Read The Darkest Lie Online

Authors: Pintip Dunn

The Darkest Lie (8 page)

BOOK: The Darkest Lie
12Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Chapter 13
Something's poking me in the hip. I roll over to get more comfortable, but it only jabs me more. What on earth?
I crack my eyes open. The sun streams in through the windows, making rectangular rays of light on the floor. I didn't close the blinds last night. Didn't brush my hair or change my black dress, either. I was so emotionally wrung-out I fell into bed, the message from my mysterious texter playing in a continuous loop through my brain.
I shift, and the object digs into my side again. Is it a tag on my dress? One of Gram's poker chips?
I scrutinize the smooth expanse of my paisley bed sheets. Nothing. Which means whatever is trying to drill a hole in my hip is
inside
my dress. Probably ensconced in the hidden pocket.
Of course. How could I forget?
My mom and I both loved this dress, not only for its flattering fit, but also because of the hidden pocket sewn into the lining. We used to leave notes for each other, little messages like “I love you” or “Good luck on your art show.” Or, on the night of my sophomore Homecoming dance: “Don't forget—a girl does kiss and tell, especially if the captive audience is her mother.”
My fingers tremble like a bird learning to fly, and excitement darts around my heart. I don't want to hope; I can't bear to be wrong. But maybe . . . Could she have . . .
This was always our secret way of communicating. It would make sense if she left a note in my pocket, in a place only I can find.
Carefully, I peel the dress off and skim my fingers over the lining. Searching for a piece of paper folded in that special triangular way.
Another one of our codes. Silly, maybe, but I've been a sucker for secret codes ever since I was a little girl, and my mother always indulged me.
I don't find any paper, folded or otherwise. Instead, my hands close around a key. A delicate silver key, about half an inch long. I've never seen it before, and I can't imagine what it could fit.
Disappointment swells in my chest. No note. No final words. How many times does my soul need to be crushed before I finally learn?
I squeeze the key in my fist, and when I open my hand, dropping it onto the bed, my palm is creased with the indentation of the metal. That's me—scarred with the traces of my mother's scandal.
Unless ... my mother left that key for me. Unless this is the first clue in one of her treasure hunts, the very last one she set up for me.
Maybe the most important one of all.
* * *
“Holy crap, CeCe. Did you decide to redecorate and forget to tell me?” Gram asks as she strides into the living room. I haven't seen my dad this morning, which means he's already left for the cemetery—or he's locked himself in the den again.
I rock back on my heels. Every paper clip and rubber band has been emptied out of my mom's old desk. The carpet is covered with reams of paper, stacks of dusty photographs, and clusters of faded wedding favors.
The pantry and dining room don't look much better. I'm not exactly sure what I'm searching for. A hidden compartment, a portable safe. Maybe a locked drawer I don't know about.
But so far, nada. Not a single secret keyhole, much less one that fits my silver key.
“Sorry, Gram.” I wince at the paper dots from the hole puncher, sprinkled on the floor like confetti. “I'll clean everything up, promise.”
She waves off my apology, which isn't surprising. I'm the only one who ever seems to notice—or clean up—the clutter.
“Did you stay up late gambling?” I ask.
“I stayed up late, all right, but it wasn't to play poker.” She yawns, covering her mouth with coral fingernails. “One of the gentlemen admired my style. So much that he invited me to chat after the game.”
My mouth falls open. “How old is he?”
She shrugs. “He didn't say, but his photo looks like he's in his forties.”
“How old does he think you are?”
“Didn't ask.”
“Gram!”
“Oh, lighten up, CeCe. A bit of cybersex never hurt anyone.”
I grind my teeth. I highly doubt any such thing happened, but that's Gram. Always trying to get a reaction out of me. “What if word gets out? If people hear you're dating a younger man, they'll say you're just like . . . You're just like . . .”
“Tabitha?” Her voice slides into my sternum like a blade. “You can say her name, you know. She's not the devil.”
I close my mouth. Maybe it's because she's a newcomer to Lakewood, but Gram has never seemed affected by the gossip. And like my dad, she's always been one hundred percent on my mother's side.
“Besides, the situation isn't even remotely similar,” she continues. “We're two consenting adults. Even if people talk, what does it matter, so long as you and I know the truth?”
Truth. Problem is, the word's slippery—too slippery. There's the truth in the police report, the truth the kids at school whisper. Then there's my mom's truth, which I have yet to uncover. And my own truth, which morphs from day to day.
“I found this key,” I say, changing the subject. “I'm trying to figure out what it opens. Is there anything in your room it might fit?”
