Cracked Kingdom

  "Sure. It's easy. You've never done that before?"

  "No." She looks at me as if I should've thought of it.

  I shrug. "I use my phone to text people, look up sports scores, and watch flight vids."

  "You people are useless," Larry complains. "Send me a picture."

  I fish my phone out of my pocket and zip one over to Larry. He opens it, does a few things and soon we have a page full of girls’ faces. I scan the screen, looking for Hartley. As I inspect the first row of pictures, I think this is a stupid idea, but then we come across one where an unsmiling Hartley wearing a god-awful yellow school blazer and black pants is stuffed between a handful of other students, all holding violins.

  “Don’t tell me,” I deadpan, “Your mascot was the bumblebee.”

  She makes a disgusted sound before leaning forward. “I can see that some things are best forgotten. I’m hideous.”

  “It’s not a good picture,” Larry agrees.

  I punch him in the back, but way harder.

  “Ouch,” he cries. “I’m just telling the truth. You’re hot now, Hartley.”

  “Gee thanks, Larry.”

  He rubs his arm and gives us an aggrieved look. “I can’t believe I’m getting abused while I’m helping you.”

  The smile drops off Hart’s face at that comment. Abuse is never going to be funny to her.

  “Larry, I appreciate this, but this information isn’t really what I’m looking for and not just because I look like a reject from the Bee Movie.” She straightens.

  My friend takes the rejection well. “Tell me what you need and I’ll see if I can find it.”

  I can tell she doesn’t want to share that she suspects her father is a corrupt man who may or may not be hurting her sister. There’s a lot of information I wouldn’t want to give out about my family, either, but I don’t know how we’re going to find the evidence we need unless she’s more forthcoming.

  “Hart, I know this is hard,” I murmur in a low voice, “but could you share something?”

  She ponders my suggestion until an idea forms. Her face brightens, and she turns to Larry with suppressed excitement. “You’re a good hacker?”

  “I don’t want to brag but I’m better at getting into computers than East is at getting into a girl’s pants.”

  I bop him across the top of his head. “Dammit, Larry.”

  “Hey, sorry, it was the only comparison that popped in my head.”

  “Never mind.” Hart waves her hand. “I don’t care about that. If I told you my phone number, could you access my past text messages?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s not hard, especially if I have your number. I can access your emails, call logs, app downloads, photos, and maybe even voicemails. What is it?”

  She reels it off.

  “Go sit over there. It’ll take me a bit. I have to hack into the SS7. Every text message in the world passes through Signaling System No. 7. Did you know that governments can track your movements anywhere in the world with just your cell phone? They also listen in. You should really install programs on your phones that alert you to an SS7 attack. That two-factor authentication doesn’t stop it, either. That’s just something the government pushes you to have to make you feel safe. They’re always watching. Dummy phones are good too. I change my phone every three months.”

  I lead Hart over to a pair of slouchy leather sofas as Larry drones on about the dangers of cell phone communication.

  “I hope the FBI agent who’s assigned to me isn’t too bored, because I stopped watching porn this summer,” I joke, pulling Hartley down next to me. I stretch out my legs and try to relax.

  Beside me, Hart sits like she’s at church, with her hands curled around each knee cap, her shoulders tight, and her face straight forward with her eyes pinned on Larry’s back.

  I reach up and rub her neck. “What do you think will be on your texts?”

  “I don’t know, but it must’ve been important enough for my parents to want to get rid of my phone.”

  “That’s true.” I hadn’t thought of it that way. I assumed that her folks wanted to keep her memories blank so she wouldn’t remember spying on her father, but maybe it was to hide something specific.

  “You think you had pictures or recorded some audio?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. If I did, why didn’t I confront him before? Why did I come back after three years?”

  “You were fourteen when you were sent away. What were you going to do at the age of fourteen?” I hate that she feels guilty about this. She’s a kid. She shouldn’t have to deal with this shit. Just like I shouldn’t have had to deal with my mom’s suicide, my dad’s abandonment, and my idol’s betrayal.

