Chasing Truth

  California Senator’s Son Found Dead in his Home: Suicide Suspected…Senator Gilbert and Family Grieve Simon’s Death in a Private Burial Today…Simon Gilbert Found Dead…

  Dead.

  Dead.

  Dead.

  The words flash before me, and my heart picks up speed. Why is Dominic carrying around these articles? I can hardly bear to read the headlines, let alone see the photo of Simon smiling in the suit he wore to spring formal. A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead and neck, and my chest tightens. The dark room is suddenly too much. Too creepy. I’m used to being on the criminal side of these break-ins, finding people’s weaknesses, their vulnerabilities, not letting them find mine.

  I tuck the items back into Dominic’s backpack. I’m about to bolt, but a pen rolls from the bag. The words “St. Felicity’s Shelter” are printed across it. I examine it, yanking off the cap. My breath catches in my throat, refusing to let a gasp escape.

  It’s a listening device.

  Someone bugged Dominic?

  The bedroom door swings open before I can make a move to hide.

  CHAPTER 11

  Miles stands in the doorway, shirtless and dripping wet. Considering he’s been witness to my not-so-honest behavior a few times over the last week, I begin to panic before he even opens his mouth.

  “What are you doing in here?” he demands, arms folded over his muscled chest. “Dominic told me he keeps this door locked.” His gaze drifts from my face lower, to my hands. “What have you got?”

  I jump to my feet, smoothing my dress back into place with one hand, the other behind my back, concealing the pen. My pulse is out of control. I need an angle quick before I lose my cool. Considering he’s already caught me flushing drugs down the school bathroom toilet to avoid getting caught with them, then lying to a teacher about it, I can’t pull a teasing, bad-girl move on Miles again. I need something else, something that appeals to a different sense. Something he won’t expect.

  “What are you hiding behind your back?” He moves toward me. “Show me.”

  I put both hands behind me, slide the pen into my purse, and dig for the pills Bret gave me. I attempt to step around Miles, knowing he won’t let me. “I don’t have anything. I just made a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom.”

  “Right.” He plants his hard, wet body in front of me. If I didn’t have other concerns, I would take a moment to enjoy this view. “Then show me your hands, Ellie.”

  “What are you, the party police?” I snap, then I push myself deeper, further into this role. I take one look at his face, his stance in front of me, and make it clear that I’ve accepted defeat. “Fine.”

  I uncurl my fingers, revealing the two blue pills. Miles flips on the light and leans in to get a closer look. “What are these?”

  “Aleve,” I try.

  He rolls his eyes. “Ecstasy, right?”

  I channel myself from moments ago, finding those articles, seeing Simon again in the photos, remembering him the night before he was found dead, smiling and strapping a corsage around my wrist. And before I know it, a lump has formed in my throat, tears budding in the corners of my eyes and panic in my voice when I speak. “Please don’t tell my sister. Or Aidan. You can keep the pills; I swear I won’t take them…”

  He lifts a brow. “You want me to lie for you? Again?” He shakes his head. “Yeah, not happening.”

  I shove past him, suppressing a sob, and head straight for the bathroom, locking the door before he can get in the way. Miles bangs on the door. I check myself out in the mirror and splash some water on my face, smearing my mascara.

  “I swear if I hear a toilet flush…” Miles shouts through the door.

  “You don’t get what it’s like,” I tell him. Story, Ellie, come on, you got this. Teenage drama. It’s not rocket science. It all revolves around a handful of subjects—school, friends, boyfriends…parents. Bingo. “My dad will kill me. He already sent me away to live with my sister. He hates me. I’m nothing but a screwup to him.”

  My proclamations must be scaring Miles, because his tone changes. “Ellie, just come out and we can talk about this. Maybe it’s not so bad to tell your sister. Doesn’t mean she’ll tell anyone else. She seems cool. And so does Lawren— Aidan.”

  There he goes again with the last-name thing.

