Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel

by Huntington, Parker S.

  “Must have missed it,” I lied.

  Chantilly also hadn’t told me about the dress fittings the company had set up for us, which meant I’d ended up pulling this outfit together with minutes to spare while Chantilly had strutted into the ballroom wearing in-season Versace.

  Pushing past servers, partygoers, and a holier-than-thou Chantilly talking up an investment banker who’d once had an affair with a classmate’s mother, I made my way to the exit.

  I left, my eyes holding Brandon’s the entire time.

  I backed away slowly before a flash of something green peeking from his pocket snagged my attention.

  I recognized it.

  The same mask worn by the man I’d caught staring at me all night.

  My singular near-death experience had come on the eve of my ninth birthday. My nanny cried as the storm rattled our private jet. She cried harder when the pilot announced an emergency landing.

  Mother sipped the glass of Château Margaux she shouldn’t have owned. (Money bought things like famous wine once belonging to a founding father.) I didn’t know whether she was a badass that couldn’t be fazed or the ‘preventative’ Botox had smoothed her face to the point of no expression.

  The landing flung my head against the leather headrest until the only stars I saw were the ones blurring my vision. Dad held my hand, telling me stories of a war he’d never been to, the analogy being we were warriors fighting a storm or some bullshit I no longer believed but had clung to at the time.

  Our private jet shook against the pavement in some podunk Southern town Mother deemed too gross to step foot in. The emergency landing hadn’t budged her face, but my nanny wore streaks of mascara on her cheeks as she helped Mother to the back of the jet for a nap until we could leave for Greece again.

  I stood to follow, but Dad tugged at my hand and led me to the emergency exit. The slide inflated within seconds of the door opening. I didn’t have the opportunity to scream. Dad pushed me, and I flew down.

  Wind whipped hair against my cheeks. Rain made my teeth chatter. Sharp lightning lit up the sky. Sparks of thrill sent delicious electricity through my body that reminded me of staying up past my bed-time and not getting caught. And I swore, I’d never experienced magic before that day.

  Dad slid down after me, singing the lyrics to “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic,” so off-key, I enjoyed his version more than the real one. When he grabbed my hand, we danced to no music, switching from ballroom to 80s moves, feeling reckless, happy, like a two-person family was greater than a three-person one.

  I laughed until I collapsed onto thick mud, making lazy angels with my arms and legs as I told Dad I wanted to move here forever. I didn’t even know where here was.

  Dad tapped my chin and fell to the mud beside me. “It doesn’t matter where we live, Emery. We can balter anywhere.”

  I scrunched my nose, inhaling salty rainwater that shotgunned to my head and rendered me dizzy. “Balter?”

  “To dance—artlessly, with no grace, no skill, but always with enjoyment. All you have to do is ask. I will always be here to balter with you.”

  The pilots had delayed another day until they could replace the emergency slide, which forced Mother to sleep in a town she thought she was too good for, and Dad and I spent the entire vacation with a cold.

  Mother called us stupid on her way to the spa, but I shared secret smiles with Dad and drank hot chocolate with mini marshmallows in the library of the yposkafo we rented, scouring English and Greek dictionaries for special words.

  On my ninth birthday, I’d learned that my dad loved me fiercely, storms were magic, and unique words were the prayers that fueled them.

  The first lesson had been a lie. Dad wouldn’t have stolen from his company and taken that risk if he loved me.

  The second and third lessons were probably lies, too, but I’d never been able to shake the idea of magical storms and transcendental words.

  I whispered five magic words to force Brandon out of my head. I speed-walked my way to the alcove of elevators. My fingers made quick work of my pin, loosening my name tag before a guest noticed an employee headed to the sixteenth floor.

  Before the power crew had left for the day, we’d had them turn an extra elevator on for the guests to reach their rooms.

  Two elevators.

  More than a hundred guests.

  I dropped my hands and ran to the last one on the right. Its doors had begun to close. A crowd of businessmen approached behind me. I didn’t know how I could explain not having an actual room on the sixteenth floor to nine people, so I took my chances that there were fewer people inside the closing elevator.