  Adults should be protecting their kids, not destroying their lives.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. “You did what you could to survive.”

  I’m saying it more for myself than anything. I’ve done drugs, drank too much alcohol, screwed too many girls, but all I was trying to do was survive. I pull her rigid frame against mine and hold her. I hold her until the stiffness drains away, until she stops staring a hole into Larry’s back, until she curls onto my lap and clings to me.

  Hartley’s a small girl. I forget that sometimes when she’s fighting with me or smarting off like she did with Larry earlier. But in my arms, I feel her fragility. She tries hard to solve her own problems. Before her accident, she was so closed off—not willing to share even one morsel of information with me. I had to drag everything out of her.

  I see why now. Sordid secrets are ones that you try to bury in your basement, not wear like a cape around your shoulders. Now she’s finally leaning on my shoulders, but there’s a sense of hopelessness in the way she sighs and shifts. I brush a hand down the back of her head, tangling my fingers in the spill of her long, inky dark hair.

  “If this doesn’t work, then we’ll find something that will.”

  “I know,” she mumbles.

  She doesn’t sound convinced. I tip her chin up so she can see the sincerity in my eyes. “I’m not going to stop here,” I promise her. “However long it takes, however hard it is, I’m with you.”

  She blinks, her silvery eyes flashing in and out from under her black lashes. I keep rubbing her back, riding the bumps of her spine with my fingers. Trying to infuse some warmth into her chilled frame.

  She takes one deep breath and then another and then another until the tension finally drains out of her.

  “Okay. We’re a team.” She holds out her hand.

  I shake it and then bring it to my mouth. “A team.”

  She sways toward me, her eyes dropping to my lips. My jeans grow tight and my heartbeat picks up. I tighten my fingers around her and pull—

  “And we’re in!” Larry crows.

  Hartley jumps off my lap and races over to the bank of computers.

  I heave a frustrated sigh, pull out my T-shirt and adjust myself. I’m so weak when it comes to Hartley. While my two friends chatter, I try to envision Larry naked, coming out of the locker room showers and scratching his ass. “Want to smell something good,” he’d say, holding out his fingers. The team would groan.

  My hard-on deflates immediately. I get up and amble over to join them. They’re excited about something. Hart turns a beaming smile toward me.

  “I think I know what to do.”

  Chapter 27

  Hartley

  After saying thank you a thousand times to Larry and a promise to keep him supplied with his favorite snack—Doritos—for the foreseeable future, East and I leave and review the treasure trove of information that Larry loaded onto a dummy phone. His magic pulled up my old emails, camera roll, and text messages.

  My inbox contains a couple hundred spam interspersed by school assignments. The only other information of interest is a chain of emails between me and Bayview National Trust about an educational trust left by my grandmother that I can access at the age of seventeen. The trustee believed that th
e money was to be used for college, but agreed that the language was ambiguous and said only “educational purposes” and therefore I could use it toward Astor Park.

  It is my mom’s dream that I attend Astor Park, I had written. Thank you for making that happen. So. My parents haven’t paid a dime toward my Astor Park tuition. I arranged everything myself, and they couldn’t say a damned word about it because Grandma’s trust was in my name and I was old enough to access it.

  I feel a deep sense of triumph about that, because I was able to outsmart my dad once. That means I can do it again.

  The camera roll has nothing of interest. I was disgustingly boring, filling the space with pictures of landscapes, my favorite band members, and the occasional scowling selfie.

  It’s the text messages that net us a winner. Starting a little after last year’s Thanksgiving, I began texting someone named Mrs. Roquet in hopes that she would flip on my dad. At my blank face, Easton quickly explains that Mrs. Roquet is the woman my dad took a bribe from. She gave him money in exchange for getting her son’s drug case dismissed. I don’t know what set me off at that point to reach out to the woman—my messages only implied I was worried about my sister.

