by Meg Cabot
“Honey.” Mom followed me, ignoring the egg whites sizzling on the stove. “I thought we’d talked about this. That boy is no good for you.”
“Bye, Mom,” I said, yanking open the front door. Rob was outside, in his shiny black pickup. He waved.
“Hey, Mrs. Mastriani,” he called.
“Hello, Robert,” my mom called back weakly. To me, she said in a low voice, “Jessica, you know as well as I do, if he cheated once, he’ll do it again.”
“Toni,” my dad said from the chair he’d sunk into in the living room. “Let the kids work out their problems themselves.”
“Oh, right,” Mom said, whipping around to glare at my father. “I’m just supposed to stand by and let her do whatever she wants, then be here to help pick up the pieces when it all blows up in her face.”
“Exactly,” Dad said, and flipped open the newspaper.
“Joe!” Mom cried, frustrated.
“See ya,” I said to the two of them, and hurried down the porch steps and across the lawn to where the four-door with the tinted windows sat.
After waving at Rob to let him know I’d just be a minute, I tapped on the sedan’s driver’s-side window. When it didn’t roll down right away, I said, “Come on. We all know you’re in there.”
Slowly the window came down. I found myself looking at two gentlemen wearing suits, despite the summer heat, which only promised to get steamier.
“Hi,” I said to them. “You guys from the FBI, or Mr. Whitehead?”
The two men exchanged glances. Then the driver said in a thick Chicago accent, “Mr. Whitehead. He is not pleased with you. He believes you broke into his son’s apartment last night, and took some property belonging to him. Mr. Whitehead would like that property back.”
“Right,” I said. “I figured he would. Well, it just so happens that my friend and I are on the way to Mr. Whitehead’s office. So you two are welcome to follow us. You can even call ahead, if you want, and let him know we’re on the way. Oh, and tell him to make sure Randy Junior is there, as well. And Randy needs to bring Kristin with him.”
The driver and his partner exchanged glances. I said encouragingly, “Go on. Call him. If he wants his son’s property back, he’s going to have to meet with me. It’s either that, or I take the property to the cops.”
The driver hesitated, then reached into his breast pocket. For a minute, I thought he might be going for a gun, and I thought to myself, obscurely, how odd it would be to die on such a bright, sunny summer morning, on my own street, in front of my parents and my would-have-been boyfriend.
But it turned out he was only reaching for a cell phone.
“See you in ten,” I said to the men in the car. Then I turned and started for Rob’s truck…
…just as a white convertible Rabbit pulled up alongside my driveway, and Karen Sue Hankey, behind the wheel, tootled on the horn.
“Hi, Jessica!” she cried. “Are you ready? I hope you don’t mind if it’s just the two of us, but Scott’s playing golf with my dad. I thought it might be just as well. Now it can be just us girls. I made a reservation at that new little gourmet restaurant on the courthouse square. They’ve got the best waffles. Even though, you know, I’m not supposed to be eating refined sugar. But this is a special occasion. Oh, I just love your hair like that. Did you get it done in New York? Hop in, why don’t you?”
Instead of hopping in, I walked right past her car, then climbed into the passenger seat beside Rob.
“Hey,” he said to me. Then glanced out his window. “Isn’t that that girl from last night? The one who stopped you on the street?”
“Just drive,” I said.
Rob obliged, pulling out and heading towards downtown. As we cruised by her, I heard Karen Sue, looking outraged, say, “Well, of all the—” Then I saw my mom rushing out to placate her, probably with an offer of scrambled egg whites.
“How’s Hannah?” I asked, buckling my seat belt.
“She hates me,” Rob said simply. “She’s also not too fond of Chick, whose babysitting her again until her mother gets here to pick her up.”
“She’ll get over it,” I said. “Did you tell her about the videos?”
“Oh, yeah,” Rob said. “She doesn’t believe me. Her precious Randy would never do anything like that. She thinks I’m making it up to make Randy look bad.”
