Promises I Made (8 page)

I checked out of the hotel and returned to Selena's the next afternoon. I was nervous as I approached her house, half expecting the police to jump out of the bushes and arrest me on the spot. But the street looked like it had the last two times I'd been there, empty except for the blue SUV and a fuel-efficient hybrid that was totally out of the question as an undercover car for the police.

Selena opened the door before I had a chance to knock, like she'd been waiting for me. “Come on,” she said. “You need to get settled before my dad comes home.”

She led me down the hall, through the French doors off the kitchen and across the brick patio. The yard wasn't large, and the pool occupied most of the space between the house and the fence at the back of the property. The water looked cold under the shade of the cypress trees, and I had a flash
of Selena, Harper, and Olivia floating in the pool on Camino Jardin while Rachel and I lounged on the patio.

We continued past the pool to a small bungalow sheltered by the trees at the rear of the property.

“The pool guys come every Wednesday,” Selena said, “but the supplies are kept in the shed, so you should be okay as long as you stay hidden when they're here.”

I set down my bag and looked around. It was one big room, with a small kitchenette on one wall and French doors that opened onto the pool area. The décor was what Renee would have called uninspired: an overstuffed sofa flanked by end tables, a coffee table, and an armoire against one wall. I liked it. It felt a little like my hotel room. Comfortable and featureless, with nothing to mark my identity, no reminders of the past, nothing to make me wish for a future I'd probably never have.

“What about your dad?” I asked.

“He never comes back here,” Selena said. “It was built before we bought the house, but we don't really use it. Just be careful between seven and eight in the morning and six and seven at night. That's usually when he's going to work and coming home. And don't turn on the lights at night.”

I nodded. “And the bathroom?”

She crossed the room and opened a door next to the kitchen. “It's small, but it'll do the job. Just don't turn on the water when my dad or the pool guys might hear it running.” She walked to the kitchen and opened the small refrigerator that stood against the wall. “I put some food in here for you.
The sofa pulls out. There are blankets in the cabinet. Let me know if you need anything else.”

She was trying to be conversational, but there was a cold undercurrent to her voice that made her sound almost like a stranger. I didn't expect anything more. I was lucky she'd let me stay at all, and I knew it.

“Thank you,” I said. “Really. I don't know what I would do without your help.”

Her throat rippled as she swallowed, and she looked at the floor. “Do you know how long you'll need to stay? I . . . I don't want to get my dad in trouble.”

“I'll be as quick as I can. I just need time to track some of Cormac and Renee's sources. Detective Castillo—”

“Detective Castillo?”

“Do you know him?” I asked her.

“He interviewed us,” she said. “My dad and me.”

“Well, I called him,” I explained. “To see if there was some way to trade information for Parker's release. But he said I didn't have enough. I need to have details: people Renee and Cormac used to help them set up their cons.”

“And you don't have any of that?” Selena asked.

“It's stupid, but I never . . . well, I never asked. Actually, I never insisted. I
did
ask questions in the beginning”—I was just now remembering it—“but they made it clear that Parker and I were on a need-to-know basis.”

“Yeah,
their
need,” she said.

I nodded. “Exactly. So I have to try and remember some things, details about what they did and how they did it.
Otherwise Parker's going to go to jail for the crime all of us committed.”

“What if you turned yourself in?” she asked.

“I've thought about it. But how would that help Parker? We'd both be in jail, and Cormac and Renee would be out there, lying and stealing, hurting other people.” I shook my head. “I'll take my share of the blame when the time comes, but to help Parker, I need to get everything I can first.”

She seemed to consider my words as she looked around the room. “I better get back to the house. Do you have a cell phone?”

“I bought a new one when I got here,” I said. “A cheap one with no plan.”

“I'll give you my number. If you need anything, you can text me. I can always make an excuse to come outside or sneak out after my dad's asleep.”

We exchanged numbers and she headed for the door.

“Selena?”

She turned around. “Yeah?”

“I know don't have a right to ask, but how is Logan?” The words threatened to stick in my throat. “How is his family?”

A shadow seemed to pass over her face. “Logan's dad has been in Shady Acres since a few days after they found out what happened. His mom is . . . Well, you know Leslie; she's strong.”

I nodded, ignoring the vise around my heart when I thought of the woman who'd been so nice to me while I was using her son. Shady Acres was just a pretty name for one of
the only places that could deal with Warren's brand of paranoid psychosis. He had been there before, and I'd helped send him back. Now Leslie and Logan were alone.

“And Logan?” I braced myself for the answer. I wanted him to be okay, to have moved on. It would hurt, but he deserved that.

