by Tess Sharpe
“And you put her in jail?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so why were you talking about secret identities?” She directs this at Wes, but they both look at me. Her frown deepens. “If she’s a con artist, then you . . .” She licks her lips; her gloss tastes like berries, but never a specific kind, and I’m struck with the knowledge I might never taste that mix of berry-sweet and her again.
“You’re not who you say you are.” She almost sighs it, and the realization in her face is like someone’s taken a razor-sharp melon-baller to my stomach and started scooping.
I glance over her shoulder at Casey. I can’t tell the whole story. Not with the kid in the room. Telling Iris is bad enough.
“I—” But I have to stop, because we all can hear it: voices rising in the hall.
“They’re arguing,” Wes says under his breath.
“That’s good.” Iris darts forward and presses her ear against the door, listening intently. I can make out some swearing, and then it’s quiet again.
I wonder if it worked. The seeds I sowed. If it did, I need to get Casey ready. Fast.
She has to give Lee a message for me.
— 26 —
Haley: Humble, Faithful, Modest (In Three Acts)
Act 1: Curl Your Fingers
“His name is Elijah,” she tells me as she brushes my hair in front of the mirror and then glances at the website she’s pulled up on her laptop. She’s on a blog called Happy Life, Happy Wife, and it’s full of pictures of beaming, long-haired girls close in age who all wear matching dresses and look like little versions of their beaming, dark-haired mother.
“And his son is Jamison,” she continues as she begins to weave my hair into the half-up, half-down style of the girls on the blog. The one who’s closest to my age, her smile doesn’t reach her eyes like her sisters’. I find myself focusing on her instead of my mother.
“Haley? Haley!” She tugs my hair sharply.
“Ow!”
“You need to pay attention,” she orders. “We’ll be at his church on Sunday.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, turning my attention to my reflection in the mirror.
“Tell me,” she prompts gently.
“Elijah Goddard,” I recite from the files she had me memorize. “Forty-two. Started out as a youth pastor in a small ministry in Colorado, built it up into a million-dollar business.”
“Prosperity gospel is the sweetest con.” She shakes her head. “If I was a man, I would’ve gone into the church. Think of the money we could’ve made.”
“You preach, in your own way,” I point out, and it makes her laugh, which sets off a warm glow inside me. She hardly ever laughs genuinely. I’m used to the fake laugh: light and husky and practiced, a sound of temptation, not joy.
“Continue.”
“Jamison Goddard, age eleven. His mother died in a car accident when he was five. Elijah never remarried.”
“Until now.” Mom smiles. “This is very straightforward—the simplest of long cons for your first real try. You’ll be very sweet and polite to Elijah, but not draw too much of his attention unless I signal. Your job is to keep Jamison occupied.”
“How do I do that?”
She bestows another smile on me; she likes it when I ask questions. She likes imparting her knowledge to me.
“Pay attention when you meet him. If he smiles at you, you’ll know to play it up until he has a crush on you. If he doesn’t, or if he starts acting like a little shit, then you can lean into that, too.”
My eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?”
“Every bully needs someone to bully, baby,” she says. “And you’re tough, aren’t you? You can take anything he throws at you.”
I lick my lips. My fingers rub against my thumb before I answer. Back and forth, back and forth.
“Of course,” I say.
Act 2: Don’t Tuck Your Thumb
Jamison Goddard is the princeling of Mountain Peak Ministries. The apple of his father’s eye. The ringleader of the youth group boys.
He’s not just a little shit or a bully. He’s a fucking terror.
He’s never heard the word no without trying to push his way right through it.
He doesn’t notice me immediately. Haley is supposed to be kind of meek, with her golden fall of hair and her modest dresses and the little white-gold cross she wears around her neck. So he doesn’t notice me at first; girls are treated as lesser in quiet and loud ways in this kind of Christianity (in the entire world, too, let’s be honest).
I do what my mother asks: I let his reaction guide my actions. I stay on the edges that first Wednesday and the Sunday that follows, watching, smiling sweetly, and speaking softly when spoken to. But the next Wednesday, I make my move. I get there early, before anyone else but Michael, the youth pastor, who has a goatee that he really needs to shave off because it does not make him look as cool as he thinks it does. But I don’t tell him that. I help him set out chairs and then make sure to sit in the spot where I’ve seen Jamison holding court.
I’ve watched him; he steals pizza slices off his friends’ plates and no one even blinks. He laughed twice during the last meeting: once when someone made a fart joke—my mother would say that tells you he’s a boy—and once when Michael tripped over his chair—which tells me he’s mean.
So I slide into the chair that he thinks of as his and wait like a canary in a mine that I already know is toxic.
He notices me the second he walks into the room. The hair rises on my arms. Something inside me whispers: Run.
It’s the first time I ignore it.
“You’re in my seat,” he says.
My eyes are big already, but I make them go even bigger, doll-like. “Oh no, I’m sorry.” I get up instantly, moving over a few chairs, and then to really clinch it, I hesitate in front of the new chair and look at him. “Is this one okay?” I ask, like I need his permission.