“Of course you are,” I said with a laugh. “Don’t worry. She’ll come around.”
“Yeah,” Rob said. “Too bad by the time she does, she’ll be back home with her mom.” He glanced into his rearview mirror a few seconds later. “Who’s the tail?” he wanted to know. “FBI?”
“Mob,” I said casually. “Turns out Randy Senior’s connected.”
“Boy,” Rob said. “Things just keep getting better with this guy. My sister sure knows how to pick ’em. Should I lose them?”
“No, they’re our escort,” I said.
“Great,” he said even more sarcastically. “May I ask where this little procession is headed?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Courthouse square. The offices of Mr. Randall Whitehead Senior are in the Fountain Building.”
“And that’s where we’re going?” Rob asked. “To see Randy Senior?”
“That’s correct,” I said. “Although Randy Junior is going to be there as well, I believe.”
“Does this mean you’re going to let me beat him senseless after all?” Rob asked hopefully.
“It most certainly does not,” I said, keeping my gaze on the road and not allowing it to stray towards Rob’s hands, which looked tantalizingly strong and competent as they turned the wheel. I tried not to think about how those hands would feel—had felt—on me.
“Did you watch the tapes?” Rob wanted to know. I noticed he was keeping his own gaze on the road, as well.
“I did,” I said.
Rob waited for me to go on. When I didn’t, he said, “Were the ones with Hannah…I mean, was there more than one—”
“There was just one video of her,” I said.
“Good,” Rob said softly.
“Multiple copies of the same video,” I added, even though I didn’t want to. Still, I had to make sure he understood.
Rob swore under his breath. Then, giving a chuckle that was completely devoid of humor, he said, “And you really think I’m not going to kill him when I see him?”
“You’re not,” I said. “Because, for one thing, he’s not worth going to jail for. And for another, those guys back there? They’re armed.”
“Yeah,” Rob said. “Well, they’re not going to be around forever. Randy’s going to have to go somewhere alone sometime, and when he does—”
“Rob.” My voice was sharp enough to cause him to turn his head to look at me, finally.
“You’re not going to lay a finger on Randy Whitehead,” I said angrily. “You’re going to let me handle this. That’s what you brought me here from New York for, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Like hell,” Rob said. “This isnot what I brought you from New York for. I brought you from New York to find my sister, and you—”
“There’s a spot,” I said, pointing. Finding parking around the square was notoriously difficult, which was why so many people preferred to do their shopping at the mall, even though it wasn’t anywhere near as historically picturesque.
“—found my sister,” Rob went on, swinging the massive truck into the narrow spot as neatly as if he were driving a car half its size. “For which I thank you. But I can’t sit back and let this guy get away with what he did to her. I can’t do it, Jess. You can’t ask me to.”
“I’m not,” I said, unsnapping my seat belt. “Randy’s going to pay for what he did. Just not with his blood. And you’re not going to go to jail—or worse, the bottom of some lake.”
Rob glared at me. I wouldn’t back down, though. I just glared right back. After a few seconds, Rob turned and pounded the sides of his fists on the steering wheel—just once, app
arently to get the urge to hit something out of his system.
“Feel better?” I asked.
“No,” he said sullenly.
“Good,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We climbed down from the pickup’s cab, then waited for the light in order to cross the street to the Fountain Building, which also housed the local bank and a yoga studio. On the way, we passed Underground Comix, the store where my brother Douglas works. The sign in the door readCLOSED . I knew they didn’t open until ten, and it was still only nine thirty.
I noticed that when we got to the building’s entrance, the men from the sedan were already waiting for us. They’d apparently found parking closer by.
“Mr. Whitehead in?” I asked them.
The driver, who clearly used Just For Men in order to color his gray, since no one had hair that black, nodded.
“Both Mr. Whiteheads will see you,” he said.
“Great,” I said chipperly, and led the way through the atrium lobby to the offices of Whitehead Construction.
