Scammed

by Kristen Simmons

  It doesn’t make sense.

  “Slow down!”

  I bite down on a scream as a hand closes around my wrist. When I spin back, it’s not Morales or Simon chasing me, but Belk.

  “I parked over there.” He juts a finger across the street.

  “Where’s Moore?”

  We’ve parted the crowd like a river, now moving around us in both directions. Belk frowns and tucks his hands in the pockets of his slacks, opening his gray coat and revealing the swell of his paunch.

  “He’s off pickup duty until further notice.”

  My chest grows tight. I keep my eyes roaming for the detectives—I may not see them, but I know they’re watching. Sterling wouldn’t let me get away that easy.

  “Why?”

  Belk’s head tilts. “Let’s see. Last time you came home three hours late and left the residence to Ms. Maddox’s defense. That’s not happening again.”

  Automatically, I reach into my back pocket, fingers pressing against the smooth surface of my phone. I didn’t realize how much safer I felt knowing Moore was nearby. Now he’s not even close enough to answer a distress call.

  I can tell by Belk’s expression I’m to blame for this change, and it hits me that Moore must be in trouble. We were late the night the detectives came because he was giving me a driving lesson.

  “Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  He opens an arm toward the street, where he parked the car. I hurry toward the black sedan.

  “Didn’t think you’d be done for another hour,” he says.

  “The manager let me go home early.”

  I head toward the passenger side, but Belk is opening the back door behind his seat. He expects me to sit in back. Moore never does that.

  I slide into the seat.

  He takes the front, and when the door closes, I rub at the knot of tension in my throat.

  He doesn’t drive. Instead, he taps his knuckles on the window.

  “Is that the intern supervisor?”

  “Who? Mark?” I follow Belk’s gaze to the hot dog cart on the corner that Mark is passing by on his way to the parking garage.

  Belk nods.

  A new dread seeps into my veins. “Yeah, that’s him. Why?”

  Belk starts the car. “Just need to get an idea of who’s involved.”

  I don’t buy it—Belk’s never taken an interest in my assignments before—but we’ve got bigger issues.

  “I got a visit today from those detectives,” I say. “I need to talk to Dr. O.”

  Belk doesn’t say a word. A moment later he hands me his phone over the seat. It’s already ringing.

  “Yes?” The deep, satin voice gives me only a second to prepare.

  “Dr. O,” I say. “We have a problem.”

  CHAPTER 28

  I’m taken off my assignment until further notice.

  Dr. O didn’t seem mad when I told him the detectives had followed me, or that the senator had asked where his son was. He seemed more worried that I was all right, and praised me for sending them on a wild-goose chase to Florida.

  He said we’d talk more when I got home, but when we reach Vale Hall, he’s gone. Caleb’s still out, too, and when I look for Grayson, Paz tells me he went to study with Henry in one of the classrooms.

  It’s not one of Henry’s usual study nooks, and even though they’ve been alone together before, I find my steps quickening as I head down the hall. It’s probably just because of what happened with Grayson’s dad, but I keep picturing the detectives coming back and dragging Grayson out of here. In my pocket, I feel the weight of my phone, now loaded with the senator’s private number.

  The door to the senior classroom is cracked, and as I approach I can hear voices coming from inside.

  “She seriously fell for it?”

  Grayson’s snarky laugh makes me pause.

  “Of course she did,” Henry answers. My back straightens. I know it’s stupid to think they’re talking about me, but the way my day’s going, they just might be.

  “She’s an idiot,” says Grayson. “She believes anything that anyone tells her.”

  I think of the senator in the stairwell, begging me for information about his son. Was he playing me? Was the sad dad face an act, so that he can find Grayson and shut him down before he tells everyone what really happened to Susan?

  My thumbs screw into my temples. This is ridiculous. Grayson and Henry wouldn’t know what happened. Dr. O wouldn’t have said anything, and I just got home.

  “Maybe she’s just hopeful,” Henry argues. “Maybe she’s trying to see the good in people.”

  “That’s you, Pollyanna,” says Grayson. “She’s naïve. It’s going to get her killed.”

  Henry’s laugh is a little rushed. My throat is dry.

  “It’s the jealousy that’ll kill her, I think,” Henry finally says, quieter than before. Sad almost. “He foreshadows it in act three. Beware of jealousy.” Henry pauses, and I can hear the rustle of paper, pages being turned. “It’s the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.”

  “That’s dramatic,” says Grayson, and with a lurch I realize what’s going on. They aren’t plotting someone’s death, they’re reading Othello.

  A crazy, broken laugh expels from my lips before I can stop it, and I cover my mouth to silence the sound. I am officially losing my mind.

  In the silence that follows, I push into the room, fully expecting to find Grayson lounged out on some couch and Henry perched in a chair across from him, book in hand. Instead, I’m greeted by the two of them on a love seat, the book forgotten on Grayson’s lap while he and Henry are engaged in a not exactly innocent staring contest.

  “Brynn? Hey! There you are!” Henry jolts out of his seat, cheeks growing pinker with each passing millisecond. Grayson snorts, then grabs the book and leafs through the pages absently.

