Lies I Told (10 page)

I raced home from school and did a quick check of the house. I knew it was irrational. We were careful. Had been trained to be careful. Other than Parker's lapse at the Cove, we never even spoke about the con outside of the War Room, and we definitely didn't leave anything incriminating lying around the house. Our work meant being up close and personal with our marks for weeks or even months. People dropped by, invited themselves over.

Anything could happen.

Still, I wanted to be sure. I'd never had people over before. Had never wanted to risk it. Working an angle meant knowing stuff about everyone else, not letting them in on the details of my own life. I'd gotten good at manipulating people into inviting me places instead.

So why, then, had I invited Selena and the others to my
house? Why risk it when I could have suggested a girls' night somewhere out on the town?

I didn't know, but I'd felt off ever since arriving in Playa Hermosa. Like I was slipping. Like there were details just beyond the periphery of my vision. Things I should be seeing, needed to see, but just couldn't. I was distracted. By Logan and my attraction to him. By Selena and the desire to have a true friend. By Parker and the distance that was wedging itself between us like an immoveable mountain.

I suddenly wanted to call the whole thing off, to tell Selena and the others that I'd changed my mind, something had come up, I wasn't feeling well. But it was too late. They were on their way. I'd just have to make the best of it.

I combed the living room, reassured by the photos of Parker and me with our parents. There weren't many—and they'd been carefully chosen, taken in places that couldn't be identified with all of us looking like we looked now—but it was enough to make the house look like a home.

I had finished my pass of the second floor and was checking the door to the War Room, making sure it was closed, when the first knock sounded from the front of the house. It was Selena, dropped off by her dad. Rachel, Harper, and Olivia followed, and I ushered them inside, trying to calm my nervousness as I showed them the first floor of the house. We ended up in the kitchen, where everyone settled around the island as I poured iced tea. I listened, taking it all in as they talked about school and college and the guys. It was nice. Normal. Even Rachel seemed comfortable, although
there was no way to know if it was an act or if she was really coming around.

It was almost five when my mom showed up with takeout salads and sandwiches. I'd sent her a warning text about the sleepover, and she looked calm and unruffled as she unpacked the food. She was regaling us with stories about a woman at the gym who was in her eighties and ran the treadmill dressed head to toe in a hot pink Juicy sweat suit when I noticed Rachel's gaze fixed on something across the room.

I followed her eyes to the massive farmhouse-style dining table near the window. Or, more specifically, to the price tag still attached to one of its legs.

Shit.

I scanned the room surreptitiously, looking for other evidence of our all-new decor. But there was nothing. No way for Rachel to know that all our furniture had come from Mortise & Tenon in Hermosa Beach. Or that everything had been bought a week before we'd moved in, right down to the sheets on the beds, brand-spanking-new.

I needed to chill. Not let Rachel get under my skin.

It was too early for dinner, so we stuffed the food in the fridge and headed out to the pool. It was still warm, and Olivia and Selena wasted no time diving into the deep end. They were animated, splashing each other like kids and floating around on foam noodles, chatting nonstop while Harper sat on the edge, moving her legs idly through the water.

I snagged a lawn chair next to Rachel, clad in a tiny black bikini, her eyes invisible behind the lenses of huge gold-rimmed sunglasses. I didn't bother trying to make nice. It would only backfire with someone like her, so I just sat there, head tipped back to the sun, hyperaware of every move she made.

A few minutes later she spoke without turning to look at me. “You got your dining room table from Mortise and Tenon's.”

I opened my eyes, momentarily thrown. “I don't know.” I tried to sound bored. “My mom bought it. Our other one was old. No point paying to move it when we could just buy a new one here.” I laughed. “Or that's what she told my dad anyway.”

“My mom's a designer,” Rachel said, turning to look at me. “One of her best friends owns M and T's. I practically grew up in that store. I know every stick of furniture there.”

I forced my voice steady. “That's awesome. I don't know much about that stuff. My mom picks out all our stuff.”

I thought Rachel was holding my gaze, but I couldn't be sure with the sunglasses. “Where's your restroom?” she finally asked.

“Down the hall by the kitchen, second door on your right.”

She flashed me a smile. “Thanks.”