The plump, middle-aged receptionist must have been given the heads-up that we were on the way, since she didn’t ask who we were. Instead she said, jumping up nervously, “Mr. Whitehead will see you right away. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? Soda?”
“I’m fine,” I said graciously. Who said I didn’t learn any manners when I was overseas?
“I’m good,” Rob growled.
“Well, then,” the receptionist said. “Follow me.”
She led us into a large, sunny office, one corner of which was completely taken up by an enormous, modern-looking desk, where Randy Whitehead Senior sat. In front of the desk had been arranged four matching chairs, also modern, made of black leather and chrome. In one of the chairs sat Randy Whitehead Junior. In the other, looking very small but stylish in tight jeans and a black halter top, sat the girl I recognized from Apartment 1S, and later, from the videotapes markedKRISTIN .
“Well, well,” Randy Whitehead Senior said, climbing to his feet and putting on a gigantic grin when he saw me. “Are you telling me this little bitty thing here is the one who’s been causin’ all this ruckus?”
“Her friend’s not so little,” Randy Junior muttered with a hostile glance in Rob’s direction, which Rob ignored.
“Hello, Mr. Whitehead,” I said coolly, crossing the office and holding my right hand out towards the senior Randall Whitehead. “I’m Jessica Mastriani. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“And you, and you,” Randy Senior boomed. He pumped my hand up and down, then looked questioningly at Rob, who just stood there, glaring back at him. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Sure,” I said. “Mr. Whitehead, this is Rob Wilkins. Your son, Randy, is acquainted with Rob’s younger sister, Hannah.”
A glance at Randy Junior told me that the blow had hit home. He’d stood when I entered. Now the younger Mr. Whitehead sank back down into his chrome-and-leather chair, looking up uneasily at Rob, who, even when standing, towered over him by a good four or five inches.
“Oh God,” Randy Junior moaned under his breath.
Kristin, noticing her boyfriend’s pale demeanor, chimed in with, “Who’s Hannah? What’s going on, Randy? Who’s Hannah?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Randy Junior muttered.
“You must be Kristin,” I said to the dark-haired girl and held out my hand. “Jessica Mastriani.”
“Oh,” she said, bewilderedly putting out her own hand. “You’re a friend of Randy’s? He’s told you about me?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve seen your video.”
“Video?” Kristin looked puzzled. “What video?”
I glanced at Randy Senior and noticed that his smile lost some of its strength.
“Oh, you don’t know about the video Randy made of you and he having sex?” I asked. “The one he’s distributing all over southern Indiana, and—if I’m not mistaken, across state lines…which is a felony, I think.”
Kristin laughed, a tinkling sound in the quiet office, the walls of which were decorated with framed aerial photos of famous golf courses. “Randy and I never made a video,” she said. “What’s she talking about, Randy?”
“All righty, then,” Randy Senior interrupted in that same booming voice. “I understand from my son here, Miss Mastriani, that you stole some property of his. And apparently you confirmed this fact to my two associates here—” He nodded towards Just For Men and his companion, who’d taken up positions flanking the office door, as if they suspected Rob and I might make a run for it. “I’ll admit I wasn’t completely aware of the extent of Randy’s little enterprise until last night when he explained it to me. I take it this all has something to do with this young man’s sister?”
He looked questioningly at Rob.
“Myunderage sister,” Rob pointed out in a voice so cold, I was surprised it didn’t freeze Randy Senior to the spot.
Instead of freezing, the older Mr. Whitehead took a deep breath, then slowly lowered himself back into his chair.
“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “Thatis unfortunate.” Then, noticing that Rob and I were still standing, Randy Senior said, “Where are my manners? Sit down, you two, please.”
Rob stayed where he was, but I sat down, then reached up and tugged on the back of Rob’s shirt until he lowered himself into the chair next to mine.
Kristin, meanwhile, kept saying, “Randy? What’s going on? Who’s this Hannah person? Why is that man there so angry? What are these videos they keep talking about?”
