Dangerous Lies Read online

  Then again, Carmina didn't seem that interested in money. Everything she owned was on the fast track to the junkyard. I got the feeling she hated shopping more than putting up with me.

  Whatever her motivations, I strongly sensed Carmina's game plan was to power through the summer by keeping her head down, dodging invasive inquiries, and praying the time passed quickly. I wondered what it felt like for her to lie to her friends and neighbors. After all, long after I was gone, she'd still have to live with these people, knowing she'd kept secrets and never been fully honest with them. I almost felt sorry for her.

  But I wasn't ready to let her off the hook just yet. Not after she'd forced me to come to church. I should have been sleeping in. That's what the weekend was for.

  "Why did you take me in?" I asked her, my tone a little bit demanding, a little bit suspicious.

  "Pardon?"

  "What's in it for you? What do you get from all this? What made you take in a seventeen-year-old girl you don't owe a thing to?"

  "Now, that's one question I can't get off my mind."

  Carmina and I turned in our seats as Chet Falconer sprawled comfortably in the pew behind us. He'd cleaned up for church, putting on chinos and a lightweight navy polo. He'd ditched the cowboy hat and grass-stained boots, and it had completely transformed his appearance. I'd say one thing for Chet: He knew how to put a little flutter in my stomach. His blue eyes glittered, and he raked his damp curly hair behind his ears. He smelled like soap and sun-dried laundry, and it was an irresistible combination.

  "Good morning, Chet," Carmina said rigidly, then turned to face forward. Conversation over. I couldn't tell if Chet had done something to offend her--now or in the past--or if she was always this ornery. Given that she'd bought his Mustang as recently as last year, and that he mowed her lawn, I was leaning toward the latter.

  "Aw, Gran, you know I'm not gonna give up that easily," Chet went on, leaning close to speak in her ear. "If you wanted help around the house, I could have loaned you Dusty. Kid's an angel. Wouldn't give you a single gray hair."

  Carmina made a harrumph sound. "You're one to talk. You were just as much trouble at sixteen. Wasn't that about the time I first arrested you?"

  "This conversation is finally getting interesting," I said, arching my eyebrows inquiringly at Chet.

  "Outta luck, soldier," he informed me. "Carmina keeps all my secrets. She knows I'd stop mowing her lawn if she let my skeletons out."

  "I made no such agreement," Carmina scoffed.

  "Your hair looks different," Chet told me. "All dressed up, I almost didn't recognize you. 'Now, who is that pretty girl?' I asked myself when I came in."

  I stuck my tongue out. "Speak for yourself. Are the pigs looking after your boots and hat?"

  Chet grinned. "I bet this one's a real peach around the house, Carmina."

  She gave another harrumph. Then her brow furrowed, and she fixed me with a probing gaze. "Am I to understand the two of you have met? When?" she demanded.

  "Last night," I said. "Chet helped me start the Mustang at the library. I couldn't get it running. He's very good with cars," I added, twirling my necklace around my finger guilelessly.

  The smile on Chet's face slipped. His face clouded with confusion before blanching with a certain sickened dread. She knows? he mouthed at me.

  "She does now," I said sweetly.

  Slowly, Carmina turned in the pew, giving Chet a dark, berating look. "You knew she stole my car last night, Chet Falconer? You helped her get away with it?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Anything to say for yourself?"

  "Carburetor was acting up again."

  "I ought to have you both arrested."

  Just then, the organist finished the final chord of the prelude music, and Pastor Lykins took his place at the pulpit. The congregation quieted, and all eyes turned to the front of the meetinghouse.

  Carmina gave Chet a long, cool stare. Then she took the hymnal out of the seat pocket behind her and whacked it hard against his leg.

  I bit my lip to stifle a giggle, just as Chet's breath tickled my ear. "Think that's funny, do you? My turn next."

  7

  I MUST HAVE BEEN IN A REALLY GOOD MOOD, BECAUSE after church, I let Chet talk me into staying for the linger longer. On the church's back lawn, he added two bags of potato chips to the spread of salads, casseroles, and desserts on folding tables. He hadn't brought a picnic blanket, so after separating ourselves from the congregation, we made do with the grass in the shade of a leafy oak.

  Chet lay on his back, his arms folded under his head. "I'm gonna get you back, you know."