“He's not good, Grace.” My face must have shown my dismay, because she kept going. “What did you expect? He's hurt about what you did to his family, to him, and he's mad at himself for being so stupid, for not seeing what none of us but Rachel saw. But I don't think any of that is what really kills him.”

I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer, but not asking the question would make me an even bigger coward than I already was. “What does?”

“He loved you, Grace,” she said softly. “How is he supposed to live with that?”

I spent the first day at Selena's holed up in the bungalow, hyperaware of every noise outside. I was careful to be quiet, to only run the shower when I was sure Selena's dad was at work, but a constant cloud of anxiety still followed me as I slept, ate, and showered.

There was no TV in the armoire, but there were a few old books, and I chose an old copy of
The Awakening
to pass the time. Selena never made an appearance, and I wondered if that was how it would be for the duration of my stay: Selena keeping her distance while I lived in the bungalow, invisible to the outside world. It was what I'd wanted, but it still felt strange to be hidden away.

By the second day, I felt a little bit more relaxed. I texted Selena for the password to the house's Wi-Fi and opened my laptop. Then I opened up the file with my list of clues.

Raymundo (Phoenix)

Geneva (Chicago—IDs?)

Morenovich (sp?)

Jeffries (money?)

Royal (DC/Baltimore)

They didn't mean any more to me now than they had when I'd first made the list. Cormac had mentioned someone named Raymundo—or maybe Raymond?—when we were in Phoenix. I thought it had something to do with cars, but I couldn't remember if he'd been talking about a repair to the cars we were driving then or the purchase of new vehicles for the Fairchild con.

The other stuff was no better. A conversation between Cormac and Renee about visiting someone named Geneva when we were in Chicago. A sarcastic comment about consistently slow information coming from Morenovich. Cormac, complaining about intel in New York from a person or company that went by the name Jeffries (first or last name? The name of a company? I didn't know). And last, Renee running out late one night in Baltimore, telling Cormac she'd make the pickup at Royal.

None of it meant a thing to me.

Frustrated, I closed my laptop. I wanted to see the trees and hear the ocean crashing against the cliffs of the peninsula. To walk and walk as I worked through the names and places on my list. But there were only the four beige walls of the bungalow, the soft hum of the fridge, the distant
whir of the pool's filter outside.

I looked at the time on my phone. 11:47. Selena wouldn't be home for a while, not that it mattered. I hadn't seen her since she'd brought me back to the bungalow. And her father wouldn't be home until much later. It was Wednesday, but the pool guys had already come and gone. It only took me a few seconds to come to a decision.

I washed my face and brushed my teeth, then stood over my backpack, surveying my outfit options. I only had three choices: the angsty grunge clothes I'd been wearing when I left Seattle, the capris and tank top from my Playa Hermosa wardrobe, or a skirt and T-shirt that would fit in anywhere. I chose the skirt and T-shirt combo, making a mental note to stop in at a thrift store to buy a few things. I'd been washing my clothes in the bathtub and hanging them to dry, but they were starting to look wrinkled and dingy, and I needed at least a couple more options if I didn't want people to think I was a homeless waif.

Once I was dressed, I stuffed my laptop and everything else into my backpack. It felt heavier after a few days of downtime, but I didn't dare leave anything behind. Detective Fletcher could be out there. I could be arrested on the street. Someone could find my stuff in the bungalow and call the police. Selena could have a change of heart and do it herself. Anything could happen. When it did, whatever it was, I wanted to have my stuff. It wasn't much, but it was mine.

I closed the door of the bungalow and edged my way
around the side of Selena's house, keeping an eye out for jogging moms, landscapers, detectives conducting interviews. An unfamiliar girl on the street was one thing. An unfamiliar girl leaving the fenced-in backyard of an affluent dentist in Playa Hermosa was another.

No one was there, and I continued down the street and headed for the Town Center. I picked up the bus and rode it all the way to Hermosa Beach, where I walked to a diner on the strand.

I was exhilarated to be outside, comfortable among the eclectic mix of surfers and hippies, Rastafarians and soccer moms. I chose a table outside, then ordered breakfast and a carafe of coffee. I had just opened my laptop, hoping the change of scenery would clarify one of the clues, when I saw the man on the strand.

Something—a loose string, a wrong note—twanged inside of me at the sight of him. He was slender and agile, walking toward the café with a casual but purposeful stride. He wore chinos and an obnoxiously loud Hawaiian shirt. His eyes were hidden behind aviators, his head covered with thinning strands of gray hair. He turned to look out over the water, and I had a flash of another man, face concealed beneath a straw hat, steam rising around him in the Jacuzzi.