“Miss Mastriani,” Randy Senior said in the same affable tone as before, “before we go any further, I have to tell you how truly honored I am to meet you. When Randy here told me he’d met Lightning Girl—the one that television show is based on—well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. For one thing, that show is one of my wife’s favorites—right, Randy?”
Randy Junior, who still looked as if he might throw up on his own shoes at any second, said, “Yeah. Right.”
“And for another, well, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you did for this country during your tour in Afghanistan. That’s the kind of sacrifice only a true patriot would make, and Randy’s mother and I—well, if there’s one thing we admire, that’s patriotism. Love for this great country of ours is something we tried to instill in our son—didn’t we, Randy? I mean, where else but in America could the son of a dirt-poor farmer like myself end up owning more property than anyone in this great state with the exception of the Catholic Church?”
Randy Senior laughed heartily at his own joke, and Just For Men and his friend joined in. I smiled politely. Rob continued to glower. Randy kept on looking sick, and Kristin just looked confused.
“And I’d like to add,” Randy Senior said, when he’d recovered from his laughing fit, “that the wife and I are big fans of your father’s restaurants. Why, we eat at least one meal a week at Mastriani’s. And I’m addicted to the burgers at Joe’s. Aren’t I, Randy?”
Randy nodded, still looking as if he didn’t feel well. I said, “Well, that’s all just great, Mr. Whitehead. But that doesn’t get us any closer to resolving the situation we have here. Your son’s behavior has upset my friend here very much. I mean, his sister is a very young, inexperienced girl. And your son not only violated her—”
“I did not,” Randy Junior cried. “She wasn’t even a virgin when I met her!”
Rob started up from his chair, but before he could lay his hands on Randy Junior, Randy Senior thundered, “Shut up, Randall!”
“But, Dad,” Randy Junior cried. “I didn’t—”
“You shut up,” Randy Senior bellowed, looking very red in the face, “until I tell you different. I think you’ve caused enough trouble for one day, don’t you?”
Randy Junior cowered in his seat, alternating nervous glances between his father and Rob.
Mr. Whitehead looked at me and said, “I apologize for my son’s outburst there,
Miss Mastriani, and Mr.—I’m sorry, young man, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Wil—” Rob began, but I cut him off.
“His name doesn’t matter,” I said quickly. “As I was saying, the fact is, your son violated his sister’s right to privacy by filming, without her knowledge, private acts on video, that he then went on to copy and distribute—”
“I had her permission!” Randy Junior cried. “I got her signature on a release form and everything!”
“But that’s not a binding contract,” I said to his father. “Since Hannah is only fifteen years old—”
“She told me she was eighteen!” Randy Junior burst out, causing his father to lift a crystal golf-ball–shaped paperweight from the top of his desk and then lower it, with a crash, against his blotter.
“God damn it, Randy!” he roared. “I told you to shut up!”
Randy Junior closed his mouth. Beside him, Kristin looked ready to burst into tears. She wasn’t the only one, either. Randy Junior looked close to letting loose with a few sobs as well.
“I’m sorry, Miss Mastriani,” Randy Senior, recovering himself, said. “And that apology extends to you, too, young man. I can perfectly understand your outrage. I myself am outraged. I had no idea that my son was engaging in the—ahem—film business. I am as disgusted by it as I’m sure you are. So please tell me, what can I do to make this up to you—to both of you? Because I surely do want to set things right.”
“Well,” I said, “in that case, you can ask your son to turn himself in to the officers who should be waiting in your reception area right about”—I glanced at my watch and saw that it was ten o’clock—“now.”
Fifteen
Both Randys were busy gaping at me when the intercom on Mr. Whitehead’s desk suddenly buzzed.
Randy Senior snatched at it and barked, “God damn it, Thelma, I said no interruptions during this meeting!”
“I’m sorry, Randy,” the receptionist’s voice crackled. “But there are about a half dozen police officers out here who say they need to see you right away.”
All of the color drained from Mr. Whitehead’s face. He looked at me with more venom than a rattler.