  I kicked off my espadrilles and sank languidly against the tree trunk. "Someone wasn't listening to Pastor Lykins's sermon on forgiveness."

  "You always this self-righteous?"

  I lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah. So?"

  He rolled on his elbow, facing me. He dropped his voice to a secretive hush. "I remember what Pastor Lykins said about casting the devil behind us. Go on, girl. Get where you belong."

  I kicked him in the leg.

  "Before church, you and Carmina mentioned someone named Dusty," I said. "Who is he?"

  "My kid brother." Chet's countenance darkened and the banter went out of him. "I'd formally introduce you, but I didn't get the pleasure of dragging his butt to church this morning. He never came home last night."

  "Little brother?" When Carmina said Chet was man of the house, I'd envisioned him living alone. "Aren't you only nineteen?"

  "Only? You're not that far behind."

  "What I mean is, is it even legal for the two of you to live together?" I knew Chet's parents were dead, but I hadn't realized he'd taken on more than just ownership of the house--he was also his little brother's guardian. "How old is he?"

  "Sixteen. Old enough to drive, not that he waited until he got his license to start. My parents used to try to slow him down by hiding the car keys, but necessity is the mother of invention, and he taught himself how to hot-wire cars at thirteen. Park your car on the street at night, and he's likely to borrow it. He'll bring it back by morning, a little lighter on gas." Chet made a sound of disgust. "When he finally does drag his butt home from whatever party he crashed, I swear I'm gonna lock him in the crawl space for a week."

  "Crawl space?"

  "Surprised you didn't have them in Tennessee. No? A crawl space is an underground tornado shelter. Just what it sounds like--a tunnel under the house with enough room to crawl inside on your hands and knees. Carmina has a newer shelter in her backyard, with two doors opening to a staircase that leads to an underground bunker. About ten by ten in size, lock on the door. Some neighborhood kids and I used to use it as a clubhouse--had a 'No Girls Allowed' sign and everything."

  As a matter of fact, I had seen a set of lowlying doors, mounted at an angle, not far from her back porch. I'd just assumed the doors led to a storage cellar.

  Chet said, "You'll get your chance to go inside one. It would be rare for a summer to pass without a tornado touching down in the area."

  I shuddered. I sincerely hoped he was wrong about that. I'd weathered a few ice storms back home and gone without power for a couple of days, and that was where my tolerance for bad weather ended.

  "Where are these parties your brother goes to?" I asked. My motive for asking was a little selfish. After spending three days in a government safe house, followed by three more under Carmina's watch, I was desperate for a nightlife. Thunder Basin definitely wasn't Philly, and I wasn't expecting trendy clubs, but at this point, I'd take anything. If Chet could point me in the direction of a party, I'd jump at the opportunity. I didn't want to spend every weekend this summer holed up at Carmina's house. I was dying for a social life.

  "The guy he was with last night is Cooter Saggory, so they probably found an empty boxcar on railroad property and drank until they passed out. Or maybe that's wishful thinking. With Cooter, who knows. That's the problem--he's a loose cannon, and now Dusty's mixed up with
him. I've done my share of stupid things, and sure I spent a night or two in jail, but I never did anything that was going to potentially land me in prison."

  "Cooter Saggory? Please tell me that's a nickname."

  "Given name and it fits him," Chet grunted. "A lowlife and a redneck. As you probably noticed last night."

  I frowned, tilting my head. "Hang on. The kid at the Sundown Diner last night. That was Dusty? And the man with him was Cooter?"

  Chet's face revealed he'd thought I'd already figured this out. "Yeah. Sorry. I'm a little distracted. Long night. If I'd stepped foot inside the diner, Dusty would have bolted. And I wouldn't have known what he's up to. Having you there came in handy."

  "You used me to spy on your brother?"

  "And I'd do it again."

  "Okay, but it's low and sneaky--and annoying. Give Dusty some room. He probably feels suffocated by you, and everything he's doing, all the bad stuff, is just to test you." I realized with a start that I was speaking from the heart. Rebellion had been my favorite tactic to push my mom's buttons. Skipping out on chores, siding with my dad on stupid issues, using foul language--I was a young lady, a descendant of genteel Southern folk, and was supposed to be courteous and mannered. It had worked. And then, of course, she'd started using drugs, and getting her attention was a worthless pursuit.

