Dangerous Lies

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  Feeling a pounding of nerves, I called Sandy. Her number was fresh in my mind. Back in Philly, on the nights when my mom didn't come home, I knew to call Sandy. They were always together. If they hadn't passed out, one or the other could usually give me an address. Then it was up to me to find my mom and drag her home. I shut my eyes, feeling tears slip through my lashes. It hurt to remember.

  "Hello?" Sandy answered, sounding cranky but sober.

  "May I please speak to Sandy Broucek?" I affected a slightly deeper voice, but I wasn't worried she'd recognize me. We'd only talked a handful of times. Sandy hadn't visited our home frequently. I'd known from the first time I met her that she had no interest in me.

  "Who is this?" she wanted to know.

  "My name is Mary Dutton. I'm responsible for several accounts owned by Savannah Goodwinn, and I've had trouble reaching her. She listed you as her primary contact. Would you be willing to provide her most current contact information?"

  "You a debt collector?"

  I didn't know if real debt collectors had to be up-front, but I didn't have to follow the same rules. "I'm with Keystone Financial Services. There have been some important updates made to Savannah's accounts that will affect future transactions. It's very important that I notify her."

  "Why would Savannah list me?" Sandy demanded, sounding more irritated.

  "Part of my job is to track her down, and until I have her most current phone number and address, I'll have to keep calling this number."

  That seemed to give her food for thought. She didn't pause long before saying, "Yeah, all right. I can give you her new number. Lucky you called when you did--I haven't heard from Savvy in months, but she rang this morning. Hang on a sec, here it is. Ready?"

  "Ready." I tried to sound calm and not overly anxious.

  "Area code two-one-five . . ."

  I scribbled down the entire number, repeated it back, then ended the call.

  The next call was harder to make. When my mom answered, it was going to take all my willpower not to yell. I was furious--and disgusted--but if I wanted her cooperation, I was going to have to keep my cool. If I kept my head, maybe she would too. Maybe I could reason with her and talk her back to rehab.

  The phone rang and rang. With each passing moment, I felt my anger drain, and worry fill its place. What if something had already happened?

  I stepped out of the Scout, pacing in front of it. A few raindrops splashed my arms, but the sky looked like it would hold. Chet was taking an awfully long time. I could hear the rodeo announcers in the distance, introducing the lineup of ropers.

  Sitting on the bumper, I forced my nerves to settle. I wasn't going to panic until I had a reason to. My mom could be too high to answer her phone. I couldn't leave a message--too risky. I'd have to keep calling back. But if she didn't answer tonight, if she still didn't answer tomorrow . . .

  I hated myself for feeling the first prick of tears. I would not cry for her. She didn't deserve it.

  "Thomas Dickerson speaking." The man's voice on the other end of the line startled me.

  "Um, yes, is Savannah there?" I adopted the same deep voice as before.

  "Who?"

  I repeated my mom's name.

  "I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number."

  I double-checked the number. I'd entered it correctly.

  "I don't know anyone named Savannah," he added.

  I couldn't believe it. Sandy had given me a fake. I should have seen it coming.

  Hanging up, I immediately turned off the phone and tossed it into one of the barrel trash cans.

  I hoisted myself back into the Scout, feeling duped. I had a list of choice names for Sandy running through my head. Now I was going to have to think up a new way to reach my mom. I feared I was running out of time. She wouldn't be able to evade Danny's men for long. Especially if she was high, which would impair any reasoning she had left at this point.

  I had to tell Carmina. Handling this on my own was out of the question--I was in over my head. When Chet came back, I'd explain that something urgent had come up and I needed to go home. Carmina would call Price, and they'd organize a team to go after my mom.

  It was my final thought before the door was wrenched open from the outside. I had one shoulder braced against it and nearly tumbled out. Catching myself from falling, I found myself face-to-face with Trigger McClure.

  31

  "HEY THERE, LITTLE LADY," HE SAID IN A VOICE that was honey on the surface--and black ice beneath. A ruddy glow stained his cheeks, and his eyes were slightly glazed. A beer bottle dangled from his fingers.