  Mrs. Roquet. I’m Hartley Wright. Would you be around to talk sometime?

  A day passed without a response. I sent another text.

  Hartley Wright again. I’m worried about my sister. I haven’t been able to contact her in months. I think you can help me.

  After a week of waiting I grew impatient and started spamming her several times a day. I finally got a response back after Christmas.

  Stop texting and calling me. I’m blocking your number.

  I show these with East with a frown. “After she blocked my number, I must’ve started calling her from a bunch of different ones,” I explain, “because after New Year’s she writes, ‘If I agree to talk to you, then will you leave me alone?’”

  “Do you have any idea when you spoke?”

  “It would have to be after April, because I have one message there that says, ‘I’m thinking of you and your loss.’”

  “April is when Drew Roquet had his overdose,” Easton muses.

  Larry had found that information for us along with Mrs. Roquet’s address. “She must’ve decided that the punishment for bribing someone was worth speaking the truth.” That seems brave to me.

  “The last message you have is from this past summer?” East leans over my shoulder to read the screen.

  “Right, but nothing else. If I got the statement, why didn’t I turn Dad in? I can’t imagine that I would’ve ignored her, right? I wouldn’t have gotten this message and let it sit. I did stuff. I got the Bayview Trust to release some of my trust to me. I enrolled in Mom’s favorite school, probably to get in her good graces.” It hadn’t worked. She was hardened against me. I didn’t last more than a couple weeks after the accident before she decided I was too dangerous to share the same household as her. She knew I was getting too close to the truth, too close to bringing an end to her perfect life.

  But why was the last response I had from Mrs. Roquet from this past summer? And why hadn’t I acted on it?

  I read the message again.

  Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I had to think about it, but you’re right. It’s not like my son is around anymore. I should’ve let him go to prison. Maybe that would’ve saved him. I paid your father $25K to lose the drugs that Drew had on him, and I’m willing to say that in court if you need it. It’s been three years and I think about it every night. I feel better getting it off my chest. Let me know when you want to meet.

  “I never told you anything about this?” I ask East.

  “No. You said you heard your dad arguing with his boss about dismissing the charges against Drew and you saw him in the car with a different woman, not the Roquet lady. That’s when he broke your wrist.”

  I scratch my scar. “Maybe she changed her mind?”

  He folds his fingers over mine. “Let’s go to her place. We have nothing to lose by going there, showing her the message and asking for that statement.”

  “You’re right.” I still feel awful, like I dropped the ball. Dylan has every right to be angry with me.

  Outside, Easton hails a car that takes us five miles over to the north side of Bayview—a true suburbia where the only distinguishing features of the homes are their varying shades of blue and beige. The address Larry found for us is at the end of the cul-de-sac. The house is lit up, so someone must be home.

  I suck in a deep breath, screw up my courage, and let myself out of the car. East pays the driver and meets me on the sidewalk.

  “Do you want me to come with you or hang back?”

  I give the beautiful boy a healthy once-over. “Definitely come with. One smile from you might make her cave.” Plus, I need the moral support.

  He grins that devastating half smile, takes my hand and gestures for me to lead the way.

  There’s a rattan welcome mat on the floor on the stoop and a wreath of ivy and berries hanging over the front door. A peek inside the sidelight reveals that Mrs. Roquet has her Christmas decorations well under way and it’s not even Thanksgiving.

  “I should’ve brought flowers or chocolates,” I say, rubbing my damp palms against my jeans. “Like what is the appropriate, swear out an affidavit admitting you bribed an official, gift?”

  “Chocolate, definitely. I’ll have a box sent to her when we’re done.”

  “Is that considered a bribe? Maybe we better not.”

  He squeezes my hand. “Just knock, Hart.”

  A woman comes to the door, holding it open only a couple of inches. “How can I help you?”