It couldn't be.

He was about ten feet away when I realized he was whistling. I recognized the melody not as belonging to a certain song, but because it sounded eerily similar to the melodies whistled and sung by the man next door to us on Camino
Jardin. The tune was slow and a little sultry, a perfect match to the way he strolled down the strand.

I watched him from behind my sunglasses, my pulse racing as he came closer. He would pass me. He would walk right by without even looking my way. It was just a coincidence. I told myself all of these things even as he turned onto the patio of the café and walked directly toward my table.

The world seemed to tilt, a low humming building in my brain like it had when I'd almost passed out at the fast-food place in Lomita.

He slid into the chair across from me and took off his sunglasses. “Hello, Grace. Is it time to call in reinforcements?”

I didn't say anything for a full minute. I was trying to reconcile the fact that the man sitting across from me was the same man who had lived next door to us when we'd been planning the Fairchild con. The man who had sung strange songs and talked to the parrots like they could understand him, whose verbal meanderings had always seemed directed my way, even when I knew it was crazy to think so.

“What are you doing here?” I finally asked. Then I registered that he knew my name, and I put my hand on my laptop, ready to run. “Who are you?”

He put both hands on the table and leaned toward me, his blue eyes rheumy but sharp. “I understand why my appearance might come as a surprise, but I mean you no harm.”

“You didn't answer my questions.” I forced my voice steady and held his gaze. People took advantage when they
thought you were weak, even if they didn't mean to. Unless the person in question was the kind who thrived on being needed. Then you could pretend weakness to get their help. But I already knew the man in front of me wasn't that kind of person.

He leaned back, studying me. “My name is Marcus. And from your reaction, I'd say you remember me.”

I closed my laptop and put it in my bag. “I do. I just don't know why you're here. How did you find me? And how do you know my name?”

“I know a lot of things,” Marcus said.

The words caused a flash of memory, and I suddenly heard Rachel Mercer's voice in my head, back in the days when we were circling each other, Rachel trying to put her finger on why she was so suspicious of me while I did everything I could to deflect her suspicions.

I know lots of things, Grace. Lots and lots of things.

“Like what?” I asked him.

He fiddled with the sunglasses in his hands, pursing his lips as he considered his words. “Let's just say your dear old dad and I go way back.”

It took me a minute to figure out what he was saying. “You know Cormac?”

The sound of his laugh startled me. It was so genuine. Like he really thought it was funny. “I know him better than anyone. But his name isn't Cormac. I imagine you've already thought about that.”

I hadn't, actually. In spite of all their lies, Cormac and
Renee were still Cormac and Renee in my mind. Stupid. But with the knowledge of my own naivety came something else, something unexpected: hope. Here was someone who knew Cormac. Someone who might have information that would help me find out more about him.

A waiter appeared at the edge of our table. He looked at Marcus. “Would you like a menu?”

Marcus shook his head. “Just coffee.”

The waiter disappeared.

“What's Cormac's real name?” I asked, wondering if it might be a clue to his whereabouts.

The ghost of a smile touched Marcus's lips in the moment before it disappeared again. “You've been trained by the man you call Cormac. A man who, for all his other faults—and let's be honest, there are too many to name here—is a professional. That makes me think you must be a professional, too. And a professional knows that information is a commodity. Something to be used and traded. Not something to be given away.”

I shrugged. “I don't have anything to trade.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice to a purposeful whisper. “Now, Grace, I don't believe that.”

The waiter reappeared with a cup of coffee and set it in front of Marcus. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Marcus said.

“What do you want?” I asked when he was out of earshot.

“Actually, I think our goals are somewhat . . . aligned at the moment,” Marcus said. “Which is one of the reasons
I'm here: to make you a proposition.”

“A proposition?”

He looked out over the water, his expression belying his boredom. “A scheme or plan of action, a joint project or task.”

“I know what a proposition is,” I snapped. “It was meant as a rhetorical question. A way to get you to say more.”

He looked back at me, the boredom gone from his face, replaced by what I would have sworn was interest. His nod was a gesture of apology.

“Right. As I've said, we have the same goal. You want to find information about Cormac—”

“How do you know that?” I interrupted.

“That's not important,” he said.

His words made my face flush hot with anger. I picked up my bag and stood. “I've spent the last six years doing what Cormac and Renee told me to do, letting them pat me on the head and tell me that not knowing anything was for my own good. It hasn't gotten me anywhere. If you want me to talk to you, you'll have to be straight with me. Starting now.”

