All Over You (All Falls Down #3)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  "Of course you didn't," he says immediately, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture.

  "There's more," I warn him, refusing to give in to the soft rush of relief threatening to overwhelm me at his immediate acceptance of my innocence.

  "Go on." He sits back and crosses his arms over his broad chest. With his sleeves rolled up his dark forearms, he looks so casual, but concern burns in his hazel eyes.

  "The last messages were sent the day he disappeared. They were bad. Really bad." My face falls at the reminder. I still can't believe anyone could be so cruel to someone else. "Whoever sent the texts took a bunch of money from him, got him kicked out of school, and then told him to kill himself."

  "Shit," Bryan says. "Do they have any suspects?"

  "Yeah, me," I mumble.

  His eyes widen.

  "Detective Lewis t-told me that I need to hire a lawyer. If they don't find this kid alive, they're going to charge me with manslaughter."

  "What?" Bryan leaps to his feet, his voice booming throughout his office. "They can't do that."

  "They think I convinced him to kill himself. The detective said the phone was registered under my name. Whoever did this used my pictures, too."

  "Jesus Christ, Ivy," he whispers, clearly stunned. He paces behind his desk, his long legs carrying him quickly from one side of the small space to the other and then back again. After two circuits, he circles around and sinks into the chair beside me, reaching out to grasp my hands in his. "What can I do?"

  Tears prickle at my eyes and my bottom lip trembles at his concern.

  "I have to find out who did this and why," I tell him. "I don't want to go to jail, Bryan. I can't pee with people watching me for the rest of my life. I can't even pee with them in another stall!"

  He chuckles, amusement dancing through his eyes.

  The situation isn't funny, but I can't help but chuckle a little, too. It's the only thing keeping me from falling apart. All night, I tried to prepare myself for the possibility of going to prison for a crime I didn't commit, but I couldn't imagine it. Where do you even begin preparing for something so awful?

  Bryan watches me for long moments, not speaking, and then he sighs and pulls me into a tight hug. "I'm so damn sorry, Ivy. We will figure this out."

  I bite back a sob, more grateful to him than I can say. He's always been so good to me, giving me a chance when no one else wanted to do so. He's been my friend and mentor since I started teaching here. Erin likes to tease that he wants to date me, but I don't think it's like that for him. It isn't for me. He's just a really good guy.

  I pull back after a moment, assuring him that I'm okay.

  He grabs a box of tissues from his desk and holds it out to me.

  "Thank you," I mumble, grabbing a tissue to wipe my eyes. Mascara comes off on the tissue, and I know I must look like a hot mess.

  Bryan rubs my back while I try to pull myself together.

  "I have to take a leave of absence," I whisper once I've composed myself. As much as it kills me to think about leaving behind my kids until this is all sorted out, I know it has to happen. I respect Bryan too much to make him be the bad guy here. I won't force him to tell me that he has to put me on administrative leave while I'm under investigation.

  "Shit, Ivy." His face falls, guilt flickering in his expression, as if he's already drawn the same conclusion and feels bad for it. "I'm so damned sorry."

  "It's okay," I promise with a watery smile before rising to my feet and smoothing my skirt again. "I left a stack of worksheets on my desk for the sub for today. I'll send over a lesson plan for the next couple of weeks as soon as I can." Turning to the door, I hesitate. "Please make sure the kids know that I love them and that I'm sorry I can't be here." I don't want to be another adult who flakes on them, leaving them disappointed and heartbroken. They get enough of that from overworked or addicted parents.

  If I could, I'd stay and talk to them myself, but that feels a little too much like goodbye, and I can't ask Bryan to give me that opportunity when doing so could get him in trouble. Instead, I cling to what little dignity I have left, thank him for everything, and duck out of his office, reminding myself that I'll be back before the end of the year.

  "Is everything okay?" Eloise asks.

  I'm not sure what she sees on my face, but her gentle question makes me want to cry all over again.