She walked away, oozing confidence, her legs long, lean, and just the slightest bit tan. When she disappeared into the
house, I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, trying to talk myself down.

A new dining table didn't mean anything. A whole houseful of new furniture—even purchased from the same store at the same time—didn't mean anything. Not in a place like Playa Hermosa, where people redecorated whenever they got bored. Rachel was just a spoiled rich girl, not some kind of all-knowing Confucius.

“Hey!” A voice startled me into a sitting position. It was Olivia, leaning back on the patio next to Selena and Harper. Their hair was still wet, but their bodies were almost dry. How long had they been out of the pool?

“You falling asleep on us?” Olivia asked.

“I guess so.” I looked at the empty chair next to me and swung my feet onto the warm patio. “Is Rachel still in the bathroom?”

Olivia shrugged. “I have no idea.”

I stood. “I'll go check on her.”

I tried to look unhurried as I headed into the house, but all of a sudden, I couldn't quite catch my breath. The instincts I'd honed on the grift were screaming that something was wrong.

I walked through the French doors and made my way down the hall, scanning for signs of Rachel. For the first time since we'd moved to Playa Hermosa, I was a little creeped out by the house.

It was too quiet.

Parker was playing volleyball with the guys, and I had
no idea where my dad was. The bathroom door downstairs was open, the light off. I checked the kitchen, just to make sure Rachel wasn't topping off her iced tea, but she wasn't there, either.

“Rachel?” I continued to the staircase, stopping briefly when I heard the sound of running water.

My mom in the shower of the master bedroom.

My heart beat faster as I walked carefully up the stairs. The sound of running water got louder as I reached the top of the staircase, and I peeked into my bedroom, wondering if Rachel was snooping. It was empty.

I turned down the hall, careful not to make any noise, hoping to catch Rachel in the act of doing whatever she was doing that had brought her upstairs when there was a bathroom right inside the patio doors, second door on the right, just like I'd told her.

“Oh, hey,” Rachel said, stepping out of the second-floor powder room.

“What are you doing up here?” I asked.

A triumphant expression crossed her face in the moment before she composed her features into a familiar mask of indifference. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”

“Downstairs, second door on the right, remember?”

“Oh! I thought you meant the upstairs hall. Sorry about that.” She headed for the staircase, turning back to look at me. “Aren't you coming?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I just need to get some more sunscreen. I'll see you outside.”

She turned and made her way down the stairs.

When she was gone, I hurried down the hall, checking the doors to all the bedrooms. Everything was fine until I got to the War Room.

The door wasn't closed all the way.

I thought back, walking through my pre–girl's night prep. I'd closed the door to the War Room all the way. I was sure of it.

I hurried into the room, closing the door behind me. Then I crossed to the table where we'd had our strategy meeting. A wave of panic hit me as I bent to the trash can under the shredder.

It was empty. The pieces of paper, remnants of the map I'd drawn of the Fairchild property, were gone.

“So . . . what's the deal with you and Logan?”

Olivia's question was innocent enough, but I couldn't stop my eyes from sliding to Rachel, sitting on the floor of the living room while she painted her toenails.

She looked up at me, the tiny brush poised over her pinky toe. “It's not like it's a secret, Grace. You've been hanging out together all week.”

I searched her voice for a trace of emotion. Was she pissed? Jealous? I couldn't tell. Her tone was as cool as ever.

We'd eaten dinner in the living room while watching
Mean Girls
. I'd seen it more times than I could count with girls from New York to Seattle. It was classic sleepover fare, and as the movie rolled across the screen, I had flashes of pink bedrooms and blue bedrooms, girls in sweatpants and boxers, pizza and M&Ms. The memories were like ghosts,
both close enough to touch and far enough away to make me wonder if they were real at all.

I'd watched Rachel carefully since discovering her breach of the War Room, but she didn't seem any different, and after a while, I convinced myself I was being paranoid. My mom had probably emptied the trash after our meeting. Rachel was just nosy, checking out our house to see how it compared to the other mansions on the peninsula. Even if she had gotten ahold of the map, it would be almost impossible to piece together from the shredder.

“So?” Olivia prompted, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

I shrugged, measuring my response. “Nothing's really happened.”