She rakes a hand through her hair, and I glimpse the silver growing in at her roots. “I don't think so. But you're welcome to look.”
I grin. Gram may not be much of a guardian, but she has an open-door policy to her life. I thank her and dash up the stairs, two at a time.
Still, I find nothing. I paw through her drawers, tunnel my way to the back of the closet, even tug on patches of carpet to see if anything budges. Zilch.
I turn the key in my hands. It didn't get into my pocket by accident. If my mother put the key there, it must belong to something.
I'm still squinting at the key as if it holds the secrets of my universe when Gram comes into the room. “CeCe, you have a caller.”
The key drops soundlessly to the carpet. “I didn't hear the phone ring.”
“Not that kind of caller. A young man is at our front door.” She leans against the doorjamb, sipping from a mug of coffee. “And he's cute. Very cute.”
Chapter 14
Sam's standing on my front porch, fidgeting with an aluminum scooter. As soon as he sees me, he grins widely—and then his smile folds inward like one of those flowers that close when you touch it.
“I'm sorry to barge in like this,” he says, as if he's not sure how I'll react to his presence. And how could he? Even I don't know how I'll respond these days.
Behind him, a Pontiac Grand Am backs onto the street. The girl at the wheel honks twice and then drives off, leaving an impression of exhaust and curly black hair. A tuft pokes out the open window, fluttering in the wind as if to say “good-bye.”
“Was that your ride?” I tug at my limp ponytail and attempt to smooth my sweatshirt, which looks even more worn in the glaring sunlight.
“Yes. I mean, no. That's my sister, Briony. She's a junior, and apparently, her need for the family car is way more pressing than mine. She couldn't wait two minutes for me to talk to you. No matter. I have another mode of transportation.”
He holds up the aluminum scooter, and I burst out laughing.
“Seriously, Sam, I've never seen anyone past the sixth grade ride on one of those things.”
“That's about how I look when I ride on it. Like a sixth-grader.” He smiles again, clearly more comfortable, and holds up a hoodie. It's the one Liam lent me. “I must've grabbed the wrong sweatshirt last night.”
“Thanks. But I could've gotten it from you at school.”
“I thought your boyfriend might want it back?” His tone is casual, but I can tell he's asking more than the stated question.
“Boyfriend? Liam's not my boyfriend.”
Everything I'm saying is true. Sam didn't ask if I felt a connection with Liam. Or if I ever thought about his winter-blue eyes. So there's no reason for the guilt snaking through my stomach. There's not.
Flustered, I sit on the two-seater swing, and he joins me.
“I wasn't sure.” He pushes off the wooden porch slats with his foot, and his arm stretches along the back of the swing. Six inches from my neck. If I leaned against the seat, we'd be snuggling. “The hoodie smelled like fresh cologne, and you didn't have it on when you first came into the party.”
“You saw me?”
“You'd be surprised what you can learn by paying attention.” He gives the swing another push, and his fingers brush my shoulder. My breath catches. The touch is as light as the graze of a butterfly's wing, and yet, I can pinpoint exactly where his hand landed—and for how long.
“Take my sister, for example,” he continues. “You see how she took off like that? She's definitely meeting some guy.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugs. “Make-up. Hair. Most days she tosses it in a ponytail and lounges around the house in yoga pants. Did you see the shirt she was wearing? It's a guy, for sure. Weird thing is, she wouldn't tell me anything about him. So I've got to think he's older or into drugs or something.”
“Does she usually tell you?”
“Yeah.” The word drags out to four syllables. “I know it's not exactly cool, but Bri and I have always been close. Our family situation being what it is, I guess you could say we've always relied on each other. The whole us-against-the-world kind of thing.”
I want to ask about his family situation. Everything in me is dying to know. But the pesky thing about conversations is that you're expected to reciprocate. If he spills about his family, then I'll have to dish about mine. And I'm not quite ready for that yet.
“The article's not going so hot,” he says, as though reading my mind. “I've only got a week and a half before the story's due, and I'm having a hard time getting any of the key players to talk to me. Tommy Farrow and Mackenzie Myers stonewalled me at the party. Luckily, I'm meeting Mr. W. later. He's my last lead.”
“Not quite,” I say. “You're talking to me. I'm a key player.”
His eyes widen. “This isn't for the paper. Everything you say to me is off the record, I swear.”
The swing creaks back and forth. I want to believe him. I want him to be everything he seems to be. But out of all people, I should know appearances are deceiving. He doesn't seem like the type who would lie to me. But my mother didn't seem like the type who would sleep with a high school boy, either.