  "Cooter Saggory deals drugs," Chet announced bluntly. "Dusty doesn't know what he's getting into. Even if he is trying to test me, this isn't the way to do it. Best case, he gets a record. Worst case, he winds up in prison."

  Truth be told, I'd suspected drugs. The four-thousand-dollar start-up fee had been a bit of a giveaway. Dusty was going to try his hand at dealing. "Can you tell Carmina?" I suggested. "Maybe she can talk to Dusty, paint a realistic picture of what's in store for him."

  "He'll know I'm behind it. It'll just drive him to do it. I'm gonna have to come up with another way to talk sense into him."

  "Does he do drugs?"

  "Haven't caught him, but I'm not going to kid myself. My parents' death wasn't easy on him. He'd drop out of school if I didn't keep dragging him through the doors. Last month, he got fired from the Sun Mart. What kind of person can't keep a job bagging groceries? He's doing something, I'm sure of it," Chet said with an upset shake of his head.

  I wanted to tell Chet I knew how he felt. Living with someone who was using sucked. All the sneakiness and deception, and the never-ending string of excuses. How many times had I wanted to shake my mom and yell, "Stop acting like I'm stupid enough to believe your lies!"

  But my mom's drug addiction wasn't part of my cover story. I was supposed to tell everyone in Thunder Basin she was dead. That way, if she cleaned up and got out of rehab, we could relocate to a new town and start our lives over, this time together. It was the Department of Justice's goal for my future, and it was never going to happen. First, I wasn't holding my breath for my mom to achieve any measure of success in rehab. Second, I was never, ever living with that woman again. Now that I'd had a taste of life without her, they'd have to drag me back kicking and screaming.

  I frowned, absorbing this declaration slowly. I still viewed Thunder Basin as a prison, and would for the next three months, but it stood to reason every prison had fleeting moments of freedom. A glimpse of blue sky, a singing bird on the windowsill. Or, in my case, not having the weight of caring for my mom dragging me under. What if Thunder Basin was my chance to come up for air?

  Chet was waiting for my response. Even though I could tell he needed someone to talk to, Dusty's reckless behavior hit unnervingly close to home, and I needed to bow out of the conversation. It was wrong, but realistic. For my safety, I had to stick to my cover story.

  "Who knew this parenting gig could be so tough," he said at last, kneading between his eyes.

  "Yeah, good luck with that," I said lamely, hating the pang of guilt that followed. What Chet needed now was a friend and a sympathetic ear, not platitudes.

  "Time to go, Stella." I hadn't seen Carmina approach. She stood over us, fanning away the growing heat with the church bulletin.

  "Actually, I'll catch a ride with Chet," I said, glancing at him to make sure it was okay.

  "I think it's best if you come with me." Carmina's tone was level, but as unbending as steel.

  Chet nudged me with his knee. "I've got errands to run in town anyway. But I'll catch you later."

  I felt heat creep up my neck. Chet didn't have errands. He was letting Carmina win, and it made me furious. Was I the only one with enough backbone to stand up to her?

  "Then I'll run errands with you," I said, rising to my feet as he did.

  "Not today," Carmina said. "Get in the truck, Stella. Go on, Chet. Don't let us keep you."

  Chet nodded politely at each of us, then headed toward the parking lot. He glanced back once, but I couldn't read his expression. Disappointed? Apologetic?

  I folded my arms stiffly over my chest and glared at Carmina. "You've really got the whole intimidation thing down, don't you?"

  "I told you to stay away from that boy."

  I gave a harsh laugh. "Because he's trouble? Open your eyes. Chet Falconer is as harmless as they come. Look at him." I gestured angrily at the parking lot where he'd retreated. "He was polite enough to let you chase him off rather than cause a scene. Trust me, I know trouble. And Chet isn't it. Even if he was, you don't get to tell me who I can hang out with. You're not my parent--you're a stand-in, a placeholder, a name on a government document, as far as I'm concerned."

  Carmina's lips had thinned to a tight wire. "Get in the truck."

  "No."

  "Don't make me repeat myself, Stella."