Olivia snorted. “Sounds like that's about to change.”

“What do you mean?” I asked her.

“Tomorrow night?”

I looked at her through narrowed eyes. “How do you know about that?”

She grinned. “I have my sources.”

“What's happening tomorrow night?” Selena asked.

“Grace is going over to Logan's to watch a movie,” Olivia said, putting
watch a movie
in air quotes.

I laughed and threw one of the sofa pillows at her. “Very funny.”

“Everyone knows watching a movie is code for making out,” Harper said, capping a bottle of sea-green nail polish and blowing on her fingernails.

My stomach fluttered as she said it, which was stupid. I'd
made out with plenty of guys, always in the name of the con. I'd never understood what all the fuss was about. It was fun. Nice. But it was no big deal. So why did my insides flip-flop at the idea of kissing Logan?

“Maybe she wants to make out with Logan.” Rachel's voice was even as she wiggled her toes.

Selena cut a worried glance my way.

I met Rachel's eyes. “Would that be a problem? Because I'm not looking to stir things up.”

As long as it didn't jeopardize the con, I didn't care if I stirred things up. I was just playing nice, making a last-ditch effort at connecting with Rachel before I gave up on her for good.

Rachel seemed to think about it. “Go for it. I don't want him anymore.”

Anger rushed through my body like a renegade wave. She'd said it like Logan was some kind of toy to be tossed aside when Rachel outgrew him. Like he wasn't nice and smart and amazing. Like any girl wouldn't be lucky to have him.

“Your loss.” I muttered the words before I could stop them from escaping my lips.

Her eyes flashed emerald fire. “If you say so.”

The room descended into an awkward silence. Finally, Olivia moved to grab her phone. “We need music.”

She was still playing around, looking for some new band she wanted us all to hear, when Rachel spoke. “Where's Parker?”

There was an air of forced boredom about the question. Like she knew I'd see through it. Like she wanted me to.

I shrugged. “I think he might be out with the guys.”

She reached for the coffee table, grabbing one of the fashion magazines my mom kept there. “Maybe I should see if he wants to hang out tomorrow night,” she said, idly turning pages. “You know, since it's shaping up to be a date night and everything.” She looked up, leveling her eyes at me. “Would that be a problem? Because I'm not looking to stir anything up either.”

“Not at all. Parker can do what he wants.”

She smirked, turning her eyes back to the magazine as music blasted from Olivia's phone filling the room with electric guitar and synth so loud I felt like I was at a rave.

“You should try this one,” Selena said, passing me a bottle of pale pink polish with a sympathetic smile. “It'll look nice on you.”

I took it, grateful for the distraction as I twisted the cap off the bottle. So Rachel was stepping up her game with Parker. So what? It was good for the con. The more people we had in play, the better. At least one of us would be on Rachel's good side. And if anyone could handle her, it was Parker.

Still, something about it didn't sit right. I didn't like the idea of Rachel and Parker being tight. It wasn't jealousy. Blood or not, Parker was my brother. It was something else. A protective instinct usually reserved for the times when Parker got lost in his own darkness. He'd always been his own worst enemy, but now I suddenly felt like there might be another threat. Someone who could do even more damage to Parker—and to the rest of us—than he could do to himself.

I was sitting at the kitchen table the next morning, flipping through a magazine, when Parker came in holding a wet towel. He set it one of the chairs and headed for the fridge.

“What's with the vans in the driveway?” he asked.

“Allied is here talking to Dad about the new security system.” I took in his wet hair and the fine coating of sand on his tan forearms. “Where have you been?”

“Surfing with the guys.” His smile was a little sheepish. “I actually kind of like it, although I'll have to get a wet suit if we stay here much longer.”

“I'm glad.” It was nice to see him enjoy something, and I had a glimpse of him the way he might have been, minus the foster homes and suicide attempts. Just a regular guy, surfing with his friends and scamming girls, applying to colleges and backpacking through Europe.

He pulled out a carton of orange juice and took a swig from it despite the fact that our mom had told him it was disgusting more times than I could count.

“The girls went home?” he asked when he'd drained half of the juice.

I nodded.

He closed the fridge. “How did it go?”