  "Stay away from me, Trigger."

  He tipped the bottle to his lips. "Nah. I don't think so."

  "Then I'm going to get out of this car and I'm going to kick your ass."

  Flipping his palms up, he said, "No harm here. I just wanna talk."

  "Talk? Are you kid--"

  "I'm not finished. It's my turn. Then it's yours. That's the way this works."

  "The way this works is I'm about to shove my fist into your jaw." To show it wasn't an empty threat, I rammed my foot into his leg, knocking him off balance.

  There was a flash of anger in his eyes, immediately controlled. A sloppy smile bowed his mouth. "I finally figured out where I know you from, why you look so familiar. The pictures. Baseball camp. You were his girlfriend. He had lots of pictures of you. You look different now, it's why I didn't recognize you right away."

  "What?"

  "Baseball camp. Two summers ago. I bunked with your boyfriend. Reed Winslow."

  Like I'd gotten a punch to the stomach, I felt the wind go out of me. I stared open-mouthed at Trigger, a flush of surprise and shock creeping up my neck. He knew Reed? Could he be the "jackass" roommate Reed had complained about? Was that why Trigger had seemed so familiar the first time I saw him? Because Reed had shown me pictures from baseball camp?

  Yes.

  Trigger had figured it out before me.

  Pulling myself together, I pinned him with the most ludicrous and outlandish glare I could muster. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Reed wasn't half bad. At baseball, or as a roommate." He bounced his shoulders. "I meant to keep in touch. Never did. How is good ol' Reed? The two of you still--? Nah, couldn't be. You're giving it up to Chet Falconer these days." Before I could tell him what I thought of his asinine and tasteless speculations, he continued conversationally, "The Phillies were Reed's favorite team because he was from Philadelphia. He spoke with an accent. Kinda like the New York accents you hear on TV, but not quite. You have the same accent. Looking pale, Stella. Can I offer you a drink?" he asked, feigning concern as he touched my shoulder as though to steady me.

  I slapped his hand away.

  "What's a girl from Philadelphia doing all the way out here in Thunder Basin? Is that part of your big secret?"

  I snapped my head up. "I'm in the system, you idiot. I'm a foster kid. Yeah, I came from Philly. So what?"

  "Foster kid?" He shook his head in disagreement. "That's not how I remember it. I distinctly remember Reed saying you came from money. Your mother was one of his best clients. She had a nasty habit. Yeah, I know about that. Sure you don't want a drink? You look like you could use one. No? I suppose that makes sense. Scared of turning out like your mom, isn't that right? A drunk and an addict. They say addiction can be passed down--it's genetic. But let's not get off on tangents. You're no more a foster kid than I am. Unless, of course, your mom overdosed and kicked the can. But then you'd be living with family now. That rich extended family of yours. So what are you really doing here?" he grilled me. "What's a privileged rich girl like you doing in my little corner of the world?"

  "What did you say about my mom?" My voice was shaking. With anger or fear, I couldn't say.

  "Oh." He showed the whites of his eyes. "You didn't know? Well, now I feel like a piece of crap. It isn't my place to tell you Reed was dealing your mom OxyContin. He specialized in the stuff. Was quite
the businessman at camp--selling it to the other players. Bragged that he made enough at camp to earn back what he'd paid in registration fees. Bragged about how he was saving up to buy his own place. He was gonna move out of his parents' house and live with his girl." His eyes zeroed in on mine. "You."

  Lies. Trigger was telling lies. I knew Reed. I'd spent two years of my life in love with him. During those two years, there was no one in the world I was closer to. I would have known if he was dealing. I'd confessed to him my mom's addiction, and he'd been so sympathetic and understanding. He'd had my back. He'd loved me. There was no way he was dealing. There would have been signs.

  All those nights I'd come home to find him at my house, he'd been waiting for me. I refused to even consider the possibility he'd been there for her. The night Danny Balando beat him with a tire iron, Reed had been at my house waiting for me. He wasn't there to sell my mom OxyContin.

