Dangerous Lies Read online

  "How old is he?" I asked.

  "Nineteen." After a beat, Carmina's eyes darted to mine, as if she'd suddenly perceived something important. "Oh, no, you don't. Don't you get any ideas. That boy has enough trouble."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "There's only one kind of trouble--the kind you stay away from." Carmina said it in a way that let me know she wasn't going to give away more, no matter how hard I pressed. Fine by me. I could be patient. What she probably didn't realize was that in telling me nothing, she'd made certain I would dig deeper into our resident man of mystery.

  I watched Chet's arms flex as he hoisted the toolbox onto the porch and braced the ladder against the side of the house. One thing was for sure, he had a nice body. Maybe country boys knew how to work it.

  "He does a lot of home maintenance for a nineteen-year-old," I said. "His parents must be slave drivers."

  Carmina cast me a disproving look. "His parents are dead. He's man of the house. If he doesn't take care of the place, no one will."

  I couldn't believe he had the entire house to himself. In three months, I could be like him. Living alone, in the city of my choice. I couldn't go back to Philly, but there were other places I liked. Boston was at the top of the list. "Where's he going to college in the fall?"

  "He isn't."

  "He's going to stay here in Thunder Basin and mow lawns for the rest of his life?"

  Her eyes broke from the road to meet mine. I saw a flash of something in them. Anger, sorrow. A glimmer of pain. "Problem with that?" she said coolly.

  "Yes. It's a loser thing to do. He should get as far away from this place as possible and get a real life, a real job."

  Carmina didn't answer, just kept her gaze forward, but I knew she'd understood my insult perfectly. Being a cop in a sleepy town like Thunder Basin wasn't a real way of life. But the fact that she sat there and took the snub with nothing more than a resolute upward tilt of her chin made me somehow feel like she'd won this round.

  We spent the next two hours popping in and out of fast-food joints and greasy diners dotting the seven blocks that made up Thunder Basin's downtown. Most of the buildings were either redbrick or whitewashed cinder block. A bulbous water tower and a few grain silos made up the rest of the cityscape. Nailed to one storefront was a handmade sign that read HAIRCUTS, 7.5 OWED. The tip alone on my usual cut is three times that, I thought dryly.

  I filled out an application at every restaurant, leaving it with the manager. I gave my fake name and my fake Social Security number, which matched the details in my fake passport. Carmina helped me fill out the address and phone number where I could be reached. I checked the boxes for waitress, dishwasher, and hostess--I didn't care what job they gave me. I'd hate them all. I'd spend the next three months doing what I had to, and then I was out of here.

  On the ride back, Carmina said, "Anything strike your fancy?"

  I stared out the window at the haze of green rushing past in a blur. There was no rise and fall of the road, no hills to be climbed or valleys to dip into. The road was a straight shot, with tidy rows of plants walling me in on either side and a dome of blue trapping me from overhead. I felt like an ant under a glass. Hot, hopeless, doomed. "Nope."

  "You should have put on slacks and a blouse."

  "Nobody calls them slacks anymore."

  "They make a better impression than hacked-off jeans that show half your leg."

  I ran my fingers seductively up my thigh. "More than half, Carmina. A lot more than half. Besides, I'm not trying to impress anyone."

  She turned to face me, eyes widening theatrically. "You don't say."

  4

  AFTER DINNER, CARMINA WENT TO BIBLE STUDY. I was left at the house, stuck. I didn't have a car. I could only travel as far as my own two feet saw fit. It occurred to me that if I did get a job, Carmina would have to provide me with transportation. It wasn't like I could walk the five miles into town and back. At this point, I'd be happy with a bike. More and more, I was becoming convinced that being employed wasn't such a bad way to pass the summer.

  I watched Carmina's truck bounce down the gravel road leading away from the farmhouse. Dropping the curtain in my bedroom window, I headed downstairs to watch TV. If nothing else, it would be cooler on the main level. After TV, I could sit on the porch swing, lick a Popsicle, and listen to the coyotes. Because there definitely wasn't anything else to do.

  I climbed down the flight of stairs, and just like that, I was tumbling down into the past.

