Shade Me (30 page)

I
DIDN'T THINK.
There wasn't time to think. Luna had already proven that she was willing to shoot, and behind the trash can I was a fish in a barrel.

I took a breath, which hitched with my aching ribs. Springing up with a yell, I hammer-fisted Luna's forearm, feeling a dull crack under her skin. She yelped as the gun flew through the air, bouncing in the grass. She sucked in air and grabbed for her arm, but I didn't give her the chance. Anchoring my back against the wall, I front-kicked the trash can with everything I had, shoving it into Luna, who fell under the force. Empty beer and wine bottles rolled out on top of her.

I sprang out of my corner, leaping over the trash can and
landing in a fighting stance, turning left and right, watching for the others, hoping Chris Martinez was near enough to be arriving soon. Dru was still nowhere to be found. Every noise on the night air made me swing toward it, my breath ripping out of me so hard, spit collected on the front of my shirt.

Luna was crying, babbling, rolling around under the spilled trash as she spat out threats. I didn't have much time to get away, but I was afraid to move. There were so many places for Dru or Vanessa or even Bill to pop out at me. Catch me off guard. Finally, Luna untangled herself and got to her knees, holding her arm to her chest. She slipped, but then found her footing and lurched toward the gun.

“You will regret that, you bitch!” she snarled.

I reached the gun first, scooping it out of the grass and holding it in front of me, but my hands were shaking with so much adrenaline—
gold bottle rockets, kapow, kapow, kapow
—I couldn't point it at her. I had been trained to use my body to fight. I had no idea what to do with a gun, other than keep it away from her.

I started to back up toward the fence line. “You don't want to do this, Luna,” I said. “You're already hurt. Just let me go before this gets any worse.” The wind shifted and a pool raft rattled across the deck, causing me to flick my eyes worriedly that way. Where the hell was Chris Martinez?

Luna laughed, looking completely unhinged with a twig hanging in her hair and sweeping like a pendulum across her
forehead. “Bitch, you're the one bleeding.”

“Your arm is broken, Luna,” I called. I swallowed, tried to tighten my grip on the gun. “I felt it. Let me go so you can get it fixed. We can be done with this.”

She continued walking toward me, completely unfazed by the gun in my hand. “Oh, we will never be done. Not until you're permanently gone. Don't you understand?”

“Dru!” I shouted. I licked my lips, but I didn't dare take my eyes off Luna. “You better come out or I'm going to have to shoot your sister!” One of the dogs I'd dodged earlier began to bark again, setting off a chain of barks throughout the neighborhood.

“Yeah, Dru,” Luna said in that singsongy voice again. “You should come out so you can say your last good-byes to your sweet little Nikki.” She cupped one ear. “What? You don't care what happens to her? Oh, yeah, that's right, because you're in it as deep as the rest of us!”

“Come out, Dru!” I yelled.

“Come out, Dru!” Luna mimicked right after me. She let her hurt arm drop to her side and rolled her eyes. “Okay, this shit's just getting boring now.” She rushed at me.

I stumbled backward two steps, trying to convince my fingers to pull the trigger. But the gun was so heavy and I was so filled with confused energy, I couldn't relay the message from brain to hand. Bumpy black and gray swirled in my mind, silver, flashing oranges and yellows and ragemonster
red, and mists of green. Fear, mistrust, danger, pain, fury—a palette of awful. I couldn't concentrate. I'd never done this. I'd never thought I'd have to. And Luna was moving so fast.

She was two steps away, and then one, and I still hadn't done anything with the gun. I took another step back, my arm cocking backward to do what I did best. I hit Luna across the temple with the butt of the gun, but she was too close for the connection to do any real damage. She let out a squawk, dug her claws into the side of my neck with one hand, and grabbed at the gun with the other. She was moving with too much force, and I was off balance from not being ready. We both went down, Luna on top of me, the back of my hand smacking the ground and the gun flipping away about three feet. My ribs screamed, taking my breath away.

