Dirty Little Lies (Dirty Little #2) (11 page)

She’s always wanted approval, and I’m happy to give it to her here, especially when she’s doing such great work.
 

“After this next series of shots are done, how about we break for lunch?”
 

Felicity nods. “Sounds good.”
 

The shoot is catered, but I’d like to sneak away with her for a quick chat, and don’t want to be disturbed if I can possibly help it.
 

“There’s a place around the corner that has good salads,” I suggest.
 

She smiles at me. “I’d like that.”
 

* * *

Felicity and I manage to grab a couple of salads to go; the restaurant was way too crowded to be able to talk to her (and actually be able to hear her answers), which was the whole point of me asking her to lunch. We find a quiet corner of the studio to sit down and eat in.
 

As she’s munching away on a forkful of lettuce, I say, “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me, even if you think that I won’t want to hear the answer, okay?”
 

Felicity gives me a curious look, and I figure I better explain more about my motivation here before expecting her to agree.
 

“I’m not talking to you as your boss for the day,” I say, dipping a tomato into some dressing. “I’m talking to you as a concerned sister.”
 

Felicity takes a deep breath, and nods in acknowledgment. She sits rod straight, her eyes wide, probably afraid that I’m going to ask her to break the code of friendship or something.

“Okay,” she says reluctantly.
 

“Is Corinne okay? I talk to her a couple times a week, and I think I’m pretty good at reading her. She seems like she’s doing fine, but I know that you saw her just the other day, and you would know better than I would if she’s dealing as well as she’s saying she is.”
 

Felicity puts down her fork, and looks at the ground.
 

“You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to, or that Corinne has asked you not to. I’m not trying to pry, honestly. I’d like to go visit her, but she told me not to…I think she’s worried that I’ll hover, or that I’ll never leave,” I say with a nervous laugh. “I want to respect her wishes, but I also want to make sure that she isn’t struggling more than she’s letting on, and I’m just letting it slide and not helping her when she needs it.”
 

What I really want to do is show her the photos that man gave me, and ask her if she knows who he is. But there aren’t any shots of his face, and the security guy that’s been looking out for her hadn’t ever seen the man in the picture before. I didn’t want to go so far as to post a guard outside of her apartment, so I had told the guy to give her some space. I’m regretting that now.
 

Plus, I can’t ask about the guy without showing Felicity the picture, and if I do that, she’ll tell Corinne. I don’t want Corinne to worry about anything that she doesn’t have to worry about. I’m going to take care of this, I just have to figure out…
how
.
 

“She’s doing okay, Marisa.” Felicity smiles, probably because she’s felt the overbearing protectiveness of her brother several times throughout her life to know that even though we ask tough questions, we definitely mean well. “School is fine, she’s going to graduate on time. Please don’t worry about that. It’s just…it’s rough for her right now. There’s gossip about her, and she’s never been as confident as you are, so it’s a little bit difficult for her to deal with all that. But she
is
dealing. She’s doing okay. If you have some vision of her crying herself to sleep every night, well…it’s nothing like that.”
 

I have to smile at how well Felicity can read me. I definitely didn’t think that Corinne was crying herself to sleep at night, but I did wonder if she was feeling a little lonely.
 

“Okay, thank you,” I say, reaching over and giving her forearm a little reassuring squeeze.

“She’s strong, and she’s doing okay. She has a good role model to look up to.”
 

I lean forward, curious. I want to know who this person is, so I can do a background check on them. I’m only partly kidding about that. I’m hoping she’s going to tell me, but when she doesn’t come out with a name, my curiosity gets the better of me.

“Who is it?”
 

Felicity’s eyes narrow. “Who is who?”
 

“Corinne’s role model.”
 

Felicity rolls her eyes. “Are you serious right now?”
 

“Yes,” I say slowly, not sure what she’s so confused about.

“It’s you, you idiot. I’m talking about you.”
 

“Me?” I’m so stunned that it’s difficult for me to even comprehend what she’s talking about.
 

“Yes, you.” She bumps my shoulder with hers.

I feel so much pride right now, that I think my chest might break apart from it. It makes me feel like something in this world is right after so many things have gone wrong, and it definitely drives me to do right by Corinne as far as these photos are concerned. I can’t let her down. I just can’t.
 

So I finish my lunch sitting across from the very sweet young woman whose brother I’m trying to figure out how to betray.
 

Thanks to Felicity’s efficiency, and the fact that I’m too lost in my own thoughts and anxiety to really debate about much, the shoot ends ahead of schedule. As a crew disassembles the sets, I sit in a flimsy director’s chair in a shadowy corner of the studio, going over my options for about the thousandth time.
 

My leg is bouncing, and I’m gnawing on a raggedy thumbnail trying to figure out a scenario in which this whole thing works out well for Corinne.
 

I honestly can’t think of a single one.

The fact of the matter is that I don’t have the slightest clue about how to get that program from Ben, apart from outright asking for it. I’m scared to ask anyone for help, because what if this guy is watching me? What if that triggers a response?
 

Why would anyone come to someone like me with a task like that? If you’re that desperate to get something, wouldn’t you go to a person with specialized skills who could actually get it for you? Maybe he knew I wouldn’t be able to do it…maybe this was all just an exercise to wind me up until he inevitably releases the photos anyway.
 

