Legacy of Lies

by Tara Leigh

  I bit down on the inside of my cheek. Eva was one of the very few people who knew more than what had been reported in the news.

  Not everything though.

  Some memories, some moments, were just too painful to admit to anyone.

  The hurt still so raw all these years later. A wound that had never healed.

  Losing the two most important men in my life in one morning.

  One six feet under. The other . . . I had no idea where Tripp Montgomery lived now, although I heard he left New York shortly after I did.

  Thank god. I felt his presence often enough anyway. He was the shadow lurking in every corner, the glare in every mirror. The silvery gaze shining from my favorite face. Never there, and yet inescapable.

  In the past decade, not a day had gone by that I didn’t think about Tripp Montgomery. Curse him, mourn him, miss him.

  And I hated him for it.

  Among other reasons.

  And yet, he’d given me the greatest gift of all.

  A daughter.

  A daughter I couldn’t even claim as my own.

  Chasing the uncomfortable emotions with the remainder of my cocktail, I squared my shoulders. “It’s about time I make some new memories. Good ones.”

  3

  Tripp

  Less than forty-five minutes after disembarking the plane, I was standing in the high-ceilinged foyer of my new triplex apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

  I never even considered moving back to the Upper East Side. The thought of surrounding myself with all the elitist snobs who'd turned their backs on me made my skin crawl. Not that I could blame them. In some cases, my father had conned them out of money that had probably been in their family for generations—money they had no idea how to earn themselves.

  In a way, his crime had been the launchpad for my career. That, and the fact that one of my closest friends had been one of my father’s victims. Together, we’d designed risk assessment software for corporate clients, then decided to launch an app for personal use.

  Recently, Lance and I became sellouts—divesting the consumer finance portion of RiskTaker to the highest bidder. And it was a hell of a high bid. A billion-dollar bid. My accountant told me I needed to buy a significant real estate property to offset the enormous tax bill I was about to be hit with. I bought this apartment, sight unseen, a few days later.

  I fished my cell phone out of my pocket. “Remind me again why I’m in New York and you’re—where the fuck are you?”

  There was some static on the line. “New York? I thought you were going to wait for me to get home?”

  “Yeah. That was when you were supposed to be back last week.”

  Lance sighed, and I imagined him on the side of a mountain, holding the satellite phone to his ear while frowning at the snow-covered landscape. “Mother Nature is no joke. And right now, she must be on the rag. We’ve tried to ascend three times . . .”

  After the sale, Lance and I both decided to make changes to our lives. I chose to move back to Manhattan. Lance chose to climb the seven summits—the seven highest mountains of the world’s seven continents.

  I didn’t know which one of us was the greater fool.

  “How does it feel being back?”

  I refocused on our call. “Honestly? Wrong.”

  There was a pause, then a brief crackle. “That’s just the fear talking. You’ll get over it.”

  I bristled. “Fuck off. I’m not afraid of being back in New York.”

  “Sure you are. There’s no shame in it. I’m terrified of this mountain. Doesn’t mean I won’t climb it. Manhattan is your Everest. Scary as fuck.”

  Maybe Lance was right. We spoke for a few more minutes, and I hung up feeling . . . not necessarily better, but bolstered by a fresh wave of determination.

  For now, I was exactly where I needed to be. And Hell’s Kitchen suited me. Besides the name, which was an apt description for my opinion of Manhattan, I liked the grittiness of this west side neighborhood, although that was fast disappearing with the development of several ultra-luxury high-rises designed by prominent architects, including the one I was standing in right now. Bordered on one side by the Hudson River to the west, and Times Square to the east, I also liked the idea of living above the pulsing heartbeat of New York City. Maybe I'd find mine here. This was the place I’d lost it, after all.

  My eyes swept over my new home. White walls, dark floors, furniture upholstered in fabrics that could have come from a menswear collection—navy pinstripes, gray tweed, rich brown leather. There were no knick-knacks, no clutter. No photographs or personal mementos of any kind.

  It was nothing like the stuffy pre-war, Park Avenue penthouse I'd been raised in. Of course, my childhood home had been seized by the Feds a long time ago, along with the Hamptons house where I’d spent weekends and holidays, and the vacation homes in Gstaad, Paris, and Bermuda.

  I lowered my suitcase to the parquet floor, waiting for . . . what?

  A sense of accomplishment, of success? Or something more?

  Insulated windows kept the noise of the city at bay. In the heavy, expectant silence, my skin prickled as the ghost of a laugh rolled over nerves stretched taut. A joyful, throaty sound I hadn’t heard in nearly ten years. The sound of betrayal.

  My stomach churned as I rolled my hands into fists, curling my fingers into my palms. Thoughts of her always set me on edge. Jolie Chapman, the daughter of my father’s business partner. The girl who captured my heart a decade ago.

  Then crushed it, destroying it. Destroying me. I died two deaths that day—the first when my father was declared a criminal and the second when Jolie ripped my heart out of my chest and stomped on it. Running away from this city. From me. From us.

  I exhaled, relaxing one tendon at a time until my hands were loose at my sides. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

  Jolie left New York even before I did, immediately after the funeral. Understandably, it was a private affair.