  "Nobody's making you do anything. You're the one bossing me around. I bet it kills you to have someone stand up to you. You used to be a big bad cop, and the town respects you for it. Well, you don't scare me. I'll walk back to the farm, but I'm not getting in your truck."

  I started to turn on my heel, when Pastor Lykins crossed the lawn to us, waving his arms, signaling us to wait. "Carmina! I didn't get a chance to thank you and Stella for coming for this morning's sermon." Short of breath, he shook our hands again, smiling broadly. "I hope I gave you each something to reflect on this week."

  Carmina smiled tightly. "You always do. Now, if you'll excuse us--"

  "I hope to see you next week, Stella."

  I didn't have much time to think up a response. Acting almost instinctively, I seized the moment and dropped my eyes, sighing forlornly. "I hope so. Of course, it's up to Carmina. I don't have a car or a bike, so she decides when I get to leave the house."

  Pastor Lykins's smile faltered. "Oh. Well, I'm sure Carmina would want you to hear the Lord's word, isn't that right?"

  Carmina rolled her eyes and exhaled a long-suffering sigh. "Stella is always welcome to attend church."

  "Thank you, Carmina," I said, doing my best to appear sincerely grateful.

  Pastor Lykins continued to glance between us uncertainly. At last his face brightened. "Stella, do you play softball?"

  I didn't know where he was going with this, but I had a good feeling. "It's been a couple years, but I know the game."

  His eyes lit up further. "Have you heard of our teen coed softball league? Games are Friday after sundown. I saw you talking with Chet Falconer earlier. He's in charge of the league. Why don't I see if he can squeeze you onto one of the smaller teams? I was new in town once too, and while it takes some time to feel like you fit in, the best thing you can do is dive in and make new friends. Carmina, surely you can do without Stella for a few hours a week?"

  I turned to face her. "Please, Carmina?" My tone was hopeful, begging even, but my eyes blazed with smug triumph.

  Carmina pinned me with a stern glare. "I'm sure that will be fine. Stella is allowed to come and go as she pleases, within reason. The child makes it sound like I'm a parole officer." When she caught us staring at her, she added adamantly, "I'm not."

  Pastor Lykins patted Carmina gently on the
shoulder. "I'm sure it's been an adjustment balancing your previous line of work with this new, exciting endeavor of raising a girl. Two completely different situations that require different, ah, approaches."

  Carmina just stared at him blankly.

  Pastor Lykins cleared his throat, then shook my hand. "Good luck, Stella," he said with heartfelt concern.

  I waited until he walked away to smile contentedly.

  My work here was done.

  8

  MONDAY MORNING I GOT A CALL FROM THE SUNDOWN Diner. The owner, Dixie Jo, wanted to interview me for a carhop position. The term "carhop" made me think of girls on roller skates and the movie American Graffiti. I hadn't put on skates since I was six or seven, and had distant memories of doing the limbo on wheels, and a sore tailbone. If she made me skate as part of the interview, I didn't stand a chance.

  It was too hot for jeans, so I threw on cotton shorts and an eyelet top. Not fancy enough to earn me a look of approval from Carmina as I jogged down the porch steps on my way out, but I was going for comfort.

  Carmina had loaned me her bike, a lime-green beach cruiser with balloon tires. A wicker basket was strung up between the handlebars. Like everything Carmina owned, the paint was dinged and chipped and the surface was coated in dust. But if the bike got me out of the house, it was as good as a Porsche in my eyes.

  As I pedaled into town, the rush of hot air flung my hair off my shoulders. Instead of feeling oppressive, the heat felt energizing. I was overcome by the urge to release the handlebars and tip my face toward the sun. Cautiously, I tested the feel of the wind zipping through my fingers. I felt open to infinite possibility. This road, this morning, this summer belonged to me. No one else to worry about. My mom wasn't here. She wasn't my problem anymore. Imagining that every pedal stroke took me farther from her, I pumped my legs harder. A smile warmed in my throat, finally breaking on my face. I was free.

  At ten, an hour before the Sundown opened, I propped the beach cruiser against a streetlight and rapped on the front door. My knock was answered by a willowy middle-aged blonde. Smile lines fanned from her eyes, and her hair had been combed into a loose braid. Short, messy strands sprang from her scalp like rays of sun. She had warm brown eyes and an open, honest face.