“Tell me,” I whisper.
He sighs.
“It starts with my mother,” he says. “She does a lot of charity work. You’ve been in New Orleans long enough—you’ve probably seen her photo in the paper from one of her galas or receptions. Back then, she was the chairwoman of the board for a literacy organization called Every Page, Everyone. Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head. I’m sure I came across the name at some point during my research, but if I did, it was just a minuscule detail that I had ignored, deeming it unimportant.
“It’s all right, I’d be surprised if you had. It’s not around anymore,” he says, casting his eyes downward. “Anyway, my mom had organized a gala for them. It was a big success—ten thousand dollars per plate, celebrities making appearances, the whole nine yards. All the proceeds were supposed to go straight to the charity.”
He draws in a breath.
“But then it went missing.”
I can feel my eyebrows rise. I didn’t think the Hawthornes could get any more despicable, but apparently I was wrong. Stealing from a charity? How cold-hearted does a person have to be, in order to do something like that?
“It wasn’t all supposed to disappear. Just a little bit, just enough to lump in with the actual expenses from the event. But there was an error, somewhere down the chain. Someone misunderstood my parents’ instructions, and then just like that—poof—the whole pot of money was gone. And there was no way to put it back without calling attention to ourselves.”
“What does Finn have to do with this?” I ask.
Liam grimaces. “We knew the authorities would come asking questions. It was inevitable. So my father needed to bring someone in who they’d look at instead.”
“A patsy,” I breathe out, realizing.
Liam nods. “Scapegoat. Fall guy. Whatever you want to call it. The point was—we had a problem, and he was going to take care of it for us. Even though he didn’t have a clue.”
“But that wasn’t the first time, was it? Your family’s let other people take the fall for them before, haven’t they?” I say quietly. My parents’ names are on my lips.
He nods.
“So how did your dad do it? How did he make Finn the patsy?”
“It wasn’t him,” Liam says quietly. “It was me.”
Somewhere down the block, I can hear the laughter of teenagers, and the whack of a rubber kickball as it bounces against the pavement. But the sounds feel like they’re miles away; here, in front of this desolate little house, somehow it feels like we’re deserted from the rest of the world.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“My father asked me to handle it, so I did,” Liam replies. There’s an edge to his voice. “I convinced Finn to register with the charity as a volunteer. It didn’t take much—he obviously wanted to impress me, so all I had to do was ask. I pulled some strings and put him in the accounting office, and then had his paperwork doctored so his start date began before the gala. It was easy. Easier than I thought it’d be.”
I stare at him, trying to reconcile his words with the man standing in front of me. There’s a weariness, a heavy guilt, in Liam’s tone. It’s not the voice of a man who could do such heartless things.
“You didn’t feel bad about framing him?” I ask.
“I felt nothing,” Liam admits. His eyes shift away. “It just felt like another day in the office to me. All I had to do was make a few phone calls, and that was it. And if there were some consequences, what was it to me? It’s not as if we were buddies.”
“But you ruined his life,” I say heatedly without thinking. I regret it instantly, bracing myself for Liam’s furious reaction—but to my surprise, he nods in agreement.
“He was sentenced to twelve years. He got out in eight for good behavior. And now he lives here.” Liam gestures morosely to the house across from us. “Trying to pick up the scraps of his life. No thanks to me. I think about him a lot, you know.”
“You do?”
“Every day,” Liam confesses. “Sometimes I’ll drive past his house on my way home from work. It’s out of the way, obviously, but I keep doing it. Over and over. It’s a habit.”
“Why would you do that? To intimidate him?” I narrow my eyes.
“To remind myself,” Liam says, “of who I really am.”
I look up into his eyes, taken aback by the self-loathing in his voice.
At that moment, the curtains in the window shake violently. It’s unmistakable now—Finn is inside, and he knows that we’re out here. Watching him.
“I didn’t think he’d be home in the middle of the day,” Liam murmurs, his eyes widening. “We should go, before he sees us.”
“I think he already has,” I say, keeping my gaze on the rippling curtains.
Liam’s hand wraps around my wrist. “Let’s go for a walk. I need to explain myself to you.”
I gaze up at him curiously. I knew I was going to see something terrible here. The tale of Finn and his ramshackle house is sad, though not surprising. It’s a storyline that’s become familiar. And as despicable as the charity robbery might be, it’s still more or less in line with what I’d expect from the Hawthornes.
But the guilt in his voice—this I didn’t anticipate.
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Let’s go.”
15
The Spanish moss hangs low from the ancient, twisted live oak trees. To our left, a swan preens itself at the edge of an old bayou. We are crossing through City Park, and on any other day, I’d be appreciating the beauty of the scenery—but right now, all of my focus is on the criminal beside me.
I can feel Liam’s eyes on me, waiting for me to say something.
“When did you start to feel guilty about what you did to Finn?” I finally ask.
He’s thoughtful for a moment. “It wasn’t just one moment. It was a thousand little ones. I’d see the name of an old fraternity brother in the paper for getting a promotion, or completing a big business deal, and my mind would flash back to Finn. And I’d think ‘huh, he won’t get to do that.’”
