The Lie (Kings of Linwood Academy Book 2)

by Callie Rose

  The Lie

  Kings of Linwood Academy #2

  Callie Rose

  Copyright © 2019 by Callie Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Backmatter

  Thank You For Reading

  1

  My favorite color has always been blue.

  I never had a least favorite before.

  But I do now.

  Orange.

  I fucking hate it.

  My mom smiles at me from behind the glass partition that separates us, and the sight of it twists my stomach into knots. She’s only been in here for four days, but when your mom’s been arrested for a murder she didn’t commit, four days feels like a goddamn lifetime.

  “Harlow, sweetheart, it’s going to be all right,” she promises for the millionth time, and I do my best to smile back at her, even though it hurts my face.

  I don’t see how that’s true, but I can’t stand that my mom, the one locked behind bars, is the one trying to comfort me. I should be protecting her, comforting her—hell, I shouldn’t have let Detective Dunagan and those other cops haul her away in the first place.

  That thought makes my stomach clench so hard I think I might throw up, so I push it away, attempting to slow my heart rate by sheer force of will.

  “Are you okay? Are you sure you’re doing all right?” I scoot to the edge of my chair, getting as close to the glass divider as possible. “I can’t believe they won’t even let you out on bail. This is fucking bullshit. You didn’t do anything.”

  “Low.”

  Mom shoots me a disapproving look, shaking her head slightly. Normally, she doesn’t really care about my tendency to curse like a sailor. She had me when she was nineteen and raised me on her own, so we’ve always been as much like sisters as mother and daughter. I heard those words from her lips plenty of times growing up.

  But when her gaze leaves me, it darts to the guard standing near the door, looking bored out of his mind—and I know it’s not the swearing she minds so much as where I’m doing it. She doesn’t want me to say something to rile up the guard or get myself in trouble.

  And that’s what tells me, more than anything else, that she’s scared.

  She may be trying to put on a brave face for me, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s caught in a system now that won’t let her go until she proves her innocence.

  And whoever put her here, whoever called in the anonymous tip to Detective Dunagan and his buddies, did everything they could to make sure that never happens.

  I’m losing my battle to keep my emotions under control—again.

  My jaw clenches so hard my teeth hurt, and I blink back the tears that make my eyes sting.

  Motherfucker.

  Mom can read me like a book, so she sees on my face that I’m about to lose it and scoots closer to the window dividing us too. Her gaze flicks to the guard by the door one last time, then she looks back to me, her voice softening to a whisper.

  “I hate this, Low. I hate it so much. But we have to just… have faith in the system. We have to believe that when the truth all comes out, they’ll know it wasn’t me. It has to be possible to prove that, because it’s the truth.”

  “I know it is, but—”

  My voice is ragged and too loud, and she cuts me off, putting her hand against the glass.

  “It will be okay. The lawyer Samuel recommended is excellent; she really knows her stuff. I’ve got money saved up from my first few paychecks, and beyond that… well, we’ll figure it out.”

  We’ll figure it out.

  Loans, maybe. Credit cards.

  My chest squeezes painfully, and I have to fight down the urge to yank the phone receiver from the wall and bash it against the glass until it breaks—the receiver, probably, not the glass. I’m sure the clear pane that separates us is made of some kind of unbreakable material.

  But I don’t fucking care. I just want to break something.

  We’ll figure it out.

  My mom spent the past seven years digging herself out of the financial hole she went into trying to pay for my cancer treatments. She isn’t even all the way out yet, but her new job at the Black family’s house as their Executive Housekeeper was going to get her there. It was going to turn our fucking lives around.

  Now it’s like someone cut the rope she was using to climb out of that hole and made the hole deeper while they were at it, leaving her to fall into a dark abyss that seems to have no bottom.

  But what are her choices?

  Take on more crushing debt, or go to prison—possibly for life—on a murder charge?

  That’s a shitty list of options.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” I reach out and press my palm against hers, hating every atom of the plexiglass that keeps us from touching. “I’m so sorry.”

  She smiles sadly and even huffs a soft breath of laughter. “Sweetheart, it’s not your fault. None of this is.”

  She’s wrong about that.

  I didn’t murder Iris, but I know who did. A man in black, who wore a black mask and moved like a predator.

  I don’t know his name, but I know he exists. I know my mom didn’t do this. And if Lincoln, River, Dax, and Chase hadn’t betrayed me, maybe I could’ve convinced the detective to look for that man instead of arresting my mother.

