Trust Me, I'm Lying

by Mary Elizabeth Summer

  Sister Rasmussen leads me out of the room, closing the door behind us. “Their American student ambassadors are in the room next door, learning rudimentary Ukrainian. Most of them willingly enough, though there was some grumbling on the part of the parents. When I told them they had a choice between taking in an émigré or having their children expelled for a breach of honor code, they fell in line reasonably quickly. They even reframed the situation to their advantage by forming an organization around it. That’s where all the publicity came from.”

  “Wow,” I say. It’s more than I’d hoped for. And I’m sure it costs more than the five thousand dollars per survivor I initially estimated. The families I blackmailed into taking the girls, and St. Agatha’s itself, must be ponying up the rest. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Ms. Dupree, you have been blessed with a very special skill set, and a brain and a heart to use it to benefit others. Promise me you won’t squander it.”

  I smile. “I promise.”

  THE CLEAN SLATE

  Three weeks later, I push against the small stack of junk mail that has piled up in my weekend absence and open the door to my new office. I gather up the ads for carpet cleaning and furnace maintenance and local pizza, dumping them in a wastebasket I picked up at the Goodwill along with the partially broken desk chair and the faded upholstered chair across the desk from it.

  Despite the tuition check my father sent, a girl can’t live on education alone. Especially a girl in the foster system. Mike might be responsible for feeding me, but I’m responsible for the rest. And since I’m officially a domesticated grifter now, I’m supposed to avoid anything even remotely resembling the shadier side of the law. That leaves gainful employment.

  I considered a coffee-shop gig. Briefly. But we all know what a waste that would be, so I decided to hang out a shingle as a security investigator, which is just a fancy way of saying “PI with a specialty in security systems.” You build ’em, we test ’em. If something’s already gone, we can try to track it down, but mostly we deal in prevention. Not that we won’t take a few odd jobs for insurance companies and such. Anything to make the rent.

  All in all, not bad for an after-school job. And if I have to slip into Ms. Jena Scott mode from time to time to lead clients to believe that I’m older than I really am, well, there’s nothing exactly illegal about that, is there?

  “You couldn’t pick up the mail, Murph?” I ask as I slide my bag off my shoulder and onto the desk next to my keys.

  Murphy looks up from his much nicer desk under the window. “What? Oh. That’s the boss’s job.”

  I can already see this is going to be an equitable partnership. “Everything’s the boss’s job.”

  “I’m a sound and lighting expert, not a maid.” He dives back into his laptop, and it reminds me so much of Sam that my insides twist for a moment.

  “I’m going down to get a latte. You want anything?” I say as I dig through my bag to find my wallet. Yes, I pay for coffee now—try not to fall over.

  Murphy waves me off, and I tromp down the steps and around to the front, where the Ballou’s inviting vapors seep through the cracks around its door and out into the street.

  “Two double vanilla lattes, one iced,” I say to the not-Mike barista. I think his name is Yaji, or something like that. He takes my cash and starts the lattes.

  When it turned out that the office space above the Ballou was tenantless and available for rent, I jumped on it. Sure, it has a strange moldy-coffee smell baked into the walls, a closet full of old paint cans from the 1960s, and a generous sprinkling of mouse droppings all over the floor. But it also has a lockable door, working lights, and free Internet connectivity. And it’s cheap—the meager funds left in my account after I paid back the people who bought fake IDs from me actually managed to cover the deposit and the first month’s rent.

  It’s perfect. I just wish my dad could see it. He’d probably dry-heave at the respectability of it all.

  When I get back to the office, Murphy is packing up.

  “Thanks,” he says, taking the iced latte.

  “You out for the day?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Bryn’s meeting me at the Logan for a showing of Shaun of the Dead.”

  “How’s that going?” I ask, genuinely happy I was wrong about Bryn, at least so far.

  “Great. Turns out geek is the new black.”

  “I wonder where she got that idea.” I set my coffee down on my desk and shuffle through the remaining mail.

  “I emailed you the financial analysis for the Covey job.”

  “Thanks. Now get out of here before Bryn starts the epic texting.”

