“So what do I do?” I whisper.
“Good question.” Clay puts a hand on my shoulder, and it’s easier not to fight when he pulls me close. “I didn’t think you’d go for this.”
“What?”
His arms tighten on me slightly. “A little less frosty right now, huh?” That seems to be a joke, a pun on her last name and reputation. Since he’s making fun of me, I try to pull away, but he doesn’t let go. “Don’t take it wrong, sweets. I like this side of you. It’s kind of nice feeling like more than a warm body.”
“Is that how I made you feel before?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“I knew the score going in, so don’t worry about it.”
What does that mean? But I can’t ask. It sounds like Morgan asked him out with the understanding that it was just physical. Everything I learn about my best friend only confuses me more. But I feel a little better since showing Clay that text; he doesn’t seem to think it’s a huge deal.
“So … strategy ideas?” My head is on his chest where I can hear his heart and its rhythm is relaxing me.
Clay smells good, I decide, plain castile soap and cloves. He doesn’t use cologne, but the clean smell of his skin is nice. It’s layered with the fresh detergent smell of his worn black T-shirt. He’s warm, solid, and with him holding me, it’s easier to imagine that I’ll find a way out of this impossible maze, maybe without being eaten by a Minotaur.
“For the text? I wouldn’t stress. Just wait for this asshole to play his card and then deal with the fallout.”
“That’s not much of a plan,” I point out.
“Are you the same person who was just bragging about having your dad wrapped around your little finger?”
I remember how Mr. Frost reacted to the news that I broke the laptop and decide maybe he’s right. Yet it doesn’t bode well that he’s already asking that. Right now it’s a joke, but as time wears on, I’ll make more and more mistakes. Sighing, I manage a shrug. He’s right; Morgan would probably aim a mental screw you at anyone who tried to blackmail her, so by flipping out over the message, I’m overreacting.
“Cozy,” Nathan says from the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt.”
I immediately straighten and sit away from Clay. He doesn’t try to stop me; I realize why a few seconds later. Though it’s early afternoon, the reek of liquor hits me like an uppercut. Nathan looked bad enough at school but in just a couple of hours, he’s already downed half a fifth of whatever he’s holding. Clay jumps to his feet.
“Give me the bottle.”
“Screw you,” Nathan mutters.
“You want to turn out like Mom?” The question is delivered in a level tone, but the atmosphere thickens, making it hard to breathe.
“Second verse, same as the first.”
I’m about to say, Maybe I should go, when Clay turns to me. “I hate to ask but could you keep an eye on him? I need to run to the store. We’re out of coffee and pretty much everything else. I need to get some food in him, or he’ll be sick as shit in the morning.”
This isn’t how I imagined my first visit with Nathan since the accident, and God, it hurts so bad, seeing him fall apart. “No problem.”
As Clay leaves, he flicks a look over his swaying brother and adds, “I’ll hurry.”
12
Nathan lifts his bottle for another swallow. “Slumming, Morgan? You can get lost. I don’t need a sitter.”
“Seems like you do.”
A muscle flexes in his jaw and then the bottle comes flying at me; it slams into the wall, spraying me in whiskey and glass shards. “I need Liv. I need not to have killed her. I need a do-over. But I’m not getting any of that, so why don’t you piss off, rich girl?”
Jesus. I’ve never seen Nathan so drunk or mean. If anyone had told me he had this side, I wouldn’t have believed it. I flick the glass off the couch and go find the broom. Silently I clean up the mess, though I’m a little dizzy now. I haven’t eaten much today, just enough that I could take my pain meds without the pills chewing through my stomach lining. He watches me with a brooding stare, and then he’s gone before I realize it.
Once I’ve scrubbed up the streaks on the walls and put the broken glass in the bin, I find Nathan sprawled on the back steps, leaning against the porch post. The sun’s just starting to set, layering the sky in gold and amber with threads of pink. It won’t be full dark for hours yet, as fall hasn’t curtailed the sunshine yet. The air is muggy and still, and I have no idea what to say.
“You still here?” he mumbles.
“Clay asked me to take care of you.”
