by Geneva Lee
Even though I don’t want to celebrate with other people, I pluck a Hostess cupcake out of my bag. This had been a tradition of mine and Becca’s since we were kids. The other would stash the individually wrapped treat when dad remembered to get groceries, then present it like the holy grail. It was our job to remember each other’s birthdays. Too many times to count, that one tiny snack cake had been our official birthday cake. As we got older, Marion took charge, picking up a small sheet cake from the grocery store and having our names put on it. But we’d kept this tradition alive quietly. It was a signal that we had each other, and that no matter how bad our family might get, we’d never lose that.
Now it’s my job to remember for the both of us. I unwrap it, but I can’t bring myself to eat a bite. Behind me footsteps crunch along the dry, sun-burnt grass, and I turn. The appearance of my dad at my sister’s grave shouldn’t be a shock, but as far as I know, he’s never actually been here before.
“Hey, Pumpkin. I thought I might find you here.” He nods to the cupcake. “Do you want me to sing you Happy Birthday?”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I do my best to blink them back. When I had said our birthdays were often forgotten, I should have clarified that it was mom who remembered when someone bothered. Dad? He was always a few days late. His apologies generally came with something gift wrapped from behind the counter at Pawnography.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asks.
I shrug, afraid to betray any more emotions.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He groans as he settles onto the ground beside me.
“You can have it.” I offer the cupcake to him.
“It’s your birthday, kiddo. I can’t believe you’re 18.”
He remembered my birthday, and he even got the year right. Color me plum surprised. I force myself to turn and look at him. By all accounts, he’s been a lackluster father. His greatest accomplishment has been keeping a roof over our heads, which given the nature of Las Vegas and Belle Mère was actually something to brag about with his gambling addictions.
“You know, you could come home with me,” he offers. “Your mom says you’ve been staying with Josie.”
“You’ve been talking to mom, huh?” I wonder what else she’s told him.
“I know about the divorce,” he says, reading my mind.
“You can have the money,” I say flatly. “Use it to expand the store or something.”
“I don’t want the money. I want you to be happy. Is there anything else you need to tell me?” Our eyes meet. I know what he’s asking me now. It isn’t like my mother to walk away from a cushy situation, especially given that Hans spent most of his time in Los Angeles, giving her free run of her own private Palm Springs resort. He suspects there’s more to the story.
We stare each other down, but he doesn’t push me for the information. I’m more surprised because, although he’s the one seeking answers, I’m the one who finds them.
“We have the same eyes,” I say softly.
“Yep. You got that from me, kiddo.” He looks away then, as if the reality of what we’re saying is too painful to face.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Becca?” I ask him in a low voice as if she might be able to hear us talking about her.
“You two were young.” His voice grows distant as he remembers. “I told myself that I would tell you when you were older, when you could understand.”
“What did mom tell herself?”
“She didn’t want to say anything. She said it wasn’t important.”
“It was important enough to sue Nathaniel West over,” I choke out.
“People do stupid things when they’re hurt, Em. You know that better than anyone.”
“That doesn’t mean I understand it,” I say softly.
“You want the real answer? I guess I never told you because admitting it to you two meant admitting it to myself. When the lawyers finished fighting over the details, they sealed the records. We signed affidavits. At first it was easy to convince myself not to tell because I couldn’t legally, and then it was easier to ignore it. But, you know, I realized something? Maybe a bit too late, but I realized it nonetheless. It never really mattered. Becca was my daughter, your sister. She carried my name, even if she didn’t have my eyes.”
“Sometimes I feel like I didn’t know her at all,” I admit to him.
“You knew her better than anyone.” I want to tell him this isn’t true, that it couldn’t be. I want to spill the secrets she kept.
“There are things that I’m finding out about her now,” I begin.
“You know the funny thing about lies?” Dad interrupts. “Sometimes we don’t mean to lie to other people. Sometimes we’re too busy lying to ourselves. Then, when we realize it, we feel guilty like we’ve pulled one over on them. Truth is, the people close to you, the people you love, they always see through it. They see you better than you see yourself. You saw Becca, just by loving her. I know what it’s like to find something out, and to think it means a person’s been taken away from you, but she wasn’t taken away from you. She’s right here.” He doesn’t point to her gravestone. Instead, he points directly at my chest. “She’s here with both of us right now. Can’t you feel her?”
I pause and wait, and ever so gradually, peace settles over me. “Yeah, I do.”
We sit there for what could be minutes, or what could be hours. It doesn’t really matter. When the spell is broken, he speaks. “You aren’t coming home, are you?”
It’s hard to get words past the lump in my throat. “No, I’m not, but I’m staying at Josie’s.”
“You’re 18 now. It doesn’t matter.” Sadness softens the edges of his words. “Jameson seems like a good kid. He was right to get you out of there that night. He isn’t his father. I know that.”
I can only nod. If only it were that simple.
“Can I drive you to Josie’s? Maybe take you to dinner?”
“That would be ...” I search for my answer, and I’m surprised when I find it. “Nice. That would be nice, Dad.”
