“And this time it took longer for the balances to go down, right?” Lowell says.
“Yeah. Overnight,” I say.
“She’s varying her routine. She doesn’t want to call attention to her account,” Rhys says. Our eyes meet.
“It’s really happening,” I breathe. “They’re stealing from Jax’s customers.”
Lowell shakes his head. “No offense, but it’s kind of weird that you don’t have any stopgaps in place. People are always looking for opportunities, you know? You got to stay on top of that kind of thing or you’re pretty much asking for it.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Thanks for the advice. I forgot who I’m talking to—the real professional criminals.”
The blonde girl gives me a head wag. “That’s rude. Aren’t you one of Rhys’s customers, though? I mean, aren’t you paying to have somebody take all your classes for you?”
Rhys’s face kind of freezes, and Lowell looks embarrassed. The blonde girl leans back on the couch.
“I’m not stealing from millions of people,” I spit back. “It’s not even close to the same thing.”
“Look—” Rhys starts.
“You said it was, like, twelve cents from each person,” the girl interrupts. “I’ve got three times that at the bottom of my purse.”
I jump up and stalk to the door. On the front porch I drop into a swing and kick it into a furious sway. It squeaks, but the motion is calming, almost narcotic. I tip my head back, but there are no stars, just the cobwebby gray board-and-batten porch ceiling. I could sway here forever, the breeze wafting over me. The breeze that smells faintly like cow pies, but still. It’s quiet.
The glider thunks as Rhys drops down beside me. He lays his head back like me too. “Holy smokes, that’s a lot of spiders.”
I can’t help but smile.
“They could drop down on us at any time. Spiders on our faces. It’s like a horror movie up there on my porch ceiling.”
“You know, there are many spider heroes in ancient mythology. According to Islamic legend, a spider saved Muhammad from the people who were trying to kill him.”
He gives me a sidelong glance, and I get the distinct feeling he knows this is one of the ways I deflect, going full-on nerd and dumping information on people. What I didn’t tell him was that I got bit by a spider once, and ever since I’ve imagined that I became a hero myself, like Peter Parker. Imbued with all a spider’s very best traits. Hardworking, solitary, aggressive when necessary.
I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean what I said. Earlier.”
“Sure you did. That’s what I like about you. You tell it like it is. And so does Mackenzie. She’s cool, I promise.”
“If you say so.” I sigh. “I didn’t mean to come across so bitchy.”
“It’s okay. You were right. I’m . . .” He stares at the pasture beyond the house. There’s one cow, a brownish-red one, that’s staring back at us. “I know what I’m doing, and some days I’m less proud of it than others. They’ll figure it out, what I’m doing, one day, and then . . . I don’t know. I’m not a Bond villain. I’m just a kid who’s terrible at school but good at making money.”
“But your dad died. You have to make money.”
He laughs. “Yeah, not really. My dad had a ton of life insurance. My mom lives in a huge house down in Florida. And my little sister goes to the most expensive art school in the southeast. I’m a privileged white kid, making money by scamming the system. I’m everything people hate. Everything that’s unfair in the world.”
“Then why don’t you stop?”
He looks at me, studies me really, his brown eyes on mine. “I like feeling like I can take care of myself. Like I’m not a loser.” He says it quietly, then breaks our gaze and folds his arms over his chest. I get the feeling he’s telling me something he hasn’t told anybody else.
The air has stilled on the porch, and I can hear something buzzing around us. A mosquito or yellow jacket or wasp. The sound reminds me of a kitchen timer, one the universe has set. It’s like the minutes are ticking by, the possibilities narrowing, and if I let the moment go much longer, the timer will ding, and I’ll be shit out of luck. I roll my head in Rhys’s direction, meeting his eyes again. He’s close; it would only take the slightest movement to cross the couple of inches between us.
And then, in one swift movement, he does it. His lips touch mine. Once, softly, then again. The third time he doesn’t move, just leaves his lips pressed against mine, and our breath mingles, hot and speeding up.