“That's another reason I'm here.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “We have the same goal. I need an angle for my article. You want to find out what happened to your mom. If we share information, we'd be better off. What do you think about working together?”
I blink. That's the last thing I expected him to say. “I . . . I'm not sure.”
“We'd be good together. I'm good at research. I have access to resources at the
Lakewood Sun
. And you have inside knowledge nobody has.”
It makes sense. If I wanted an ally, he's not a bad choice. He's smart and inquisitive. And I'd rather not do this alone. But if we keep digging into my mom's past, who knows what we'll find? The reasons for her actions might be as sordid as everyone thinks. How can I share that information with anyone, much less the boy who wants to expose her secrets to the world?
“I've spent the whole morning trying to figure out who posted your mom's photo on that site,” he says. “The name listed is an entity called ‘PX1990.' But that name led to shell company after shell company, and it was virtually impossible to follow the trail.”
“It had to be someone who knew her back then,” I say, drawn in despite my reservations. “How else would they have gotten her photo when she was seventeen?”
“Possibly. But this same corporation put up photos of a dozen girls.” He pauses. “They had one thing in common: They were all teenagers.”
I frown. “You think my mother was part of an underage pornography ring?”
“It looks like she was a victim, at least.”
I dig my fingernails into my palms. So many secrets, so many questions. My tongue tingles with the need to tell Sam about the misdialed calls and the text messages. It would be nice to have a confidant for the first time since my mom died. Someone who is just as committed to finding the truth. But can I trust him?
While I'm pondering, my dad pulls into the driveway. He gets out of the car, lugging a half-empty gallon jug of water and a rubber window squeegee.
“That's my dad, coming from the cemetery again,” I whisper to Sam. “He's obsessed with washing my mom's gravestone.”
Sam jumps up as my father comes up the steps. “Mr. Brooks?” He sticks out his hand. “Good to meet you. I'm one of CeCe's friends, Sam Davidson.”
My dad shakes Sam's hand and then stows the gallon jug on the corner of the porch. “Um. Nice meeting you.” His voice lilts up, as if he's not used to being introduced to my friends. And he's not. That was more Mom's territory.
He glances at me. “Good morning, CeCe. Have you eat—”
“Bagel and cream cheese,” I interrupt. “Glass of orange juice.”
“Good, good.” He bobs his head. “I'll leave you kids, then.”
“How was Mom today?” I ask softly.
He closes his eyes, as if the very question pains him. “A bird had pooped on the headstone, right next to her picture. It was a good thing I was there to clean it.”
He goes inside the house, and the air stutters out of my lungs. I shouldn't have asked about my mom. I never have before. But it's silly to pretend she doesn't exist when we can't so much as inhale without breathing her in.
I don't want to live like this anymore. I don't want to skulk around school, hoping nobody notices me, pretending the past will go away if we ignore it.
I want my life back. Not my old life—that would be impossible. But a new life cobbled together from the shards of who I used to be. Maybe the first step is to agree to work with Sam. To talk about the scandal directly and honestly.
“Why didn't you try to interview him?” I ask Sam. “This was your big chance, and you blew it.”
“He's still grieving,” he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “I want to write a kick-ass article, sure. I want to learn the truth about what happened to your mom. But I'm not going to deepen anyone's pain. I chose this career in order to help people, CeCe. Not kick them while they're down.”
That decides it. There are no guarantees in life. No proof that will ensure you're making the right decision. Sometimes, you just have to hold your breath and jump. And hope you land on your feet unscathed.
“Okay. Let's do it. Let's work together.”
“Great.” He grins so big his eyes almost crinkle shut. “We can start with my appointment with Mr. Willoughby at the hotline. Maybe we'll find another lead there.”
“About the hotline . . .” I knew this partnership would be a risk. I knew I'd have to take a leap of faith. But I didn't think it would happen so soon. “I suppose this is a good time to tell you I'm volunteering as a call counselor.”
I hold my breath, bracing myself for his reaction.
His lips arch in a half-smile, and his forehead remains unwrinkled. He doesn't look shocked. He doesn't even look surprised. “Relax, CeCe. You're not telling me anything I don't already know.”
BOOK: The Darkest Lie
12Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Ozark Retreat by Jerry D. Young
A Life Less Ordinary by Christopher Nuttall
Learning to Heal by Cole, R.D.
The Ninth Wave by Eugene Burdick
Killer Instinct by Zoe Sharp