  And even if it wasn’t, no Montgomery would have been welcome.

  She was a model now, jet-setting all over Europe. Not a surprise really, since to this day she was still the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

  If I never saw her face again, it would be too soon.

  Tucking my key into my back pocket, I wandered into the kitchen and opened the double-wide Sub-Zero fridge. Empty, except for a bottle of Dom. A gift from a realtor I’d never met.

  Glancing at the clock on the microwave, I saw that it was just past noon. With a shrug, I grabbed the champagne, popped the cork over the sink, and swallowed a mouthful straight from the bottle. Taking it with me, I proceeded to tour the main floor.

  Living room. Dining room. Den. A few bedrooms, the biggest of which I guessed would be mine. Fully equipped home gym. Office.

  Definitely my favorite room.

  Why wouldn’t it be? It had everything I needed to make money and hunt down the next generation of financial frauds.

  Opening the sliding door across from my desk, I stepped out onto the terrace—one of three on this level—and took another hefty swallow of the tart champagne. Thirty stories up, the chaos of the city was somewhat muted. Cabs and buses looked like matchbox cars, pedestrians like ants, the urban activity never ceasing.

  The jury was still out on whether coming back had been a smart move, but at least I'd have a kick-ass view while figuring it out. Gripping the railing around the ledge of the terrace, I surveyed the dozens of billboards so ubiquitous to the city. Broadway shows I would probably never see, soda and fast food I would probably never eat, high-end electronics I probably already owned, and models advertising things I—

  What. The. Fuck.

  No. It couldn't be. It was just because I was here, in New York, the last place I'd seen her.

  My pulse pounded inside my veins, blood rushing around in search of oxygen that had suddenly evaporated inside my lungs. For a second, the buildings that rose up high and straight began to tilt and I squeezed my eyes shu
t, guzzling a quarter of the champagne like it was cheap beer at a fraternity party. Swallowing it down, I cautiously opened one eye, then the other.

  Jolie Chapman was still there, staring straight at me.

  Despite the two-hundred-dollar bottle in my hands, half of which I'd already swallowed, my mouth could have doubled as the Sahara. No wonder there was no army barring me from the city, no gates impeding my arrival.

  The woman I'd planned to avoid for a lifetime was plastered on a billboard right across from me. No doubt I'd see her from my goddamn bedroom, too. It was as if fate, that vindictive bitch, had brought me here herself—just to smack me around.

  My kick-ass view had sure as shit kicked my ass.

  A bitter laugh gurgled up from deep in the churning pit of my gut.

  Welcome the fuck back home, Remington Owen Montgomery III.

  I tipped the bottle up again, finishing every drop as I added a new line item to the very top of my list. Blinds. Heavy-duty, impenetrable blinds.

  Not even my balls were big enough to handle seeing Jolie every time I looked out the damn window. Fucking beautiful disaster.

  4

  Jolie

  Facetime’s blaring ring startled me awake. I wrestled with my covers, managing to find my phone just in time. Romy’s grinning face filled the screen. “Jolie!”

  I fell back on my pillow and shoved the hair out of my face. “Hey, there,” I said, wishing I could wake up to her in person. “Whatcha got for me today?” Romy’s private school required a uniform four days a week, but on Friday, students could choose their own clothes. So, every Friday, no matter where I was or what time zone I was in, Romy and I had a standing date to pick out her clothes.

  The camera immediately panned away from her face so I could see her reflection in the floor-length mirror in her room. For a sporty kid, Romy was passionate about fashion and had an almost bohemian vibe that I loved. Then again, I loved everything about her.

  “I thought the top you sent me last month would look good with the skirt we picked out together. Do you like it?” She gave a twirl.

  “Ooooh,” I made a sound of appreciation. “I do. Those colors work really well together.” I squinted at the screen. “And that belt is perfect.”

  I suddenly had a close up view of the woven leather strands. “I made it myself, in my creative arts class.”

  “Romy, that’s fantastic.” Pride swelled within my chest, forming a lump at the back of my throat. “I can’t wait for you to show me in person.”

  “When is that going to be?” The image of her belt was replaced with the one I liked best of all—her beautiful face.

  “Soon, I pro—”

  Romy looked away. “Be right down!” she yelled, then turned back to me. “I have to go, Jolie. I love you.”

  “Love you, too. Give your mom a kiss for me, okay?” As always, I choked a bit over the three-letter word that had belonged to me for the first three months of Romy’s life. A word that now belonged to my stepmother, Nina.

  And then I threw the covers back over my head. If I wrapped myself tightly enough, for long enough, maybe my cocoon would become a chrysalis. Maybe I would emerge changed. A tired, broken caterpillar into a bold, beautiful butterfly.

  But when I got out of bed half an hour later, nothing had changed. Nothing.

  I was still Romy’s sister. Nina was still Romy’s mother. And Tripp, he was still just a bitter memory.

  Unpacking didn’t take me very long. Not surprising, since everything I owned fit into three suitcases. In desperate need of a dose of caffeine before shopping for furniture and other necessities, including a coffeemaker, I headed to Starbucks. While I waited on line, I sent Nina a message asking if I could visit this weekend. I noticed the text Eva had sent afterward. Not really a text so much as the contact information she’d forwarded to me last night.

