing enough. How am I supposed to be a fake prime minister in a matter of minutes ? Or is it seconds? Minutes or seconds, ticking down, like a bomb.

When we’re tucked into the edge of the tunnel’s curve, Flynn does not tell me to calm down. Thankfully. No one in the history of panic has ever un-panicked thanks to a calm down . Instead, he pulls up the emergency brake, exits the vehicle, climbs swiftly into the back seat, and—

“Max, look at me.”

I don’t. Can’t.

“Max, look at me.”

One of my hands is death-gripping the center armrest, and he covers my fingers with the weight of his, squeezing gently, until my brain finally decides to let him in. When I turn my head, he’s there, repeating the words it’s okay, it’s all right , like a heartbeat. Like something I can feel above the fizzing in my chest.

“I can still get you out of this,” he half whispers. “Say the word, and I’ll—”

“ Damn it, Flynn! ” I’m firm, the response bursting from me in a heady gulp. I shake my head feverishly. My bangs tangle with my eyelashes. “You’re supposed to say something supportive! If you’re my handler. That’s how this works, right? I worry, you give me a reason not to worry. Don’t just tell me to quit. You know that I can’t quit.”

“Well, you actually can if—”

“I can’t ,” I repeat, almost a shout. The shock of tension bubbles in my chest. “You don’t understand. I really, really can’t. It’s not just about protecting Sofia. I owe close to two million dollars in loans, and I’ve…I’ve borrowed over half of that from my friends and family. Maybe you know all that already from Gail, but short of actually winning the lottery, this is the only way—literally the only way to make things right with everyone I care about. So if you actually want to help me, you won’t just sit there and tell me ‘You can’t do this’ or ‘You shouldn’t do this.’ You’ll give me a goddamn pep talk.”

To Flynn’s credit, he doesn’t shrink away from my anger. He scratches the short whiskers on his chin, nodding a little to himself, before smoothing his hands together. “All right. Let’s see…I’ve worked with dozens of assets.” Not a bad start, even though he’s delivering it like an Oscar speech at knifepoint. “You’re right, when I become someone’s handler, I learn as much as I can about them. In this case, I had a bit of a head start. Believe it or not, none of my past assets were as inherently capable as you.”

“That’s not—”

“It is true,” he says, cutting me off. It seems like he’s forcing the spark back into his eyes, but I don’t care. This is what I need. “No reason to lie to you, Max. Not about this. Now, you’re probably going to sit here and tell me you haven’t worked in politics, you haven’t trained at law school or in the halls of parliament, so what’ve you got? Well, you’ve run a complex operation before. The kitchen. You’ve gotten timings right. You’ve commanded a large room. The girl I knew was also incredibly smart. Fast-thinking, quick on her feet. And yeah, I know what you’re going to say to that—your restaurant failed, so you’re not any of those things, but that’s bullshit. Bull-shit. From what I’ve read, what happened with Frida’s wasn’t even your fault. Just bad timing. Hell, I’m not sure there’s ever been a body double more innately prepared than you.”

He’s wrong. He’s wrong in so many ways. It embarrasses me that he knows about Frida’s, how epically and deeply I’ve failed. But also…my breath is coming a bit easier. The snake of tension is uncoiling in my chest.

“How was that?” Flynn asks, closing one eye like he’s unsure. “Pretty good?”

I blow out a long breath through my nose. “Pretty good.”

“Yeah?”

“Seven out of ten.”

“Well, I’ll try for the extra points next time.” He glances down at the center armrest, where I’m gripping his hand. Cutting off his circulation, probably.

I release it wordlessly before rubbing the corners of my eyelids, hoping I don’t smear any mascara. Fantastic . The mission hasn’t even really started yet—and I’ve already broken our no touching rule. “How much time do we have?”

“We got here early, so…” He checks the sleek black watch on his wrist. “Four minutes and forty-eight seconds.”

Shit . Sweat beads at the base of my neck. I readjust the collar of my linen dress, so it no longer feels like it’s choking me.

Flynn examines my face in the half-dark of the tunnel. The collar of his linen shirt’s slightly rumpled, his hair a bit less coifed than it was before, but he still has that confident, well-rested look of someone who’s just come back from a nice vacation. The Italian summer is already agreeing with him. A hint of a suntan dusts the edges of his beard, and I can’t help but notice how strong he looks, crunched there in the back seat, his suit stretching over his shoulders. “You really can do this,” he says, with such authority, sea blue eyes boring into mine, that—for a second—I believe him.

“Okay.” I breathe out. “Okay, I’m good. I’ll be fine.”

Flynn nods, clearly questioning that but hiding it better. He doesn’t dare ask Are you sure? “In that case, we need to go over your gear.” Reaching between us, he retrieves the tech from the center console, fishing out an earpiece and a necklace with gold and silver crosses, a duplicate of the one I’ve seen Sofia wear in pictures. Only this one…“Has a microphone on the back. Just keep the necklace facing this way.”

Gingerly, I take both from him, clipping the jewelry around my neck; it’s weighted, heavy, real silver and gold. Next, I try to slip the little bud into my ear, but my traitorous fingertips are shaking. No matter which way I twist it, the darn thing won’t seat properly. It keeps popping out or jutting into my cartilage.

“May I?” Flynn asks, almost back to his full, breezy self. “Those things are finicky.”

“Oh yeah. Sure.” I swallow again, my throat tightening anew, but maybe…not for the same reason as before. Flynn cups the piece between his fingers, rotating it before leaning over and smoothing a chunk of my hair behind my ear. It’s such a delicate movement, such a tender brush, that a few goose bumps pop on the back of my neck. Something in the dead center of my belly flip-flops as he slips in the earpiece, adjusting it so that the plastic seats perfectly, no wiggling, no jutting, his fingers warm against my skin.