Taking his time, he repositions his mouth on mine. It’s like he’s concentrating on learning the feel of my lips. His fingertips brush my jaw and move down to my neck. His breath smells like beer. And peach cobbler. And I decide it’s time to quit thinking about my parents.
And then he breaks the kiss, yelping and leaping back and sending the porch swing into wild gyrations.
“What, what?” I scream, jumping off the swing too.
“Spider!” Now he’s dancing around the dark porch, brushing and slapping at himself. I burst into laughter.
“You’re scared of spiders?”
He gives me a defensive look. “They bite.”
“I know,” I say, and my heart suddenly brims with so much homesickness and longing and regret that I think it might explode.
“Do you see him?” Rhys asks.
“I think you either smashed him or scared the bejesus out of him.”
“So I may have overreacted.” He shoots me an endearing smile. “Anyway. It’s getting dark. I should probably get you home.”
All the wonderful kissing emotions drain right out of me. I know it’s Tuesday, but I’d hoped maybe we were going to hang out. And do some more of what we’d been doing.
“Sorry. I’ve got work,” he says.
I can’t tell if he’s making up an excuse or telling me the truth. Maybe Ben, that jerk, really did hire him to keep an eye on me. Or maybe he’s just a guy, just a random guy who happens to be cute and who I like very much and who likes me back. Then why is he taking me home so early? Shit, shit, shit!
Rhys is quiet on the drive, and back in my dorm, lying on my bed, I stare at the blank white ceiling. But I’m too exhausted to name my emotions. It’s a stupid thing anyway, labeling your feelings. Who cares if you’re rapturous or rankled? What I need are answers. What I need is to talk to my mom, to tell her what I found out about Ben and Jax. But of course, she doesn’t have her phone. And if I called the resort, I don’t know if they’d even let me talk to her.
I hear her voice in my head: What’s the reality, Shorie? What’s the challenge?
I don’t know what the reality is. Or the challenge. Surprisingly, without my mother here, I truly feel like I don’t know anything.
I miss her suddenly, and it feels like a sharp, allover body cramp. The kind that hits you on the first day of the flu. It makes me feel even sicker to think that at some point soon, if Ben is involved in stealing from Jax, I may have to call the police. But what the hell am I supposed to say when I do?
I think maybe someone I know is stealing from my parents’ company.
I can’t trust anyone.
I’m afraid.
The thought of doing such a thing terrifies me. What if Ben comes after me? If he were angry enough about my telling the authorities, would he do something violent? I’m just a kid, but I don’t know. But I don’t feel safe now, not at all. It’s like I’m standing just outside something vast and dark. A rocky cave, its yawning, jagged mouth the entrance to a monster’s lair. And that monster—Ben, maybe—waits inside, a grin on his hideous face.
Because he knows I’m weak.
33
ERIN
I stand in the empty bathroom, steam wafting around me and out the open window. As the faucet drips a steady beat, I try to force my brain to slow down.
Think, Erin.
All signs point to a struggle, then Jess possibly wiggling out the window and dropping down to one of t
he faded red awnings. There’s water everywhere. Bottles on the floor. The open window, big enough for a person to squeeze through. But when I peek out, the portico below is deserted.
Or—and the thought is admittedly crazy, but what’s a little more crazy in an already senseless situation?—Jess could’ve messed up the bathroom herself. Set it up to look like someone, Lach probably, barged in here, fought with her before she was able to escape. But would Jess really do that? Could she really be somehow in on Antonia’s plan? I saw Lach aim his gun at her and pull the trigger. I saw her sob with fear.
No. Jess hasn’t betrayed me.
Lach’s taken her.
I feel the blood rush from my head and steady myself against the counter. Out in the bedroom, the door slams open, and I jump so hard I nearly slip in a puddle. I move to the bathroom door and peer through the crack.
It’s the actress—she of love, light, and limoncello fame. She’s slung her backpack on the floor and shucked off her boots, followed by her shirt and shorts. She’s wearing filmy sky-blue lingerie—definitely not Hidden Sands regulation—and she’s thin but muscular and curvy all at the same time, which seems like something only a film actress could achieve.
