by Ann Aguirre
Something in his eyes sends my heart lurching into my throat. I know I’m being stupid as I climb into his car, but if I don’t take this risk, I may never understand why I’m here in Morgan’s body. In this moment I feel like I’m supposed to finish her work, and if I do, then we can both rest.
Not that I want to die. But I don’t want to live her life either.
14
“I’ve been worried about you.” Creepy Jack leans over; I avoid his kiss by buckling in.
His mouth slides over my cheek, and he sends a cold shudder through me by breathing deeply into my hair before easing back onto the driver’s side. There isn’t much space in the front seat and less in the back. This is the kind of car men buy when they start losing confidence in their ability to pull women in other ways. Close up, I can see the lines around his eyes that weren’t evident in either picture, along with the receding hairline; he’s older than the late thirties I initially guessed, and on his left hand, a golden ring glints on his fourth finger.
I feel like throwing up again.
He puts the car in gear and it lurches forward like a barely leashed beast. He’s quiet until we put some distance between us and the house. The radio is playing some easy-listening station that underlines the massive gap between us. I don’t want this; I’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Are you hurting?” he asks.
I nod. Because surely a painful, seeping incision will put him off. He rests a palm on my thigh, and the touch tells me everything about their relationship. We drive until I realize we’re headed for the quarry. Earlier in the summer, I would’ve worried about being seen with him since a certain crowd comes here to party. But this is a school night and once September begins, it would be hard to find a more deserted locale.
For drowning a minor indiscretion.
I shudder.
“Is the air-con on too high? Before, you complained if I didn’t set it to max.”
“The accident took something out of me,” I say.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” The term sounds worse in the darkened privacy of the car, as if each letter has spider legs, tiny furry creeping things that are biting their way into my leg courtesy of the five fingers and a burning hot hand on my thigh. His fingers are stroking, stroking, stroking, like I’m a pet or something.
“It’s been a while,” I say softly.
That seems to make sense anyway since Morgan was in Europe and then a week after that, the accident. Since then, I’ve been in charge, and I definitely haven’t hooked up with Creepy Jack. He nods, putting the car in park. It’s so dark here. The place has been closed for thirty years. I’ve always secretly hated the quarry; it’s a scar in the earth filled with dark water. Trees ring the place like they’re standing guard over wicked things, drowned and buried deep.
“I know. The summer is too long.”
Not nearly long enough.
He takes one of my hands between both of his, and the crawly, squiggly impression increases. “Don’t feel neglected, but I’ll be busy for a month or so.”
“Okay,” I say, though Morgan would probably protest, even if she’s playing him.
She never liked being ignored.
“You weren’t kidding. The crash stole all your vinegar. But that’s fine, I like sugar better anyway.” He nuzzles my ear, hot breath moist on my skin.
In another second, his mouth will be on my neck. Stir-fry veggies and tofu heave into my throat. I clamp a hand over my mouth and hunch forward. “Uhm…”
The bastard lets go of me so fast, I might be on fire. He even nudges me toward the passenger door. “Don’t throw up in here. Get out if you have to.”
“Sorry,” I whisper. “Can you take me back?”
I need to find out more about their relationship, but it won’t be today. Between the scene with Nathan and this mess, it’s just been an incredibly long day. In silence he starts the car and drives toward the Frost mansion. He doesn’t touch my leg again.
“I’ll give you some time to heal … and to miss me. You know I love you, right?”
I don’t think Morgan would say it back, even if she was in love with this scary asshole. So I give an enigmatic smile. “I know.”
“Don’t tease me.” In that moment he’s more like a sixteen-year-old boy than a powerful politician, hungry for any scrap of affection.
“Isn’t that what you like best?” I don’t even have to think about what Morgan would say anymore; the words just slip out. “The fact that you can’t be sure of me.”
“Maybe. Here, I got this for you.”
Creepy Jack hands me a black velvet box, and I open it to the unmistakable sparkle of jewelry. This is way over the top, a heart pendant studded with diamonds on a fine silver chain, could be platinum or white gold, too. Even I have heard of the shop it comes from, very expensive. He clasps it around my neck; the metal feels like ice against my skin.
“Thanks.” Before he can reach for me, I add, “Give my regards to your family,” as I slide out. I hurry toward the gate and input the passcode, unable to relax until the wrought-iron doors shut behind me.
I did it. I met with Morgan’s sugar daddy and I didn’t get abducted or molested. That shouldn’t be the watermark for a successful day. More than anything, I want this asshole arrested. But without evidence, it’s my word against his. One meeting, a hand on my leg, and a valuable present? If the news has taught me anything, a good lawyer will make Morgan look like a nympho with daddy issues trying to ruin a good man’s life.
She must have had her reasons for doing this, and for the sake of my sanity, I have to unravel this tangle.
Mrs. Rhodes meets me on the back patio. Her eyes are guarded and watchful. “Your father was looking for you a few minutes ago. I told him you were resting.”
Why did she cover for me?
“I appreciate it,” I say.
“My monthly … bonus is overdue,” she tells me, biting her lower lip. “I know you’ve been preoccupied but … I really need the money.”