  The tears I always promise myself I won’t cry when I come see her slip down my cheeks, and I can see her brown eyes glisten in response. Quickly, I pull my hand away from the glass and wipe my eyes, sucking in a deep breath and forcing a smile to my face.

  “I love you, Mom. You’re the most badass person I know. And—and you’re right. It’s all gonna be okay.”

  We traded these kinds of empty promises and reassurances back and forth when I was going through chemo, and even though we both knew they were promises we couldn’t guarantee, I know how much it helps to hear the words.

  There is power in believing. In holding onto hope.

  And I won’t take that away from my mom, even if I can’t find my own hope right now.

  Some of the strain leaves her face. Her hair, the same deep brown as mine, is pulled back from her face in a simple ponytail, and her complexion still seems too pale, like the blood never fully returned to her face after the shock of being arrested in the middle of Mr.
and Mrs. Black’s cocktail party.

  “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything to help?” I ask, chewing my lip.

  She starts to shake her head, then stops, and my heart leaps with hope. I’m dying to do something, anything.

  “You can go back to school.”

  She arches a brow, and for a second, she looks just like she would if we were hanging out in her apartment in the service quarters over a pint of ice cream—for a second, I can almost forget that she’s locked behind bars.

  When I start to glance away, she taps on the glass with her knuckles to get my attention back and shakes her head at me.

  “I’m serious, Low. Samuel told me you haven’t gone all week. I know you’re worried, but you can visit me after classes let out, and you’re not doing me or yourself any good staying home.”

  “It’s not my home,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

  I sound like an ungrateful asshole, I know I do. Samuel Black has stepped up above and beyond what any employer could be expected to do—especially for an employee who’s worked for him for less than six months.

  It’s not his fault I’m so pissed at his son that living under the same roof as him makes me want to punch a hole through a wall.

  Mom’s face falls again, and I know that of all the things she hates about this situation, her biggest regret is having to leave me on my own, at the mercy of other people’s kindness.

  I want to take that guilt away from her, so I blow out a breath and nod. “You’re right. I’ll start going to school tomorrow. But I’m still gonna come visit you as often as I can.”

  Her breath hitches, and I hear the quiet noise through the phone receiver pressed to my ear.

  “You better,” she murmurs softly.

  We talk for a few more minutes, and I wish I could distract her with entertaining chitchat about other, mundane topics. But I can’t think about anything else. I can’t talk about anything else.

  Four words beat against the inside of my skull, and they seem to drown out everything else, making every other aspect of my life seem unimportant in comparison.

  You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here.

  When I finally stand up to leave, my bones ache from not being able to hug her. We press our hands to the glass one last time—a gesture that always seemed a little cheesy in movies, but which now gives me the tiny spark of hope I need to keep going.

  I leave the prison, which is on the far north side of Fox Hill, and head for the bus stop across the street. Mom hates that I take the bus to come visit her, but it’s not like the Fox Hill Correctional Center is the most dangerous place on earth. And I don’t really have a choice. Her car was seized as evidence, and I’d rather stick a hot butter knife through my eye than let Lincoln or any of the other kings of Linwood drive me.

  The ride back to the Black family’s neighborhood is long and involves two transfers, but I don’t really care. I have nowhere else to be. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and I should be in eighth period History right now, but I skipped school today just like I have every day since Mom’s arrest.

  I wasn’t lying to her. I’ll start going again tomorrow. But it’s too late to make it to any classes today.

  On the last leg of my trip, my phone buzzes in my purse, and I drag my gaze away from the increasingly fancy houses outside to dig it out of my bag.

  HUNTER: Hey Low. This is your daily check-in to make sure you’re still alive.

  I tug my bottom lip between my teeth as I read the message from my best friend back home in Arizona. She calls it her daily check-in, but hourly might be a better descriptor. I miss her so fucking much, but her constant stream of texts and frequent calls have made me feel a little bit less alone.

  ME: Hey dummy. Yep, still alive.

  HUNTER: How’s your mom?

  ME: Okay… or as okay as possible, I guess. I just saw her.

  HUNTER: God, this is so unbelievably fucked up. I told you my parents flipped when I told them, right?

  ME: They didn’t believe it, did they??

  HUNTER: Fuck no. They know your mom.

  ME: Good.

  HUNTER: If she needs like character witnesses or anything, you know we’ll be there in a heartbeat. I’ll testify in front of God and a jury and everyone. I don’t even care who.

  ME: Thanks, dummy. Love you.

  HUNTER: Love you more.