  I broke into an all-out sprint, which wasn’t the best look in Converse and a floor-length dress made of restricting curtain fabric, but I’d been working since eight this morning, and it was two hours past midnight. I needed a whole day of rest if I had to spend it on the damn closet floor. Plus, I’d drunk just enough to make me drowsy, my eyes droopy and begging for a good night’s sleep.

  “Wait!” I called out to the two occupants, so dizzy from alcohol and hunger, I thought I might faint.

  The man had his head tucked downward, focusing on his smartphone, but the woman looked up. We made eye contact as the doors continued their path. Neither of them bothered holding them open. I dove inside the elevator, barely escaping the heavy metal doors.

  I bumped into the man, who steadied me with a large palm before stepping back. My cheeks burned a horrifying shade of scarlet from exertion, and I averted my eyes from his towering build and bespoke suit, almost certain my mask was a second from slipping off.

  Ignoring my irritation with them both, I pressed the button to the sixteenth floor, brushing against the woman’s arm.

  She scooted as far away as possible at my touch, her silver-coated mask shifting with the movement. Her runway-thin body looked svelte in the sequined dress she wore, the same color as her mask.

  Meanwhile, I resembled the aftermath of a category four tornado. Vodka stained the left half of my gown. Slate-black hair swept in dizzying directions. Multi-colored eyes framed by melted mascara and eyeliner, in the shape of a wilting raccoon.

  I could kiss my mask for hiding most of the liquified makeup, but I kept my head down in case. I didn’t want one of Dad’s old business friends to recognize me, and the prospect of anyone seeing me like this unnerved me.

  A nagging awareness spread through my chest, something I couldn’t pinpoint but knew I had to. The wall tempted me. I wanted to face it, bury myself in the gunmetal velvet lining, and hide until the invisible needles pricking my body ceased their assault.

  I lowered my head down and tilted away. Pulling my phone out, I typed out a couple of messages to Ben for something to do.

  Durga: You know what would be an awful way to die? In a room full of people you don’t know.

  Durga: Or worse—a room full of people you hate.

  I waited, breath baited. The circle by his name remained red, indicating he either wasn’t on his phone or he wasn’t on the app. I suppressed my sigh but flipped off its push notifications in case an alert came in during work and someone realized I was from Eastridge.

  My fingers continued typing idle messages on the notes, pretending I had a reason for keeping my head down other than a body-seizing fear of being recognized.

  The lights flickered. I crossed my toes in the Chucks my dress hid well and sent a mini-prayer to the powers that be that the electricity wouldn’t shut off, and I wouldn’t be stuck in this elevator with these two.

  The elevator shook at the next rumble of thunder. My thin, silver name tag fell to the floor. I’d forgotten I even loosened it. I bent to pick it up the same time the man did. He reached it first, lifting it with delicate care I hadn’t expected.

  I extended my hand out for it, but he didn’t return it. His thumb brushed against my name engraved on the tiny silver rectangle. He stood, his movements abrupt and jerky. It remained clutched between hi
s fist, the grip so tight his knuckles had turned white. He would have crushed it, had it not been metal.

  I kept my head down, torn between facing him and demanding he return my name tag and turning to the wall and forgetting it existed.

  What the hell was happening?

  I straightened after him, confused and too tired to draw conclusions. He pressed the button for the next floor—the seventh.

  The doors opened almost immediately. I glanced at his date from the corners of my eyes.

  The girl stood frozen, her jaw unhinging. Her furrowed brows dipped into her mask. “What?”

  “We’re done for the weekend.” The clipped tone seemed familiar. I wanted to study him, but it was more reason not to. I refused to be recognized while confined to a small box. “Wait for the elevator to return to the lobby. I’ll add a bonus for the taxi.”

  She clutched onto his arm as the elevator pinged. “But I thought—”

  “I don’t pay you to think.” He took a step back, extracting himself from her grip. I refused to glance at his face. “Your flight is booked for 8 A.M.”