  “We were just going over discussion points for class tomorrow.” Henry looks to Grayson, then to me, then to the floor.

  I cross my arms. “Is that so?”

  “We were fooling around,” says Grayson.

  “What?” Henry’s voice slides up an octave, until it’s high enough to shatter glass. “No we weren’t! That’s crazy. We were just talking. About Othello. Iago. Desdemona. You know. The whole gang.”

  “Sounds riveting,” I say.

  Grayson taps an invisible watch. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  “What?” Henry crosses his arms. Uncrosses them. “Oh. Yes. I have to go do a thing. Out. In the great wide world. I may be a while, so don’t wait up.” He laughs.

  “You don’t have to leave,” I say.

  He’s already heading toward the door, though, and has nearly made it out when Grayson tells him to wait. He’s forgotten his backpack on the floor.

  “Oh, right.” Henry heads back to get it, but Grayson picks it up, and as he passes it over, I swear there’s enough tension between them to level an entire city.

  My stomach tightens, just as a flush rises up my neck.

  I am not jealous of Henry and Grayson. That would be ridiculous.

  “See you later,” says Grayson, holding Henry’s gaze.

  Henry nods.

  Grayson returns to the couch and sits, turning the pages once again, looking mildly amused.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “Told you he wants me.” Grayson doesn’t look up.

  Annoyance flares over my nerves. “Seemed like you were pretty into him, too.”

  Grayson turns the page. “Jealous?”

  He’s mad at me for the other night—for Caleb, and for pretending we didn’t mean anything to each other when we did.

  He can be mad, but that doesn’t mean he gets a pass to hurt someone else.

  “You didn’t have to tell him to leave.”

  “Did he look like he wanted to stay? I did him a favor. Besides, if you’re here, I figure you want my full attention.”

  He is just as arrogant as the first
day we met.

  “You can’t mess with him, Grayson.”

  “Who says I’m messing with him?”

  I quirk a brow. “If you’re trying to get back at me, don’t do it with Henry.”

  “Wow.” He grins, impressed. “And people say I’m self-involved.”

  His words cut through my thinning shield.

  I collapse onto the cushion next to him.

  He puts the book down. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Your dad cornered me in a stairwell.

  His detective pulled a gun on me.

  I’m outed on an assignment you didn’t know I had, which could put my position here at risk.

  I can’t tell him any of it, but if I could, I think he’d probably understand. I slump over my knees.

  “Basically everything,” I say.

  He taps the book on his thigh. “It’s that guy, isn’t it? Caleb.”

  I put my face in my hands. “He isn’t helping things.”

  Hurt pangs through me as I picture Caleb’s face. Where is he now? With his family? Or on a job? I feel like I don’t know him at all, and maybe I never did.

  “He giving you a hard time?” Grayson almost sounds hopeful.

  “Something like that.”

  Another pause.

  “You want me to talk to him about it?”

  I crane my head in Grayson’s direction, but he’s staring down at the book again, brows furrowed. This isn’t a joke—he actually means it.

  He’s trying to protect me.

  I refocus back on my empty hands. “It’s okay. Thanks.”

  “What’s his problem?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Sum it up then.”

  Again, I glance his way. He may be rough around the edges, but he actually cares what’s going on with me. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I care what happens to him.

  “I lied to Caleb, and he lied to me,” I say.

  “You sound perfect for each other.”

  I snort.

  “You want him back?” Grayson looks up at me as he says this, and I fight the urge to stare at the floor. If I tell him yes, then I chance losing both parts of my assignment today—him and the job. If I tell him no, I add another layer onto the lie he’s already exposed.

  The truth is my safest bet.

  “I don’t know.”

  He inhales, then claws a hand through his hair. “You should tell him the truth. It sucks when someone’s lying to you.”

  For some reason this kindness reminds me of what Caleb told me in the garden—about the police report, and how the pieces of Grayson’s story didn’t fit.

  “Grayson?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When the accident happened, did you see if Susan had any head injuries?”

  He stiffens, his face growing pale. “Why are you asking that?”

  “I was just remembering something I heard a while ago.”

  A shudder works its way down his body. “I don’t know. How would I know that?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “She was dead. There were injuries. I didn’t look at her head specifically.”

  Of course. There would have been blood. Broken bones. How would he be able to see if she’d had old scrapes and bruises?

  But doubt needles my comfort, and I move my leg another inch away from his.

  “What made you think of that?” The anger in Grayson’s voice puts me on edge. “You mess with me with Caleb. You mess with me about the accident. Why are you doing this?”

  “I didn’t mean to press a button. Forget it. It was just a stupid question.”

  “What about that plan, huh? I suppose you probably forgot about helping me, too.”

  His voice is raised. I glance to the open door. We don’t need other people listening to him go on a tirade about the phone in Dr. O’s safe, or my diversion from it.

  “I will help you.”

  “When? My head’s on a chopping block, in case you haven’t noticed. By the time you work it into your busy schedule, your director’s going to have me on the bus to prison. Where do you go all the time, anyway?”

  “Nowhere,” I say. “Just … out with friends and stuff.”

  Great answer.

