Tomorrow's Lies (Promises #1) (5 page)

“This is it?” I ask warily.

Saundra nods as we creep closer and closer to the imposing entrance.

“Why such high gates?” I inquire.

Without missing a beat, Saundra says, “Those are there to keep bad elements out.”

“I thought you said the town was good?”

“It is.” She waves her hand, dismissing my concern like a pesky bug. “It’s just a precaution, Jaynie.”

Is that guilt I hear in her tone? What does she know that she’s not sharing?

“Listen, Jaynie,” she says, a little too quickly, a little too shrill. “Mrs. Lowry is very protective of the kids up here. She’ll keep you safe from everything. Focus on the good. There’s a lot of structure in her home, and you need that now more than ever. This is going to be such a good experience for you. There’s home-schooling to keep you busy and lots of voluntary work projects. And the home itself is quite lovely. Doesn’t that sound exciting?”

“Yeah, sure,” I lie.

“And don’t forget, you won’t be alone. There are four other foster kids living up here.”

I have to laugh. Saundra thinks more kids in the house will somehow ensure my safety. At the last home—which also happened to be my first, and only, placement after my mom took off, leaving me an orphan—I was the only kid. It was lonely sometimes, sure, but it was also kind of nice living with a lady in her late fifties who treated me kindly. If only things had stayed the same. I could have made it through the foster system unscathed. But my luck ran out when Mrs. Giessen’s thirty-year-old, ex-con son came home. His sentence ended and mine began.

Maybe this place
will
be a good home. I sure hope so. I was given a little background before I left group. Mrs. Lowry has only one daughter. No sons and no husband. Thank God for small favors. Anyway, she owns what used to be a dairy farm. The cows are long gone, but she still runs a business—a successful crafting enterprise. Well-known regionally and growing rapidly, Mrs. Lowry calls herself “Crafty Lo.” And, oh, how she is loved and adored in these parts. She’s the ex-school teacher, who reinvented her life when her husband died ten years ago and she inherited the family farm.

Mrs. Lowry’s twenty-one-year-old daughter, Allison, lives with her. She supposedly helps out with the family business. Although I heard rumors in group that it’s the homeless children Mrs. Lowry fosters who do all the work. Crafty Lo has a reputation for being this great benefactor of unwanted children, but the behind-the-scenes word is she works you hard for what little you receive.

Oh well, I’d rather work my ass off making useless crafts than be forced to do things no teenage girl should ever have to do.

When we reach the high gates, the rain comes to a sudden stop. I glance around. In addition to the fortress-like entrance, there is tall wire fencing sprouting from the heavy brush to my left and to my right. Though I can’t see the top, it looks as though the fence wraps around the full front of the property.

Huh
. Is Mrs. Lowry really just trying to keep bad elements out? I don’t know, but it sure looks to me like she’s trying to keep something
in
. Like maybe the kids who live up here?

Carefully, I ask, “So, you mentioned four other foster kids. Do you know their names?”

The gates open slowly, like a yawning mouth, as Saundra says, “I’m not sure of their names, but I know there’s a set of twins, a cute little boy and girl.”

“Oh, how cool. How old are they?”

“Eight.”

We drive on, the heavy gates closing behind us, locking us in.

“What about the other two kids?”

“Well,” Saundra says, “the other two fosters are not exactly kids. Both are seventeen”—she smiles over at me—“like you.”

“Two girls?” I ask, hopeful.

“No. One guy and a girl.”

Great
,
we’ll see how well this goes
. I hope the guy keeps his distance.

We proceed down a long driveway and eventually come to a stop in front of a spacious, red-brick colonial. The house looks a little too picture-perfect to me. The flagstone walkway leading to the porch is lined with tulips and daffodils, all in full bloom and evenly spaced. To the left of the walkway stands a large maple tree, the tips of its limbs covered in soft shades of pink. Pretty and welcoming, yes, but usually when something appears too good to be true, it is.

I scan around to uncover the “real” feel of this place. When my gaze lands on a large pole barn, constructed of steel, located across from the house and down a slight incline, I suspect I’ve found it.