  She looks us over suspiciously, and I don’t blame her. It’s evening time, too late for door-to-door sales people, or even Jehovah’s Witnesses.

  I awkwardly stick my hand out for a handshake. “Hartley Wright, ma’am. You said I should come over to talk. I was in an accident so I wasn’t able to come before now.” I don’t mention that the accident was only two weeks ago. That doesn’t seem like helpful information at this point.

  Mrs. Roquet frowns. “Hartley Wright? I’m sorry, but can you tell me what it is that we were going to talk about?” She seems genuinely baffled.

  “Your son, Drew?”

  “Drew? Oh, goodness, do you mean Drew Roquet?” She swings the door open wider. “I remember you now. You came here a couple months ago asking about him.”

  “I did?”

  “She had an accident and hit her head,” East pipes up. “She doesn’t remember much about her past.”

  The lady, who I guess must not be Drew’s mom, gasps. “Oh my Lord. Come in. Come in.” She ushers us inside the house and sits us in the living room. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, ma’am,” we both say.

  “Well, I’m Helen Berger and I bought this house in June from Sarah Roquet.”

  “Oh.” I’m the very picture of a deflated balloon at this moment. “Where is she now?”

  “She passed, honey. A couple months after her son went on to his reward, she walked out in the middle of the freeway and got hit by a truck. Terrible thing. Bless her heart. She had lost her son a few months earlier and I guess it was just too much for her.” Helen shakes her head sadly. “I shared this with you when you came here in August. You wore that same shell-shocked look. I guess you needed something from Sarah. I’m so sorry you couldn’t get it.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” I reply numbly. Ice seeps into my bloodstream. I was too late—both before my memory loss and now. Helplessness weighs me down like an anvil. I drop my chin to my chest because the disappointment makes it too hard to hold my head up.

  Easton and Ms. Berger are exchanging pleasantries.

  I’m so sorry I couldn’t be of more help.

  It’s nothing at all. Thank you for your time.

  Of course. Your friend looks distressed. Can I get you something before you leave?

  Na
h, we’re good. I’ll take care of her.

  You’re a good friend.

  Thank you.

  East helps me to my feet. “Thank you again, Ms. Berger.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  With a nudge in my side from East, I manage to scrape together enough brain matter to remember my manners. “Thank you, Ms. Berger.”

  East hauls me out the door.

  “Should I call for a ride or wait?”

  I don’t answer. I’m too angry—at myself, at my dad, at Mrs. Roquet for dying. I shake off Easton’s hand and stomp down the sidewalk.

  “I may not have cheated or blackmailed anyone, but I was a coward,” I huff out. “I sat on my hands and did nothing. And now I’m out of options. I have three days before Dylan comes back.”

  “You’re not out of options,” he soothes.

  “The hell I’m not.” I swipe my hand across my face, mad that I have tears falling. What good are they going to do me? “Why’d I wait for so long?”

  “You didn’t wait. You were getting your ducks in order. You knew that at the age of seventeen, you weren’t going to be getting your sister away from your family. And you were trying to get into that house to protect her. You got into Astor Park to make your mom happy and you kept your mouth shut about your dad’s shenanigans. You were doing what you could.”

  “It wasn’t enough.” I press my hands to the side of my skull because I’m afraid the pressure inside is going to make my head explode. “It wasn’t enough!”

  I repeat it and repeat it, stomping around and kicking rocks, but it doesn’t make me feel better. Easton stands to the side, watching me make a fool of myself. Dogs start barking and a few cars in the neighborhood slow to see what kind of maniac is bringing down the property values. One of the passing drivers honks his horn, bringing me to my senses. Red-faced with embarrassment, I drop to the curb and bury my face in my arms.

  “Come on.” East tugs on my arm.

  “Don’t wanna,” I mumble like I’m five. I guess my tantrum’s not over.

  “You will.” He virtually picks me up and sets me on my feet. He drags me down several blocks until we come to a gas station. “Wait here,” he says.