  “Friends.” He snorts. “What are those?”

  “Come on, don’t be like that.” I reach for his arm without thinking.

  In a flash, he’s shaken me off and pointed a finger in my face. I slam back against the cushion, a sudden fear gripping my spine. He moved faster than I expected.

  “Don’t.” His eyes are like storm clouds. I don’t know if he means don’t touch him or don’t try to placate him with more lies, but I won’t do either.

  He’s dangerous. Caleb’s words shoot through my mind, leaving an echo of wariness behind.

  Susan drove into a tree trying to get away from Grayson. She had head injuries not from the accident—at least according to some report Caleb’s seen.

  No. I shake the dark thoughts from my head. That was an accident. I know Grayson. He wouldn’t hurt me. He’d know better than to try.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, even though he’s the one who just snapped at me. This whole conversation has gotten twisted up. I should be the one telling him to back off.

  He jerks back as if breaking from a trance and jolts off the couch. For a moment he stands before me, an awkward strain warping his brow and rounding his back. He opens his mouth, and I think an apology might be coming.

  Instead, he says, “The heiress is having a mental breakdown.”

  He knows her name. I don’t know why he still acts too good to remember it.

  “Charlotte? What happened?” I should probably defuse the situation, make sure he and I are good, but I’m as eager as he is for a change in direction.

  “How should I know? No one tells me anything around here.”

  Except for Henry, who told him about the safe. Who’s here for him all the time.

  I wonder what else Henry is telling him.

  By the time I stand up, Grayson’s already striding out of the room.

  I find Charlotte in the garden, staring at Barry Buddha. She’s sitting on the bench where Caleb and I made out, huddled in a blue wool coat, her chin tucked inside a scarf. Her bloodshot eyes flick my way as I approach, though that’s the only movement she makes.

  I sit beside her, the evening air biting my exposed neck and the backs of my hands. The sun will be down in minutes, though Charlotte doesn’t seem to care.

  I run through the things I should say—all the things she would tell me if I were in her shoes—but there’s no good way to start.

  “Sam said you might be out here.” I caught him on the stairs when I went up to check Charlotte’s room. He was devastated. He didn’t even look at me when he told me. It was like someone had died.

  I’d thought after the party they’d be getting back together, but it’s clear now that isn’t the case.

  Charlotte doesn’t say anything.

  A gusty wind makes the dry leaves clatter over the stone walkway, and I glance back, half expecting to see Grayson or the senator and his detectives following me.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  The sun dips below the horizon, and in seconds, the temperature begins to drop.

  “We might freeze out here.” I pull up my collar, tucking my chin inside. “Is that the plan?”

  No response.

  “Death by hypothermia it is,” I say. “Not the worst way to go. There was a guy who used to live at the abandoned factory across the street from my house—he died of hypothermia. The crazy part? When they found him, he was completely naked. That’s a thing, you know. I looked it up. Paradoxical undressing. I guess in some last-ditch effort to save yourself, your brain floods blood through your body and it feels like a thousand degrees. They’ve recorded it with lost hikers in the Alps and stuff.”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Her words stop me like a six-inch nail in th
e tire of a car going ninety down the freeway. I screech to a halt. The words bounce around my head for three full seconds before they actually make sense.

  “He doesn’t know,” she adds quietly.

  “Oh,” I say brilliantly.

  I think of the nights she’s been crying, all the pressure to make her birthday perfect. It’s the last chance we have to be young and beautiful, she said.

  Before what? She has a baby? Or doesn’t?

  Charlotte is pregnant.

  I close my eyes, dread ripping through me on her behalf. And then I open them, and I hug her. She doesn’t hug back at first, but I don’t give up. I pull out all the Henry Hug tricks, squeezing until her chin rests on my shoulder and her arms circle my back.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her.

  She shudders with a sob. “I can’t do my job if I’m pregnant. Dr. O will never send me out on assignment. I’ll be done here.”

  She’s right. “Do you want to have it?”

  It. A baby. This decision feels a hundred times bigger than anything I’ve ever faced on a job.

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “Okay.”

  “I want to go to school. I’m supposed to be a lawyer.”

  But. I hear the hesitation in her voice.

  “You still can be,” I tell her. “It’ll just be different.” Lots of girls at my old school were pregnant. They figured it out, and none of them were nearly as resourceful as Charlotte.

  “It won’t happen if I don’t graduate or get this scholarship.” She pulls back, the strain in her eyes accented by the lines between her brows. “If I get kicked out, I’ll have nothing. You think my parents will take me back now? Not a chance.”

  “You’ll make it work. I’ll help you. Sam will—”

  She shakes her head adamantly. “He can’t know.”

  I siphon in a breath. “Why?”

  “You don’t know him like I do,” she says. “He’d quit school for me. He’d blow off NYU. He needs NYU.”

  “He needs to know what you’re going through.”

  “You don’t get it.” She stands, wrapping her arms tight around her body. “This can’t happen. The appointment’s next Tuesday. I’ve already made the arrangements.”

  “Charlotte,” I call, but she’s speeding away, locked in her shell, more alone than I’ve ever been in my life.