“That’s the craft workshop,” Saundra says as she dips her head to follow my gaze. “Mrs. Lowry erected the barn not all that long ago in order to provide a nice, clean work environment. All her crafts are made in there.”

I might as well find out now if all the rumors I heard at group were true. “So, Mrs. Lowry and her daughter make all the crafts in that barn?” I say, baiting Saundra.

“Um…” She peers down at her hands, which are still grasping the steering wheel, even though we’re parked. “They do, but the kids help out a lot.”

“Wait, she has, like, no actual employees?” This could be worse than I thought.

Saundra shakes her head. “No.”

I stare at the barn. It doesn’t look like a sweatshop, but I’m suspicious.

“That’s enough shop talk,” Saundra says brightly as she pops open the driver’s door. “Let’s go introduce you to Mrs. Lowry. She’ll get you settled in and you can ask her more about the business then.”

“Whatever,” I murmur.

I make no effort to exit the car. Instead, I twist in my seat to peer out at all the rolling fields where I suppose the cattle used to roam. There’s another barn way off in the distance, a ramshackle structure of brown lumber that looks dark and wet. Beyond the fields there appears to be nothing but endless acres of thick forest.

A chill runs up my spine. Not from fright, but from worry. Forget the high entrance gates and the wire fencing. This place is a natural fortress. The high-up-on-the-hill location plus the miles of wooded land practically guarantees there will be no easy way out.

It’s all a little too claustrophobic, and I tell Saundra, “I don’t think I’m ready to go in the house just yet.”

I’d feel better if I could see the other kids. This place feels too disconnected from the town below. Not that Forsaken is much better, but there’s more than one way in. And more than one way out.

“No problem.” Saundra reaches over to pat my knee, but then thinks better of it. “Stay in the car as long as you like. I’ll go on ahead and talk with Lo… I mean Mrs. Lowry. Come on in whenever you’re ready. Or, if you prefer, I can come back out for you?”

“That’s okay. I’ll come in on my own when I’m ready.”

“Okay, honey.”

After she’s gone, I return to my perusal of what will be home for the next seven months. Again, it doesn’t look bad aesthetically, but I keep reminding myself appearances can be deceiving.

“Eighteen,” I murmur. “Eighteen and you are so out of here.”

From the corner of my eye, I suddenly detect movement over at the pole barn. The doors are sliding open, I suppose since the rain has stopped. Opening doors mean one thing, someone is inside.
One or more of my new foster siblings?
Probably.

A mix of fear and hope leaves me shaky. Too many raindrops have gathered on the tinted passenger window, casting my view in blurry tones of surreal blue. I roll it down. I need for this to be straight-up real.

It’s bright inside the pole barn, a contrast to the dreary day. There are long rows of tables that seem to extend all the way to the back. Most of the surfaces, at least the ones I can see, appear to be covered in crafts and craft materials. Two kids, a little boy and little girl, both quite pale and very similar in appearance—the twins, I assume—are working diligently at a table right by the entrance.

As I continue to watch, another person comes into view. The older girl, the one who’s my age. She leans over the table to help the twins with something. The girl looks a bit like me, auburn hair, fair skin, but even bent over as she is I can tell she’s taller than me. And, whoa, definitely way skinnier.

So here they are, three of my four new foster siblings, smack dab in front of me. I watch them closely, looking for signs of friendliness. God, I hope they accept me. There seems to be closeness among them which calls to my need to connect with someone. I’m tired of feeling so alone all the time. Watching the interactions of the girl and the twins, even viewed from afar, I get the sense they care for one another.

The little boy—skinny as can be and with a mess of black hair in dire need of a trim—peers up at the older girl with affection when she begins to help him with a craft. Auburn-haired Girl hands the little boy a seashell that’s as big as his hand. He sets it down on the table—awkwardly since it’s so large for his hands—and mouths a
thank you
. He then proceeds to paint something on the side of the shell, using a long, slender brush. When the older girl pats him on his shoulder approvingly, he beams up at her.

The girl twin then starts to tug on the older girl’s jade green sweater. Little Girl looks so much like her twin. She is tiny and slender, and has the same raven-colored hair as her brother.

I have a good feeling about these three, but I’m still apprehensive.
Where is the fourth foster kid, the guy my age?
He must be around here somewhere.