I tried to sit up, to go after the gun before Luna could get it again, but she was tearing at my neck, my arm. She reared back and, with a yell, slammed her forehead into my right eyebrow. I saw a flash of light and felt the neon pain of a new wound opening. My eyes immediately flooded with tears, making it impossible to see. I covered my face with my free hand, but when I felt her rear back again, I grabbed a fistful of hair, just the way Stefan had grabbed mine that night in the hotel. With all my strength, I brought my elbow across her jaw. I heard her teeth click together, hard, and a grunt escaped her. I straightened my arm to roll her off me.
Luna screamed and scrambled, flailing, both hands scratching at the hand I had buried in her hair.

“Let me go, you bitch! I will kill you!”

She peeled deep trails through the back of my hand that felt like fire. I had no choice but to let go, but to make up for it, I turned and axe-kicked her to the ribs, just as I had fantasized doing to her on the back of my car that day at school. She bent her legs to deflect most of the impact, though, and rolled away, reaching for the gun.

“No!” I yelled, grunting, trying to get up, to figure out some miracle way of getting to the gun first. But I was too late. She was already there.

I heard footsteps pound across the patio, around the pool, coming toward me. I still couldn't see because of my watering eyes and the throbbing in my cheek and forehead, but I could make out what looked like Dru, coming toward us fast, his arms outstretched.

This was it. I couldn't fight them both off. I was too tired, too confused, in too much pain. Whether Peyton and I were real sisters, we were sisters in this. We were sisters in giving ourselves for the secrets and the truth. I supposed, blood or not, that was what made a connection matter, anyway.

Luna staggered to her feet, panting, bleeding, her shirt ripped, her hair wild. She had the gun held in her good hand, low, pointing to the ground. She started to level it at me, still
on the ground, too weak and disoriented to stand. I dragged myself on my elbows and feet, trying to get away. If I didn't get up, I was going to die right here.

“Luna!” Dru yelled, and the footsteps got closer. But instead of coming at me, he got between us and faced Luna, shielding me. I was almost numb with shock. “Run, Nikki! Get out of here!”

I backed into a tree and somehow used it to pull myself to my feet.

“Go, Nikki! Now!”

Luna turned, brought the gun to shoulder level, and fired.

I gasped as I saw Dru drop to the ground, instantly quiet.

He'd been trying to stop her. He'd been trying to save me.

It felt like Luna and I stared at Dru's limp body for hours, but it was probably only the span of two heartbeats before I felt my feet propelling me forward, my body rigid with red rage.
Fire engines. Cherries. Lava.
Fast, faster, dead run. Luna only had time to turn her head before I reached her.

You know what to do, Nikki. You've done this a million times before in the
dojang
. You've trained for this. Just do what you do.

I stopped, put all my weight on my back foot, turned my whole body, and then brought my leg up, extending my foot. Roundhouse kick. The best I'd ever landed. My foot hit
Luna's head with a hollow thud, and she dropped like a sack of sand. All my colors blinked out at once.

I took a few breaths and then grabbed the gun out of her hand. The barrel was hot. I turned and threw it with a grunt. It skidded across the patio, then plunked into the deep end of the pool and sank to the bottom.

IT WAS ONLY
then that I heard the sirens. The lights bounced around the backyard in fits and starts, and for a moment I was unsure if I was the only one seeing the colors. Police cars out front. I staggered in a circle so that I was facing the mansion.

“Back here!” I yelled.

In moments, three cops stormed the yard. I held my hands up in surrender, but the fourth cop to come around to the backyard ran straight to me. It was Detective Chris Martinez.

“You okay? You okay?” he asked, checking me over. “Jesus, you're bleeding everywhere.”

I nodded. “But Dru . . .”

Martinez hurried over to Dru's body and knelt beside him, tearing open his shirt and pressing both hands low on his chest. Another officer radioed in for an ambulance. It seemed impossible to me that he could still be alive. There was so much blood. And he was so still.

My foot ached. Hitting the heavy bag was not the same
as hitting the back of a human head. But I limped my way over to Dru as well and knelt beside him. He was in bad shape, but he was still conscious. He saw me and tried to sit up, but failed.

