99 Lies

by Rachel Vincent

  “What?” Genesis marches over and grabs my phone. “What the hell is his problem? He got off.” She grabs Neda’s tablet from the window seat and types Holden’s name into the search bar.

  It doesn’t take us long to find the story. She taps the top link and a video opens on one of the major news network sites. The banner running across the bottom sums it up.

  Wainwright Pharmaceuticals’ Stock Plunges; Heir to Pharmaceutical Fortune Disinherited.

  “Holy shit,” Genesis breathes as she sinks onto the bench seat.

  “Turn it up,” Penelope mumbles.

  Genesis turns up the volume, and we gather around the tablet, listening, shocked, as Holden’s father speaks at a formal press conference from behind a podium crowded with microphones.

  “While we are obviously relieved that the State’s Attorney hasn’t found reason to press charges against Holden, as parents, we can’t deny that our son’s behavior is not in keeping with the values espoused by Wainwright Pharmaceuticals, and we understand the executive board’s discomfort with the thought of him someday taking the helm. So it is with a heavy heart but a very hopeful outlook for the future of both our company and our family that we announce that our son, Holden, will not inherit any stock in Wainwright Pharmaceuticals. Nor will he be employed in any way by the company. We have no doubt that he will find great success in the future. But it will not be at Wainwright Pharmaceuticals.”

  “Damn,” Neda breathes. “If my parents disinherited me, I’d sue.”

  I start to ask how she’d pay her lawyer if she were disinherited. Instead, I laugh. “Let’s hope he has the sense to come to you for legal advice.”

  1.5 HOURS EARLIER

  You belong here.

  GENESIS

  Luke’s eyes are wide as he climbs into the limo behind my cousin. “I’ve always wanted to ride in one of these!” Evidently the one at Ryan’s funeral didn’t count. He plops down between Neda and Maddie without realizing that he’s sitting on both of their skirts. “Have you ever been in a Hummer limo?”

  Neda rolls her eyes and pushes him over so she can free her dress. “Hummers are so pedestrian.”

  Luke laughs—until he realizes no one else is amused. “Wait, was that not a joke? You know, she just called a car pedestrian?”

  Indiana laughs.

  Maddie smiles and takes Luke’s hand as the limo begins to roll forward.

  “Have you heard from Elizabeth Wainwright today?” I ask Maddie.

  “Only through her assistant. She said we did a great job, but they don’t need any more help from me. I’ve basically been politely dismissed.” She shrugs. “There goes my scholarship. Thanks to Holden.”

  “Screw him,” Penelope says, and I’m relieved to see that this time she seems to mean it. After everything he’s done, it took his threat to Maddie to finally get through to her.

  “Yeah. Screw him.” But Maddie’s voice lacks conviction. She leans forward to see Neda around Luke. “What I can’t figure out is how he knew it was me. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

  Neda stares at her feet, clad in a brand-new pair of designer pumps.

  “Neda?” I ask as a sick feeling begins to churn in my stomach.

  “What. Happened?” Maddie demands, her voice lower and scarier than I’ve ever heard it.

  Neda sighs. “A couple of lawyers came to my door yesterday afternoon. They said they were working on the case against Holden and asked where I got the footage of him dealing at those parties.”

  “What lawyers? What were their names?” Maddie asks.

  Neda rolls her eyes. “How the hell am I supposed to remember that?”

  “You didn’t have to answer their questions,” I tell her, resisting the urge to rub my face in frustration, which would ruin my professionally applied makeup. “Especially without a parent present.”

  “That’s what I said—that a journalist never reveals her sources. Which I totally thought was a thing.”

  “It is a thing.” Indiana reaches across the aisle to give her a comforting pat on the knee.

  “Well, they said that there’s no legal protection for a journalist’s source, and that the only way I could protect that information is if I were willing to go to jail for refusing to reveal it.” She shrugs. “And obviously I’m not willing to go to jail.”

