Dangerous Lies

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  "Because no way could a girl hate him simply because he's an asshole."

  "Exactly."

  "Want to grab a bite after our shift?" I asked Inny, the dampness finally leaving my eyes. The way this night was going, I could use a little company. And despite my earlier judgments, it was starting to look like Inny and I had something in common after all.

  "Not tonight." She yawned, stroking her huge belly absently. "I'll be lucky to stay awake on the drive home. Third trimester's a kick in the pants."

  When I got to Carmina's, she was waiting up. She sat on one of the faded blue corduroy sofas in the living room, flipping idly through a book. At the sight of me, she removed her reading glasses, letting them hang from the chain around her neck.

  "How was it?"

  "Busy."

  "Legs hurt?"

  "Not too bad."

  "They'll hurt tomorrow. You should wear support hose."

  I had my hand on the banister, and I tipped my chin tiredly upstairs. "I'm going to bed." Car-hopping was grueling work. Even if the library hadn't been closed by the time my shift ended, I wasn't sure I could have made the extra effort to pedal there and see if Reed had e-mailed me back. And that was saying a lot. Because I was basically living for that e-mail.

  "Do you have a computer?" I managed to ask Carmina, pausing in my slow drag upstairs.

  "An old laptop. But it's locked up," she quickly added, making it clear the laptop was off-limits.

  "Let me guess. The Feds said it would be too big a temptation for me?"

  "The people looking for you could track the computer's address straight to Thunder Basin," she pointed out gravely.

  "It's called an IP address." But beneath my scorn, I felt icy bumps rise along my entire body. I had used a computer at the library to contact Reed. I'd been careful, so careful. But there was always a risk. Telling myself that if Danny Balando was on to my secret e-mail account, I'd be dead by now, didn't ease my mind. Maybe it was best to lie low for a while. But that would mean waiting even longer to talk to Reed, and I was desperate to plan our future. It was the hope of being with him again that pulled me from bed each morning.

  "Chet Falconer called," Carmina said.

  "What did he want?"

  "To talk to you."

  "Now that that's cleared up, can I use the phone, please?" I said with withering sarcasm.

  "It's eleven, Stella. Too late for phone calls. You can try him in the morning."

  I laughed quietly, but I wasn't humored. Unbelievable. She wouldn't give up--she was as determined as ever to keep Chet and me apart. Maybe I needed to tell her my mom had tried the same tactic with Reed, and look how well that had turned out.

  "A mannered young woman doesn't make house calls after nine," she added.

  "That's not what this is about. You couldn't care less about propriety. You don't want me talking to him. Admit it."

  Carmina lifted her book, putting her nose in it, ending our conversation. Shutting me out. So this was how she dealt when things threatened to not go her way.

  Well. At least I could say the mystery of where my first paycheck was going had just been solved. I needed a cell phone. Stat.

  10

  I WORKED THE FOLLOWING NIGHT. IT WAS INNY'S DAY off, and without her sharp-tongued and pithy observations about life in the kitchen, my shift felt overwhelmingly long. The Sundown locked its doors at ten, but the kitchen didn't fully wind down for at least another forty-five minutes. Sinks and floors needed to be scrubbed, the ice-cream machine needed to be flushed with hot water, and the garbage had to be taken out. Since I was lowest on the totem pole, the other waitresses took off early, leaving me to finish up the last of the cleaning. At a quarter to eleven, I ducked my head into Dixie Jo's office to say good-bye.

  "You look tired," she told me, scrutinizing me with keenly observant eyes. "How you holding up?"

  "Better." I sighed. "Didn't screw up any orders tonight."

  "I heard about Trigger McClure."

  "Figured you would."

  She came around her desk, leaning back against it to look at me directly. "Can't stand that kid. Does this for my blood pressure--" She marked the air over her head.

  "Yeah, Inny told me."

  That earned me a cocked eyebrow. "Inny Foxhall? Talking to the new girl? What's the world coming to?" She went on to explain. "Inny's slow to warm to people. She's built up quite a few fences, as you might have guessed. Figures it's easier to hold the world at a distance than open herself up to ridicule."

  "Because of the pregnancy?"

  "It doesn't help. She's different in a world where fitting in is the only way."

  High school. Got it. "How far along is she?"