I thought about Rachel's possible breach of the War Room, but it didn't really matter. I didn't have any proof. “Fine. I don't think Rachel's going to come around, but everyone else is good.”

“I've got Rachel covered,” he said. “She sent me a text this morning asking if I wanted to hang tonight.”

“Are you going to?” I asked him.

He looked surprised. “Well . . . yeah. I mean, she's one of the players. As Dad would say, it's my job.” He grabbed the wet towel and headed for the stairs. “I'm going to hit the shower.”

I sat there, a funny, fluttery feeling in my stomach.
This is why we're here
, I reminded myself.
To get close to Logan and everyone else in his social circle. To learn all we can about them.
Parker was right. We all had jobs to do. We couldn't afford to let personal feelings—good or bad—jeopardize the con.

I headed for the stairs. I had homework to do before my date with Logan. Plus, I needed to find something to wear. It seemed frivolous in the grand scheme of things, but my job was to make Logan like me. To reel him in, as my dad would say. The right outfit would only help.

That's what I told myself anyway.

I glanced into the living room on my way up the stairs. My dad was sitting on the sofa with two of the guys from Allied, pouring over a large blueprint of the house.

“We can also put cameras here and here,” one of the men said, touching the paper with his index finger. “Those are the most likely places for a breach.”

“I think Warren said he had sensors on some of the windows, too,” my dad said. He glanced innocently at the blueprints like he was trying to make sense of them. I watched as he let the silence sit. Waited for the men from Allied to fill it.

“Exactly,” the second guy said. “On all of the first-floor windows, in fact.”

My dad nodded. “That's right. I'd forgotten. Let's do the same here then.”

I continued up the stairs, torn between admiration and disgust. They were talking about Logan's house. The one that belonged to his sweet mother and his sick father. Nice people who'd probably never hurt anyone. Who hadn't cheated or stolen their way to wealth. Who'd just had the good fortune to inherit it, and from the looks of things weren't the worst people in the world to have it.

I took a shower so my hair could dry before my date with Logan, then settled onto my bed with my laptop. Looking at the empty folders on my desktop was weird, even after all this time, but it was standard protocol to wipe our computers after each job. I didn't understand the technicalities. Computers weren't really my thing. But as soon as we
finished a job, my dad took our computers, installed a disc, and deleted everything we'd accumulated from our hard drives. Letters, essays, flyers for Drama Club or awareness posters for the Multicultural Diversity Society. All gone like we'd never been part of it at all.

The schoolwork at Playa Hermosa High wasn't as challenging as the work I'd had on the East Coast last year, but I still had two papers to write before Monday, and for a while I forgot all about the con, lost in my essay on
The Scarlet Letter
, glad I'd already read it. The light was starting to fade, blocked by the house as the sun moved over the water, when I heard the humming.

I set my laptop aside and walked to the window, following the sound. It was the man next door, and this time I had a clear shot of his face. I couldn't help being surprised. I'd gotten used to seeing him in shadow, seeing only pieces of his face. Gotten used to the idea that he was being purposefully coy. Which was crazy.

But now he was right there, sitting on a deck chair facing our house, his head tipped back to catch the fading sunlight. His head was bare, wisps of gray hair barely covering his scalp. Although his face was moderately lined, I couldn't tell how old he was. Fifty? Sixty? I couldn't be sure, but I took in the details, cataloging and storing them for later without knowing why.

His body was trim and toned, pale legs emerging from beneath plaid swim trunks and wiry, muscular arms pulling at the white T-shirt that covered his torso. His jawline
was slightly shadowed—he hadn't shaved in a while—and his nose was a little crooked, like it had been broken a couple of times and never quite set right.

He seemed at peace, a small smile playing at his lips as he hummed a tune I didn't recognize. It sounded like the others I'd heard him singing, with the same smoky undertone, and I found myself wishing I could hear the words. Like they would offer some kind of commentary—some kind of message—about what was happening with the con, with Parker, with my feelings for Logan.

The back of my neck tingled, and I suddenly had the feeling that he was looking right at me, studying me from behind his sunglasses. That everything he did was deliberate, as if he could somehow know I would follow the sound of his humming at that exact moment. That I would come to the window. That I would even care.