He nods, and when he turns back to his friends, I catch the smirk.
Abby is right: Every bully needs someone to bully.
So I make Haley the perfect target, and he homes right in.
* * *
—
The con takes forever, because Elijah’s more concerned with appearances than some of the other marks. He refuses to take their relationship public—Jamison doesn’t even know about it. Haley isn’t supposed to know, but of course, I get a blow-by-blow account of each of their meetings and a breakdown of what Mom’s done to twist further into his life.
When she sees the bruises on my wrist, she arches an eyebrow. “What a little shit,” she mutters. “Can you handle him, baby?”
“It’s fine.” I tug the cardigan sleeve down so it covers me up properly.
It’s not fine. Jamison has four inches and three years on me. And even if he didn’t, I’m not allowed to fight back. Haley doesn’t know how to throw a punch. A girl like her would tuck her thumb into her fist if she tried. She’s a slow-moving target.
“He’s gonna be mad,” I warn her when she shows me the ring Elijah’s finally given her.
Mom smiles. “Then we’ll just use that anger, won’t we?”
* * *
—
“You’re dating her mom?” Jamison demands.
“Jamison, manners,” Elijah scolds from across the brunch table.
“It’s fine,” Mom says. “I know this might come as a surprise to both of you.” She takes my hand and sets it, wrapped in hers, on the table.
“We’ve been spending a lot of time together since Maya volunteered to take over the scheduling when Mrs. Armstrong broke her leg,” Elijah says. “And we’ve prayed on it hard, haven’t we, angel?”
Mom nods, her gaze on him soft and worshipful. She positively shines up at him. “We have.”
“The Lord’s spoken,”
Elijah tells Jamison and me. “He’s worked to bring us all together.”
“To be a family,” Mom says, reaching over with her other hand and grasping Elijah’s.
“What does she mean?” Jamison’s looking hard at his father, his eyes narrowed.
“I’ve asked Maya to be my wife,” Elijah tells him. “She’s agreed.”
“What do you think, baby?” she asks me.
We worked through my response the night before. Jamison is going to be the troublemaker in this scenario, which makes me what Mom calls the golden child.
“I want you to be happy, Momma,” I tell her. “You, too, Pastor Elijah.” I smile, making it tremulous, my shoulders hunched just a little. “You’ve helped so many people, Pastor Elijah. You deserve this.”
That last sentence, the last part, is very true. He does deserve exactly what’s coming to him. He’s a con artist, just like us. He doesn’t worship anything but money, and he doesn’t speak any kind of truth, just careful words designed to strip naive people of their cash. Love offerings, my ass. More like Elijah’s private jet’s fuel offerings.
“This is bullshit!” Jamison declares, and Elijah’s eyes go steely, like when he talks about the devil on that stage with his pop star mic looped around his head.
“Do not use that language, young man.”
But Jamison is already up and bolting out of the restaurant. Elijah sighs and Mom looks at me, a significant look.
I know what I’m supposed to do.
I also know what happens if I chase him.
I do it anyway.
* * *
—
My lip’s bleeding by the time Jamison stalks away, off to sulk in the car. I touch my tongue against the spot, tasting copper.
“Here.” A napkin’s thrust under my nose. I take it, holding it to my lip as I look up at Pastor Elijah.
“It’s fine. I just bit my lip,” I say, testing him.
He glances over to the parking lot where the car is and then back to me. He knows exactly why my lip is bleeding.
“I’ve watched you these last months,” he says.
“I don’t mean to draw attention.”
“You’re a good girl. You keep sweet, no matter what,” he tells me, and I smile back at him when he smiles so approvingly, because oh, did I have him pegged right. He’s sending me a message: This is what I am—just a bleeding target. He wants to make me smaller.
But I haven’t been small this whole time. I’ve just been waiting to unfurl.
“I want to be good,” I say, and it’s true, in a way. I want to be great. I want to be perfect. Just like Mom.
“You’ll be a good little sister,” he tells me, and it’s more of an order than a compliment.
“I hope so,” I say, and that’s true, too. If there’s anything I want to be, other than my mother’s perfect daughter, it’s beloved by my sister.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go get your mother. We have a lot of plans to make.”
He holds out his hand like he expects me to take it.
So I do.
It’s all part of the plan.
Act 3: Aim Where It Hurts
Elijah throws a celebration each year to commemorate the day he opened the church. Apart from Easter and Christmas, it’s the big payday in terms of those love offerings.
Mom has it figured out beat by beat: The service starts at 2:00 p.m., and some of the women go to cook the food in the church kitchen after, and others scatter to wrangle the kids. Elijah’s moving through the sea of people, Mom by his side. She catches my eye and nods.
I move.
Haley is unobtrusive. No one really pays her any mind in the crowd. So no one notices when I slip out of the sanctuary and weave through the maze of halls that I’ve mapped not just in my head, but on actual paper for practice.
I grab the bag I stashed behind a stack of extra chairs, then head to the bathroom.
