Dare You

  He slowed both of us to a stop and reached for my hands, but I pulled them away, aggravated. My chest felt full—full of fear and confusion and irritation and determination to chase those things away, even if I didn’t exactly know how. Jones reached for my hands again and corralled them. He peered deep into my eyes.

  “Can I help you, Nikki?” I started to protest, but he shook his head to interrupt. “No, I mean can I help you get past it? You want to let it go, let me help.”

  Jones was sweet. Too sweet. It irritated me. Which made me a bitch—I was well aware of that. But this was all getting too touchy-feely for me. All these men offering to help me. Didn’t they understand that I didn’t need any help? Even if it looked like I did.

  “Walking helps me,” I said, wrenching my hands free of him. I turned and started walking again, recognizing that my pace was too fast, nearly a jog, but too determined to get away from that sappy magenta puddle on the trail to notice.

  Jones waited only a beat before hurrying to catch up with me. “Okay, then we keep walking,” he said. “If that’s what it takes.”

  “In silence,” I corrected.

  “Sounds like fun.” He was being sarcastic, but at least he stopped talking.

  The trail curved into a wooded area and we curved with it, leaving behind runners and cyclists who took the short loop back around to avoid the woods. A veil of slate uneasiness dropped over the trees, making the whole world—the trees, the path, the foliage on the ground—feel like it was made of shale. Like I could go off the path and my footsteps would still sing out, I would still feel the impact of rock under them. The path was safe—I knew it was—but there was something about being secluded that bothered me.

  She’s also free and you’re in jail. Blake Willis, in my head. I blinked hard, twice. I couldn’t think about Luna right now, not when I was heading into the shadows of woods where the only person to hear me scream was Jones. He was strong and quick, but could he protect me from a bullet?

  Dru did. And Jones probably would, too, if need be.

  No. I refused to think about that.

  “You okay?” Jones asked. “You slowed down.”

  “Just walk,” I said.

  Every step that hit the ground came with an image. Luna, standing over me in Peyton’s closet. Luna, repeatedly slapping me in her parents’ office. Luna, pointing a gun at my chest. Luna, springing out from behind a trash can. Luna, Luna, Luna, everywhere I looked. I stopped walking. Jones stopped with me.

  “She’s out,” I said, my voice ragged. “She’s everywhere.” I tapped my temple. “At least she is in here.”

  “Who?”

  “Luna Fairchild. She got out, and I see her everywhere. I feel like she’s always right there, watching me. I can’t explain it. I feel . . . stalked.”

  Jones stopped, looked around the woods, as if he could find her by looking hard enough. “Then the best thing you can do is this, right?” he said. “Live your life. No fear. And go back to the dojo.”

  “Dojang,” I corrected.

  “Do-whatever. Go back. I’ll go with you.”

  “Okay,” I said, after a pause. “I will. But just me. I don’t want company.”

  We walked the rest of the way out of the woods, both of us sneaking glances behind every tree, while trying to pretend that we weren’t. Jones went back to yammering on about his life, and I thought about what it would be like to get back to sparring. I was going to get my ass handed to me, but Jones was probably right. Especially with Vanessa and Bill and now Luna still out there. I needed to get back to who I was.

  We finished the trail and walked back to Jones’s house. I let him wrap me up on his porch, leaning into his scent and his muscles. Jones could be very annoying, but he wasn’t all bad. He was safe, at least.

  “I’ve got this taken care of, and you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to prison.” I reached up and stroked his cheek with my hand, violet arcs raining down on me.

  “Of course you’re not,” he said. He leaned in to kiss me, and a few minutes later, when he led me upstairs, motioning for me to be quiet because his parents were home, I went willingly, happily.

  Jones loved me.

  If it were possible for me to love, he would have been the perfect person to fall for.

  If it were possible.

  12

  LUNA WAS LIVING at her father’s house. Peter Fairchild—a car salesman with a tidy turquoise house in Mar Vista. A total unknown. Didn’t even have a Facebook page. According to Vanessa Hollis’s Wikipedia page, Peter had been married to her for a whopping sixteen months before she decided to leave him and Luna behind for bigger and better things in Brentwood. My guess, the bigger and better thing was a certain john she’d met at her escort service, Hollywood Dreams. A very rich, very powerful movie-mogul john named Bill Hollis.