The night is starless when he drops me off at Josie’s house a few hours later. The summer is already growing shorter. Autumn will be here in the blink of an eye, along with my senior year, but while everyone else is thinking about prom and college applications, I’m going to spend time worrying over paternity tests and murder investigations.
The house is quiet. I wasn’t the only one to opt out of my self-imposed isolation. I find my cell phone on the kitchen island with a note. “You left this. It’s been blowing up all day. Turn it on and call Mackey back.”
I know what she’s after. I ignored the subpoena delivered last week to Jameson’s door. The one requesting a sample of my DNA. I can’t keep hiding from the firing squad, and whatever magic Jameson’s lawyers have worked to keep the court order from taking effect won’t last forever. With or without her answers, she’s not going to give up.
I turn on my phone and check my text messages. There’s a couple from Josie, ending with a, “Oh, shit. Your phone is here. No wonder you aren’t answering me,” and an offer for a free sandwich, but that’s all.
Still no response from The Dealer, who, judging from his Instagram feed, is taking a texting and posting holiday. Maybe I had played my card too early, or maybe I had started seeing things I wanted to see. Mackey’s dogged pursuit of me might just be proof that sometimes we’re so desperate for clues, we fabricate them for ourselves. I send one more text—to my suspect, anyway. If Mackey can badger me into a response, then it’s worth employing a similar tactic.
The next call I make is purely practical.
Dominic Chambers answers on the first ring.
“Southerly,” he says gruffly. He isn’t expecting my call. No doubt he put more work into trying to find out about my sister, but not enough to justify the stamp on another bill. He’s moved on from my tragic backstory and on to someone else’s current drama.
“I don’t need you to
keep looking into who my sister’s father is,” I inform him.
“Oh.” I can tell from the way he responds that he’d already stopped. “I guess I can put a bill ...”
“No. I have something else for you to do. You can bill as much as you want,” I say, thinking of my unwanted trust fund. If I was going to be paid off, at least I could donate the money to a good cause.
I lay out what I want him to do, and he gives a low whistle. “That’s not going to be easy.”
“I know,” I say, simply.
“Or cheap,” he adds.
“I know.”
This time I speak more forcefully. “I recently came into some money,” I explain to him. “Price isn’t an object.”
“That’s a real claim to make in a town like this, little lady.”
“I’m not worried about it.”
Judging from Dominic Chambers’ velour jogging suits and penchant for accepting bogus baseball cards, he’s the kind of guy who thinks in the hundreds instead of the millions. He’ll be surprised when I suggest we meet in the thousands. “Mr. Chambers, you just won the lottery.”
When I hang up with him, I make the last call. Mackey doesn’t bother to answer her cell phone. No doubt it’s some type of psychological maneuver on her end to make me question myself. Still, there’s no turning back now. I’ll know the truth even if I have to swallow it whole. When her voicemail beeps, I leave a one-line message.
“Where do I go to get my blood drawn?”
Chapter Six
Nothing has changed inside Pawnography since I stopped coming to work. It’s still a haven of other people’s crap: old autographs, unwanted instruments, antique pistols. Jerry blinks as if he’s seen a ghost.
“Emma?” he says uncertainly.
“Hey, Jerry. How’s the store?” The place looks intact, but I know appearances can be deceiving. We both know what I’m really asking: how’s my dad? I’d purposefully decided on my impromptu visit tonight since I knew Dad was heading home after he dropped me off at Josie’s. I didn’t want to get his hopes up that I’d be returning to my job. He hadn’t always been the best boss, often leaving me to handle the financial affairs. I’d also been the on-call owner when Dad didn’t show for a shift. While no one could argue that I hadn’t learned a lot of trivial information about collectibles and forgeries, I’d been so caught up in not letting the shop go under that I’d forgotten to have a life of my own.
“We’re doing pretty well.” I don’t miss the strain in his words.
“And Dad?” I might as well get to the point.
“He’s been on it,” Jerry says to my surprise. “But we’ve been busier than normal. I guess a lot of people read about you on the Internet and…”
“People came here to see me?” Seriously, I’m only accused of murder. I’m not that famous.
“Yeah. Jake’s really stepped up,” he says in a lowered voice as a few tourists step through the front door. “But we could use a little help.”
Gee, can I sign autographs at the same time?
“That’s why I came by,” I say.
“Thank god. We’re really missing having you here and I know your dad will be so happy. He misses you.”
I suspect Jerry misses me, too. He’s been in love with me since my dad hired him out of community college a few years ago. Although he’s never said it, it’s written across his face even now. I feel like I’m letting them both down now, because I’m not here to offer my services. I square my shoulders and deliver the bad news.
“I’m not looking for a job.” I’m too busy dodging indictments. “But my friend Josie could use a part-time gig. I came by to see if you could afford to hire her.”
Jerry’s face falls but he recovers his pride quickly. “That would be great.”
“Excellent!” My phone begins to ring in my pocket and I back up a few steps. “I’ll bring her in this week and show her the ropes.”