  The traumatic flashbacks were stronger than memories. I wasn't blacking out--I was conscious--but the flashbacks eclipsed my real vision. They felt very real. And they always began in the same place. It was after midnight. I'd broken curfew again. Not wanting to risk waking my mom (Who was I kidding? She was probably passed out), I parked my car one house down from our gray fieldstone. Oddly, there was a white Honda Civic already parked on the curb. The Foggs never left cars on the street. And they didn't drive a Honda Civic.

  Shrugging off the oddity, I hurried around the side of the house, rooting in my bag for keys.

  As I crept up the back steps, I could smell our boxwood gardens and the newly blossomed trees. Even though I made it a point to never be home, and to avoid my mom when I was, I loved our house, especially the yard. It was my favorite escape. Lounging in the gardens, hidden in the shade of old trees, I daydreamed to music by Ben Howard, the Oh Hellos, or Boy.

  I let myself in. The kitchen light didn't turn on. Nor did the dining room chandelier. It never occurred to me that something might be wrong. I assumed my mom had forgotten to replace the bulbs. In the dark, I felt my way toward the staircase. My footsteps were light and quick. If I was lucky, I could avoid my mom until morning.

  As I crossed in front of the library's beveled glass doors, I saw her slumped in one of the leather wingback chairs. Moonlight filtered through the shutters, casting her in waxy, white light. Her party favors were spread on the side table, a colorful concoction of pills. I started to feel disgust--

  And then--

  And then my eyes were drawn to the shadows behind her. I stared at the man's crumpled body in a daze. His limbs were sprawled in funny, permanent angles. I walked closer. I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop. I walked until I stood over him, his vacant brown eyes staring up at me.

  A neat hole was blown through his forehead.

  I came out of the flashback panting. I fumbled for the switch at the bottom of Carmina's staircase, relieved when light immediately chased away the darkness.

  The dead man was in a casket, six feet below grass. And Danny Balando was in jail. He couldn't hurt me. My steps to Thunder Basin had been erased; he'd never find Stella Gordon.

  With a hollow shiver, I climbed upstairs and pulled one of Reed's letters from my suitcase. I needed him here with me, reassuring me everything was going to be okay, but tonight I would have to settle for his words. It was infuriating that the Justice Department could rip us apart. They were making it possible for me to be with my mom again, so why not Reed? If I'd had a say, I would have chosen to live with him. It wouldn't have even been a choice.

  Estella,

  I got in a fight with my dad tonight. It was bad. Now that I'm 17, he's pushing me to enlist. I've been telling him for years that I'm not following in his footsteps, but he refuses to hear. I came to your house to spend the night, but you're not here and you're not answering your phone. Call me when you get this. I hope it doesn't bother you that I come over all the time. I hate being at my place. When I'm there, my dad won't leave me alone. After our fight, he told me if I left he wouldn't let me back in. Well, I left. I don't know what's going to happen now. I used to wish my mom would stand up to him, but she never will. She always retreats, hiding out in bed, using her fibromyalgia as an excuse to not get involved. It's a disease, but it's also her coping mechanism. If she has it to deal with, she doesn't have to deal with us. I wish I had enough money to get my own place. Someday I will. And I'll take you
with me.

  xReed

  It hurt to remember our plans. We were going to run away and start a new life together. Now I didn't know if I'd see him again. He could be in Kentucky or Kansas. I'd never know. Unless I went looking for him.

  And I could go looking, because I knew how to find him.

  Deputy Price had made it very clear that I should never, under any circumstances, attempt to contact anyone from my old life. Danny Balando and the dangerous men he employed would never give up looking for me. The only way they'd find me was if I broke the rules.

  I knew contacting Reed was breaking the rules, but he wasn't in Philly anymore. He was in WITSEC--witness protection. His ties to the city had been erased, and if the U.S. marshals had done half as good a job making him vanish as they had me, I wasn't going to tip off Danny Balando's men to my location by contacting Reed.