  "Yeah, fine," I lie with a tremulous smile. "Just not feeling very well."

  "Are you headed home for the day?"

  "Yeah. Can you find a sub on such short notice?" I ask.

  "Of course." She gives me a sympathetic smile and reaches for the phone. "I'll take care of it. Feel better, honey."

  "Thanks." I let myself out of the office and stride toward my classroom. The artwork and stories posted on bulletin boards up and down the hallway tug at my heartstrings. I haven't even been charged with a crime, and already, my life feels a little like it's slipping away from me.

  "Can I get you anything else?" the young waitress asks, popping up beside my table at the café on the corner where I've been ensconced for the past two hours, researching identity theft and everything related to my name.

  I glance up from my laptop screen and blink. My eyes are bleary and burning with fatigue, but I'm not ready to quit yet. I've found five different Facebook and Instagram accounts using my photos and some variation of my name. I desperately want to message every single one of them and ask what gives them the right to hide behind my identity without my permission, but I've resisted the urge. I don't want to cause more trouble for myself, and I have a feeling letting them know I'm on to them will make finding out the truth that much harder.

  "No, thank you," I murmur when I realize the waitress is still waiting for my answer. Pushing my hair away from my face, I glance down at my empty tea glass. "Actually, can I have a refill?"

  "Yeah, sure," she mutters like she's irritated.

  I almost tell her to forget about it, but don't. It's late afternoon, and, with only a handful of patrons scattered around the two dozen booths and tables, the place is dead. I'm not taking up valuable space or inconveniencing anyone.

  I wait for her to grab my glass and saunter off before shifting my focus back to the screen in front of me.

  This account is locked down, so I'm only able to see the name and a history of profile photos―all of me from various photo shoots ―dating back to when the account was opened seven months ago. Whoever owns the profile has over four thousand friends.

  I don't even know that many people. I start scrolling through the list and don't recognize a single name, though several of them say they're located in the San Francisco area. They just accept that she's me simply because that's what it says on her profile page. They've clearly never met her before or they would know better.

  I stop when I get to Rory Clark's name. His profile photo is the typical college-guy photo: him and his buddies with beers in their hands at some sporting event. He looks happy, carefree, if a little reserved. He's a bit on the nerdy side of cute in the photograph, with wire-framed glasses and a shirt depicting the Periodic Table.

  I let the mouse hover over his name, fighting the urge to click on his profile, curious about his life. I'm only twenty-three, but he looks so young. He's still a kid, barely old enough to leave home. Are his friends and family worried about him? Are they out there searching for him, cursing my name and hating me?

  Will they ever see him again?

  The possibility that they won't makes my stomach roil.

  "What are you doing?"

  I yelp and spin around in my seat as the familiar voice sounds from directly behind me.

  Detective Lewis towers over me, dressed in a dark suit and deep red tie. He has his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. He looks pissed as his eyes flit between the screen and my face. In his mind, he probably thinks he just caught me red-handed.

  I open my mouth to explain why I'm staring at Rory Clark's profile photo, but n
o sound comes out. What's he going to say if I tell him that I'm investigating this on my own? Is it a crime to investigate a crime the police are also investigating? Is that obstruction? Anxiety shoots through me at the possibility I could get in even more trouble for this regardless of what excuse I give him.

  I stare at him dumbly, at a loss for words.

  Every second that passes in silence seems to piss him off even more. His expression darkens as he looks between me and my laptop, those gray eyes snapping like fire. Every muscle in his body is tense and rigid beneath the suit he's rocking like a Gucci model. Yet again, I find myself fighting the urge to shift around in my seat as heat floods my body at the sight of him.

  "I asked you a question," he snaps at me as my gaze roves over him, drinking him in.