I mean, the guy somehow got close enough to know about the project, so he had to either work for Ben or know someone who does, right? Every bit of headway that I think I make in figuring this out sends me into another tailspin of panic, of helplessness.
 

I don’t know a way out of this, and sitting in the dark stewing on it isn’t going to help me or Corinne. The closer I inch toward my week deadline, the more anxiety becomes my constant companion.
 

I’m not sleeping well, I can’t stay focused on work, and my thoughts are increasingly funneling down into one pinpointed focus: those pictures, those pictures, those pictures.
 

I’ve got to get out of here, to do something, to get involved in some mindless task that can free up my mind for a few hours. Hell, I’d take a few
minutes
at this point.
 

* * *

About an hour later, I walk into Ben’s office building, holding a bag from his favorite deli. He’s working late tonight, so I figured I’d be a good girlfriend and make sure he eats.
 

All while I’m trying to figure out how to steal from him.
 

The thought makes my stomach roll, as I hand my ID to the guard in the lobby. I had called Ben’s assistant and asked her to put my name on the list to get in, quietly hoping she’d somehow know what I was up to and deny me access.
 

The guard lets me in, of course, and I make my way up to his floor without having a breakdown. I step out into the workspace—it’s the first time I’ve ever been here—and smile at all the ways it’s just so…Ben. It’s collaborative and fun. Employees are huddled around work tables, talking through their ideas, excited about the work that they’re doing. He’s surrounded himself with the kind of people who want to build him up, not tear him down.
 

People completely unlike me.
 

Ben’s assistant lets me into his office, and asks me if I’d like a drink. I don’t think they have enough alcohol in the world to dull the panic rising inside of me, so I gracefully decline. She tells me she has to run and make some copies, that Ben’s in a meeting that’s running long, and to push the red button on his phone if I need anything.
 

I give her my thanks, then walk over to Ben’s desk. It’s pretty clean; Ben—being the tech guy that he is—doesn’t really work with a lot of papers. Seems like most of his files are electronic. There’s a blue sticky note stuck to the corner of his monitor that catches my eye.
 

The name of the program I’ve been looking for is scribbled in Ben’s messy handwriting.

A rush of manic excitement hits me square in the chest. This is my chance, the first chance I’ve had to get that program, and it presented itself completely by accident. I sit down at his desk, and pull the keyboard out of the drawer beneath the monitor.
 

With a jolt of the mouse, the screen comes to life.
 

The picture on the password screen is one he must’ve snuck of me while we were in the diner a few days ago, after I told him I wanted to give this another go. I look…content. I remember being happy, and it feels like that morning was years ago.
 

And here I am, frantically guessing passwords to try to break into his computer. It doesn’t hit me until the third try that Ben’s the kind of guy who would probably install a monitor to let him know when someone’s entering incorrect passwords into his computer.
 

He’s got this picture of me on his desktop, and he’s trying to atone for the things that he did in the past, and I’m sitting here violating his privacy, trying to steal from him.
 

My hands are shaking, and I’m breaking out in a cold sweat. Just this morning Felicity told me that my baby sister looks up to me as a role model, and look at me now. God, how far I’ve fallen in the span of an afternoon.
 

What would she think of me now?
 

She and I completely cut our parents out of our lives when their scandal broke. I still remember the morning we found out that the people we’d loved and looked up to our whole lives weren’t the people we thought they were at all. They were liars and thieves.
 

Just like me.
 

I don’t want my sister’s privacy to be violated, for her body and her life choices to be put out into the world for judgment by the masses. But can I become the kind of person I know she would hate to keep it from happening?
 

I think she would be ashamed of me right now. I know I’m ashamed of myself.
 

I slide off the chair and onto my knees as I clamor for the trash can that’s to the left of Ben’s desk. I barely pull it in front of me in time to retch into it, throwing up what little bit is in my stomach, and crying as I do it.
 

“Jesus, Marisa.” Ben’s panicked voice finds its way through the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears. He drops to his knees next to me and pulls my hair back, his other hand running soothingly up and down my spine. “Do I need to call a doctor? Are you okay?”
 

I’m crying, coughing, and generally a mess. The only thing I can do to communicate is give my head a pitiful shake.
 

“No,” I manage, my voice weak. “I’m just…”
 

Not feeling well wouldn’t quite cover it. What other way could I explain it? That it turns out that maybe I’m not such a great person after all, and maybe he should get away from me while he can? That would be closer to the truth.
 

Ben’s secretary is standing by the doorway, her fingers fidgeting. “Should I call an ambulance?” she asks.

I shake my head vehemently. Absolutely no ambulances.
 

“No,” Ben tells her. He asks her to bring me some tissues, and helps me wipe off my face when she does.
 

Once my stomach has settled and I’m a little less hysterical, Ben gently helps me to my feet, then picks me up. It’s easy, like I weigh nothing.
 

Ben takes me to the ensuite bathroom in his office, and sets me down on top of the (covered) toilet. He turns on the faucet, then pulls a washcloth off of the top of a stack of fluffy white towels just outside of his shower. Despite what I’ve just gone through, somehow my mind drifts into frivolous thoughts, like how often someone comes in and replaces the towels.
 

Once the washcloth is wet to Ben’s satisfaction, he kneels down in front of me, dabbing the cloth on my sweat-dampened skin. He lovingly pushes my hair back from my face, then cups my cheek.