  “Neda!” Maddie snaps. “You’d only go to jail if you refused a judge’s order for you to reveal your sources. Did they bring a court order?”

  She frowns. “I don’t know.”

  Maddie scrubs her face with both hands, heedless of her makeup. “If they had one, they would have shown you.”

  “What does it matter?” Neda leans back and crosses her arms over her chest as the limo makes a tight right-hand turn. “They were working to put Holden in jail, and that’s what we want. Right?”

  “Except that if they were on our side, they wouldn’t have threatened you,” I explain, grasping for patience. “They were probably Holden’s attorneys. They used the information you gave them to help get the charges dropped.”

  Maddie groans. “And Holden used that information to threaten me.”

  Neda rolls her eyes again. “He’s not going to hurt you, Maddie.”

  “He already has! His mother practically promised me one of the scholarships her charity sponsors, and now that’s gone.”

  “You can have my tuition money. I don’t need college anyway. I’ll be too busy with my webshow.”

  Maddie’s face turns four different shades of furious, and I realize there’s no way to defuse this bomb. “Do you have any idea how insulting that is?” she demands. “The one truly good thing your privilege can do for you, you’re willing to throw away for some stupid web—”

  “Okay.” I spread my arm in the space between the seats, calling for a truce. “Neda didn’t mean to rat you out, and she’s actually trying to be generous, rather than insulting.”

  Maddie scowls at me as the limo pulls to a stop, and we all rock a little in our seats. She’s the first one out when the driver opens the door, but then she just stands there, blocking everyone else’s path.

  “Maddie?” Luke sounds worried.

  I give her a little push and climb out next to her. My cousin looks terrified as she stares at the handful of other attendees getting out of limos. Each of the women wears a dress that costs more than her mother makes in six months.

  “Tonight you’re a guest,” I whisper as I link my arm through hers and subtly pull her away from the car door. “Not an employee. Not a scholarship hopeful. You belong here just as much as the rest of us.” I hesitate as the truth burns a hole in my tongue. “And you deserve to be here more than any of us.”

  Maddie is the only reason that half of tonight’s proceeds will go to benefit Colombia. She’s more of a hero than her father will ever be.

  Luke climbs out of the car, and he looks as stunned as Maddie. Behind him, Neda and Pen are wearing their A-list smiles, perfectly at ease.

  Indiana looks . . . amused as he gets out of the car. I let go of my cousin and link my arm with his, pleased to note that his formal black cowboy hat looks strangely hot with the tux he let me rent, but refused to let me buy.

  The man at the door doesn’t ask for our tickets. He knows who we are. Everyone knows who we are. It feels a little strange to be back in this spotlight, even if only temporarily. I decide to enjoy it. For the last time. Even if the stares aimed at me are more confused and critical than admiring.

  Indiana declines to check his hat in the foyer, and I lead us across the lobby.

  Just outside the ballroom doors stands an elegant freestanding banner, announcing that at the end of the night, one lucky attendee will walk away with a seventy-thousand-dollar bottle of sixty-four-year-old scotch—one out of a batch of only sixty-one bottles produced.

  “The balloon prize?” Indiana guesses.

  I nod. It has to be. “Bottles that old rarely go on sale.” I know, because my father bought one from that
very batch a few years ago, and he had to outbid six other buyers.

  In a couple of hours, women in sequins and silk will be trying to drive designer stiletto heels into thirteen hundred balloons to win that bottle. The Wainwright Foundation’s annual benefit will close out the night like a damn barn stomp.

  Shaking my head in disgust, I head into the ballroom with my arm tucked into Indiana’s.

  “Wow . . . ,” Maddie breathes, and her awe is warranted. We did a lot of work last night, but the finishing touches put into place this morning have made all the difference. A huge bouquet of red roses sits at the center of every table, on top of the silver and black table runners and tablecloths layered in the same colors. Elegant, eighteen-piece place settings with silver-edged dishes have been perfectly arranged in front of each chair, the salad plates topped with tall black napkin sculptures.