  "I'm…" My face flushes as my gaze flies back to his face in time to see his jaw firm even further. He's furious, and I can't lie my way out of this. I'm not even sure I want to lie to him. I just really don't want to go to jail for pissing him off, and I've seen enough of Forensic Files to know police officers don't appreciate people inserting themselves into investigations. "I'm trying to figure out how someone like this kid ends up in an online relationship with someone no one has ever met before," I blurt anyway, praying he doesn't haul me off to jail. "Doesn't anyone think that's odd?"

  One eyebrow flies upward as if he didn't expect that answer.

  "Four thousand people claim to be this woman's friends but have never seen her before."

  "Who?" He looks confused now.

  "Her," I say, pointing at the name in the top right corner of the profile page. "Ivy Wade. Fake Ivy. If any of these people had actually ever met her before, they'd know she isn't me."

  He studies the screen for a moment and then his gaze drifts back to me, skepticism plain on his face. "You're saying that isn’t your photo?"

  "No, that is my picture, but this isn't my account."

  "This isn't your account?"

  "I've never seen it before today."

  He narrows his eyes at me, but he doesn't say anything.

  I'm not sure if he believes me or not. And I'm not sure why that bothers me so much. Because he's a cop and I don't want to go to jail? Because I don't want him to think I'm capable of something so horrid? Because I'm attracted to him? I think all three might be equally true.

  He watches me so intently I have to take a deep breath to keep myself from fidgeting.

  "I know you don't believe me," I whisper when he still hasn't said anything several seconds later, "but I don't know Rory Clark. I've never spoken with him before, let alone had a relationship with him. I'm just trying to find out who is doing this."

  "Let me see your laptop," he says after a moment, holding out a hand.

  "What?"

  "Your laptop," he says again. "Give it to me."

  He doesn't believe me. He's confiscating my computer.

  My heart sinks as I reluctantly slide it off the tabletop and hand it over. Tears burn in my throat, but I swallow them back, blinking rapidly as he turns the laptop around to face him. Another protestation of my innocence is on the tip of my tongue when he speaks again.

  "I'm logging you out," he says, propping a hip against the table and pushing a few buttons.

  I blink, open my mouth, close it, and then open it again. "What?"

  He doesn't take his eyes off the laptop as he reaches out with one hand and grabs the back of the chair behind me, dragging it across the floor with a loud screech. The few people left in the diner stop talking and turn around to see where the noise is coming from. If Detective Lewis notices, he doesn't pay them any attention. Instead, he spins the chair around until it faces my table, and then he sits, placing the laptop on the table in front of him.

  "Here, tell me what you think about this," he says, typing rapidly.

  My gaze moves from him to the laptop screen to see him logging in to Facebook and then back to him.

  "I'm so confused," I mumble.

  "Hmm?" He turns to look at me, one dark brow arched in question.

  "I…" I shake my head, giving up trying to explain my confusion. He looks distracted, all of his attention focused on the problem before him. Exactly like when we talked on the phone and again at the precinct, he's in cop-mode. I don't even know him, and already I know there's no standing in his way when he's on a mission. He's implacable, unwavering. It's kind of incredible to see all of that single-minded intensity in action. I don't think my mind has ever worked that way, instead flitting all over the place at any given moment.

  "This is her profile," he says, nudging the laptop toward me. "Take a look."

  I glance at it and then lean forward, trying to ignore the fact that he's sitting so close I can smell his cologne again. Unlike the almost barren page I saw when I looked up Fake Ivy, he has access to everything she's posted. Photos and status updates fill the screen before me.

  "You're friends with her?" I read the name in the upper right corner and see he's not logged in as Cameron Lewis, but as someone else entirely. "Who is Sebastian Travers?"

  "No one. It's an account my partner and I use when we need information."

  "Oh. Can I?" I ask, my hand hovering over the mouse.

  He nods.

  I start scrolling.

  In the updates, Fake Ivy brags about trips out of town, designer handbags, and everything I've never been able to afford, not even when I was modeling. Like the photos Detective Lewis showed me in the messages yesterday, the ones I couldn't see before he logged in aren't publicly accessible. A lot of them are private photos. Group shots of me and my friends are interspersed with snaps of me on stage and goofy selfies. Every single one of them is full of comments and likes from people I don't know, half of them bordering on inappropriate.