His unruly eyebrows rose in surprise. He met my eyes for a long moment before speaking. “After years of trying to track Cormac, I finally got a lead on his destination through a mutual . . . associate. From there it was a simple matter of looking at the rentals available on the peninsula.”

“You knew we were coming to Playa Hermosa before we got there.” I didn't know whether to be freaked out or impressed.

He nodded. “The house on Camino Jardin was bugged
before you ever arrived. As you now know, I was your neighbor. When you left, I lost track of you all for a while. Except for Parker, although I do have someone keeping an eye on him in jail.” I barely had time to digest this new piece of information before he continued. “But I had a feeling you'd be back. You and Parker seemed too close for you to leave him behind, and you hadn't been with Cormac long enough to learn his brand of disloyalty.”

I heard the note of bitterness, the only real emotion he'd shown during our conversation, in his last sentence.

I sat down. “What do you mean you have someone keeping an eye on Parker?”

He reached for his coffee cup but didn't pick it up. “My former profession means that I usually have acquaintances in jail. I have a friend in County who's been watching Parker for me.” He finally took a drink of his coffee. “Tough kid.”

I leaned forward. “Is he okay?”

Marcus shrugged. “As okay as can be expected. He hasn't pissed off anyone too important. Not yet, anyway. That's something.”

I looked down at the table. I was relieved to have some kind of word about Parker, but I wasn't sure how I felt about someone watching him, and I definitely didn't like the idea of someone watching me.

“How did you know where to find me today?” I asked.

“I've had someone watching the Rodriguez and Fairchild houses. A few days ago, my contact informed me that you'd approached your friend—Selena, is it?” Now it was his turn
to ask the rhetorical question. Marcus knew Selena's name and address, and probably a whole lot more about her and Logan. “Once I picked up your trail again, it wasn't difficult to follow you here.”

I nodded. “Go back to the part about you and me having the same goals.”

“It's simple,” he said. “You want information on Cormac. So do I.”

“Why?”

He turned the ceramic coffee cup in his hand. “He was nothing but a street hustler when I met him: stealing wallets, picking pockets, buying merchandise with stolen credit cards and returning his purchases for cash refunds. But he had potential. A lot of it. I saw that right away.”

“Wait . . . you trained Cormac? Taught him?”

He looked up. “I was quite a bit younger then, and I admit that my initial interest in Cormac was . . . romantic.”

My shock must have shown on my face, because he hurried to correct my mistaken understanding of the situation.

“Oh, no!” he laughed. “The attraction was purely one-sided, but who could blame me? He was a fine-looking man.” He took a drink of coffee. “And it didn't matter that he didn't return my feelings. He was good. Very, very good. Before long he was moving onto bigger jobs, longer cons. We were a team. I'd never made as much money as I did with him.”

“What happened?” I asked, because something obviously had happened.

“He met your mother.” He glanced up, startled. “I'm sorry. I suppose you don't think of her that way anymore.”

“I don't know how I think of her,” I admitted. “It doesn't matter. Keep going.”

“Well, he met your mother and fell in love, and soon the two of them were hatching their own little schemes.” He shook his head. “Even on the grift, everything comes back to love. And sex.”

I ignored his final words. The last thing I needed was to think about Cormac having sex. With Renee. With Marcus. With anybody. “So what? You stopped working together?”

“I'm afraid it wasn't as neat as that,” Marcus said, taking a drink from his cup. “Cormac left. But not before he stole the take from the biggest job we'd worked together.”

“He stole from you?”

Marcus nodded. “We were supposed to meet after the job, but when I got there, he was gone. And so was the money, although he did leave a charming note.”

I thought of the hours after the Fairchild con. Cormac and me arriving at the motel that was supposed to be our meeting spot, only to find a single gold bar and a note from Renee that simply read,
I'm sorry.

Talk about karma.

“Ah, I see I've struck a chord,” Marcus said, watching my face. “Did Renee make a similar exit, then?”

I sat up straighter. I wasn't telling him anything until I knew what he wanted from me—and what I could get in return.

“I'm sorry for what Cormac did to you, but what does it have to do with me?”

“Very little. The past is the past, after all.” He waved a hand dismissively in the air. “But it goes to our shared goal: you want information about Cormac and his sources, presumably to help Parker. I want the same thing.”

“Why? To get your money back?”

He laughed. “We both know how Cormac spends money. Not to mention the woman who called herself your mother.” He shook his head. “No, I'm sure the money from our joint venture is long gone.”

“Then what?”

He met my eyes, and I had the feeling he was thinking, trying to decide how much to tell me. “It's like I said: our goals are aligned, if not exactly the same. You see, I don't just want information on Cormac.” He hesitated. “I want to bury him.”