Outside the shop I check my missed calls. I don’t recognize the number but there’s a voicemail.
“Call me back,” Monroe orders me in the message. She really needs a life couch because her people skills are lacking. Despite that, I return the call.
“You rang?” I snap.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” she advises coolly. “I just got some news that I thought you’d be interested to hear.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. Monroe and I don’t necessarily share the same concept of news.
“You know I don’t have to go out of my way to include you.”
“I’m sorry. Will you please share your news with me?” I pretend to plead, but neither of us are buying it.
However, it must have sounded moderately sincere because she continues. “Leighton woke up from her coma yesterday.”
“Oh my god,” I breathe. “Is she alright?”
The doctors hadn’t been certain she would recover fully the last I had heard. After the trauma she’d experienced, they couldn’t judge the extent of the brain damage.
“I guess,” Monroe says.
I refrain from reminding her that Leighton is supposed to be one of her best friends. Mostly because my own interest is far from selfless. “Has she said anything about that night?”
“I don’t know, but I think we need to find out.”
“Wouldn’t want anyone to find out you lied,” I accuse.
“Play nicely if you want answers,” Monroe warns me.
“Can she have visitors?” I ignore her rebuke. I didn’t lie about that night but I didn’t correct the story Monroe fed the authorities. If Leighton is awake, there’s no telling what she remembers or who she has told.
“I’ll meet you at the hospital in half an hour,” Monroe says and hangs up. Apparently, I’m not the only one who wants to know if Leighton is talking.
I don’t spot Monroe’s gold convertible in visitor parking, but knowing her she has a private parking space reserved in her name. Heading inside, I pause at the information desk.
“My friend just woke up from a coma, and I was told I could visit her.”
The attendant gives me a doubtful look but turns toward her computer screen and asks for the name. If Monroe was with me, we’d already be in Leighton’s room. I glance around the waiting area but she’s nowhere to be found.
“Visiting hours are nearly over,” she informs me.
I force a tight smile. My questions can’t wait for tomorrow morning.
“She can have visitors but only if you’re on the approved list.” The attendant studies me over the top of her wire-rim glasses. “Are you on the approved list?”
“She is,” a voice answers behind me. A male voice. A familiar male voice. A voice that makes my heart leap into my throat and my stomach bottom out at the same time.
You’ve been played.
I should have known better than to fall for Monroe’s sudden concern for a friend. Pivoting slowly around, I face the last person I want to see and the person I want to see the most.
Like my feelings, he’s a study in contrast. His strong, chiseled jawline looks as if it’s been expertly carved from marble even as his coppery, brown hair falls over his eyes. The loosened tie and suit jacket are at odds with the hopeful smirk creeping over his lips, and the placid depths of his gray eyes flash with lightning as our gaze meets.
I want to kiss and I want to smack him at the same time. Instead I stand there, dumbfounded.
“Come with me,” he commands, taking me by the arm and hauling me toward the elevator.
Normally I would push back at the bossy gesture, but I can’t think with his skin touching mine, even in such an innocent touch. We step inside and stare at the doors as they shut. I should step away and put some distance between us but I can’t seem to will my body to move. When the doors slide open, he presses his hand to the small of my back and guides me into the corridor.
I refrain from melting into a puddle over the gesture. Barely.
It’s easier to get to Leighton’s room n
ow that she’s out of the ICU. Although judging from the harried look on the nurse’s face, we aren’t the only ones who’ve come to visit. I wonder just how many people are on the approved list of visitors. Leave it to hospital staff not to share the joy when someone wakes up from a coma.
“Sign here,” the nurse says pertly, “and I’ll need to see some identification.”
“I thought she was getting out of the ICU,” I grumble as I dig my driver’s license out of my purse. They hadn’t asked for ID the first time I visited her.
“New policy,” she tells us. “The police suspect that her accident might have been purposeful.”
It seems that Leighton has been talking. I want to tell her that the accident was actually a lie, and that I know because I was the other girl who went through the window that night, but Jameson steps in before I confess. Flashing her a crooked grin, he passes her his ID.
She glances at it, and then her eyes widen. He might be everyone’s favorite suspect in the murder of the century, but his family’s contributions to Belle Mère Hospital are the stuff of legend. The Wests had built more than one wing of the institution, judging by the names and plaques displayed everywhere I look. They were the reason the hospital could afford to have nurses in the first place.
“I’m sorry, Mr. West,” she stammers, blushing furiously. “Go right in.”
“If that’s how they treat you when they think you’re a murderer,” I say under my breath as we turn.
“The adjective billionaire somehow mitigates whatever noun follows it.” He steers me down the hall until we’re in front of room forty-seven. The door opens and a middle-aged woman steps out, her red-rimmed eyes completely undermining all the plastic surgery she’s undergone. She swipes at tears and smiles widely.
“Jameson!” she says fondly. Apparently, my would-be boyfriend gets around in the middle-age social circles.
“Mrs.—” he begins.
“Cheryl,” she stops him with a hug. “Isn’t it wonderful?”