“And you’re so obedient, huh, Morgan? But you’ve never killed someone you love.”
It feels like my heart is bleeding. If I ever wondered exactly how Nathan felt, here’s the answer. Impulsively I touch the back of his hand.
“Stop. Liv wouldn’t blame you.”
It’s true, I don’t. The truck driver was lost, it was a dark country road, and I didn’t have my seat belt on. None of that is Nathan’s fault.
His fingers curl around mine with desperate need, and his eyes are like a green fire, ablaze in the scruffy pallor of his haunted face. “You shouldn’t be so nice to me right now. It’s not your style, and I’m … not safe to be around.”
The Nathan I know is gentle, considerate, and thoughtful. “What’re you talking about? You wouldn’t—”
“I want other people to hurt,” he cuts in. “I might feel better if I can make someone else bleed. Do you understand?”
“Not really.”
In a sudden move, he yanks on our joined hands and I tumble against him. He smells like he’s been drinking since he got home from school. Nathan grabs my shoulders as if he expects me to fight. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s looking for; if I shove him back, then he becomes the villain, and he can keep beating himself up, adding to his list of imaginary crimes.
So instead I put my arms around him and give him the hug he refused earlier at school.
At first he goes rigid, his eyes narrowing. Then a shaky breath trickles out of him and he drops his head onto my shoulder, tucking his face against my neck. I imagine how Clay would feel if he walked in on this, but I can’t stand seeing Nathan in pain. Gently I rub his back in slow circles. This much could be explained away, right?
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re not alone.”
I can feel him relaxing against me, and it’s heady, knowing I can affect him this way, even though he thinks I’m Morgan. But I have months of learning how to touch him behind me. As my mind skips through those lovely memories, my hands skim up his back. I work his shoulders like I used to after swim practice. He leans into me, recognizing the pressure on some level. Taking his response as an invitation, I rub the base of his skull. Nathan tips his head back like a cat; he always loved this.
“Don’t stop.” That husky tone is unmistakable.
And I don’t know how I feel about that. Because these are Morgan’s hands, and he’s drunk, hurting. What I’m doing is probably wrong, definitely confusing.
“Better?” If I talk, it’s not as intimate. I’m comforting him, that’s all.
In answer he kisses me. It’s not gentle, either; this is openmouthed and hungry. His tongue tangles with mine, and I stop thinking. This reminds me of all the nights we spent, inching closer to sex. He pulls me onto his lap and I’m straddling him. We kiss until I can’t breathe; he’s moaning into my mouth. I nibble and tug on his lower lip. I don’t consider that’s my thing, something I used to do when I really wanted to drive him crazy.
“Liv,” he groans.
And it’s so right … but also completely wrong. Sick to my stomach, I shove him back. His face a study in shock and horror, Nathan falls off the porch. Shaking, I run back into the house to the sound of him throwing up. I’m in the bathroom, quietly banging my head on the wall, when Clay comes home. I can hear him talking to his brother while he puts away the groceries. Shame wraps
me up to the point that I don’t know how I can face the two of them.
I did not mean for that to happen. I didn’t.
By the time I come out, Clay has coffee made and noodles boiling in a pot. Nathan’s sprawled in a kitchen chair, eyes shadowed, but the look he gives me is pure poison. God, he hates me now, and I don’t blame him. I mean, Nathan was never Morgan’s biggest fan; in private he always talked about how spoiled she was. He must be wondering if he’s gone nuts.
“You all right?” Clay asks.
Tell him, Nathan dares silently. Make me the bad guy.
But I can’t be the girl who comes between brothers, and I kissed him back. So I say nothing and let it become a secret between Nathan and me. That can’t happen again. At least not until I find a way to fix things. Each day that hope seems fainter. Logic asserts that there’s just no way to come back as Liv, no matter how much people are hurting. No matter how much I want my old life back.
The brothers eat a silent meal of buttered pasta and mushrooms. It smells delicious, actually, and as Liv, I’d totally sprinkle some Parmesan cheese on and dig in. But Morgan can’t have gluten, and I’m pretty sure it’s not by choice. So I sip my water and wait for Clay to finish.
