The Lie (Kings of Linwood Academy Book 2)

by Callie Rose

  I hate that motherfucker.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  A thin dusting of white has appeared on the road outside, and as my car idles by the curb, a snow plow trundles by in the opposite direction.

  I swallow, forcing myself to sit up straighter. “Sorry about your dad. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” He huffs a breath. “He might not be a murderer, but he’s still in a world of shit. She’s been blackmailing him for months. I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  Even as I say it, I don’t know quite what that means. It’s not like I can do much to help his dad unmake that bed. But I can help Lincoln get through it; and I think hearing the words does something, because his next breath is softer, more like a sigh.

  “Thanks, Low. You going to see your mom?”

  “Yeah. I’m on my way there now.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you later.”

  We say our goodbyes and hang up, and I restart the GPS directions to the prison.

  When I get there, I sit in the car for a few minutes until I’m sure I have my shit together. I still kind of feel like crying, but it’s Christmas, for fuck’s sake. My mom needs some happiness and normalcy today, not to spend our entire visit comforting her distraught daughter.

  But when I walk inside the visitation room with the series of glass partitions, I realize I’m not the one who needs comforting.

  My mom is.

  She’s a wreck.

  I practically hurl myself into the chair in front of her, fumbling with the phone in my haste to grab it.

  “Mom? What’s going on? Are you okay? What happened?”

  Her face is streaked with tears, and she reaches up to brush them away roughly as she picks up the phone on her side of the glass. “It’s—it’s fine, sweet—”

  She can’t even finish the words. She breaks off, pressing her lips together and shaking her head.

  “Mom. What?”

  Her soft brown eyes well with tears again as she looks at me. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I don’t think he has any idea.”

  “Who?”

  “Scott Parsons. You were right. I shouldn’t have switched to the public defender. But I couldn’t afford to keep Leda on, and I thought…” She makes a noise in the back of her throat. “I thought it was enough that I was innocent. It’s not, Low. It won’t be.”

  Oh, God.

  My heart shatters in my chest as my mom—the most optimistic, trusting, pure-hearted person I know—shakes her head, her expression hardening.

  She lasted months. Months before her hope broke.

  And I don’t have any of my own to give her.

  Our visit is quiet, filled with muffled words and long silences. It’s as comforting as it always is to be near her, but that doesn’t stave off the black cloud of despair that hovers over us.

  When I finally stand up to leave and press my hand against the glass, she holds hers there for several beats longer than usual. It feels like a real goodbye somehow, a forever goodbye, and I hate that.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “Love you more, Low.”

  The world blurs in my vision as I make my way back out to the parking lot. The falling snow isn’t heavy, but it’s persistent, and it’s left a thin dusting on River’s car. I brush it off, then plop into the front seat, shivering and crying.

  No.

  No, goddammit. This isn’t fair.

  My mom is innocent, and I’m not gonna let her be tried and convicted while I search for the real murderer. There has to be some way to defend her without revealing what the guys and I know.

  Fuck Scott Parsons. If he won’t help my mom, I will.

  I pull my phone out of my bag, but instead of pulling up the directions back to River’s house, I scroll through my previous calls. When I find the number I want, I press the little icon to dial the number.

  It rings a few times, and I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, staring out through the windshield.

  Finally, a gruff voice answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Judge Hollowell? Please, don’t hang up.”

  27

  There’s a beat of silence, but I don’t wait for it to stretch out. He probably doesn’t know who this is, didn’t recognize the number—and maybe that’s a good thing. It’ll give me more time before he decides to hang up.

  “Judge Hollowell, I really, really need your help. I know it’s Christmas, and I know you said you couldn’t get involved, but my mom needs help.”

  Those words seem to click it into place for him. When he speaks again, there’s recognition in his tone. “I can’t do anything for you, Ms. Thomas. I’m sorry. And as you said, it’s Christmas. I’m trying to enjoy a relaxing day at home, and I don’t have time to—”

  “Just a few minutes. Please!”

  I hear him take a deep breath, as if summoning patience. I rush on, anxious to get everything out before he speaks again.

  “That thing you said about Scott Parsons? It’s totally true. My mom said he keeps changing his strategy, keeps promising her he knows what he’s doing, but he doesn’t even seem like he knows all the facts of her case. Please, you’re the only person I know in Fox Hill who understands law—the only person I could think of to call. Can you please help? Even just a little, to go over the case and see what her lawyer is missing, what he’s not doing.”