  "Seven months. Due the second week of August."

  "I feel sorry for her."

  Dixie Jo's eyes cooled and her posture stiffened. "Don't you ever say that again, Stella. Inny's tough as the hinges on the gates of hell, but I'll tell you what will break her. Pity. Want to help? Don't make her feel inferior. Treat her same as you would anyone else." She relaxed against the desk, trying to slow her breathing. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to come out so harsh. But Inny's--how do I say this?--I feel a bit responsible for her. That girl could use a little kindness. That's all I'm trying to say."

  I took her scolding to heart. And made a mental note to never bring up Inny's pregnancy again. But it did make me wonder. What else was going on with Inny? I sensed Dixie Jo's worry ran deeper than her pregnancy. What was the rest of the story?

  "Now. Is the trash out?" Dixie Jo asked, her voice returning to its normal pleasantness. "Is the ice-cream machine clean?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. See you Thursday. Night, Stella."

  While pedaling to Carmina's, I passed a lit-up convenience store with two cars in the parking lot. The Red Barn advertised gas, cigarettes, and hot sandwiches. My meals at the Sundown were discounted, but smelling frying onions and boiling chicken, mixed with the tang of human perspiration, for six straight hours was enough to halt my appetite at work. Now I was starving, and I propped my bike against a tree and rifled through my pocket, coming up with thirty dollars in tips. My blood sugar was so low, I would have willingly traded all my money for an ice-cold Coke.

  I was halfway across the parking lot when I saw him. Trigger McClure leaned against the brick storefront, watching cars zip down the road with hawkish focus. One truck slowed and pulled into the lot. Trigger immediately straightened, staring at the truck greedily.

  A man in ripped jeans slid out of the truck and ambled toward the Red Barn's doors, paging through his wallet for cash. At that moment, Trigger detached himself from the wall and greeted the man in friendly tones.

  "What's it gonna take to get you to grab me a six-pack?" I heard Trigger say casually. "How's a twenty sound? You keep the change."

  The guy uttered a throaty laugh. "Why not? I remember being your age. Sucks, don't it?"

  Trigger clapped him on the back, and passed over the twenty. "I owe you, man."

  "Just make us proud when you're in the majors, you hear?"

  I pulled back into the shadows, watching the scene play out. Minutes later, the man came out with two bags of groceries. He handed the six-pack to Trigger, and the two exchanged jokes that were too quiet for me to hear, other than the occasional boom of laughter. Soon after, the man left. Trigger climbed inside his own truck and stayed there. With his lights off, it was impossible to see what he was doing. But I had a pretty good guess.

  It didn't raise my opinion of him, but I shelved any remaining thought of Trigger. I didn't want to think about him; I wanted an ice-cold drink, and to sit under an AC vent with my hair lifted so the artificial breeze would whisper over my neck.

  Inside, I grabbed a bottle of Coke from the icebox and browsed the sandwiches in the deli case. While I was making my selection, the cashier, a woman with bleached hair and messy eyeliner, took off her apron and hollered into the back room.

  "Theo!"
/>   A scrawny, bespectacled kid who had a constellation of acne dotting his chin stuck his head out the door. "Right here, Mom."

  "I'm taking fifteen," she told him, reaching for the cigarettes and lighter in her back pocket. She'd lit up and completed a full drag before the exit doors closed at her back.

  "Can I help you?" Theo asked me brightly, his voice cracking with puberty.

  I set my food--I'd decided on a ham and Swiss sandwich--on the counter and gave him a conspiratorial smile. "How old are you?"

  "Sixteen."

  "Liar."

  He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "Fourteen. Are you gonna turn my mom in? I only work after nine when she's on break. Fifteen minutes here and there. Can hardly be called breaking the law. Otherwise I just hang out in the back room and play video games."

  "I didn't hear any video games."

  Theo looked ready to wet his pants. He glanced down and saw that his hands were shaking. Quickly, he folded his arms over his chest to hide his nervousness.

  "What were you really doing in the back room?" I asked, thinking I already had a good idea. Assuming he had a computer, and wasn't playing video games, I could think of only one other reason a fourteen-year-old kid would be glued to a screen.

  So he took me completely unaware when he whispered miserably, "Sewing. I was sewing." He dropped his chin and hunched his shoulders, as if bracing himself for my certain ridicule.