  And over all of our heads, where no one else seems to be looking, a huge net has been fastened to the ceiling, bursting at the seams with the black, silver, and red balloons we blew up last night. They’ll fall at the end of the evening, when the silent auction has concluded and Elizabeth Wainwright reads the fund-raising grand total.

  I lead our group toward my father’s table at the front of the room. He buys one every year, but has yet to actually attend. While everyone else takes a seat, I scan the ballroom for familiar faces. For the first time in my life, I’m actually hesitant to mingle.

  My gaze lands on Holden. He’s standing across the room next to his father, and though Mr. Wainwright is holding a glass of what can only be very expensive whiskey, Holden’s hands are stuffed into his pockets.

  Last year, they let him wander the ballroom with me. This year he’s clearly tethered to his father’s side, for obvious reasons.

  I give Holden a big, smug smile. Then, as I reach for Indiana’s hand, a familiar face behind Holden catches my attention.

  “No . . . ,” I murmur.

  It’s probably just an allergy.

  MADDIE

  Genesis mumbles something about going to the bar, then grabs her clutch and heads into the crowd. I stare after her, surprised. Then I realize she’s heading right for Holden. Probably to confront him about threatening me.

  I should stop her. A scene is the last thing we need, after the week we’ve all had. But then she walks right past him and out a side door, and I realize that if she’s going to make a scene, it won’t be here.

  It’ll be somewhere private. Where she can rupture his scrotum and concuss his brain without an audience.

  Indiana watches Genesis leave with a look of concern, but Luke is oblivious. His eyes are huge as he stares around the room, stunned to find himself among two NFL quarterbacks, four Grammy winners, and more actors and directors than he could count on both hands.

  “Maddie, you want a drink?” Neda asks. “It’s an open bar, and an extra big tip will usually stand in the place of ID.”

  I must look extra awkward if she’s being this nice to me.

  Or maybe she feels bad about giving Holden’s lawyers my name.

  Neda picks up her clutch and steps around her chair, both brows arched as she waits for my answer. But then my focus lands on the hand clutching her purse. “Neda, what happened to your hand?”

  She looks down and frowns. Her clutch clunks onto the table and she holds her hand closer to her face to examine the cluster of small blisters in the web between her right thumb and forefinger.

  Penelope leans over to look. “Did you burn yourself?”

  “No. And it doesn’t hurt.”

  “Does it itch?” Luke asks, leaning in from his seat on my other side.

  “Well, it does now,” Neda snaps. As if suggesting the possibility brought the itch to life. “You guys, chill.” She glances around the room and smiles, as if nothing were wrong. “It’s probably just an allergy to my new hand soap. Or something.” Then she holds her purse in both hands, strategically hiding the blisters, and heads for the door.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Luke. Then I follow her out, walking slower than I’d like, thanks to the stupid heels she insisted I borrow.

  I hit the lobby just as Neda disappears into the women’s room, and when I follow her inside, I’m relieved to find it empty, other than us. Neda sets her clutch on the counter and runs water over her hand, scowling at the blisters.

  “What kind of hand soap did you switch to?” I ask.

  “I didn’t. But I couldn’t let people think I’m contagious.” She turns off the water and frowns at her hand.

  “Could they be bug bites?”

  She gives me an angry look in the mirror. “I don’t have bugs, Maddie.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  The bathroom door flies open and Luke bursts into the powder room, holding his phone.

  “You can’t be in here!” Neda whispers fiercely. In reply, he shoves his phone in our faces. The screen shows a picture of a cluster of blisters that look eerily similar to the ones on Neda’s hand. “What is that?” she asks, squinting at the screen.

  “Those”—he swipes through several more pictures, all identical to Neda’s hand—“are early-stage blisters from a cutaneous anthrax infection.”

  NOW

  I have to give my uncle credit.

  GENESIS

  I march across the ballroom, past men in tuxedos and women in expensive dresses.