  Just as Murphy reaches for the knob, the door smacks into him.

  “Oops, sorry,” Heather says as she slides past Murphy.

  “Nice to see you, too, Heather,” Murphy grumbles as he shuts the door behind him.

  “I’m betting you’re here for this.” I take out a cashier’s check from the desk drawer.

  “I still can’t believe it actually worked,” she says.

  “That’s what everyone always says.” I hand her the check. “This is my last act as grifter, and I’m only following through because I always finish a job. But”—this part is tricky, because I’m not preachy by nature and I don’t have a moral leg to stand on—“you should consider coming clean to your mom.”

  “Are you joking? Who are you, and what have you done with Julep Dupree?”

  “Look, I don’t know a thing about modeling or New York, university or otherwise. But I do know a thing or two about losing parents. Trust me when I say that keeping secrets will drive you apart.”

  Heather affects the resentful expression guilty people usually get when called on their crap. “There are worse things.”

  “I can’t think of any,” I say.

  “Noted,” she says, tucking the check into her purse. Then she slings the purse over her shoulder and leaves without a good-bye.

  I’ve done the best I can without compromising my seriously warped integrity. She’ll either listen to me or she won’t. In either case, we’re square. And even as I contemplate the other debts I have yet to pay, my door opens again.

  “An office makes you an easy target, you realize.”

  The familiar Eastern European accent sends a shiver down my spine.

  “Dani, how nice of you to drop by.”

  She looks surprisingly good for someone on the run from cops and robbers alike. She’s wearing her new black coat, since I still have her old one. She looks fed and washed, and she doesn’t betray even a hint of the distress that someone being hunted would normally show. She’s smiling at me, and I realize that I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile before. It’s a small smile, but it transforms her face into that of an almost normal nineteen-year-old. I smile back.

  “Mike would want me to ask: Are you here to kill me?” I say.

  “If I am your only danger, then you are quite safe.”

  “Good to know.” I offer her the client chair even though I already know she’d never sit with her back to a door.

  “But just because I don’t wish you dead doesn’t mean others do not.”

  I sigh. It’s Mike’s argument, coming out of Dani’s mouth. I’m lucky the two would never join forces, or I’d have a tougher time getting my way.

  “I’m not important enough to be a target.” I sit in my chair and prop my boot heels on the desk.

  “Maybe,” Dani says. “But you do have a way of pissing off dangerous people.”

  “Believe me, taking on another crime family is the last thing on my to-do list. And when I say last, I mean below getting waterboarded and having my eyes gouged out.”

  Dani laughs, actually laughs, and then leans over the desk, a small card in her hand.

  “In case you get past the waterboarding and eye-gouging.”

  She places the card on my desk and pulls back. I pick up the card to read it, but all that’s on it is a phone number in small
black print.

  “What’s this?”

  “My cell. In case you need backup.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “But my cases are going to be pretty boring from here on out—embezzlement, insurance fraud, testing security systems. Nothing involving bullets, I promise.”

  “I don’t mind a little boring now and then.”

  “Aren’t you worried you’ll get caught?” I still don’t know how to peg her. Every time I think I have a handle on her, she does something new and completely different.

  “If the police were actually looking, they’d have found me by now. I am as I always was.”

  And she is. Something tells me she always will be.

  On a whim, I pick up my keys and unhook one of them from the ring. I toss it to Dani, who catches it effortlessly.

  “I know a guy at the impound lot,” I say. I had planned on keeping the Chevelle myself, but it really belongs to her. Besides, now I get the Chevelle and a driver.

  “You know a guy?”

  “Okay, I know a guy now. It took almost no grifting at all. He was itching to give me the car.”

  “And now you’re giving it back to me?”

  “Today is a good day. Just go with it.”

  She nods, a somber look on her face. “If I’d known he was alive, I would have gotten him out,” she says. “I honestly thought—”

  “I know,” I say, fidgeting with my keys. Then, out of nowhere, I say, “You up for a little boring right now?”

  “What kind of boring?”