  HUNTER: Hey, you wanna hear dumb, trivial life stuff or not? I thought maybe it would distract you, but maybe you don’t want a distraction.

  ME: No, I need one. Lay it on me. What class are you in right now, btw?

  HUNTER: Chemistry. Mrs. Lundt gives no shits. I didn’t even hide my phone under my desk.

  HUNTER: Kevin and I broke up.

  I grimace, shaking my head slightly. The news isn’t all that surprising—I had a feeling they were headed that way. And I think it’s probably a good thing. Hunter is tiny, but she makes up for it with a manic energy that would make a hummingbird look like a sloth. Kevin’s a nice guy, but I always felt like he was a little… flat for her. She needs someone who can meet her energy level, or if not meet it, at least appreciate it. Kevin tolerated it, and that’s just not good enough for my bestie.

  Still, I can tell—even in a five-word text—that she’s sad about it.

  ME: Ah that sucks. I’m sorry.

  HUNTER: It’s for the best. It was time, it’s just… being alone again sucks, you know?

  God, do I ever know.

  This time last week, I had four boys on my side. Four boys I was starting to care for, really care for. Four boys who were starting to feel like they were mine.

  And now, I’m more alone than I’ve ever been in my life.

  ME: I wish I could hug the shit out of you right now.

  HUNTER: Awww me too.

  We keep texting back and forth as the bus trundles down the wide city streets, and even though we’re both nursing heartache, I think we manage to make each other feel better. As much as her break-up sucks, talking about something normal feels good right now.

  She tells me she has to go when her Chemistry class lets out, promising to call me later. I check for any other messages on my phone—there are none, which isn’t that surprising—and drop it back in my bag.

  Our text conversation got me almost all the way back to my destination, and as the bus rounds a corner onto the street where I’ll make my final stop, I can feel tension gathering in my muscles again.

  I know I’m lucky Mr. Black offered to let me stay with them while my mom “sorts this all out”, but I hate living in that fucking house. If we had the money, I would’ve checked into a hotel so fast there would’ve been nothing but a little smoke trail left behind me.

  But we don’t.

  We barely have enough money for mom’s lawyer, and I know that won’t last long once the fees start piling up.

  So I’m living under the charity of Samuel and Audrey Black and doing my level best to avoid their son.

  I yank the cord to request a stop as the bus rolls through a wide intersection, and when the driver pulls over, I push open the back doors and step out onto the sidewalk. November in Connecticut is a lot chillier than it is in Arizona, and I cross my arms over my chest as the bus rolls away with a hydraulic hiss.

  The Black’s house is still over a mile away—their fancy-pants neighborhood isn’t really the type to have many bus stops—so I turn and head in that direction, walking at a fast clip to try to stay warm.

  As I head down the sidewalk, a prickle of awareness brushes over the back of my neck. My steps slow slightly as all my focus shifts to the space behind me.

  Someone’s following me. I’m sure of it.

  I heard a car’s engine a second ago, but no vehicle ever pulled past me. It must’ve slowed down instead of speeding up.

  Images of a man in black, of a ski mask that covers everything but his eyes and mouth, invade my brain, and my heart starts to pound heavily and erratically
in my chest.

  The man’s car was dark too. Everything about him was dark—like a shadow, like a bad fucking dream.

  My hands bunch into fists. I can feel my fingertips shaking, and it’s not from cold.

  There’s a high stone wall running alongside the paved sidewalk, and I move closer to it, like that will save me if whoever’s behind me tries to run me over.

  My neck feels stiff as I turn my head slightly, holding my fear in check by a thread as I peek behind me out of the corner of my eye.

  Shit.

  There is a car back there.

  And as soon as I see the driver’s face, one part of my heart relaxes while another part clenches even tighter.

  It’s Lincoln.

  2

  Adrenaline is still pouring through my body as I gaze through the windshield, making my stomach churn until I feel sick.

  Lincoln is alone in the car, his head tilted slightly as he creeps along behind me at a mile an hour. The bright amber color of his eyes is a stark contrast to his almost-black hair, which falls over his forehead a little. His features are almost inhumanly symmetrical, the angles of his face sharp and perfect.

  He’s beautiful.

  Or at least, I thought so once.

  Now, I can barely look at him without wanting to vomit.

  I drag my gaze away from his and pick up my pace, veering back into the center of the sidewalk. The engine rumbles, and a second later, the car pulls up alongside me, the passenger side window rolling down smoothly.

  “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself, Low,” he says, a hard edge to his voice. “Did you take the bus to the prison again?”