  Silvana is here. Dressed like a waitress. She’s heading into the kitchen. I can still see the faint traces of a bruise on her face—probably from my uncle’s fist.

  I hesitate for a second at the swinging door. The last time I saw her, she nearly killed me. But that was in Colombia. In the jungle.

  We’re in my house now.

  I can call the police with the press of a button.

  I push my way into the kitchen, expecting to be stopped. I’m wearing a twenty-thousand-dollar custom gown and four-inch heels. I obviously do not belong in here, but no one even looks up from the plates they’re preparing or the trays they’re loading. They don’t have time to notice me.

  Thank goodness.

  Determined, I lift my skirt to keep from dragging it or tripping over it and follow Silvana down an aisle on the right side of the kitchen, careful not to bump into anything or anyone in the bustling, steam-filled room. She takes a left at the end of the aisle, and I see her in profile.

  She’s . . . not Silvana. I open another door and rush into a dimly lit hallway, and—

  “Good evening, princesa.”

  Startled, I gasp and whirl around . . . and find myself staring up into Silvana’s darkly amused eyes.

  “Your uncle sends his regards.” She cocks the pistol aimed at me, and my throat clenches around nothing. “Toss your phone at my feet.”

  I consider trying to dial 911 instead, but she can pull the trigger faster than I can scroll to the emergency call screen. Reluctantly, I lob my phone at her.

  She stomps it into useless electronic debris.

  “Why were you following me? What are you doing here?”

  “Cleaning up the mess you made. You might have heard that someone blew up your uncle’s arsenal, but David is endlessly resourceful. Plan B is a go, Genesis.”

  Plan B. Here. Now. At a charity event with two hundred of the wealthiest people in the country in attendance.

  I have to give my uncle credit—he does not think small.

  “Where are the bombs?” Not that I’ll be able to tell anyone if she kills me.

  “There are no bombs. We’re going for a different kind of drama this time. Something more . . . fitting with the atrocities the US government has visited upon the Colombian people. Your uncle calls it ‘poetic justice.’”

  More fitting?

  Money given in support of one cartel over the others. Pesticides sprayed onto farmland. Deals made with crooked politicians. Raids ending in a hail of bullets and the slaughter of entire families.

  Which of those is my uncle planning to unleash on a room full of ph
ilanthropists? Bullets seem the most likely, but . . .

  “You’re going to have to give me more of a hint,” I tell her. “Or are you just going to shoot me?”

  “Oh no. David wants you to have a front-row seat.” She backs toward the door to the kitchen, keeping her gun aimed at me. “So just sit back and enjoy the show. . . .” Then Silvana disappears into the kitchen.

  I lurch for what’s left of my phone, and it falls apart in my hand. “Damn it!” I have to find a phone. And evacuate the building.

  Starting with my father’s table . . .

  This is crazy.

  MADDIE

  “No.” Neda holds her hand away from her body, as if it’s betrayed her. “That doesn’t make any sense. Where the hell would I have gotten anthrax? And what’s . . . cutaneous?”

  “It means ‘relating to the skin,’” Luke tells her. “That means you got this infection from touching anthrax, rather than eating or inhaling it.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. We don’t know that,” I insist. “Just because her blisters look like those blisters doesn’t mean she has anthrax.” I suck in a deep breath, praying that I’m right. Because if Neda’s somehow been exposed to anthrax . . . I shake my head firmly. “Googling medical images is not a valid way to make a diagnosis.”

  “Acknowledged. But she’s got some kind of infection.” He turns back to Neda. “If your doctor takes after-hours calls, I’d make one right now. Just to be safe.”

  “This is crazy.” Neda grabs her clutch and heads back into the lobby, still holding her hand out as if she doesn’t even recognize it.

  Luke and I follow her, and though the ballroom doors have closed, we can hear Holden’s mother giving a speech from beyond them. Neda pulls her phone from her clutch with her good hand, and before I can decide whether I should call her a cab or text everyone else from our group with an update, we see Genesis explode from a door leading into a service hallway.