  In six hours.

  I nearly winced for the poor girl, but I was supposed to be minding my business, my head down, my damn name tag still in this stranger’s fingers. Plus, if it had been up to her, the elevator doors would have closed on me.

  She dipped her head down and left the elevator without another protest.

  He was an asshole.

  Clearly.

  But it was not my problem.

  Nope.

  I just wanted my name tag.

  “Can I have my name tag?” I shifted at the awkwardness in the air.

  I’d met men like him before. I didn’t need to look at his face to know his type—classically handsome with all the money and power in the world. A man who thought he could toy with people as he pleased. A man like my father.

  I loved my dad, but I didn’t love who he had turned out to be. Obligatory love, my mom had called it when I’d tried to explain the pain in my soul. It seemed too inadequate of a description.

  The man toyed with the metal in his hand and whispered, his voice as deep and rich as his Westmancott suit, “Emery.”

  My name sounded like it’d touched his lips before. It spoke of a familiarity that alarmed me, and I prayed against all odds he hadn’t recognized my name.

  It wasn’t only my dad people dragged through the mud. My mother and I bore emotional battle scars from the last four years, but I supposed I might have had it easy compared to her. She refused to leave Eastridge.

  No one wanted us there.

  “Look at me,” he demanded, shocking me.

  I refused. It felt like the coward’s way out, and I’d never been a coward in the past. I criticized my dad, but I’d failed to mention what I thought about myself.

  The person I’d become since The Winthrop Scandal would never have earned my respect back then. One moment, fearless to the point of reckless, jumping with little regard for consequences. And the next moment, spineless, both victim and victimizer. A bear ensnared by a simple trap, once mighty, now fallen.

  Once a tiger. Now a whelp.

  Aside from Dad’s victims, that was, perhaps, the biggest tragedy of it all. I’d lost my dad, but I’d also lost myself. Not all the time but enough for my pride to shrivel.

  The man placed the name tag in my palm and curled my fingers around it. The gesture was innocent, but it felt too intimate for strangers. Electricity traveled from my fingertips to my heart, spearing me until my chest heaved in a pant.

  What the hell was happening?

  Witchcraft.

  Had to be.

  I jerked my hand back, falling off balance when the elevator screeched to a halt with a synchrony that had me wondering if fate had spent my entire life conspiring against me. My body stumbled forward at the same time the lights flickered off.

  We were trapped, and I was dizzy.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  Black.

  Storm season in North Carolina always took tourists by surprise.

  It attacked suddenly, vibrant sun peeking out after the rain had cleared. I’d grown up with it, and still, I found it odd, like a quirk Mother Nature branded to remind us she held the power.

  I glanced to the body on the floor, sprawled out in a right angle. Not dead. Unconscious, drunk, and snoring louder than a broken carburetor. And not just anybody. Emery Winthrop, an interesting but not entirely unwanted turn of events.

  A few days ago, Fika had revealed that she knew where her dad was hiding, and as if Fate had decreed it, she’d landed on my lap. Literally. Facedown, her temple pressed against my thigh until she’d lolled off with a loud thud and an annoyed groan that might have made me wince if I cared about murderers and their accomplices.

  Thunder growled so loudly outside, it shook the metal box. I planted my feet, cursing when something pricked at my heel. Shining my phone’s light on my foot, I pulled the long pin of Emery’s name tag out of my shoe, clasped it together, then tossed the tiny metal rectangle at the elevator doors.

  The flashlight illuminated her skinny frame, bonier than I’d ever seen her. Her slit had risen and torn, leaving most of her leg bare to me. She’d grown taller in the past four years, and she laid sprawled across the elevator floor, taking up all the space.

  My space.

  My elevator.

  My hotel.

  A drunk and unconscious kid, the last thing I needed in a hotel swarming with politicians, a Presidential candidate, and Secret Service agents.

  The name tag tugged at my mind, begging me to unravel how she had one—how she worked for my company.