  Lance Welles, from RiskTaker.

  Carrying my Grande Americano to the only empty table, I pulled up my internet browser and entered the company name into the search bar. A few thousand hits later, it was clear that RiskTaker was the go-to source for internal corporate espionage. There was even an app geared toward personal financial planning. For $9.99 I could download RiskTaker on my phone to track my income against my spending, and measure my progress toward achieving my goals. A messaging portion of the site allowed fellow ‘RiskTakers’ to cheer each other on in their journey toward fiscal freedom.

  I pulled up my email and tapped out a quick message to the email address Eva had given me, then another to Eva before following up with a few of the people I’d met last night.

  To my surprise, a response from RiskTaker appeared in my inbox within minutes. No message, just a phone number. Ignoring the nerves tangling in my stomach, I dialed.

  After several rings, it was answered with a gruff, “Risk Taker.”

  “Yes, hello. I emailed a little while ago and—”

  “And I answered it.”

  “Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.” I paused for a moment, unsure how to proceed. “So, I don’t know that your software would help me, but I need some due diligence performed on a potential business partner.”

  “Potential? Or are you involved already?”

  I choked a little on my coffee. “Of course not. I would never get into business with someone I wasn’t completely sure of.”

  “You’d be one of the few then.”

  “Yeah, well. I learned that lesson a long time ago.” I pressed my lips together as my mind took a detour into the past. The moment my life had been split into two very distinct parts. Before and After.

  “Tell me about it. Might be relevant.”

  “No. It won’t be.” I hesitated. “It’s in the past and has nothing to do with me. Not anymore. It did. A long time ago.” I was babbling, but I couldn’t stop. “It was a pretty painful experience. It cost me, a lot.”

  “You mean money?”

  “No. I mean, yes, technically, but I don’t care about that.”

  There was a snort on the other end of the line. “Everyone cares about money. In my experience, people care only about money.”

  I went rigid. “Then they’ve never lost anything important. Not like I did.”

  He cleared his throat. “If we’re going to be working together, why don’t you tell me the whole story?”

  For a second, he sounded too much like a reporter grasping at tabloid-worthy straws for my comfort. “If we’re going to be working together, why don’t you tell me yours?” I shot back.

  That earned a soft chuckle. “Not really the way I do business.”

  Something about his voice sounded familiar, but I shook it off, especially since the coffee shop was crowded and the background noise made it difficult to hear him. “Lance, right?”

  There was a pause. “We have a ‘contact us’ feature on our website, but you emailed me directly. Did someone give you my name?”

  “Yes. My friend, Eva Daniels. Is that a problem?”

  “No,” he answered defensively. “Not a problem at all.”

  “The past is over, and there’s nothing to do about it now. I’d prefer to just move forward.” I took another sip of my now lukewarm coffee and waited for a response. Nothing. I pulled the phone away from my ear, wondering if we’d been disconnected. “Hello? Lance?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  “If this is a bad time, you can call me back.”

  “Nope. Now is good.”

  I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, wondering if I was the only one who found this conversation awkward. “So, getting back to my potential business partner. Could I hire you to do some digging, make sure there’s nothing I need to worry about?”

  “There’s always something you should worry about.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This isn’t Monopoly. You are playing with real money, correct?”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have made this call. “Yes,” I answered tightly.

  “I inv
estigate fraud, or financial crimes like embezzlement. Your potential business partner’s investing track record is relevant data. Poor judgment or bad timing, however, are subjective. I don’t have a crystal ball—I can’t predict the future. Do you understand?”

  “I’m a model, not a moron,” I snapped.

  “Email me whatever information you have on the guy. I’ll take a look and let you know if you need my services.”

  “So, I don’t need to download the RiskTaker software?”

  “It sounds as if you’d prefer to avoid risk of any kind.”

  An ironic observation, given that it felt as if I was risking just about everything these days. “You’re still asking me to hand over information without proof that I can trust you.”

  “Do you want references?”

  “For a start.”

  “Too bad. My job is to blow up the icebergs that lurk below the surface before anyone else knows they’re there. I won’t incriminate my clients by exposing their identities.”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek. He made sense, but I still didn’t like giving sensitive information to someone I didn’t know. “Can I think about it first?”

  “Sure. If you need me, you know how to reach me.” There was silence on the other end of the line, but the call still held.

  “Lance?” If I couldn’t ask about his clients, I could at least ask about his qualifications.

  “Jolie.”

  Again, I had the sense that I should know him. “How does someone get into your line of work—was there a booth for cyber-sleuthing at your college career fair?”

  “I wouldn’t know. This is more of a personal interest of mine.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah. I lost something, too. Everything, actually. But I’d always liked numbers and problem solving, and figured that I could put it to good use, maybe even prevent something like what happened to me from happening to anyone else.”

  Chills raced up my spine, leaving a phantom tingling sensation at the back of my neck. “Like if Robin Hood had been an accountant instead of an outlaw?”