  Luna didn’t burst onto the Hollis scene until she was twelve, which told me she’d most likely lived in said ordinary turquoise house for the first twelve years of her life before something must have happened to make Peter give her up. Maybe they’d had a fight. Maybe Vanessa had decided she wanted to parent her own daughter after all. Maybe Luna just insisted. Everyone knew Luna got exactly what she wanted, exactly when she wanted it, even if that meant she had to hurt people to get it.

  So now Luna was back in her boring, ordinary, non-Hollywood life, with her boring, unknown, non-Hollywood father, which couldn’t have been working out for her at all. Maybe it made her so miserable she was willing to plant evidence in her sister’s car.

  Not maybe. Likely. But how?

  My phone buzzed. A text from Detective Martinez. His date with Blake must be over.

  Matt Macy

  I frowned, trying to figure out what he meant.

  Come again?

  The phone number you gave me. Belongs to someone named Matt Macy. No known connections to Rigo as far as I can tell. Ring any bells?

  It did, actually. I just couldn’t place it. Matt Macy—soft red-orange and ringed with maroon, kind of like a sunset. Where had I seen that before? I closed my eyes and tried to envision the color combination, tried to associate it with an anchor. Something, anything.

  It came to me—pink-white-black.

  I scrolled over to my camera roll and pulled up the photo I’d taken of the receipt book at Tesori Antico. Next to it, half under it in a scatter of papers, was red-orange ringed with maroon. Of course, the maroon. Maroon meant technology.

  He’s a photographer, I texted.

  Photog? Make sense to you?

  Commercial photographer. Idk.

  Maybe it means nothing. Dead end.

  Yeah.

  But I couldn’t help thinking that almost nothing meant nothing when it came to the Hollises. Everything was connected; I could just never see exactly how. I tossed my phone on my desk with a frustrated grunt and rolled away from it. I’d told myself that after I was done reading what I could about Peter Fairchild, I would go to the dojang. But now that I was done, all I could do was stare at my gym bag, feeling helpless. I hated this.

  I couldn’t just keep going like I was going. Afraid to move, afraid of everything and everyone. It wasn’t like me. At all. I had to start doing something before I lost Nikki Kill completely.

  For the first time in months, I pulled open my bottom desk drawer. The black binder I’d slipped Peyton’s letter inside was still there. I stared at it. I’d tucked the letter away when the nightmares had kept me up one night too many. When I’d realized that I wasn’t going to just go on about my life, searching for answers the way I thought I would. The letter had sat folded up on my desk, practically glowing at me, getting bigger and bigger, scarier and scarier every time I looked at it. One night, feverish and shaking from a nightmare—or a memory; sometimes it was hard to tell which was which—I’d gotten up and buried it in the binder. Out of sight, out of mind.

  But of course I knew it was always there, waiting for me to come back. It would never be out of my mind.
br />   Because eventually I would have to go back to it, right? I couldn’t hide from myself, my past, forever. Eventually, I had to help Peyton on Peyton’s terms instead of just my own.

  I pulled out the binder and set it on my lap. I ran my hand over the cool cover, feeling for heat or vibration or some sense that the letter was in there. That the colors were still beating inside, even if I couldn’t see them. Of course I felt nothing but vinyl. I opened the binder and pulled out the letter, nearly gasping at the rainbow that leaped out at me, even though I knew it would be there.

  Nikki,

  I’m putting a ton of faith in your synesthesia right now, but if I’m right about what you can do, you’re reading this letter.

  So basically this is one of those if-you’re-reading-this-I’m-probably-dead letters. I’ve known you were my sister for a while now. I even watched you a little at your house, at school, stole your records from the guidance office, that kind of thing, trying to decide how, and when, to tell you. But I started discovering other things, too. Things about my family. I was afraid of putting you in danger. I finally decided I would write this letter and leave you clues, and would only bring you into this if things had gone really wrong and my life was on the line. So you’d think I’d be really scared writing this letter, but I’m kind of not. I’ve been scared for a long time. Scared of where my life was going, thanks to the people who raised me. Scared of who, or what, I will become. Writing this letter is actually a relief.