As she moves to the windows, flings them up, letting the ocean breeze lift her hair, I order my thundering heart to slow. She has thick, impossibly shiny caramel tresses that fall around her shoulders like in a shampoo commercial. The gauzy canopy on the bed whips wildly, and she tosses her oversize sunglasses in the direction of her backpack. At the dressing table, she selects an opalescent jar and unscrews the silver lid. Plucking a straw from a crystal tumbler, she takes a dainty sniff with each nostril, then tilts her head back.
“Ahhhhhh,” she says to the empty room. “Ah, yes.”
Okay, way past time to get the hell out of Dodge. She’ll probably see me, but maybe she’ll be so high she won’t think anything of it. What I really shouldn’t do is stay in here so when she pops in to pee, she gets a surprise. That would be disastrous.
I push open the door and step out of the bathroom, and she seems to regain her senses, widening her eyes and locking on to me like a laser beam.
“What are you doing in my room?” she asks in a quiet, formal tone.
I freeze. “My friend is in trouble. We saw . . . we saw one of the L’Élu guides shoot a woman, and he shot at us too—”
“What the FUCK are you doing in my ROOM!” It’s a well-modulated shriek this time, and I bolt for the door. But a key has materialized in the hole below the elegant crystal doorknob, and the door is locked. I pull on it like an idiot until she grabs my ponytail and jerks me back to face her.
“Didn’t you hear what Antonia said?” she purrs.
“I—”
“She said take any room with an OPEN DOOR.” The expression on her face is withering. Disdain mixed with utter contempt. I find it overwhelmingly effective.
“I’m really sorry. I got separated from another group, an earlier group. I didn’t mean to . . .” I edge back toward the door. “I’ll just go.”
“This is unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.” She glances at the bathroom door. “Were you using the sink in my bathroom?”
I gawp at her.
“You better not have rubbed your filthy hands on my clean towels, you sorry-ass, piece-of-shit stalker!” She’s already unlocking the door to the hallway and flinging it open. Trippy music pours in. I try to duck out, but she blocks me with her arm.
“Antonia,” she yells into the hallway. “Antonia, there’s a stalker in my room!”
I pivot and head for the bathroom, bursting through the door and sliding across the marble-tiled floor. I focus on the window. If it was good enough for Jessalyn, it’s good enough for me.
“Stop,” the actress screams. “Get your ass back in here. Antonia! She’s getting away!”
I manage to squeeze myself out the window, let go of the ledge, and slam down on the awning over the window below. For a moment, my vision pops and goes blotchy. I can’t breathe, but I force myself to roll until my legs are dangling over the edge of the faded red canvas. I turn onto my stomach, then drop again, collapsing on the tile portico.
Above me, I hear the actress. She’s screaming. And then, from somewhere inside the house, I hear pounding boots and clacking heels. Someone’s coming—either Antonia or Lach or some other good-looking, deadly assassin-goon on her staff.
I stagger to my feet and limp toward the flight of polished limestone steps that lead down to the road. I don’t know if anyone’s coming after me, and at this point, I don’t give a shit. All I can think of is Jessalyn, alone in the forest, and that ridiculous, half-assed message I sent to Shorie.
Shorie, it’s Mom. Please se
Fantastic. Great work, Erin.
When I reach the bottom of all the stairs, I pause, turning one way, then another, trying to decide which way I should run. Should I try to get back to the campsite? It’s possible Lach might try to take Jessalyn there if that was where he was supposed to kill us. Only I have no idea how to get there from here.
I peer into the sun and try to think. The campsite, from what I remember, was back in the direction of Hidden Sands. There has to be a pretty clear trail leading to it, because someone delivered food from this house, and they probably used a four-wheeler to do it. If I could find that road or trail or whatever, I’d be golden.
Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. He will find me wherever I go . . .