We walk onto an old stone bridge draped across the bayou. The breeze sends heavy ripples across the surface of the water. The wind is starting to pick up.
Liam continues, “I didn’t even realize what I was feeling at first. I couldn’t put a name on it. But it started to happen more and more, and each time it would make me feel a little worse. Like paper cuts. One little paper cut isn’t a big deal, but too many and it becomes unbearable.”
“And that’s what you have now? Lots of little paper cuts?” I ask.
He grimaces. “You could say that.”
“Would it help, do you think, to knock on his door and try to make amends?” I suggest.
Liam scoffs. “And expect that a ‘sorry’ is enough to make up for the eight years I stole from his life?” He shakes his head at the thought. “And even if it somehow could, I’d be a liar if I went to his door. I’m no better now than I was.”
My eyes widen. “Why can’t you stop, if you dislike it so much?”
“It’s not an option,” he says heavily.
“Come on, what’s the worst that’ll happen? Your parents will get mad?” I scoff.
But he just shakes his head sadly and keeps walking.
We descend from the bridge and continue down the path together in silence. The skies are turning dark and cloudy; a storm is coming in. The birds shriek out above us, dashing from treetop to treetop.
“So how did your family spend it?” I ask after a few minutes.
He blinks, caught off-guard. “What are you talking about?”
“The money that was supposed to go to the literacy charity,” I say. “How did you spend it?”
“We didn’t,” he replies.
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“My father’s the founder of a national financial conglomerate. Do you really think a few extra hundred thousand is going to chang
e his life?” he says. “The money was never for us. We were simply helping to move it.”
My breath is quick in my throat. “Then who was it for?”
He takes a step towards me, moving his body close to mine. I can smell the cologne on his skin. “Sophia, I’m surprised you haven’t learned this lesson yet.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s that everyone has someone they’re working for,” he says. “There’s no such thing as a ‘free man.’ And anyone who claims otherwise is a fool.”
Suddenly, a thousand questions spring to the tip of my tongue. But before I can utter a vowel, Liam brings his hand to my cheek. His touch is gentle, barely grazing my skin, as if somehow he’s afraid that I might shatter like a china doll if he grips too hard. There’s a sadness in his eyes. It’s deeper than I’ve ever seen before.
The muscle in his jaw jumps with what he says next. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to see me after this. After seeing who I really am.”
I can feel my heart leap in my chest. The words come before my mind has time to think.
“But I do.”
My back stiffens with resolve. I’m now realizing that the mystery of my parents’ incarceration is just beginning to unfold. And I have a duty to my parents—and to myself—to follow the truth, wherever it may lead.
And yet—there’s also something else. It’s persistent, tugging at my thoughts. It’s the notion that, despite everything he’s shown me, I’m still not convinced that he’s the criminal he claims to be. And if it’s true, I need to know. I need to justify my intractable attraction to him. It transcends all reason. It’s magnetic.
“I’ve told you before that this is a dangerous road to go down,” Liam says. “That you don’t want to get mixed up with a person like me, not emotionally.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do,” he counters. “It’s safer for you, if I’m just a stranger. If we keep our relationship strictly physical. But anything more than that, if you start to know the things that I know…and if people find out…”
Liam’s voice trails off for a moment.
He looks back at me. “My world is filled with dangerous people, Sophia. I need you to think hard about what you’re getting into.”
“Don’t you want me in your world?” I ask softly, leaning my cheek against his touch.
His thumb grazes my cheekbone. “Very much.”
“Then why do you seem to be trying so hard to keep me out?” I say.
“Because I don’t think you’ve weighed the risks of what you’re in for,” he says. “Listen, just think about what I said. Sleep on it, all right? But first—“
He leans in. His lips find mine.
The kiss is warm and soft and slow and utterly wonderful, like being kissed for the first time all over again. I can feel my knees sway beneath me, and my body turns featherlight. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the birds chirping, and for a moment it feels like I’m flying with them.
I’m too wired to go back to my hotel, so I end up driving loops around the French Quarter after coming back from Liam’s house. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, my mind spinning back to Liam’s ominous, so-called dangerous world.
How dangerous could it be, really? I think to myself. But then, almost instantly, the possibilities leap out to mind. Mobsters. Cartel heads. Or maybe something worse.
I find myself wishing that I could talk to Miranda about all of this. I could use some of her professional insight right about now.
But if I call her, I can expect one of two things. Option A: if she’s still angry with me, she’ll berate me, call me some names, and then hang up the phone on me. On the other hand, there is Option B: if she’s ready to reconcile, she’ll tell me, in detail, why I was the one in the wrong, and then she’ll demand that I apologize.
I wince. I’d really rather not do either one, honestly. But if I ever want to talk to her again, it’s going to happen eventually. Better to call her now and just get it over with, like ripping off a bandage.
I pick up the phone and dial her number. She doesn’t pick up at first, but I am undeterred. I try again.
This time, finally, she picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hey doll, sorry about that. Didn’t realize I had my phone on silent.”
I had expected a sullen tone, or name-calling, or something. But she sounds effortlessly cheery, as if our blow-up the other day had simply never happened. I’m taken aback by this, momentarily speechless.