  Not twenty minutes ago, Dixie Jo had scolded me for pitying Inny, but I couldn't look at Theo's despairing face and not feel sorry for him. "Sewing?" I said, trying to sound casual and interested. "What's so bad about that?"

  Theo jerked his eyes around the store, but even after confirming we were alone, he motioned for me to lower my voice. "Y-y-you're not going to make fun of me?" He blinked owlishly up at me, clearly baffled.

  "What kinds of things do you sew?"

  His face softened fractionally. "Well, right now I'm working on a sports coat. It's hard to find an impeccably tailored blazer in Thunder Basin. I'm using a bright navy wool, and hope to have it ready to wear by autumn--" He stopped himself, chewed his lip, and examined my face earnestly, gauging whether to reveal more.

  "I'd like to learn how to hem my clothes," I said. In Philly, my mom routinely used a seamstress. Inga was her name, I think. But Theo was right--things were different in Thunder Basin. I didn't know where, or even if, I could get my nicer clothes tailored. More important, would I even have an occasion to wear them here? "Maybe you could teach me sometime?" I suggested just the same.

  Theo's entire face seemed to melt with happiness. "Of course! Anytime. It's not hard at all. And I'm a great teacher--honestly. I'm not tooting my own horn, even though it sounds like I am."

  "It's a date."

  Bumping his glasses up his nose again, Theo beamed. And then his eyes shifted behind me. The color drained from his face and he gulped. "Oh, no," he whispered hoarsely.

  Before I could ask what was wrong, the door chimed and I turned to see Trigger swagger in, an open beer can in his hand. He saw me at the same moment, chuckled under his breath, and raised the can in a salute. Or maybe he was threatening me with a second dousing of liquid in my face. Either way, the gesture soured my mood.

  "Theo." Trigger drawled the kid's name with enough insult to make it sound like the punch line to a crude joke. "Good to see you, my man. I was worried you weren't working tonight. Didn't see you when I stuck my head in earlier. You weren't hiding from me, were you? How many times I gotta tell you: I always find my man."

  Theo's eyes dropped to the floor. His chin was tucked against his chest, and when he spoke, it was barely audible. "You got your beer. I saw that man give it to you. Can you please just go?"

  "Go? We have a deal, Theo."

  Theo blinked nervously at the side doors. "My mom will be back any minute--"

  "Your mom's an alcoholic," Trigger cut in. "I saw the Smirnoff tucked under her arm. She's gonna pass out by the Dumpsters and be out cold for hours. It's just you and me. No mommy dearest to save you." The teasing left his voice. "You owe me a case of beer. Pass it over. Quick now. I'm behind schedule 'cause of you."

  "My mom keeps meticulous inventory records. If you continue to come in every weekend, at the end of the month she's going to notice we're short four cases of Miller High Life."

  "You're a smart kid," Trigger said. "Work it out."

  "Someone has to pay for the beer," Theo insisted. "You're stealing from our store."

  Trigger gave a sigh of exaggerated patience and walked over to jab Theo in the chest. "It ain't stealing if it's a donation. Get that in your head. Now grab me a case. Or you're not invited to the party."

  "I don't care about the parties anymore. I made a mistake. I--d-d-don't want to go," Theo stammered. "You should leave. You really should go now."

  Trigger dropped his smile and put an edge in his tone. He leaned heavily on the counter, causing Theo to shuffle backward two steps. "I'm gonna give you five seconds to gimme the beer, you zit-faced runt. Five. Four."

  I watched Theo's lip begin to quiver, and I inwardly groaned. Damn my sense of moral duty. I'd dealt with Trigger last night, and while I wasn't in the mood to do it again, I felt I'd fare better than Theo, who looked moments away from crying. Trigger had caused enough tears this week. Plus, my Coke was getting warm. I hadn't stood on my feet for six hours, shuttling trays of food, to reward myself with a lukewarm soda.

  Trigger had set his can of beer on the counter, and I slid it away from my sandwich and Coke. I did it with enough force to make it clear I was here first and didn't appreciate him cutting in line. "How much do I owe?" I asked Theo.

  "You again," Trigger said to me, his mouth forming a swaggering smile. "Don't you got something better to do than follow me?"