  I hadn't seen a computer in Carmina's house, and I wouldn't have used it anyway. If I went through with this, I couldn't leave a trail. Earlier in town I'd seen signs for the public library. It was too far to walk there tonight, but I was guessing Carmina stored a bike somewhere in that weathered barn behind her house. I didn't know how long Bible study lasted, but it was safe to assume I had at least an hour.

  Swatting mosquitoes as I jogged across the backyard, I swung open the barn doors and glanced around the cavernous space. The air smelled of mildew and hay. And gasoline. I was pretty sure the gasoline smell came from the large automobile hidden under a canvas cover at the back of the barn. I lifted the canvas and saw that Carmina was keeping an old Ford Mustang on hand. The paint was an ugly shade of brown, and there were a handful of dead hornets on the dash, but I wasn't feeling picky. What were the odds I could get it to start?

  Carmina had left the keys on the driver's seat, which made finding out a whole lot easier.

  After a few tries, the Mustang's engine grumbled to life and the smell of burning oil filled the air. Carmina had forbidden me from borrowing her truck. But she'd never told me I couldn't drive the Mustang.

  I knew the way into town--it was a straight shot once I turned onto the paved street at the end of Carmina's gravel road. In town, I found the library easily. There were only three other cars in the parking lot, so I had my pick of stalls. It felt strange not to circle the lot and drive the surrounding streets multiple times, hunting for a space. Back home, I rarely drove into the city, for that reason alone. It was far more convenient to take a train.

  At the front desk, I applied for a library card. After checking my passport photo and address, the librarian gave me a temporary card. My real card would arrive in the mail within two weeks. Carmina wouldn't suspect anything--I'd tell her I liked to read, which wasn't a lie.

  I found a vacant computer and logged on to the Internet. Soon after Reed and I had started dating, he set up a private e-mail address that we both had access to. Instead of e-mailing each other, we wrote drafts for the other person to find. Each draft got deleted after it was read. Reed had read an article about spies using the technique, and while I thought it was a little over the top, I didn't argue. His dad was military--army. Your upbringing shaped you. We'd used the e-mail regularly at first . . . and then totally forgot about it.

  With a few quick keystrokes, I signed in to the private [email protected]. The drafts folder was empty.

  I tried not to feel deflated. I'd expected to find a new message, especially since he'd reminded me about the secret e-mail account yesterday morning before we left the motel. Wanting to let him know I was okay, I typed a brief e-mail.

  Arrived safe and sound. Well, maybe not the last part. You should see this place. I'd almost rather be dead. Miss you. Let me know you're OK.

  I read over the words carefully, double-checking that they were too bland to pose any threat to me, on the wild chance anyone intercepted them, then typed a quick P.S.

  P.S. They put my mom in detox. Now taking bets on how that will turn out.

  I saved the draft and logged out.

  I blew out some air. Time to be patient. A virtue I'd never loved, much less embraced.

  5

  AS I WALKED OUT OF THE LIBRARY, THE SKY WAS black velvet and diamonds. In Philly, nighttime meant one thing: worrying about my mother, who she was with, what she was doing, and if I was going to have to go out and look for her. I stood still a moment, cautiously testing this new darkness. It was so quiet, so uncomplicated, so lovely, it seemed ridiculous to be afraid of it. The warm air tingled on my skin. It smelled fresh and greenly fragrant. The darkness offered relief from the high, hot sun that had stung my eyes all day. It painted the landscape in shadows. I could almost forget the cornfields and the blue, blue sky--I could almost forget I was here.

  The parking lot had one remaining car--Carmina's Mustang. I didn't know where the teens of Thunder Basin hung out after sundown, but the library obviously wasn't it. I would have cruised the seven blocks of the main drag looking for signs of nightlife, but Carmina would likely be coming home from Bible study soon. She couldn't know what I'd done tonight.

  I turned the Mustang's ignition. The engine made a low chugging sound, but refused to fully catch. I pumped the gas and tried again. More growling and whirring, but the engine wouldn't turn over. I had the windows rolled down, and the car belched thick clouds of foul-smelling smoke. Not a good sign.

  I got out and walked around the car, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. The stupid thing had started fine twenty minutes ago. What was the matter now?

  "Need a hand?"