  Everything about the Hollis family is a lie. We are not who the world thinks we are. We have secrets, Nikki, and they’re bad. And when I say “we” I actually mean we. Including you, Nikki. Maybe you’ve figured this part out already, but if you haven’t, I’ll tell you now. Your mother, Carrie, was my mother, too. I know this because I’ve followed a very long trail of deceit. But I’ve included in this letter a lock of my hair, just in case you want to have it tested for DNA to be sure. I don’t need to see a DNA test. I already know.

  It all started when a woman named Brandi Courteur came to one of Viral Fanfare’s shows in Long Beach. I can’t tell you anything more about Brandi because it will be very dangerous to her if this letter should fall into the wrong hands. I know that sounds very mysterious, but if you’re reading this, you obviously can do mysterious. Let me just say that what Brandi told me after that show changed my whole life. My entire life was a lie. Fake. A show. Everything started to make so much more sense. And I learned things about my father, about Vanessa, that could ruin them.

  Find Brandi, Nikki. When you do, you will understand everything.

  Also, take care of Dru. I’ve told him about his own mother, but he’s still in denial. He’s still trying to please dear old Daddy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s good on the inside. I know this because we’ve lived the same lie.

  Peyton

  Brandi Courteur. According to Peyton, Brandi Courteur, whoever she was, had answers. I wasn’t sure if I wanted them yet. Or ever. But part of me felt obligated to try. Peyton had died getting these secrets to me. The least I could do was try to find the woman who started it all.

  I pulled up my laptop again and entered Brandi Courteur’s name.

  As before, nothing came up. How was that possible? It seemed like by now, everyone in the world should have some sort of online trail, even if it was small and insignificant. It was as if the woman didn’t exist. Even more unknown than poor old Peter Fairchild.

  I tried Brandie Courteur. Nothing.

  I searched Facebook and Twitter and every possible social media site I could think of. Brandy Courteur, Brandie Courteur, Brandi Corter. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I tried the white pages. I tried the yellow pages. I tried birth parent search sites. I tried personal ads. No Brandi Courteur. Not anywhere.

  She wanted to be hidden, and hidden well. So why she reached out to Peyton—why she insinuated herself into the Hollises’ lives—made no sense whatsoever.

  After an hour, or longer, my eyes felt dry and tired. My head felt heavy, my brain exhausted from trying to block out letter and number colors so I could concentrate. I put the letter back inside the binder and stored it back where it had been before, in the bottom desk drawer. I closed my laptop and walked over to my bed, flopping backward on it, letting my arms fall over my face. I didn’t intend to, but I slept the whole night that way.

  DETECTIVE MARTINEZ CALLED bright and early the next morning, waking me up.

  “Don’t you know what summer break means?” I asked thickly, my eyes closed, refusing to welcome the world. I fumbled in my nightstand drawer for a cigarette. Sometimes I felt more awake just holding one, even if I was too lazy to get up and light it.

  “Summer break is for people who aren’t looking at murder trials,” he said. “Get up.”

  I groaned and sat up, glanced at the time on my phone. “Jesus, it’s five thirty. What is your deal?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Why?”

  “Get up and I’ll tell you.”

  “It’s five thirty. I’m not getting up unless you know something.” I tucked the unlit cigarette into my mouth.

  “Would I be calling you if I didn’t?”

  “Well, you can’t come over here. Not this early. My dad isn’t the most observant person in the world, but he would definitely notice a cop showing up at the table for coffee and toast.”

  “I wasn’t going to come over there.”

  “What, then? Breakfast? I don’t generally eat before the sun is up. It’s bad for digestion.”

  “Stop being such a drama queen. The sun is up. It’s not that early. I had something a little more active in mind.”