  The doorknob rattles and eventually turns. I place myself on the floor in front of the sink when the door finally opens. Miles steps inside and squats down in front of me. He’s got his jeans back on now. Maybe they were in the bedroom with Dominic’s stuff? No, they were lying across the back of the couch. Dammit, I could have gotten his wallet. I’m seriously out of practice. I force my thoughts back to the articles in Dominic’s bag and the words playing on repeat…found dead….dead….dead.

  Fresh tears fall from my eyes. My makeup is probably a mess now. I swipe my arm across my face like the mess embarrasses me. Then I open my hand, showing Miles the pills. “I didn’t take them. Or flush them.”

  I expect him to go back to his stiff, I-hate-your-type stance the moment he sees that I’m okay, but Miles surprises me by taking a seat on the bathroom floor right in front of me. “So your dad’s an ass?”

  “He’s…” I sniffle. “He’s a preacher. At a church in Utah. I’m an embarrassment to him. He wanted to send me to rehab for smoking pot and doing E a few times. But then my mom and Harper thought maybe I could just…” I sink further into my character and break down in sobs, pressing my face against my knees. “Doesn’t matter. They’re going to send me there anyway.”

  Miles’s hands land on my bare shoulders. A flutter emerges in my stomach, but I force it away. “Look, Ellie—”

  “I wasn’t even going to take them.” I lift my head, staring into his swirling blue eyes. Despite my suspicions about Miles’s sudden appearance with the cool kids, there is something in his face—his eyes especially—that screams honesty. And it’s not like he hasn’t already made his opinions known, his straightforward, simple thoughts regarding black, white, and gray behaviors. I stand abruptly and wipe my face again with one hand. “Forget it. You’re not gonna believe me.”

  “I might believe you.” He stands in front of me again, still shirtless, still blocking the door. He lifts both my hands, takes the pills from one of them, drops them into the pocket of his jeans. Then his right index and middle finger travel to the inside of my wrist. My breath catches; I can’t help it. He smells like sun and fresh air and has those eyes that hold layers and layers of thoughts. He steps closer, his face now inches from mine. “Now tell me again… Did you plan on taking the ecstasy you snagged from Dominic’s stuff?”

  I look right into his eyes. I know exactly what he’s doing but I don’t know why or how he knows to do this. My pulse picks up, and his face tightens. I release a short, nervous laugh. “Where did you pick up this human-lie-detector skill?”

  “A Peter Abrahams novel, I think.” His forehead wrinkles. “Maybe it was Stephen King…”

  I slide another inch in his direction. I can feel his warm breath hitting my cheek. “And you aren’t planning on considering the fact that maybe other influences could cause my pulse to speed up?”

  His mouth forms an O, but he clamps it shut quickly. Color creeps up his neck. His voice comes out in a whisper, deep and intense. “Answer the question, Ellie.”

  One slow, quiet inhale, and I’ve got my heart rate in check. “I wasn’t planning on taking ecstasy or any other drugs tonight.”

  “Good.” He continues to search my face. “And several days ago, at school, what were you really doing with those drugs?”

  The fingers pressing gently into the inside of my wrist throb as Miles’s pulse picks up. Huh. This could be useful. I reach for that emotional duress from moments ago and wait for a few more tears to tumble down my cheeks. “Dominic…he planted drugs on that Cody kid, and it reminded me of…” I swallow the lump in my throat. Truth is so much harder to speak than lies. I can’t do it. I can’t bring S
imon into this tangled mess. “Well, I didn’t want anyone else to end up where I’m at. Fighting with myself all the time. Or in trouble for something he didn’t do.”

  “Are you in trouble for something you didn’t do?” Miles asks.

  His fingers are still on me, his body heat in my space. I lean forward and rest my forehead on Miles’s shoulder. He stiffens immediately, so much that I almost back away. But instead, I give him a few seconds. He seems to make a decision about me because his shoulders sink back down, and one hand lands on my back.

  “Hey…I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know what you were doing.”