  Judge Hollowell grunts softly, an annoyed sound. “Jesus. That man should be disbarred.”

  “Yes! He should!” I blurt, my voice too loud in the small confines of the car. “But he hasn’t been. Instead, he’s representing my mom on a murder charge. He holds her whole life in his hands, and I just want to—to—”

  The things that are about to come out of my mouth are not as polite and dignified as I’m trying to make myself seem, so I clamp my lips shut. When I’m a little more under control, I start again.

  “Please, Mr. Hollowell. It’s not like I think you and my mom were in love or anything, but you knew her. You talked with her. You have to believe she’s not a murderer. And even if you don’t believe that, doesn’t she deserve a fair chance to prove herself? I know she didn’t do it.”

  There’s another long silence, and my body tenses, my muscles straining as if I can physically force him to agree. I can feel him wavering, can tell he wants to help—if for no other reason than that he severely dislikes Scott Parsons.

  Hey, if that’s what gets him on my side, I’ll take it.

  But then he makes a noise with his tongue. “I’m sorry… Harlow, right? I’m very sorry. I can’t get involved. I truly hope your mom is able to secure better representation. And for the record, I don’t believe she’s a murderer.”

  The call disconnects, and I drop my forehead to the steering wheel.

  Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

  He was so fucking close. I could hear it in his voice. He wants to help—whether because he really does like my mom or because he just hates to see someone get screwed over by Scott Parsons, I don’t know, and I don’t really care. He wants to help. And Mom needs help right now like I needed chemo—it could save her life.

  When I needed treatment for my cancer, my mother moved heaven and earth to give it to me. She went into massive, catastrophic debt to give it to me. The same debt that’s made it impossible for her to hire better counsel now.

  My jaw sets resolutely as I lift my head, and I look back at my phone, searching for an address before typing out a quick text to River.

  ME: I’m guessing Linc told you. It wasn’t his dad. I just left the prison. My mom’s a fucking mess. I’m gonna try one more time to get Judge Hollowell to help. I’ll be back later.

  I’m not really in a hurry to go back to River’s house anyway. This has to be the most awkward day of the year to be an unwanted houseguest—so I’m all for anything that keeps me away a little longer.

  I flick on the windshield wipers and pull out of the parking lot, driving slow
ly on the snow-covered streets as I follow the GPS’s bland voice commands that take me toward Judge Hollowell’s house. He said he was at home, and if I don’t try one last time to convince him, I won’t be able to live with myself. He’s teetering on the brink, and since he’s not even the judge on Mom’s case, it’s not like I’m asking him to break the law.

  And in person, he won’t be able to hang up on me.

  It takes me almost twice as long to get to his house as the map app predicts, because I drive like a grandma on the snowy roads. His place is nice, not quite as ostentatious as the Black family mansion and more modern than the Bettencourt house.

  Sliding out of the car, I tromp toward his door, shaking the dusty snow off my shoes as I go. I didn’t own a lot of winter wear when I got here, and I haven’t gotten a good pair of boots yet.

  My heart starts hammering hard in my chest as I ring his doorbell, but fuck it, I’m already here. The worst he can do is call the cops on me, and I highly doubt he will.

  There’s a good minute and a half before I catch sight of movement through the frosted glass panels that run alongside the door. When Alexander Hollowell opens the door, his brows furrow and then rise in quick succession, as he registers my appearance and realizes who I am in the space of a few seconds.

  He’s dressed casually, in a dark blue button down with the sleeves rolled up and charcoal slacks. And he’s not wearing shoes, just dark socks.

  A stab of guilt twists in my stomach. He really was just trying to have a relaxing day at home, and here I am, about to bust it up.

  But even if this ruins his day, it can’t be as bad as what my mom is going through. I let that thought spur me on as I step forward, speaking more confidently than I feel. “Please, Mr. Hollowell. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but can I please have just five minutes of your time?”

  He purses his lips, and for a second, I think he really might be thinking about calling the cops.

  Then, finally, I see him crumble. That want to help wins out, and he steps back, opening the door wider to usher me inside.

  “You’re a very persistent girl, Harlow. Your mom’s lucky to have you.”

  “I’m lucky to have her, sir. That’s why I’m here,” I say breathlessly, stepping into the bright, open foyer before he can change his mind. The inside is as modern as the outside, with large window panes and lots of sleek surfaces.