“Your girl took good care of me,” Nathan says.
Clay’s head comes up; he looks wary. “Yeah?”
“Definitely. Even after I chucked my bottle at her head.”
I relax a little. That’s not what I expected him to say, and Nathan knows it. His green eyes are equal measures mischievous and mean. Clay flattens a hand on the table as if he’s restraining himself.
“I catch you drinking again, I’m reporting you.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll shape up, sir.”
“I’m not kidding. You’re better than this, and I’m not letting you screw your future.”
“Over one dead girlfriend?” Nathan shoves away from the table and stalks into the bedroom they share.
For a long moment Clay stares at his plate. “Times like this, I wish my dad was here.”
“I’m sorry.” It’s pitiful, not nearly enough.
“He misses our mom more than he lets on.”
Huh? The way he’s talking, this shouldn’t be news to Morgan. But Nathan seldom mentions his mother, except in vague terms of contempt and in jokes about writing a “how not to raise children” manual. I know she isn’t around a lot but that’s all.
“Have you heard from her?” I ask.
Clay shakes his head. “Complete radio silence. It’ll be two years in October.”
That means … holy shit. Does that mean their mom’s taken off for good? Why didn’t Nathan tell me? I assumed, along with everyone else, that she was out drinking and/or shacking up, but that she came back periodically. Clay quit school early in his junior year, and now, now I think I know the real reason why.
I have to reevaluate everything about him.
“I probably never said so, but I admire you for stepping up like you did.”
He lifts one shoulder, getting up to clear the table. “Someone had to, and Nathan’s way more likely to make something of himself.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” I’m surprised to find I mean it.
Clay’s smile is blinding.
13
I get back to the mansion in time for dinner.
Mr. Frost is already waiting for me, equal measures peeved and hungry. This is a man who isn’t accustomed to being kept waiting, and to make matters worse, he has a guest. He’s tall and lean with features too strong to be handsome, heavy at brow and chin, yet there’s something striking about him as well. His medium-brown hair is cut meticulously, and his navy pinstriped suit looks expensive. Our visitor rocks a red power tie … and he’s also the one Morgan’s kissing in the photo upstairs.
I only know him as “Step One.”
Shock leaves me struggling to breathe for a few seconds, and a swell of nausea makes me feel like I can’t get through dinner. But Mr. Frost will probably overreact if I bail. I fix Morgan’s cool smile in place and move toward Step One, extending a hand. To my astonishment, he takes it and pulls me in for a hug, and then kisses my cheek. In front of Mr. Frost. I glance over at him but he doesn’t seem to read anything wrong about it. Strike Step One—he’s Mr. Creepy from now on.
“You get prettier all the time,” Mr. Creepy says.
“Thank you.”
“How’re you feeling, sweetheart?” The endearment makes my skin crawl, as he hasn’t let go of my hand. “I visited you in the hospital but you hadn’t woken up yet.”
“That was nice,” I say politely.
How many nights has Morgan calmly had dinner with her father and her secret boyfriend? My hands are shaking as I follow them into the dining room. The few meals I’ve eaten with Mr. Frost, we had in the breakfast nook, which is a deceptive phrase, as the space is still bigger than the kitchen at my old house. Thinking that gives me such a pang.
Mrs. Rhodes is setting hot dishes on the table, already laid with delicate, expensive china patterned with cherry blossoms. I sit to my father’s right and Mr. Creepy takes the chair opposite mine. How can he be so cool about this? I wonder why he isn’t worried that Morgan will tell her father everything.
“It looks delicious,” Mr. Frost tells the housekeeper.
Her smile says she’s not immune to his awkward charm, though she’s probably fifteen years older. Mr. Creepy is watching me with a secretive glint in his eyes as Mr. Frost serves the food. They’re having pot roast; I’m eating stir-fried vegetables and tofu. I never realized how lucky I was as Liv, able to eat pretty much whatever I wanted.
“Thanks, it looks good,” I say to Mrs. Rhodes.