“I tried to stop him, Nikki,” he said. “I tried to . . . save her . . . she . . . was right about . . . us. I changed my mind.” A tear slipped from the corner of one eye. His face was so pale it looked waxy. He swallowed, wincing. “I . . . moved her . . . I called the . . .”

“Okay,” I said. I pushed his sweaty hair away from his forehead. The letters on his T-shirt slowly soaked through with red, but I was afraid to look closely enough to tell if it was the red of his blood, or the crimson I'd gotten to know so well. Luna had come to and was instantly making a hell of a fuss. “Help is coming. Just hang on.” He didn't need to finish. I knew what he was going to say. He'd tried to save Peyton. He was just a little too late.

“I'm so sorry, Nikki,” he said. I noticed blood begin to ring his bottom lip. I still couldn't bring myself to look at the gunshot, to look at Chris Martinez's hands as he pressed into the wound to stop the bleeding.

“I knew it!” I heard Luna yell from where the officer had sat her up on the lawn. “I knew you betrayed us! Bastard!”

“That's enough,” I heard the officer say. I wanted to go over there and yank every hair out of Luna's head, to tell her to shut the hell up, that this was no longer about them.
I wanted to show her the crimson, all the crimson that had now shaded the pool water, unmistakably the synesthesia making its statement about Dru.

But I was too spent, too tired, too focused on keeping my eyes on Dru's to do anything.

It hadn't been just a technicality. Dru had been innocent. He'd changed his mind when they met up with her that night. The bruises I'd found on his hands and face and side weren't from Peyton fighting him off; they were from him fighting Arrigo Basile. Either way, he hadn't been the one to attack her. He'd tried to stop her attacker. He'd moved her car and taken her to the elementary school and called for an ambulance. He'd tried to do the right thing, and he ended up making himself look really guilty. Luna had seen that and did what Luna did best—take advantage. She'd set him up for the fall, but he didn't deserve it. Ultimately, he'd sacrificed himself for Peyton. He'd decided that she was more important than all that he had to lose.

All at once I felt vindicated and defeated. Because I knew, before the paramedics stormed in, pushed me away, and started shouting, “coding,” that Dru wasn't going to make it.

“It's okay,” I said, stroking his hair again. “She opened her eyes for me. She's going to be fine.” It was the truth, and it was also a lie. But it was a lie I thought he needed to hear at the time. It was the lie that allowed him to let go.

THE PARAMEDICS WERE
a blur of activity, and I was outside of it, my limbs suddenly so weak and tired I couldn't even stand up, my foot throbbing with my pulse, my ribs aching, my head pounding. I was dimly aware of neon green lighting up my foot with every pulse, of putrid brown filling my heart, but finally I was able to ignore my synesthesia. I scooted on my butt to the pool deck and propped my back against a lawn chair. I hugged my knees to my chest, nestled my face on top of them, and cried.

I felt a shoe scuff on the patio next to me. I didn't look up.

“Hey.”

I continued crying, letting my tears wet the knees of my jeans, letting my nose run freely.

There was a shifting, a sound of keys and things jingling with the movement. “Hey,” the voice said again, much closer to my ear this time.

I finally turned my head, taking in Chris Martinez's face through slitted and blurry eyes. He was crouched in front of me.

“We need to get you checked out,” he said softly.

“I'm fine,” I said, trying to turn my face back to the safety of my knees.

“You've got a nasty gash on your cheek. You've been shot, Nikki. And you've got a cut on your head and I can see that
you're in pain. You have to get that taken care of.”

“Why do you even care?” I said angrily, my words muffled by my jeans. “Aren't you here to tell me you were right about Dru?”

He was silent for so long, I chanced another look at him. “I wasn't,” he said. “Not entirely. I didn't start to piece it all together until that night at the hotel.” He turned his face upward. The moon shone on his forehead. “I wouldn't have figured it out without you, Nikki.”