  "What the hell?" I mumble, still scrolling. My blood boils and my skin crawls as I see flirty responses from Fake Ivy, coquettishly encouraging the attention being lavished on her from random creeps and weirdos. I want to bathe in acid when I read some of their replies to her comments.

  I sit back in my seat after several minutes, stunned. Whoever is doing this has an entire fake life, and she's using my identity to live it.

  Detective Lewis watches me, not saying anything.

  "This isn't me," I say again, shaking my head. Tears fill my eyes, though I'm not sure if I want to cry because I'm angry, because I'm scared, or because I'm sitting in a diner, looking at the evidence of Fake Ivy's glamorous life while the foundations of my own not-so-glamourous life threatens to erode beneath me.

  "Do you recognize the photos?" he asks.

  I nod, reaching up to wipe away a tear as it trickles down my cheek. "They're all my photographs," I whisper.

  "Are any of them available publicly?"

  "Just the modeling shots." I swallow hard and point out a couple of those before moving on to one of me, Erin, and Jake hanging out at the bar. Mitch took that photo with my phone three weeks ago. "No one should have access to this photo."

  "No one?"

  "It's on my Facebook page, but only my―"

  "Only your what?"

  "Only my friends should have access to my profile," I whisper. Another tear rolls down my cheek as a sickening possibility begins to emerge.

  "I was afraid you were going to say that," he says, his expression grim.

  "I'm going to throw up." I clamp a hand over my mouth and shove my chair away from the table. I leap up and barely avoid knocking over the cranky waitress as I make a beeline for the bathroom. The door slams against the wall when I push it open and hurtle myself inside, barely making it to the toilet before I throw up everything I've eaten today.

  Once finished, I slump against the stall door, gulping in air. Someone in my life could be responsible for all of this. Someone I trust. They stole my identity and used it to hurt a nineteen-year-old kid. My heart rebels at the thought, but my brain isn't as quick to discount the possibility. How else would Fake Ivy have my private photos?

&nb
sp; I have to fight back tears at the realization that her using photos I just told Detective Lewis no one should have probably makes me look even more guilty than I already do.

  "Miss Kendall?" he says from the other side of the stall door.

  I squeeze my eyes closed at the sound of his voice, humiliation coursing through me. On top of believing I'm a horrible person, he now knows what it sounds like when I throw up.

  Awesome. Just what I needed to make my day better.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, fine," I lie, hating the way the words tremble on my lips, making it obvious that I'm very clearly not fine. Hurriedly wiping my eyes, I drag myself to my feet and then flush the toilet. Drawing a deep breath, I reluctantly emerge from the stall to find him leaning against the wall, watching me.

  His gaze is probing, missing nothing.

  I stare at him for a long moment, not sure what to say. Would anything I tell him even make a difference? There's no way he's ever going to believe me now. Hell, I'm not even sure I would believe me if I didn't know for a fact that I didn't do this. I don't try to tell him that again though. More tears leak from the corners of my eyes, and I don't bother brushing them away this time, either. What's the point?

  I'm probably going to jail.

  "Come on," Detective Lewis says, his expression softening when I try to stifle a sob. "Let's get you home."

  I nod, mutely following him from the restroom.

  chapter five

  on my mind

  Once again, I find myself seated beside Detective Lewis in his SUV, neither of us speaking as he drives me the short distance home. I've managed to fight down the urge to sob, but I don't know what to say to him. I don't know what to think. Who would do this to me? Why would they?

  "I don't understand why this is happening to me," I mumble, not sure if I'm talking to myself or to him, but unable to deal with the oppressive silence anymore. We're less than half a block from my building, and I don't want to get out of his car, not without knowing what he plans to do with me. "What happens next?"