  DETECTIVE MARTINEZ’S “GYM” was a glorified hole in the wall. Buff-looking gorilla types sauntered in and out, their arms so built up they couldn’t press them flat against their sides. I sat in my car, imagining the smell inside that place. It had to be rank with testosterone and sweat. And ego. Smelly man-ego.

  Why on earth had I agreed to meet him here? If I was smart, I would turn my car back on and leave. He didn’t have any control over me. He didn’t get to say when and how and where I got back to working out or getting on with my life. It wasn’t up to Jones, it wasn’t up to my dad, and it sure as shit wasn’t up to him.

  I was so lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t even see him pull up. Didn’t realize he was there until he knocked on my window, jarring me. I rolled it down.

  “You getting out anytime soon?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  He shrugged; his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders and pecs. The sleeve inched upward, showing the bottom inch of a tattoo on one bicep. “I don’t know. Scared, maybe?”

  I made a pssh sound. “Scared of you? In your dreams, Detective.” I let myself out, forcing him to back up a few steps. His legs were tan and scarred, not too hairy, tight with muscles, poking out from under his shorts. “Unless you meant scared of making you look bad. Again.”

  He grinned, the tops of his cheeks nudging his sunglasses upward. “That’s exactly what I meant. You keep telling yourself that.” He gestured toward the door with his gym bag. “After you.”

  “First, what is it you have to tell me that’s so important?”

  He ducked his head. “Nothing. I just told you that to get you out of bed. I knew you would never come with me if I didn’t dangle a carrot in front of your nose.”

  “Nice,” I said. “Really freaking nice. I could be sleeping right now.” He tried to cover up his laughter, but failed. “You’re a real asshole, you know that? Psychopath.”

  I pushed past him, letting my shoulder bump into his, and strutted into the gym like I owned the place.

  There were a few weight benches off to one side with racks of free weights nearby, a couple of treadmills, and one stair climber. But mostly the room was dominated by heavy bags. Row after row of them, like we were in a damn Sylvester Stallone movie or something. A few speed bags hung like teardrops along one wall, and back in the cor
ner there was a boxing ring, inside of which two huge men were currently beating the crap out of each other, a couple of trainers yelling instructions at them from the perimeter.

  “This?” I asked. “This is where you work out?”

  “Every day,” he said.

  “No wonder you’re no good at sparring,” I mumbled. “This is shit.”

  “This shit, as you call it, kept me out of a lot of trouble over the years. Been coming here since I was a kid. It was a good way to burn off some steam without ending up in jail.” He pulled off his sunglasses and slid them into his duffel, then gestured with his head for me to follow him to a nearby bench. “Come here, I’ll set you up.”

  “What makes you think I need to be ‘set up’?”

  “Okay,” he said, handing a rolled-up strip of cloth to me. “Wrap yourself.” When I didn’t move, he grinned and took it back. “That’s what I thought. Hold your hand out like this.” He spread his fingers wide, palm up. I mimicked him and he began winding the cloth around my hand, between my fingers and over my palm. The cloth was beige. But it turned violet with every loop around my hand. I watched the guys in the ring to distract myself.

  “We going to do that?” I asked. “Because if I’m being honest, I don’t think you’re really up to it.”

  “Oh, I’m more than up to it,” he said. “Get more up to it every time you open your big mouth. But I thought we’d start a little slower.” He nodded toward the heavy bags. “Get you back on the horse and all that. Give me your other hand.”

  I squeezed my wrapped hand into a fist, liking the way it felt—tight and tough. He held up a second wrap and I took it from him. “I watched you. I’ve got this.”

  “That’s the Nikki I know.”

  “Miss Kill to you,” I reminded him, for old times’ sake.

  He nodded to himself, pulled another wrap out of his bag, and began winding it around his own hand. “I stand corrected.”

  TWO HOURS LATER, Detective Martinez and I sat on the bench, unwinding the wraps from our hands. My arms were jelly and my hair was soaked with sweat, but I felt good. I wasn’t used to hitting the way he showed me to hit the heavy bag, and the gloves felt hefty and clunky on my hands, but there was something satisfying about letting loose a blizzard of punches without scraping up my knuckles.