“I’ll take care of it right now.”
She seems relieved as I head upstairs so I guess I wasn’t supposed to hand her a wad of cash. No wonder Morgan always seemed to get away with everything. Mrs. Rhodes is on standby, ready to provide an alibi. In the white room of doom, I take off the necklace and hide it in Morgan’s jewelry box. But when I open the bottom drawer, I find two more pieces, a bracelet and earrings, both with the heart-and-diamond scheme.
So. Gross.
My best friend’s e-mail account beckons, but first I have to see if there’s a bank log-in. I’m ecstatic when I’m able to import her browser history and then I find the website. Since I don’t know the password, I repeat the “forgot password, send me a code” routine I used earlier. There’s also a security question, but I know the name of her first pet. I type Trixie, and the site tells me it recognizes my IP. Then I’m into her financial world, staring in astonishment.
I mean, I know she’s well off. But Morgan has $102,191.82 in her checking account. In checking. There’s roughly twice that in savings, plus CD and bond accounts with terms and benefits I’d have to google to understand. Yet I can do the math. In combined assets, Morgan Frost has over a million dollars already, and she’s the sole heir to Frost Tech.
I feel sick to my stomach, like I set out to rob her or something.
Determined, I suppress the shock and nausea, perusing the account records. In history of bills paid, Morgan sends money to Wanda Rhodes on the twenty-eighth, but the amount varies. Best guess, the “bonus” depends on how helpful the housekeeper was. Amounts range between $250 and $1,000, so I average the payments and send $583 via e-transfer. For a little longer I study her spending habits and I’m astounded to see how much she bought in Europe.
Damn.
I shut that site down and do a search using the keywords “Jack,” “politician,” “Renton, GA,” and “Randall Frost.” Five seconds later, I have a picture of Jack Patterson, public assemblyman, smilin
g beside his wife and two young children, one boy, one girl. There are rumors that he might run for state senate in a few years.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
Next I get into e-mail. There isn’t a whole lot since we keep in touch mostly via messaging. But I dig up a subscription to a cloud storage service and reset that password, too. I’m not sure what I expect but, given what I already know about Morgan, I’m braced for the worst. Still, it’s surreal to open the folder labeled Photos and find my best friend in her underwear along with Creepy Jack not wearing much more than a smile.
This is evidence.
The photos aren’t time or date stamped, but I remember that haircut. Morgan was fifteen when these pictures were taken. Fifteen. That’s not a lot older than my younger brother, and no matter what was going on in her head, no matter why she did this, it’s not okay. That asshole needs to pay.
As I’m fuming, I open a folder marked Stuff. Something tells me that title is misleading, more important than anyone would guess. Inside there’s a subfolder, called Read Me. At this point a random snooper would probably lose interest, as the most boring software instruction files in the world are called that.
I open it. And everything changes.
15
If you’re reading this, I must be dead. I wonder if he killed me.
(Haha, I always wanted to type that.)
So I’m either dead, or my dad’s hacked my account. Either way, I have to ask for a favor because I’m in no position to keep going. Can you help me out?
I pause, touching the screen, because this is so Morgan. The humor and arrogance don’t conceal the warmth she was capable of. Though people didn’t always understand her, nobody ever had a more loyal friend. I remember the time she staged a one-person protest because I was accused of cheating on a science test; the crib sheet belonged to someone else but the teacher found it on the floor near my desk. She picketed outside the principal’s office until they called her dad, and when that didn’t work, she went after the jerk who was letting me take the fall.
“Absolutely,” I tell the message from beyond, and keep reading.
So, at this point, I’m assuming you said yes. If it’s Liv, you definitely did. (I hope it’s Liv.) Unless it’s my dad reading this. In which case, sorry for disappointing you, but I guess you need to know that your buddy Jack is a pervert. I kinda hope I’m not around to deal with the fallout, is that wrong? Anyway. Here’s some background in case it’s not my dad because you don’t know the deal, random stranger. Or Liv.
Actually, I’ll just go forward with the belief it’s you. Somehow I’m sure it will be; you’re the only person who never let me down.
Oh, God. Tears spill over because I never knew she felt that way, and now I can’t say that she was that person for me, too. It’s too late; the door between us has closed, and Morgan’s gone where I can’t follow.
There are a lot of things I couldn’t tell you, and I’m sorry about that. I didn’t think you’d understand; I suspected you’d try to stop me. Even now, I can hear you saying, “What the hell are you thinking? Life isn’t a Scooby Doo episode where teenagers catch villains who go to jail whimpering, ‘And I would’ve gotten away with it if not for you meddling kids.’ You’re going to get hurt.”
She’s not wrong. The tears fall faster and I bow my head. She knew me so well.
But some things are worth the pain. You don’t know this about me, but I dream sometimes. About my mother.
I’m getting ahead of myself, though.
My mother’s name was Lucy Ellis. In high school and college, she worked as a model. There are old pictures in the document, examples of how pretty Lucy Ellis-Frost was, not that I need the illustration. I’ve seen their old family albums. Morgan gets her looks mostly from her mom, as Creepy Jack observed earlier. I’m sure you didn’t know this, but … she dated Jack Patterson first. There’s even a shot of them together, dressed in ’80s formal wear.