  She had Winthrop money, meaning she’d been a member of the Three Commas Club since birth. College degrees doubled as ornaments, jobs were merely a formality, and if she wanted, she could never work a day in her life and still live as luxuriously as a Saudi oil prince.

  A loud snore jerked her thin frame until she rolled over, revealing her clutch in the same black fabric of her dress. She reeked of alcohol and poor decisions and looked like a victim of the storm.

  Swiping at her hair, I checked her scalp. No blood or bumps, but she smelled like a brewery, and her head would pound when she woke up. My fingers caught in a tangle, taking three tries to pull it out.

  The long locks could have doubled as a bird’s nest, and I swore, if this was the direction fashion trends were headed, I was hitching a ride on Elon Musk’s newest rocket to Mars.

  Bye, bye, human race.

  Adios to your pumpkin spice lattes, cookie butter ice cream, and charcoal toothpaste.

  Good fucking riddance.

  I shook Emery’s shoulders and snapped my fingers next to her ear. She sat up with a whine on her lips, shoved my hands aside with surprising strength, and muttered, “fuck off.” The scent of vodka swarmed my senses before she curled onto her side and fell back asleep.

  Unbelievable.

  I snatched up her clutch, unclasped it, and sifted through the contents. Several packets of oyster crackers scattered to the floor the second I opened the bag. I shook my head, noting she hadn’t changed a bit.

  Emery used to walk around with candy and snacks shoved deep inside her pockets, mostly Snickers, a habit she’d picked up after Virginia neglected to give her lunch money too many times. Usually on accident, but sometimes on purpose to encourage her prepubescent daughter to lose a few pounds.

  Pieces of work, the Winthrop family.

  Flicking Emery’s wallet open, I flipped through her cards. An expired driver’s license sat on top of her Clifton University student I.D., reminding me how young she was.

  The license read, “Emery Winthrop,” whereas the student I.D. read, “Emery Rhodes.” Amusing, but not surprising, given she was born and bred from liars.

  The photos in her wallet told me nothing of Gideon’s location. A Polaroid of a field of stars with the word balter written in Sharpie under it. On
the back, she’d drawn a small animal that resembled a tiger, but it had no stripes, and crayon wasn’t the best art medium for precision. She’d scrawled, of all things, “ride me” beneath it, and I swore, if Emery weren’t rich, her quirks would land her in an asylum.

  The other Polaroid featured a Valentine’s Day card that compared love to shit. She had glued another picture to the back. Reed smiled at me, his arm around Emery’s shoulders while she held a tattered football.

  I remembered when Ma had taken the photo. A row of red maple trees grew near the garden on the Winthrop estate. Reed had gotten his football stuck in one, and Emery climbed up the tree, limbs moving with no grace yet no hesitation, even when she fell to the ground in a bed of sanguine leaves and twisted her ankle.

  Reed had screamed for Ma although I stood thirty feet away in the garden, tearing out weeds since Dad had popped his hip and couldn’t afford to get fired by Virginia. Ma came running, and Emery refused to see a doctor until Ma took a picture of her with the football. She wore a toothy smile on her face, looking nothing like Virginia despite the matching dyed hair, sharp bob, and single colored contact.

  Shoving the photos into the trifold wallet insert, I pocketed the whole thing, keeping it as leverage. She’d want them back, I was sure. Two years ago, I’d wired a cool twelve million dollars (a small fortune for a home in North Carolina) to a shell company. In exchange, a discrete broker had transferred ownership of the Winthrop estate to me.

  The purchase had set me back a pretty penny, and I loathed the idea of Gideon profiting from me, but I’d tried to track the payment to his location. That failed, and now I owned a mansion I refused to step foot in.

  Point was, the real estate agent informed me I’d be buying the house as is, including everything in it. From the listing images, Emery’s room appeared untouched. She had taken nothing with her to college that I could see.

  Her pictures of her and Reed still decorated the walls. Her photo albums remained on the shelves. The Polaroid camera she loved peeked out from beneath her bed. I’d pegged her as the sentimental type, and now I owned every memory of hers, including the ones in my pocket.