  “The kind that involves driving into the lion’s den?”

  She shrugs and smiles. “Why not?”

  Fifty minutes fly by as I try not to let my nerves get the best of me. I’m still a grifter at heart. Walking into a prison, even to visit, is enough to make my blood itch. As Dani pulls up to the entrance, she shoots me a concerned look.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” she asks.

  “Nah,” I say. “It’s just a silly phobia. I’ll get over it.”

  “I’ll be here when you get back,” she says. And the emphasis she puts on be here seems to signify a deeper meaning, a longer promise.

  “Thank you,” I say, holding her gaze for a moment to add weight to my words in return. It’s good to have friends. Even crooked ones.

  Entering the prison is less like the movies and more like a hospital. A giant circulation desk with a heavyset man in a uniform behind it dominates the foyer. It’s almost too easy to walk up and state my business. He leads me through a very nonthreatening vestibule, opening a door for me and pointing down a hallway.

  I follow the signs labeled VISITORS and enter a fairly ordinary room with windows, tables, and chairs—no bars. My dad enters from another door a few seconds after I shut mine behind me, and I leap into his arms. He winces but catches me and hugs me back.

  “How’s your shoulder?” I ask as he lets me down.

  “Fine. A little stiff.”

  There are so many questions I want to ask. So much fear and guilt and anger I haven’t really processed. I know he did it for me. But that doesn’t change everything I lost when it all went south. Something’s been off between us since that night, and I guess it’s true what they say—you can never go home again. You can miss it, you can visit, but you can’t go back. Which is why I don’t bother asking. His reasons and reassurances won’t really change anything.

  “Read any good books lately?” I ask.

  “Best thing about prison—unlimited reading time.” He smiles, almost hiding his knowledge of what’s going on in my head.

  “Worst thing?” I ask, because it follows.

  “Not seeing you every day.”

  I hug him again, softer this time, keeping my feet on the floor. Even if he’s no longer my parent, he’s still my dad.

  “Is Ramirez still insufferable?” he asks as we sit at a nearby table. He keeps hold of my hand, though.

  “Is a bookie a safe bet?” I say with a sardonic smile, until I remember Ralph and the smile falls off my face. “Sorry, Dad.”

  He looks down at our hands. “Still no sign of Ralph?”

  “Not yet. But I’m still looking.”

  He sighs. “No news is good news. He’s probably just relocated.”

  “Yep,” I say, and I’m pretty sure he’s right. “Pretty sure” is not really good enough when you’re talking about a friend, but it’s better than nothing. To change the subject I say, “Dad. About Mom.”

  “Did you find her?” he says, perking up.

  I shake my head. “Why can’t you just tell me where to look?”

  “I would if I knew, Jules, believe me. Bringing her back would mean you didn’t have to stay with Ramirez.” He says it like I’m the one in prison.

  “But what about the note you put on the check?” I say.

  “What check?” he says, puzzled.

  “The tuition check,” I remind him. “The memo line: Trova la fata turchina. ‘Find the blue fairy.’ ”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The bottom drops out of my stomach. “You didn’t send the check.”

  He shakes his head slowly.

  After a half hour of fruitless brainstorming, we admit defeat for the day. Neither of us has any clue who’d have paid my tuition or why, and my visiting hour is up. I say good-bye around a large lump in my throat. He hugs me and lets me go.

  I tell Dani about my discovery on our way back to my office. Her fingers tighten on the wheel a few times, and she looks worried. But I can’t see someone who means me harm paying for my educational betterment, so I tell her to stop fussing. Unfortunately, my rationalization doesn’t stop her from walking me up the stairs and checking the office for boogeymen. Why am I so bad at picking minions? Seriously, it’s a thing with me.

  I finally convince her to leave with a promise that I’ll text her when I get back to Mike’s. And speaking of, I check my phone for the first time in hours. Three texts from Mike. Argh. Missed my check-in. I quickly text him back my whereabouts and my ETA. The last thing I need is another Mike Ramirez lecture about responsibility and follow-through.