Just then, like serendipity is at work, a plume of wispy-white smoke trails from around the far side of the barn. Maybe the foster kid I’ve yet to see is remaining hidden on purpose, since he’s clearly catching a smoke.

I scoot up in my seat and lean my head out the window to have a better view. But the car is angled in a way that I can’t see shit on the side of the structure I’m curious about.

“Damn,” I mutter as I flop back in the seat.

I’m going to have to get out of the car if I really want to see the mystery kid. I’m hesitant, but curiosity wins out in the end. Cautiously, I push open the car door.

When I stand, my ankle boots squish down in the mud immediately. I take a tentative step to drier land, which happens to be in the direction of the barn. The air feels thick and wet up here, but oddly inviting. My earlier fears are quelled. Maybe this new home and this new family of broken kids is the place for me, after all. I don’t know, but I have an overwhelming sense I might find the girl I once was while I’m here.

Encouraged by a once-familiar, but currently rarely felt, confidence, I walk toward the barn with purpose. I may as well introduce myself to everyone, right? If I’m going to fit in, I should start off on the right foot.

Unfortunately, the older girl and the twins are no longer working in the front of the barn. I may be putting on a courageous front, but it’s not enough for me to waltz in and search these people out.

Quickly, I change direction and head for the side of the barn instead. The elusive fourth foster kid might be easier to meet, just a simple one-on-one hello. Plus, I can get a vibe on whether he’s a pervert or not, and then plan accordingly.

When the kid comes into view, I skid to a stop. “Oh,” I breathe out. “Wow.” The guy is gorgeous.

Despite my limitations in the getting-physical-with-a-guy department, I can still fully appreciate a fine male specimen. And this guy is that, and more. Tall, and with a body hard and lean, he’s quite the hottie.

The guy is wearing faded blue jeans and a T-shirt the color of steel. His hair is sandy-brown and disheveled as all get out, like some lucky girl might have been running her fingers through it.

“Too bad that will never be you, freak,” I chastise myself.

This guy is so far out of my league, even if I were normal, that it’s not even funny. With a face as fine as his body, he is nothing short of perfection. Damn, he is far too good-looking to be an orphan. But here he is, in this place like me, so he must be just as unwanted.

Gorgeous takes a drag from his smoke, and then leans back and rests his head against the side of the barn. It’s like he has not a care in the world. Yeah, right. I know it’s just a façade. You don’t end up in the foster system if you’ve led an easy life. But you sure posture like you have.

He lifts the cigarette to his full lips and takes another drag, blowing another wispy trail of smoke up in the thick air, where it lingers for a beat. Gorgeous watches the smoke dissipate around the barn, and then he flicks the spent butt to the wet grass.

Oh, smooth
.

This guy oozes confidence. Hell, you’d think he owned the place. And then it hits me—he
does
own this place, in a foster-world kind of way. He’s in charge around here, at least among the kids.

Suddenly, like he’s just realized someone has been watching him the whole time, he glances my way. Even from afar, his curious gaze is piercing. Or maybe it’s just me, seeing him that way. In any case, his stare is too intense and I can’t maintain eye contact.

With my focus moving to the ground I’m standing on, I decide to wait him out. Surely, this good-looking guy will get bored with the strange girl staring at her shoes and go on about his business.

He does no such thing.
Oh, hell
. I hear his shoes squishing in the wet grass as he heads toward me. And in less than a minute there’s a shadow darkening my view.

He clears his throat, but I don’t look up. “You lose something down there?” he asks as he points a sneakered toe to the spot where I’m staring.

“Maybe,” I reply.

When he takes a step closer, his maleness becomes overwhelmingly palpable, thick and loamy, like the air.

Do I run? Do I stay?

Something in me snaps, not unlike those little firecrackers that make a surprisingly loud bang. I feel ripped down the center, torn in two, conflicted. Part of me wants to flee from the gorgeous guy and the confusing way he’s making me feel. But a bigger part of me wants to stay.

So, I stay.

Frustrated by my warring emotions, and the confusion they’re causing, I promptly lash out. “Smoking is a fucking disgusting habit, you know.”

The guy laughs and volleys back, “Nice language.”