“Sooo…what’s up?” she says.
“I…uh…” I say, trying to collect myself. “We’re okay, right? We’re cool?”
“Like the other side of the pillow,” she says. “Sorry, I know I totally lost my temper. You know I’m not very good about that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tease gently, testing the waters. To my relief, she laughs.
“All right, all right,” she says. “So what’s going on?”
I hesitate. That’s it? Really?
This seems almost too easy.
But there’s nothing else to say, so all I can do is chalk it up to a good mood and move on.
I tell her, “I saw Liam.”
“Yeah? So, what, you’re calling because your lipstick is smudged from a rollicking make out session and now you need some beauty tips?”
I roll my eyes. It’s funny, how instantly Miranda and I can spring back to our normal goading banter. It’s second nature.
“He opened up, Miranda,” I say, my voice rising with excitement. “He finally opened up.” I tell her all about Finn, and the charity-robbery-gone-wrong, and—more intriguingly—the Hawthornes’ mysterious boss.
When I am done, Miranda is quiet for a moment, and then says, “Hmmm.”
“‘Hmmm’? That’s it?” I say disappointedly.
“Sorry to waste all your hard work, doll, but this is all a moot point by now. While you were going on field trips with Mr. Bondage, I was busy putting together a new plan,” she says, “so we can finally complete this scheme and get the hell out of here.”
This piques my interest. “Yeah? What’s the plan?”
“I can’t tell you. Not yet. I need to smooth out a few details first.”
This wouldn’t be the first time that Miranda’s kept me in the dark, but there’s something odd about her tone. And although she may be a skilled actress, she can’t fool me. I know her far too well.
“What’s going on?” I ask suspiciously.
“You’ll see soon enough. But trust me, this is going to fix everything,” she says quickly. “The Hawthornes are going down.”
“If you say so,” I say, still feeling vaguely uncertain. “Are you still in New Orleans?”
“The hotel’s booked through the end of the week, so yeah, I am.”
“I see,” I say. “Are you busy? Can you step out long enough to have a drink? I’m feeling a little restless.”
“April, I really wish I could, but I’ve got to go heads down on this right now. Tell you what, you go ahead and have two drinks: one for you, and one for me. Say something hilarious and pretend that I said it.”
And then, abruptly, she hangs up the phone.
A black feeling of foreboding sweeps over me. Whatever it is that she’s planning, I have a suspicion that it won’t be anything good.
16
I find out the next morning.
It begins like any other: I wake up around eight, kick off the perpetually tangled sheets, and shuffle over to the coffee maker. I make a small pot of coffee, then slug it down while I inspect my notes for the thousandth time. This time, though, I’ve added a few new ones:
FINN.
EVERY PAGE, EVERYONE.
THE HAWTHORNES’ BOSS??
I stare at them for a while, as if somehow the answers will reveal themselves to me. But of course they don’t, and when I finish my coffee, I finally break my gaze.
Coffee is followed by a quick shower an
d a change of clothes. I pick out a form-fitting navy dress, matched with a white cardigan with navy trim. I scrutinize myself in the mirror, running my hands over my curves, wondering if Liam will like it. Liam’s not expecting to see me, but after our yesterday’s excursion, I don’t think he’ll mind if I drop by his office.
Because I’ve thought about what he’s told me, just like he asked. And I’m absolutely certain—I want to keep seeing him.
No, it’s more than that. I need to. Dangerous or not, there’s nowhere I can go but further into his world. My quest for vengeance pushes me forward; my magnetic attraction pulls me in.
There is a cleaning lady in the hotel corridor when I leave my room, stuffing towels into the bottom of a trolley. She watches me intently as I lock the door; I can feel her eyes on my back all the way down the corridor. It makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable, though I try not to give it too much thought.
But then as I walk into the hotel’s main lobby, I can sense the two women at the front desk watching me too. Their eyes flick away just as I look up. Their conversation turns quick and hushed. I can feel the hair on the back of my neck prickling.
Don’t be paranoid, I tell myself, trying to ease my discomfort.
I turn away from them, intending to hunt down a quick bite for breakfast. That little flutter in my stomach is a symptom of hunger, not nervousness. Or at least, that’s what I try to tell myself.
But when I pass the large entryway table, which is lined with complimentary morning newspapers, something catches my eye and I grind to a halt. There’s a photo on the front cover, a frowning face stamped in black and white.
With a gasp, I recognize the dark eyes, the slightly freckled nose.
It’s me.
DAUGHTER OF NEW ORLEANS CON ARTISTS RETURNS TO CITY UNDER FALSE IDENTITY, the headline screams. Underneath, it reads: APRIL MORRISON, 25, IS THE DAUGHTER OF RON AND DARLA MORRISON, CONVICTED 11 YEARS AGO FOR FRAUD…
I grab the paper and read frantically. The article is a wild work of fiction, with only hints of truth laced throughout. It claims that I had inherited my parents’ devious ways, learning at their feet even as a young child. That I had taken on the pseudonym of “Sophia” as soon as I turned eighteen, leaving the name “April” behind for good. My life following that moment had been a lie.
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