The bathrooms closest to the office are empty, and it takes ten minutes to clog the toilets enough so the water’s sloshing onto the tile floors. I tiptoe out of the bathroom so my shoes won’t leave wet marks and hum to myself as I stroll back down the hall. All that’s left in my bag is a stack of Bibles. I pull them out and toss the bag in the garbage can as I pass. They get tucked under my arm neatly. Looking over my shoulder, I can see that the carpet in front of the bathroom door is getting darker.
Perfect. Right on time.
By now, Mom has made the excuse to go check on the women in the kitchen, leaving Elijah behind in the sanctuary.
He won’t see her again.
Still clutching the Bibles, I knock lightly on the office door at the end of the hall, then swing it open and peek my head in before there’s an answer.
Adrian, Elijah’s administrative assistant, is sitting at his desk like he always does after a service. The beauty of this con is that Elijah runs a big operation, and does it in a way that’s good for him financially but bad for him if he’s about to get robbed, which he is. He underpays people and doesn’t like shelling out for security. Adrian is a twenty-three-year-old unpaid intern from the Bible college. He shouldn’t be sitting there “guarding” the safe. But Elijah doesn’t trust anyone to handle—or count—the money. It all goes straight down here, completely unaccounted for until the next morning, when he’s got time to deal with it. It’s a terrible way of doing things, but it does make it easier for us. Because after a big day like this, that safe’s going to be full. And the only thing standing in our way is Adrian, who is sweet and the kind of naive that comes from your parents sheltering you from the scary secular world and you never poking a toe out, even once.
“Adrian, I think there’s a big problem in the bathroom,” I say. “I was bringing these Bibles back to storage for my mom and there’s dirty water all over the hall!”
“What?” He leaps to his feet, and I hold the door open for him as he speeds out and down the hall, turning the corner so he’s out of sight. “Oh my gosh!” I hear his voice echo a little down the hall when he sees the disaster I’ve created.
I don’t have a lot of time. My heart’s in my throat as I rush to the window, unlocking it and pushing it open. Mom’s there, climbing inside as soon as there’s space, and I step out of the way as she slides into the room.
“You’re on lookout.”
My entire body feels like it’s vibrating as I go to the door and crack it. I keep one eye on the hall, but every few seconds, I glance back to watch her progress.
“Took me weeks to get him to punch in the combo with me in the room,” she mutters as she goes down on her knees in front of the safe and opens the expensive leather tote that all the richer moms carry. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.” She keys in the number. The safe swings open.
The noise she makes is all pleased triumph. She moves faster than I can believe, and that money is all in the bag lickety-split. She swings the safe shut with a snap.
“Walk me through it,” she orders.
“I’ll offer to go get more help for Adrian. Then I slip out and walk across the greenbelt, where you’ll be waiting in the car.”
She smiles and kisses her pointer and middle finger, pressing it to my cheek. “That’s my girl. Let’s do it.”
I grab the blanket off the couch in the office and go out the door, and she climbs through the window with the leather tote full of love offerings.
I run down the hall, exaggerating my breathlessness as I push the bathroom door open, brandishing the blanket. “I found this! To soak up the water!”
Adrian is standing in the middle of three inches of toilet water, his normally pristine button-down stained and his eyes a little wild.
“That’s—That’s good,” he says, looking hopelessly around, because one blanket is not going to be enough. “How did this even happen?”
I look dow
n, worrying my lower lip.
“Haley,” he says, because I’m being obvious enough that even he picks up on it. “Do you know something?”
“No, I—” I stop, biting my lip again.
“You can tell me.”
“It’s just that I saw Jamison coming out of the bathroom. That’s all. But I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“Yes. I’m sure there is.” He clears his throat nervously. “Why don’t you run and try to find the janitor? And can you please tell Pastor Elijah what’s going on? They’re going to need to shut off the building’s water, and he has the access keys.”
“Okay. I’ll go right now.”
“Thank you, Haley.”
“Anytime.”
The excitement—the rush—is thrumming under my skin as I take to the halls again—but not toward the sanctuary. I’m heading out now.
Finally free of this place and Jamison Goddard and his pinching and slapping and bruising, that little shit. But as I make the final turn on my mental map, it’s like me thinking about being free of him has conjured him up, because he’s standing there in front of the vending machine that’s stashed outside the break room.
Shit. It’s too late to turn back. I have to keep moving. His focus is on the candy selection, but any second it’s going to snap to me.
I have a split second to decide. What to do?
“Hey.” The voice out of my mouth is not Haley’s; she was softer and timid. This is my voice: lower, harsher.
My fist smashes into his face the second he turns. He staggers, falling right on his ass in front of the vending machine; it’s more out of surprise than because of my strength, but it pleases me all the same.
He sputters out my name like he can’t believe it.
I smile. My real smile this time, and for the first time, I don’t just understand the power here, I like it, because his eyes go wide like I’m the creepiest thing he’s ever seen.
“You know, you hit enough girls, eventually you’ll find one who hits back.”