I made a snorting noise. If he was trying to praise me, it was too little, too late. I didn't want praise. I wanted to go back in time to before this happened to Peyton. I wanted to warn her not to try to do this on her own. I wanted to save her from herself.

But that could never have happened. Peyton wouldn't have listened to a girl like me. Not until we were sisters.

T
HEY OFFICIALLY RULED
Dru as “dead on scene.” Which meant that I'd held the last of his life, literally, in my hands. I sat in the emergency room bay staring at my palms, trying to piece together what I could have done differently. How I could have saved him.

It turned out Luna's first bullet had definitely grazed my cheek. Another inch and I could've been the dead one. It wasn't lost on me as I sat there numbly, letting the nurse bandage up my cheek, that had I just stood still at the pool house, Dru would have lived. I felt partly responsible for his death.

The nurse took me to X-ray, wrapped me up, gave me instructions, had me sign papers, whatever. I was mostly just
remembering the way Dru's hands felt as they slid down my waist that first day in Peyton's apartment. How his skin smelled like expensive soap. How his hair was soft and feathery and lay perfectly across his forehead, always. How he'd said he liked me because I was brave, and that I didn't really understand then that he'd tried to be brave for Peyton too late and felt responsible for what happened to her.

I remembered how boyish he'd looked as his father led him from the police station to the
DREAMS
car. How cowed. Defeated. I felt sorry for that boy. I didn't blame that boy for what had happened with Peyton.

Had Dru not been a Hollis, he might have been a dream guy.

Which, of course, meant he would have had nothing to do with me.

I slept for a solid day after I got home. Now that Luna was locked up, I no longer had to worry about anyone getting into my house. I no longer had to be on high alert. When I woke up, I went downstairs and ate, then went right back upstairs and fell asleep again.

Dad came home at some point while I was sleeping, and I had a vague memory of him sitting on the side of my bed, brushing my hair back. Maybe I'd dreamed it, or maybe it was real, but I could have sworn he was crying. Later, he came up with some soup and made me take what seemed like a hundred pills. He didn't ask questions. But for once I
didn't think it was because he didn't care. For some reason, I had a feeling he wasn't asking because he already knew.

I got up on that second day and started the shower, not remembering a word of instruction about what I was supposed to do about my wounds. I peeled away the bandage that the ER nurse had plastered over my cheek, sucking air in through gritted teeth from the pain. The wound was stiff, ugly, burnt-looking. My cheek puckered around it. I touched it gingerly, the pain shooting through my entire head. It was going to leave a hell of a scar. Wait until Gunner saw it. He would flip.

The shower stung, and the water ran red around my feet. I still had dirt caked under my fingernails and found a smear of blood across my chest. I scrubbed at my skin until it tingled. I got out looking flushed and clean. I rebandaged my cheek, not doing nearly as good a job as the nurse had, pulled my wet hair up into a loose ponytail, and headed downstairs with my chem book. It had been a hell of a few weeks, and now I was in real trouble with graduation. If I didn't get my shit together soon, even Mrs. Lee would give up on me. I would study a little with lunch, and then I would head to the hospital, see if I could get Peyton to open her eyes again. I wanted to tell her that everything was over and it was safe for her to come out now.

No sooner did I get downstairs, though, than the doorbell rang. I was surprised by the jolt of fear that ran through
me at the sound, but then I shook it off. It was going to take time to get over the feeling of being hunted.

I set my book on the bottom stair and opened the door. Detective Chris Martinez stood on the other side, scratching the back of his neck. He was in his casual clothes today. I leaned one hip against the door, giving him attitude, but I found that I didn't quite feel the attitude as much as I used to. Chris Martinez was a pain in my ass, there were no two ways about it, but he'd also saved my ass, and I supposed I owed him at least the tiniest bit of friendliness.

But not too much.

That night, on the patio, I'd filled him in on everything I knew about the Hollises and their conspiracy to get rid of Peyton, so I couldn't figure out why he would be at my house.

“Miss me already?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Can I come in?”