“Wait, what?” I gape at the computer.
That adds another layer of awful to what he’s doing with Morgan, gives it the flavor of obsession. Suddenly, the room is heavy with perfume, though I haven’t sprayed anything. It’s a bright smell, but a little cloying, too, citrus and flowers. Glancing around, I see the door is still shut. Why…? After a minute, the scent fades, leaving me mystified.
She broke up with him her sophomore year of college, and within six months, she was engaged to my dad, who wasn’t rich or well-known, then. But Jack kept hanging around. He made friends with Randall Frost. Don’t you think that’s weird?
“More than a little,” I mutter.
Most people are eager to put a failed relationship behind them. Seeing the person who broke your heart all the time … how can you get over it?
I keep reading.
Me, too. And when I was little, I didn’t question what happened. But the older I got, the more I wondered. I mean, it was a sunny day. There was no traffic. She had no drugs or alcohol in her system. So why the hell did my mother drive her car into a tree? Dad said she must’ve swerved to avoid an animal in the road because that’s just how Mom was. She couldn’t even kill spiders, so of course she wouldn’t squish an adorable squirrel. Right?
But relatives whispered “she had a history of depression, so maybe…” and then my dad would rush them out of the room. I was old enough to realize they wondered if it was suicide. My dad got so angry. “It was just bad timing. An accident.”
Nothing about it makes sense. So I started digging. I know for a fact that on the day my mother died, she met Jack Patterson. After so long, the restaurant owner barely remembered their faces, so I don’t know what they talked about … and I’m aware that this isn’t proof. But I know in my gut that he killed her. If he didn’t, he’s the reason she died.
But now my progress is halted. Or I’ve been stopped, I don’t know. You’ll say I should’ve left this job to people more qualified, right? But they’ll just think I’m crazy, unable to accept that sometimes people just die and there’s no good reason.
I can’t stop crying, because Morgan is more on point than she could’ve imagined. She wanted answers about her mother’s death, and there’s an eerie sort of parallel here. Maybe I need to solve Morgan’s mystery in order to understand why I got to live when she died.
Anyway, I’m begging you to complete my work. In the folder marked JP, you’ll find everything I’ve uncovered about Jack Patterson. Please don’t let him get away with it. (I swear to God, Liv, I will haunt you if you refuse. Every chill on your spine, every shadow in the corner of your eye, that’ll be me.)
I laugh shakily because this situation is far beyond what Morgan could’ve predicted and she’s trying to pressure me from beyond the grave. Sighing, I skim the last part:
You can trust Clay. Don’t tell anyone else. Good luck, I’m counting on you.
That’s it. Morgan seriously thinks that Creepy Jack murdered her mother? Or had her killed, maybe. And what did she mean by “You can trust Clay”? Maybe with this message, but … that would be in the case it’s Liv reading this message. It doesn’t make sense to go to Clay with a message I allegedly wrote. Picturing that conversation gives me a headache.
So Clay, I found this on my Cloud Drive. Odd, right? I know it seems like I wrote it but let me lay a little more difficult shit on you. I’m not Morgan.
My mind is whirling; there’s no way I can process anything else tonight. Like a zombie I trudge to the en-suite bathroom and wash off my makeup. Sleep seems impossible but my body has other ideas.
In the morning I face another exciting round of Let’s Pretend to be Morgan. Mr. Frost is long gone when I go downstairs and Flint is waiting to drive me to school. This is getting old. It makes me angry to be delegated like this, and he’s not even my dad, so how did Morgan feel?
Flint is too polite to show impatience, but I’ve kept him waiting for fifteen minutes by the time I come outside. I’m starting to understand why Morgan liked be
ing a pain in the ass. It feels like I’m the one in charge, even if I’m not. I mean, I’m not allowed to drive but I can decide when we leave.
“Morning,” Flint says.
I look out the window. Intellectually I know my bad mood isn’t his fault but shit just keeps piling up. How am I supposed to prove that something went terribly wrong ten years ago when the cops didn’t detect foul play? Plus, today, I’ll see Nathan at school, and I know him well enough to understand that it’ll be awful at best. He now thinks I’m the kind of girl who’d cheat on her boyfriend with his own brother.
Flint doesn’t speak again until I’m leaving. “Have a nice day.”
“You too,” I mumble because my actual mother is stirring in my conscience, waving a wooden spoon and intoning, I didn’t raise you to act this way, Olivia.
On my way to Morgan’s locker, I spot three different girls rocking some variation of the outfit I had on yesterday. I’ve changed gears, so today I have on a poppy print sundress and red sandals. I pretend not to notice the whispers.
“Look, she doesn’t even seem upset.”
“She’s so cold,” the other girl agrees. “I’m glad you’re my best friend.”
I’m bulletproof glass, I tell myself. The words bounce off. These assholes never knew Morgan, so they don’t realize that when she cries, she does it alone. Poise is her armor, impenetrable as steel. And now I have to be the same.