  If I wasn’t so captivated by the scent and feel of his skin against my face, I would probably be working hard not to laugh. This was almost too easy. Here I thought Miles might provide a real challenge for me, given his no-bullshit approach to every situation. I mean, I’m pretty much 90 percent bullshit.

  I turn my head slightly, and my mouth is practically brushing against his neck. Gravity seems to push me from behind, wanting my lips against Miles’s skin. Or maybe it’s me who wants that. I’ve only been with one guy on my own terms. He was part of my “family” (though not a blood relative because ew) and it turned out about as bad as you could imagine considering he’s very much like me. For a second, I toy with the idea of being here in this spot and exploring this boy simply out of curiosity. What would that be like? I lay my palm on the side of his neck. Beneath it, his pulse speeds. Uh-oh. Maybe Miles will prove to be a challenge for me after all. Though not the kind I’d originally imagined.

  But logic takes over the curiosity. I’ve done what I needed to do, gained his trust. Now I need to keep it. I slide my arms around his neck and give him a squeeze, one that hopefully feels friendly. “Thanks for talking me down from the ledge. I’m trying not to be messed up but…yeah.”

  I start to pull away, only Miles is still holding on. He seems to realize this and quickly drops his arms to his sides. The sound of footsteps clambering down the stairs sends both of us glancing out the open bathroom door. I make a move to leave, but Miles touches my arm. “Wait.”

  He moves closer again, and I suck in a breath, holding it. His hands lift and grip the sides of my face. For a moment, I panic—is he about to kiss me? Then he slides his thumbs underneath my eyes. Black mascara marks his skin. My heart nearly stops. I force the air out of my lungs. He leans back, looks me over, and then nods. “There. Much better.”

  We step out of the space of the small bathroom before anyone appears. But still, two girls from our class give Miles and me a strange look like they’re not sure if we were in the bathroom together. They both go in, shutting the door and leaving the area below deck pretty dark. Miles catches my hand before I can go upstairs.

  “Promise me something?”

  I spin to face him. “What?”

  Lines of worry crease his face. “Let me know if you see Dominic planting drugs on people,” he says. “Don’t try to handle it alone again, okay?”

  I nod. “Okay. But why are you hanging out with them? Why do you even care what I do?”

  “I don’t know.” He swallows. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t care. Or want the truth.”

  And with that, he steps around me and heads back up to the deck of the yacht. I shake off the weird worry that I said the wrong thing. Again. Just when I think I’ve got Miles figured out, he does something that throws me off my game. And I still don’t know what was up with the naked girl last weekend. Did they hook up?

  Why do I care? I don’t. Definitely not.

  And what truth does he want? The truth about the bag of drugs? Or the truth about me? If it’s the latter, let’s hope he stops searching.

  Back on the main deck, the music has grown louder and the voices more animated as everyone gets drunker. Bret spots me and walks over. Like Miles, he’s dripping wet, but he’s tossed on a T-shirt. “Where have you been? You missed the big race. Beckett cheated, in case you were wondering.”

  “How do you cheat at a swimming race? Did he drink a Red Bull before? Take some of your Adderall?”

  “He said he wasn’t that fast,” Bret tells me, making an excuse to lean closer. “The guy was like a fucking seal.”

  “A seal?”

  Bret proceeds to give me a play-by-play of the race. I can’t focus on what he’s saying, though. I’m still all mixed up from the emotional roller coaster I put myself on. My gaze travels across the yacht, down to the end of the pier to the man leaning against a light post.

  I touch the front of Bret’s shirt. “Hey, I think my ride’s here.”

  “Oh, really?” He sounds disappointed, which is encouraging. He leans down, way too close to my face, and I’m fighting that urge to back away again. “I don’t have your number.”

  I lift an eyebrow, waiting, and then finally I give in. “Are you asking for it?”

  He hands me his phone, and I punch in my number. “Eleanor Ames. In my contacts. You look good in there.”