  He nods understandingly, then glances at my feet. “You can leave your shoes on the mat. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I shake my head as I kick off my shoes, laying them on the mat. I don’t know how much time he’s going to spare for me, and I don’t want to waste any of it on chitchat or beverages if I can help it.

  “All right. Come on in.”

  He gestures for me to follow him as he heads toward the living room—although it’s hard to tell exactly where the foyer ends and the living room begins. The whole place is so open, there’s not a lot of delineation between rooms.

  He holds a hand out toward a wide, angular couch, indicating I should take a seat. As I sink down onto it, he sits in a chair nearby, crossing one ankle over his knee.

  “Scott Parsons is, to speak bluntly, an incompetent hack,” he says, grimacing as he rubs a hand over his chin. “I’m not sure of all the details of your mom’s case, but why don’t you fill me in a little, and I’ll see if I can find ways for you to… help him help you. She shouldn’t have to micromanage her lawyer, but in his case, it may be necessary.”

  I nod, digging through my memories of what Mom has said about Scott. My gaze flicks around the room as I think, taking in the broad floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall and the large fireplace to my left. There’s an elk head mounted above the mantel and a stuffed fox on a sort of pedestal next to the fire. My brows pull together as my gaze bounces between the two animals.

  They seem odd and incongruous in this fancy, sleek house. Those two dead animals look like they belong in a hunting lodge or something.

  Judge Hollowell notices my expression and turns his head, tracking my gaze. He smiles indulgently, shaking his head almost like he’s laughing at himself.

  “Ah. I’m a bit of a fan of sport hunting. I know they don’t match the decor, but I couldn’t resist showing off a few trophies. That’s a Manitoban elk, and the other is a gray fox.”

  I suppress a snort. Well, at least he realizes they don’t go with anything in he—

  Before I can finish that snarky thought, a new thought crashes into my mind with the force of a wrecking ball.

  She called him her gray fox.

  I haven’t considered those words since the day I heard Savannah speak them. At the time, I assumed she was talking about Mr. Black, and the name made perfect sense to me—the streaks of gray at his temples, mixed in with his almost-black hair, could earn him that nickname easily.

  My gaze fixes on the small stuffed creature, frozen in time as if it’s standing alert, head raised to sniff the air.

  Her gray fox.

  My stomach dips and spins, making me feel like I’m on a ship in the middle of a violent storm. Nausea rolls through me, forcing bile up my throat.

  The man who killed Iris got her pregnant. He has dirty cops in his pocket, which means he must be powerful and probably wealthy. And he had to have some connection to my mom in order to know it would be possible to frame her.

  My eyelids flicker.

  I can’t tear my gaze away from the poor, dead fox next to the fireplace, posed forever as if it’s still alive.

  Her gray fox.

  “Harlow?”

  Judge Hollowell’s deep voice nearly makes me jump, and I finally wrench my gaze away from the dead animal and focus on him. His brows are drawn together, his round, handsome face creased with concern.

  As I watch, he rises in a smooth movement, and it turns my blood to ice.

  The man in the mask. The man in the dark car who slammed into Iris and then checked to make sure she was dead before speeding off into the night—he moved like that.

  If I hadn’t seen the fox first, I might not have noticed it or might have brushed it off.

  But I did see it. The fucking thing is still staring at me with its beady, dead eyes. And I know that this time, I’m not wrong.

  Judge Hollowell killed Iris.

  He strides toward me, his socked feet as silent as a predator’s on the polished hardwood floor. His brows are still drawn together and oh, fuck, does he know that I know?

  “Harlow?” he asks again, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Fear claws up my throat with icy fingers.

  The night he killed Iris, all I could see of this man’s face were his shadowed eyes and lips. Everything else was covered by a black ski mask.

  For weeks—months—that masked face has haunted me, has infiltrated my dreams and turned them into nightmares.

  The man standing before me now, still gazing at me with concern, has salt-and-pepper hair, laugh lines around his mouth, and a small dimple in his chin. His face is handsome, his expression warm and kind.

  And it scares the fuck out of me.

  Because that’s a mask too.

  To Be Continued…

  The Risk, the final book in the Kings of Linwood Academy series, is coming soon!

  Rich boys don't fraternize with the help.

  They don't fall in love with the help.

  They don't risk everything for the help.

  Pre-order:

  Amazon

  Thank You For Reading

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