  "I was here first," I said simply.

  "You always this prickly? A girl cactus, that's what you are." He stroked a finger down my arm, and I batted it away. If he touched me again, I'd break his finger.

  "How much do I owe?" I repeated more firmly to Theo.

  "Five ninety-seven," he said nervously.

  "Here's ten. And how much does a case of Miller High Life cost?"

  Theo's chin jerked up, and he watched me with amazement and guilt in equal measure. "Don't worry about it," he muttered, "I'll cover the cost."

  Trigger chuckled, waving for Theo to be quiet. "I'm not gonna let a pretty girl buy my beer." He faced me. "But I'd love to get you a drink. Once Theo gets me that case, why don't you hop in my truck? Great party happening tonight at Lake Maloney. I'll show you a good time. Go on, Theo. Don't make this girl come to your rescue."

  "Oh, I wasn't offering to pay for the beer," I chimed in. "Just curious how much you were trying to walk off with."

  Trigger frowned at me. "What?"

  "You have exactly five seconds to get out of here before I call the cops," I told him. I didn't have a cell, but I'd seen a pay phone out front and I knew 911 calls were free.

  He shook his head, puzzled. "What?" he echoed.

  "Let me make this simple." I pointed to the doors. "Walk that way. Don't look back, and don't come in here again."

  Ignoring me, he tilted his head to one side. Through the tipsy glaze in his eyes, I saw a flash of something that made my stomach squeeze. "Have I seen you before?"

  I swallowed, but kept the nerves out of my voice. "Yeah, yesterday. Remember? You threw your drink in my face."

  "No, before then. . . ." His voice trailed off, but he eyed me with more intensity, as if trying to recall something from long ago. Whatever he was reaching for, I couldn't let him find it.

  "You're drunk, Trigger. You can't see straight, let alone think rationally. You shouldn't be driving. Call a friend to pick you up."

  "I swear, something about you . . ."

  "Go." I gave him a light shove for emphasis.

  A look of concentration still clouded his features, but to my relief, he let my shove propel him backward toward t
he doors. He pointed an unsteady finger at Theo. "I'll be back. Next time, no hiding behind your girlfriend," he slurred with a lopsided smile, the alcohol clearly starting to give him a serious buzz.

  The minute Trigger was outside, I said to Theo, "Lock the doors and call the police."

  He balked. "What?"

  "If you're not going to, hand the phone over--I'll call."

  "W-w-what are you going to tell them?"

  "The truth."

  "Trigger will kill me if I turn him in. If you call, it will make everything ten times worse. Please don't do it!"

  "Stop being so dramatic. He's drunk. He shouldn't be driving. Anyway, he can't come after you--he'll be on record for harassing you, and the cops won't tolerate it." I plucked the cell phone from the chest pocket of his shirt and dialed.

  Theo clenched his fists under his chin, his face greening by the second. I thought about reassuring him further, but didn't think he'd listen. I knew he'd be fine. Soon enough, he'd see that I was right.

  Despite how much I'd complained about the constant supervision of the U.S. marshals, if there was one thing I'd learned about law enforcement during my three whirlwind days with them, it was that I could depend on them. Without hesitation, I made the call.

  Ten minutes later a uniformed officer tapped on the glass and I let him in. While Theo wrung his hands and shot me looks of deep uncertainty, the officer took my statement. When I implicated Trigger, the officer's brows swept up.

  He held that mildly interested expression while I finished giving my whole account, then said, "You sure you want to stick with this story?" It almost sounded like he was advising me against reporting Trigger. Surely I was just misreading him.

  "Um, that would be a yes."

  "Did you see which way Trigger drove off?"

  "He said he was going to a party at Lake Maloney."

  "If this goes further and Trigger is arrested and charged, you may be subpoenaed to testify as a witness in court."

  A cold shudder whipped up my spine. Would creating a case against Trigger bring me media attention I couldn't afford? Someone needed to stand up to him, but was it worth exposing myself? I remembered Danny Balando staring me down from behind the two-way glass in the police lineup. He hadn't been able to see me, but he knew I was there. His chilling gaze made no attempt to disguise what he wanted to do to me. Would this small-town case spread to national media? No, I decided. It was fear, cold and persuasive, trying to scare me away.