She gives me the who are you and what have you done with Morgan look before heading to the kitchen. As I eat, Mr. Frost talks to the creeper, but it’s involved enough that I can’t tell if they have contracts together or what exactly their connection is. It seems like they’ve been acquainted for a while, which makes it even worse that Mr. Creepy would get involved with his friend’s daughter. And the worst thing about this situation is that the guy looks normal.
“Have you thought any more about my proposal?” he’s saying.
“No business at the table.” Mr. Frost glances at me in apology.
“I’m almost done. I can go if you need privacy.”
Mr. Creepy says indulgently, “If you don’t mind, Morgan, that would actually help a lot. I’m under time constraints here and I can’t get your old man locked down.”
“I’ve been a little busy.” Mr. Frost sounds terse, as well he might, considering his daughter was in a coma.
But he doesn’t invite me to stay.
I excuse myself from the table and leave the dining room but I don’t withdraw completely. From this distance I can still hear their voices; a house this size has impressive acoustics. For a few moments the talk is general and then Mr. C says:
“She looks more like her mother every day.” His tone bothers me, like, to the point of sending a cold chill down my spine.
Mr. Frost doesn’t seem to register that note, whatever it is. “I know.”
“Let’s get down to it. Have you made a decision, Randall? I can’t stall the investors indefinitely. You’re the one who said this area could benefit from an influx of capital.”
“Not like that,” Mr. Frost says.
“That’s a no, then.” What an icy tone.
“I think you already knew that.”
“Without you, this proposition is dead in the water. I need your support. What happened to the promise that you’d always be in my corner?”
“I’m not a member of your campaign team. This soft-soap emotional bullshit won’t play here, though the old ladies love it on Sunday morning. And you should have lobbyists working on this. I’m disappointed, Jack, so any promises I made ceased to apply when you stopped keeping yours.”
From there the conversation devolves into a hushed-voice argument. From what I can glean, Mr
. Frost disagrees with his friend’s policies. As I turn, I come face-to-face with Mrs. Rhodes. I’m tempted to apologize and flee, but Morgan would never react that way. I raise a brow, or I try to. I can’t seem to do it, though Morgan could.
“Can I help you?”
Mrs. Rhodes shakes her head and brushes past me; the slight curl to her mouth tells me this is the sort of thing she expects. I wait until she’s moved off down the hall and then I go upstairs quietly. In my room there’s a new Frost Tech Pandemonium X, the latest model, still in the box. Mr. Frost didn’t mention this at the table, so I’ll have to thank him once Creepy Jack leaves.
I open the computer and do the setup. It takes me an hour to download the apps I want and reset Morgan’s passwords. Fortunately she had most of her accounts linked to her phone, so the services text me a code and then let me change the logins. I’ve just gotten into her e-mail account when someone raps on my door.
“Come in.”
Mr. Frost sticks his head in. “I see you found it.”
“Thanks. This is perfect.”
“Did you really say that word?” He smiles to show he’s kidding but there’s an undercurrent that makes me think he truly is startled. “Hope you weren’t too surprised at dinner. Jack just showed up.”
“I noticed some tension.” Maybe I can pump him for information.
“Don’t stress about it. I’m sure it’ll blow over.” No such luck, apparently.
We talk a little more and then he heads off to do some work in his study. I’m about to dig into the secrets of Morgan’s in-box when a text comes in. I pick up the phone, tensed in preparation for another blackmail demand. But the message is from a contact called DL.
Come out, I’m waiting just beyond the gate.
I’m pretty sure I know who this is, and I don’t want to go. But I need as much information as I can gather. My heart’s pounding like a kettle drum as I sneak out the back, across the patio, and stay in the shadow of the trees. It takes me a little while to get down the drive, and I quickly hit the button so I can slip out. There’s a car waiting. Clearly they’ve done this before as the system is down to a science. The idling vehicle is a sleek black BMW, the sporty model. I memorize the license plate number, though I’m not sure how much it’ll help me if this weirdo takes off and doesn’t come back. I’m not surprised at all to find Creepy Jack waiting for me with that off-kilter smile, though I have no idea why Morgan labeled him DL. My best guess is Down Low.