“Good. I didn't miss you, either,” I said. But I shuffled away from the door, pulling it all the way open and gesturing for him to come inside.

He stepped into the foyer, looking uncertain and awkward. I could see him glance around, taking in photos and knickknacks and the stuff that made my life mine. Having him openly ogle our stuff made me uncomfortable. I shut the door and stood there, my arms crossed over my chest.

“So, you just here to make sure I'm not doing anything
illegal? Or do you need me to solve another case for you?”

“Actually,” he said, “can I get a glass of water?”

I rolled my eyes. “You want me to make you lunch, too, Your Highness?” But I brushed past him and down the hallway toward the kitchen. He followed me and seated himself at the breakfast bar, even though I didn't ask him to. I poured him a glass of water and placed it on the counter in front of him. “Comfy now?”

But he didn't look comfy. He looked pretty miserable, actually. He stared at the counter, pink circles breaking out on his cheeks. “I'm afraid I have some bad news,” he said.

I felt the energy drain from my head all the way down to my toes. “What now?” I asked.

His eyes finally lifted to meet mine. I could see his misery in them. “Peyton died this morning,” he said.

I pulled out a bar stool and sank onto it, feeling dizzy. “But she opened her eyes,” I said in disbelief. “She smiled at me.”

He nodded. “The nurse said she'd been doing some of that, but it was all—”

“Involuntary,” I finished. “I know. She told me that, too. But I was there. I saw it. It didn't look involuntary. It looked like . . .” I felt my eyes well up and blinked them hard, refusing to cry in front of him again. “I was going to visit her today.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I wish I had an answer for you. She'd
just suffered too much damage to her brain. Here. The water was for you,” he said, sliding the glass toward me.

I touched the sides of the glass but didn't drink it. I didn't want water. I wanted Peyton to wake up. I wanted more than photos. I wanted there to be a reason to have gone through this whole thing. I wanted a payoff, damn it.

“So does this mean the Hollises will all be charged with murder now instead of just assault?” I asked, their name coming out bitterly.

He stroked his top lip and down his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I don't know,” he said. “They left the house before we got there that night, which is pretty miraculous, given the amount of blood on the kitchen floor. Yet it seems Bill and Vanessa Hollis got on an airplane yesterday morning.”

“To?”

“Dubai. No extradition laws. And it would appear that they took a healthy amount of money with them.”

“So they just get away with it? With everything?”

He turned his palms up. “For now, yes. But believe me, Bill Hollis is not the kind of guy who can walk away from Hollywood forever. He will come back. We will get them eventually.”

“What about Luna?”

“Well, she also had a ticket to Dubai, scheduled to join them the next day.”

“Sounds pretty planned out. Where was Dru's ticket?” I finally picked up the glass and sipped the water, just to give myself something to do.

“He didn't have one.”

“Interesting,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. But the truth was, knowing that Dru wasn't planning on running brought his innocence home to me. Again, my heart squeezed at the thought of him dying to save me. The feeling made me seethe. I hated being sentimental. Sentimentality was for ignorant people. I knew better.

“So what about Luna, then?” I repeated.

He shrugged. “It's going to depend on what the prosecutor thinks he can do. Right now, he can only get her on the accident in the backyard of Hollis Mansion.”

I slammed the water glass back onto the counter. “Accident? It was no fucking accident!”

“She didn't mean to kill Dru.”

I almost laughed. “No, you're right. She only meant to kill me.”

“But she didn't,” he said simply. “She's claiming self-defense. We're still rounding up facts. Right now we can definitely nail her for assault and battery, and I'm fairly certain we can get her for attempted murder. But she is a minor.”

“And what about what she did to Peyton?” I asked.

“We don't have any real evidence,” he said. “We can't
find Rigo or a murder weapon or anything that wouldn't be considered circumstantial. Without evidence, it's all just your word against hers, because the only other two people involved . . .”

“Are dead,” I finished for him. He nodded. I stood up suddenly, knocking my bar stool over. “It's not fair! They killed her. They can't just . . . walk away.”