  I swiveled around. Through the darkness, I made out a tall rangy form wearing Levi's, pointed boots, and a fitted black T-shirt. His dark hair curled around his ears, and he tipped his cowboy hat up, shooting me an easy smile.

  "Mind if I have a look?" he continued, gesturing at the car.

  I squeezed the Mustang's keys in my hand. I had no reason to trust him. In hindsight, I should have parked under a streetlight. Not that there was anyone around to see, if he decided to drag me into an alley and slit my throat.

  "Nope, I've got it covered," I said, striving for politely disinterested. "She usually takes a few tries to start."

  He rapped his knuckles affectionately against the Mustang's side panel. "Old cars. Either you love 'em or hate 'em."

  "Got that right." I angled myself behind the steering wheel, hinting that I wasn't in a chatty mood. "Thanks for checking on me, neighbor," I added, since it sounded like a small-town thing to say. Probably best to act like a local, so he'd think there'd be someone to miss me if he did drag me into the alley.

  I tried the engine again. More coughing and sputtering, but no success.

  "Sure you don't want me to give it a try?" he asked, his tone still friendly. And maybe a touch amused.

  "Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I can't start my own car," I said, mildly enough, but my words were underscored with annoyance. Please go away, I silently urged him.

  "Your car? Huh. That's interesting."

  "What? Because I'm a girl, I can't be into muscle cars?" I challenged.

  "Not what I said."

  I cranked the key harder. Same low rumble from the engine. It was close to starting, but I couldn't push it over the edge. Carmina was going to kill me. I didn't know how much longer I had until she got back, but it couldn't be long.

  I let go of a resigned breath and pinched the bridge of my nose. "If I give you the keys, are you going to slit my throat with them and dump my body in the alley?"

  "Wouldn't be smart to tell you if I was."

  Instead of laughing, I glared up at him.

  He grinned, clearly pleased with his joke. "You're not from around here, are you?"

  "What makes you say that?" I wondered if he was going to launch into the timeworn cliche of how everyone knows everyone else in a small town.

  Instead, he said, "Last year I sold this car to my neighbor."

  Suddenly I had a bad feeling.

  "Carmina Songster," he recalled. "Are you going
to tell me why you're driving her car, or should I let you explain yourself to the police?"

  Crap.

  I pushed out of the Mustang, standing up to him. He had several inches on me, and up close like this, I could see that his eyes were a bright jewel blue. Somewhere between turquoise and sea glass. "It's not what it looks like."

  "That's a relief, because it looks like auto theft. What I'm trying to figure out is why you stopped at the library. You're a few blocks short of the interstate. Shouldn't you be hightailing it out of town?"

  "I live with Carmina now."

  He gave a snort, instantly rejecting the idea. "Carmina hasn't had a visitor in the nineteen years I've been her neighbor, and I already know all her family. So 'fess up. Who are you, really?"

  "She's my--foster mom," I said flatly. It was the first time I'd had to use my cover story. If he pressed for more information, I was supposed to tell him how I'd been living in foster homes since my mom died, but I prayed he wouldn't dig deeper. I didn't want to talk about Stella. I was sick of her already. I wanted to go home. To my real home. And while I was at it, I never wanted to see this backwoods wasteland again.

  He shook his head distrustfully. "Carmina? A foster parent? I don't believe it. How old are you?"

  "Eighteen in August." Three tiny months until I earned my independence. Might as well have been an eternity.

  "Why would Carmina take in a seventeen-year-old girl?" he puzzled aloud.

  "Maybe she's lonely."

  He snorted again. "That lone wolf? Nah. Something isn't adding up. When did you get into town?"

  "Last night."

  "What's your name?"

  "Stella Gordon." I felt glass in my throat when I said it. I hated the name. It was like I was talking about someone else, which I guess I was.

  "How long have you been in foster care?" he went on, evidently trying to make sense of my story.

  "Since my mom died."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  I shrugged. I felt nothing. My mom was alive, but she was as good as dead to me.

  "Where did you come from?"

  "Tennessee," I lied. "Knoxville, Tennessee. Ever been there?"