  In any case, I’m not going to solve the riddle of the mysterious check tonight, so I sit in my chair and breathe out a heavy sigh. I prop my boots up on the desk again. The stretch in my tired muscles feels good.

  It’s nice to have the office to myself once in a while. I like to hear the sound of cars passing by, of steaming milk and pretentious debate going on below. I leave the overhead light off, because I like the feel of the night around me, a soft blanket of shelter and possibility. Yeah, I might be a little abandoned, and I’ve lost more than I care to admit, but I’m surviving. One day at a time.

  I lean back again in my chair just as a woman, midthirties with reddish-brown hair, pokes her head into my office.

  “Are you Ms. Dupree?” she asks.

  “Yes, come in. And you are—?”

  The woman enters, worry tightening the fine lines on her face.

  “Eliza Bancroft.” She shakes her umbrella with one hand while extending the other toward me. “I think I need your help.”

  I stand and shake her hand, giving her a reassuring smile. Yep, today is a good day.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The making of a book is as much a hero’s journey as the story contained inside its pages. I would not have made it through the bumps and bends in the road without many wise friends lighting the way.

  First, I want to thank my parents, Elizabeth Smith, Paul Smith, and Daryl Gibson, for giving me every advantage, including a lifelong love of reading, the example of their own fortitude in accomplishing the impossible, and an unending curiosity for things unseen. My brothers, James, Christopher, and Will, encouraged my developing imagination by putting up with my crazy ideas, like paddling across a pool in a massive stockpot to escape a herd of crocodiles. I thank Christopher in particular for spending summers watching Star Wars on repeat with me, and my mom for her unwavering
excitement at every milestone.

  Also, I can’t thank my English and creative writing teachers enough for patiently explaining the Rules to me until I became savvy enough to properly break them. Specifically, thanks go to Mr. Giuliani, Mrs. McCormick, Mrs. Kinsley, Drs. Bennett and Garrett, and my beloved librarian, Mrs. Cooper.

  Julep owes an eternal debt of gratitude to my cadre of beta readers. First, I absolutely must thank my wife and first reader, Miranda, who tells it like it is, good, bad, or ugly. Thanks also go to our daughter, Caelan, for putting up with the excruciating long hours a writer keeps. This book would not have been possible without their support and love and understanding.

  My other beta readers have all contributed something to this story, and believe me when I say that I can look at every sentence and tell you which one of these lovely people helped me tweak it to perfection. Thank you to Laura Ferrel, my BFF and writing soul mate; my buddies in the Hawthorne Writers group—William Hertling, Debbie Steere, Jill Ahlstrand, and Jonathan Stone—who tactfully told me to ditch the Pomeranians; my buddies in the Pony Club—Kristen Ketchel-Bain, Ehren and Merri Vaughn, and Ethan Jones—who helped me plot Julep’s adventures; Rachel Potts, YA expert and cover designer, who told me everything she loved and everything she didn’t with love and thoughtfulness; and last but not least, Marie Langager, who came on at the end to help me massage the final edits. Special thanks go to Mary Kate Fellows Russell and her senior English class for giving me the invaluable teen perspective on the first three chapters.

  And finally, this book is the best it could possibly be thanks to Laura Bradford, my agent and champion, who took a chance on an unpublished rookie, and my editor, Wendy Loggia, who took a piece-of-coal story and turned it into a diamond. I’d also like to thank the whole team at both the Bradford Literary Agency and Delacorte Press. So much goes on in the background that I don’t even know about. Thank you all for your tireless efforts.

  * D P G R O U P . O R G *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MARY ELIZABETH SUMMER contributes to the delinquency of minors by writing books about unruly teenagers with criminal leanings. She has a BA in creative writing from Wells College, and her philosophy on life is “You can never go wrong with sriracha sauce.” She lives in Portland, Oregon, with her wife, their daughter, and their evil overlor—er, cat. Trust Me, I’m Lying is her debut novel. Follow Mary Elizabeth’s latest exploits on mesummer.com, maryelizabethsummer.tumblr.com, and pinterest.com/mesummer, and on Twitter at @mesummerbooks.