“I know,” Detective Martinez said, standing up and coming around the counter. He put his hands on my shoulders. “But I'm determined to see this through, Nikki. I won't stop until I have evidence on all the Hollises and I find Arrigo Basile. You have my word on that. It would help the process tremendously if you have some real evidence you can show me. Something that will let me know how you solved this.”

“The escort service? The one I handed to you at the hotel?” I asked, knowing what he was going to say before he even spoke a word.

He shrugged. “Entire office cleared out by the time we got an address. Nothing but pink carpet, a few bits of paper, and an empty filing cabinet. I do have this for you, though. It's a copy. I had to keep the original. And I could probably get into huge trouble if anyone found out I gave you a copy. It was in Peyton's bedroom. Taped to the bottom of a box colored like a rainbow.” He handed me an envelope.

Of course. The bottom of the box. I'd forgotten to look there. Or been interrupted by Luna was more like it.

I opened the envelope and pulled out a photocopied letter.

Nikki,

I'm putting a ton of faith in your synesthesia right now, but if I'm right about what you can do, you're reading this letter.

So basically this is one of those if-you're-reading-this-I'm-probably-dead letters. I've known you were my sister for a while now. I even watched you a little at your house, at school, stole your records from the guidance office, that kind of thing, trying to decide how, and when, to tell you. But I started discovering other things, too. Things about my family. I was afraid of putting you in danger. I finally decided I would write this letter and leave you clues, and would only bring you into this if things had gone really wrong and my life was on the line. So you'd think I'd be really scared writing this letter, but I'm kind of not. I've been scared for a long time. Scared of where my life was going, thanks to the people who raised me. Scared of who, or what, I will become. Writing this letter is actually a relief.

Everything about the Hollis family is a lie. We are not who the world thinks we are. We have secrets, Nikki, and they're bad. And when I say “we” I actually mean we. Including you, Nikki. Maybe you've figured this part out
already, but if you haven't, I'll tell you now. Your mother, Carrie, was my mother, too. I know this because I've followed a very long trail of deceit. But I've included in this letter a lock of my hair, just in case you want to have it tested for DNA to be sure. I don't need to see a DNA test. I already know.

It all started when a woman named Brandi Courteur came to one of Viral Fanfare's shows in Long Beach. I can't tell you anything more about Brandi because it will be very dangerous to her if this letter should fall into the wrong hands. I know that sounds very mysterious, but if you're reading this, you obviously can do mysterious. Let me just say that what Brandi told me after that show changed my whole life. My entire life was a lie. Fake. A show. Everything started to make so much more sense. And I learned things about my father, about Vanessa, that could ruin them.

Find Brandi, Nikki. When you do, you will understand everything.

Also, take care of Dru. I've told him about his own mother, but he's still in denial. He's still trying to please dear old Daddy. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he's good on the inside. I know this because we've lived the same lie.

Peyton

I folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope, not even realizing that I was crying until I was wiping the tears.

“You ever heard of this Brandi person?” Chris Martinez asked.

“No. Nothing.”

“Do you have anything else that will help this case? Anything at all?”

I shook my head sadly. The only real evidence I'd ever had was a recording of Peyton blackmailing her brother, and Martinez had taken it out of my car the night Dru got shot. “It was mostly hunch,” I said.

Martinez stood there for another long moment, eyeing me skeptically. Finally, he let go. “I just wanted to let you know about Peyton,” he said. He walked toward the door, but halfway through the entryway he stopped, his shoulders slumped, his hands on his hips. He stared at the floor for a moment, and then turned back to me. “Listen,” he said. He cleared his throat, definitely uncomfortable. “You asked what was in my past.”

His eyes flicked up to mine, and I nodded.

“I didn't grow up in a house like this.” He gestured around him. “It was just my mom and three kids.” He cleared his throat again, looked back at the floor. “When I was fifteen, my older brother, Javi, got mixed up in a gang. Really bad people. I knew he was in it, and I knew he'd gotten into
some bad shit, but I didn't tell my mom or anything.”