“That better?” he asks, repositioning the hair in front of my ear, just as delicately as the first time.

I clear the knot that’s suddenly lodged in my throat. “Much. Thank you.” My index finger presses against the device, making sure it’s entirely secure; at the same time, I wonder what it’ll be like to hear him this close—like he’s whispering into my ear. “You’ll be walking me through everything, right?”

“When I’m not physically in earshot,” he says with a dip of his chin, checking his watch again. Less than a minute to go. “We’ll meet in your room at the hotel. Wait for the knock. Although, if you see me before then—in the lobby, out in public—remember that we don’t know each other. Try your best to ignore me.”

“Okay, I can do that.” I unbuckle my seat belt, prepping. “You won’t even exist.”

“Don’t completely ignore me,” he adds with a winsome smile. “That would also look suspicious.”

“Fine. I’ll give you a diplomatic and very polite nod.”

He salutes me with one finger, tapping it to his forehead. “Good thinking.” He moves to exit the car, his head angling back at me, just as I hear a parade of sirens in the background. Lights flash. Flags fly. “Let’s do this.”

···

It’s humid in the tunnel, the air hanging thick like sea clouds. When I step out of the SUV, sandal soles hitting concrete, adrenaline bursts in my veins. I feel like I’ve had at least eight—maybe eighty—of Flynn’s tiny espressos. But I can’t spend the next five days swaddled in an abject, mind-bending panic. If I’m going to complete the assignment perfectly, if no one is going to clock me as the decoy, I’ll have to wear confidence like a perfume. Prime Minister Christiansen is sharp. She’s assertive. She takes shit from nobody. And you can fake that, Max , I tell myself, straightening my back and shoulders. For five million dollars, for Sofia, you can pretend .

I sniff in one last big breath, ducking behind Flynn’s Range Rover—like I’ve been instructed—as a rumble of cars bursts through the darkness. Sofia’s motorcade arrives in a haze of heat, shimmering. Five cars, all black SUVs, with bright flashing lights and flags soaring over the headlights: big, yellow-trimmed streamers with tassels on the edges. Crouched, I stiffen. Between the lights and the fabric fanfare, announcing HERE IS THE PRIME MINISTER, HERE SHE IS, I’m wondering if they could’ve made Sofia—could’ve made me —into any bigger a target. Why not just paint my skin orange and place a bull’s-eye on my forehead? Or I could walk around with bells on, like a cat.

The middle SUV slows to a halt.

“ Go ,” I hear Flynn say directly into my earpiece, his voice urgent but controlled, and I rocket forward, around the car, keeping low. The prime minister’s Range Rover is only a few feet away, parked close, the door already opening, and—

We come face-to-face.

Sofia and I.

I could say It’s like looking in a mirror , but that would simplify it. Trivialize it. This is not an out-of-body experience. It’s an out-of-universe experience. It makes me believe in the impossible. I am this woman. This woman is me—or rather, a sharper, more leonine version of me. She has such an intimidating energy that it walks out in front of her, a physical presence, like an extra bodyguard. I’m in awe of her, instantly. And she…

She’s brushing past me, wearing the same sky-blue linen dress that I am, staring at me with quick flicks of her lashes. It’s the type of look that could dissuade treatymakers, that could end—or start—wars.

Honestly? She looks like she absolutely hates my guts.

Which can’t be right, can it? Can it?

At the last millisecond, I feel her slap something papery into the palm of my hand, and then we’re out of time. It’s done. I’m climbing into her Range Rover, and she’s climbing into Flynn’s. My heart is pounding so hard in my stomach, I almost double over in the back seat, door slamming, as the SUV rushes forward again.

In the driver’s seat is…Lars. This must be Lars, a member of Sofia’s special protection group. Like the Secret Service, Flynn said. I recognize Lars from his pictures.

“Prime Minister,” he says with a slow nod of his bald head.

Prime Minister . Directed at me. Doesn’t that sound bizarre.

Both of Lars’s hands are clasped tightly on the wheel. He’s so tall and muscular, it’s like he’s been animated from an ancient Roman sculpture. I tip my head back at him, authoritatively, as I keep a close eye on my pulse. I find it’s somewhere between I’m about to drop over the hill on this amusement park roller coaster and I’ve been stabbed in the leg and need immediate medical assistance .

One thing that helps my nerves is the music trilling in the background. When Lars turns it up, I realize it’s the same song. The polka! The terrible Summerlandian polka with the accordion and the arctic flute. What’s funny is, the song is so clearly Lars’s favorite. His bald head’s bobbing to the beat in a way that indicates it’s his jam .

I do not jam. I do not bob. Yes, the beat is kind of catchy—if you are at a wedding, and everyone’s on the dance floor, and you’ve had six more drinks than you should’ve—but I’m still clutching Sofia’s note. It’s on stiff paper, the same cream color as Flynn’s suit, folded into a tiny, firm square. Do I open it now? Here?

In my lap, away from Lars’s eyeshot, I peel open the note. Sofia’s handwriting stares back at me in rushed, bleeding ink.

We must speak privately when we meet tonight. Tell them you have to use the powder room. I’ll follow you inside. I don’t know why you would accept this position, but I urge you, carefully consider your role. You’re in more danger than you were told. Destroy this note.

Well, that’s…nice. My hands shake as I tear the cardstock into miniature, unreadable pieces.