  “Thanks.” I roll my eyes the second I turn my back to him. He’s a dumb drunk. I much prefer a wild, table-dancing drunk, but now isn’t the time to be picky. I say a quick good-bye to Justice and Chantel. Justice looks ready to drill me with questions about Bret, but then Miles drifts toward her and she’s got a new distraction.

  When I reach the end of the pier, I stand in front of Jakowski—Jack—with my arms folded across my chest. “And what are you doing here?”

  He shrugs. “You know, in the neighborhood.”

  “Yeah right.” I narrow my eyes. “Aidan sent you to babysit me?”

  “He may have asked me to swing by and see if you needed a ride.” He nods toward the black SUV belonging to the Secret Service. “So…you need a ride or are you planning to join your drunk and disorderly classmates for an all-nighter?”

  My eyebrows rise. “Judgmental much?”

  “Hey.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “Did you see me busting in and hauling your ass out of there?”

  “Fine.” I sigh and follow him to the car. “I’m still not a fan of Aidan sending babysitters to parties.”

  Once we’re on the road, the pen in my purse is practically burning a hole through the beaded material. I need to disable it. Luckily Jack sticks to my algebra class as a topic for the ride home.

  “My teacher wants me to take precalc in the summer,” I tell him.

  “That’s good news. Means you’re getting everything down,” Jack says. When I don’t look excited, he laughs. “Calculus has a rep for being advanced but it’s really not. People who hate algebra and geometry end up loving calc.”

  “Surely someone besides me hates all academic math?” I stare out the window. “Feels like all they talk about at school is SAT and ACT scores and how to get them higher. I barely even think about that stuff.”

  “Well, why the hell not? I’ll make a program for you. When you get past all your ‘I’m no good at this bullshit,’ you’re pretty damn good at it.” He looks at me for a second then back at the road. “I think you have a ton of potential; you can’t let small things like math keep you out of the game.”

  The thing is, planning a future, taking tests for college, that’s not for people like me. My parents made sure I wouldn’t have that life years ago when they decided I didn’t need a real identity, when they taught me how to be a criminal. Of course Jack doesn’t know any of this. Though sometimes, the things he says…I wonder if he knows something. Maybe not everything, but something.

  When I get home, I lock the door to my bedroom and dig for the pen in my purse. I examine it carefully. It’s similar to a device I had on me when I walked into that bank expecting my dad to meet me. That one belonged to the FBI. Does that mean the FBI is still investigating Simon’s death?

  My fingers move quickly over the tiny device and disable it. Like I would have liked to do nine months ago when my mother took my dad’s place during the final stretch of a long con that failed in the worst way possible.

  With t
he device no longer a threat, I sink into the bed and finally allow myself to freak out over everything. Why did Dominic have all those articles about Simon?

  Aidan once told me, during a game of memory, one of the biggest mistakes an investigator can make is lumping two separate pieces of evidence together simply because they were found in the same box. Or backpack in this case. But my father always said, someone with diamonds on the ears and finger was hiding a pile of cash beneath her mattress.

  I flip over the tiny metal bug in my palm. I don’t know whose advice is right, but I do know someone is trying to learn something from Dominic DeLuca.

  CHAPTER 12

  It’s dark out by the time Harper and I leave the care of the chef/teacher, after our Sunday night cooking class at the Jewish Community Center. We—by we I mean me—managed to avoid setting anything on fire or explosions in general, which I consider a huge success. Harper is pretty much on top of the world while we walk home, our stomachs full of kosher meat.

  “I’m not saying I want to have kids anytime soon. Just someday…” Harper argues.

  I’ve been accusing her of all kinds of things relating to kids and family this evening, trying to get to the bottom of her learning-to-cook obsession. While our food cooked, she had gushed over pictures of the toddler twins she nannies and, after being forced to look at a hundred drool-filled pictures, I’d accused her of wanting babies.

  “Think about it,” I say, playing devil’s advocate. “You bring a kid into this world and he or she will have a mother who uses a fake name, can’t legally work—”