It was something Perry used to say, when he and Shorie played hide-and-seek. She did this thing where she’d jump out at him before he found her and try to scare him instead. But that won’t work here. This isn’t a game. I grip my head in my hands and close my eyes. Just pick a direction, any direction, Erin. Find a road, a trail, a path. Anything. Just get away from this house.
I suddenly feel myself lifted up, then slammed back down to the ground. My right knee buckles, and pain shoots all the way down my leg. I try to scream, but it comes out a pathetic “Ahhh” as I feel the air forced out of my lungs. Stars on a purple background—flashes of white and yellow and black—wink across my vision, and I lose where I am for a couple of seconds. The ground tilts.
I scream again. Or at least I try to, but I don’t hear anything come out. Some time passes, I don’t know how long.
And then, “Get up, chickadee,” I hear someone whisper against my ear.
34
SHORIE
I wake up a little after eight. Dele’s sitting at her desk, peering into her fancy makeup mirror. She applies under-eye concealer like an artist, and I watch her for a while, soothed by her process. I’m also a little aggravated by the mess of bottles and tubes and compacts scattered all over her desk, but I try not to think about it.
In the reflection, Dele sees that I’m awake. She starts telling me about this girl in her Mass Media Law class who invited their study group over to her house, which, as it turns out according to Google Earth, happens to be a mansion on Lake Martin.
I know I should be nice, but I can’t muster the energy. I feel like there’s a thick cloud wrapped around me. And now, thanks to Dele, I’m being pummeled by memories of camping at the lake with Mom and Dad. When we’d go on hikes, Dad used to sing the songs from Wicked with me. He knew the words but used to mess them up on purpose, just to drive me crazy.
“Do you want me to go pick up some breakfast for you before I go?” she asks. “I could get you an Egg McMuffin, or one of those vegan sausage rolls from Mama Mocha’s.”
I shake my head. My throat suddenly feels clogged, and I’m scared I’m going to cry. Which I don’t want to do. Not in front of Dele.
Dele swings around in her chair to face me. She’s shadowed one eye but not the other, and she looks like a spooky but beautiful supervillain.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Sure.”
“Where are all your books?”
I swallow. “My books?”
She stares at me. “Are you goi
ng to your classes?”
“Yes.” I swallow again, but I can’t get rid of the lumpy feeling in my throat.
She smiles. “Then where are your books?”
“There’s only been two days of classes. I haven’t bought them yet.” I stomp over to the bathroom and slam the door. After I pee and wash my hands, I stare at myself in the mirror. She’s waiting for me to come back out. I have the feeling she knows, but I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to tell her. The thing is, I could use a friend.
I slip back in the room. Dele is working on her left eye.
“So, I’m not taking any of my classes,” I announce. “I’m still officially enrolled, I’m just not going.”
She spins in her seat, makeup brush poised in the air.
“Holy fuck balls,” she breathes. “Really?”
I nod. “I paid a guy to have another girl take my classes.”
“You did? What guy?”
“The guy I met at the food truck.”
“Wait. Why don’t you want to go to class?”
“Because something weird is going on with my dad’s company. Jax. My mom’s away . . . and I need to figure it out.”
She’s gaping at me now, shocked by what I’ve said. But I know I haven’t told her the truth. Playing Nancy Drew is not the real reason I’m skipping. It’s never been the real reason.
I take a deep breath. “I’m too sad and messed up to sit through class with a bunch of supermotivated brainiacs. I don’t think I can do it. I’m scared I’ll fail and wind up losing my scholarship.” I meet her eyes and say it louder. “I’m afraid I’m going to let my father down.”
She nods, wide eyed. “So you noped the fuck out.”
I nod.
“You should’ve told me.”
I bite my lip. After a moment, she climbs onto my bed, crosses her legs, and pats the space beside her. I join her and let the rest of it spill out: the server report error, the spyware, the money, and the missing journal. Rhys and I seeing Ben at the barbecue restaurant and my dad’s message about the letter he wrote me. I even tell her my doubts about Rhys, my concerns that maybe he’s connected to what’s happening at Jax.
Until the Day I Die Page 19