  But it was her favorite. It and heroin, which Danny supplied.

  One dealer for OxyContin. And one for heroin.

  No.

  Oh, God, please no.

  I knew Reed's mom had taken OxyContin to manage the pain from fibromyalgia, but now it was looking like he'd either sold off some of her supply, or at least discovered what the drug was capable of by watching her abuse it. How could he have hurt me this way? Tears welled in my eyes, but I refused to blink, afraid it would set them free.

  Trigger leaned close, reeking of alcohol, his voice hushed with secrecy. "Don't worry, darlin'. Your secret's safe with me. Fact, I think I'll stop looking into your past altogether. Your secrets don't pique my interest in the least. I mean, you've given me no reason to want to hurt you . . . have you? Let your pretty little head think on that." His eyes hardened. "That's right, Stella. I always win."

  I was trembling. The wind had picked up, cooling the air, but my chill came from inside. Secrets were starting to unravel, and I'd been selfish enough--self-absorbed enough--to think I was the only one keeping them. How could she? How could he? I must have looked like such a fool--to both of them. Stupid, gullible, blind. My shock was starting to crumble, replaced by surging betrayal and humiliation. They'd worked behind my back. Reed wasn't my ally. He was her dealer. Had he used me to get close to her? Or had he actually liked me first, and her addiction had been a fringe benefit, an opportunity to seize?

  Thunder clapped and I jumped in my seat. The world had grown so dark so suddenly. A gust of icy wind whipped through the open windows, but a hot, queasy feeling roiled in my stomach. I wanted to push past Trigger and run. I wanted to run and run, but there was no escaping the truth.

  A startled exclamation from Trigger jerked my attention back to him.

  He stumbled sideways, trying to catch his footing. Chet stood behind him, his dark hair blowing wildly in the wind. His eyes were cold and hard, his face outlined by flashes of lightning.

  "Touch me again and I'll break your hand," Trigger snarled, drawing up to full height. The two were equal in size, but there was a severity to Chet's eyes that made him look far more frightening.

  "I told you to stay away from her."

  "It's a free country, I can talk to whoever I want," Trigger drawled.

  "True," Chet agreed, his jaw clamped tightly. "But there's a difference between talking and harassing, and having to explain it to you is testing my patience. We had an understanding, you and I. You and Stella are finished. You don't approach her. You don't look at her. You don't so much as think her name. When she's in the room, you make yourself disappear. As far as she's concerned, you don't exist."

  "I'm not real keen on threats," Trigger sneered.

  Before I knew what was happening, Chet slammed his knuckles into Trigger's jaw. Another brutal punch to the ribs left Trigger howling. Trigger swung his fist wildly at Chet, who turned to the side, dodging the blow, then grabbed Trigger's arm and struck his elbow joint. Chet finished his assault with a strike to Trigger's nose, taking him down.

  "What the hell's wrong with you?" Trigger blubbered, scrambling to get up.

  "Stay down," Chet barked. "You get up, I'll hit you again."

  "I'll have you arrested," Trigger growled. But he stayed on his haunches.

  "You do that. Tell the police how you got your ass kicked. I'd love to see that in the report. Course, you'll want to wait until morning to squeal, after you've sobered up--cops are touchy about underage drinking. But that's going to raise more questions, like why you waited. Not to mention the bad press. I bet pro scouts like a guy with a temper, a guy who's hard to control. A guy with loose fists."

  "More threats?" Trigger spat, his face as dark as the thunderclouds overhead.

  "I'm helping you see your options. These things always play out one of two ways: the hard way, or the easy way. You pick."

  "You think there's a chance in hell I'll take the easy way, let you intimidate me?"

  Chet laughed softly and wiped his bright red knuckles on his jeans, as though dusting them off for round two. "I hope you choose the hard way. I'm just getting started."

  "You must have a death wish, you crazy sonofa--"

  "Not crazy. Angry. I've got more unresolved anger than you can imagine. Hitting you is helping to release it. So tempt me, Trigger. Get back up and give me what I want."

  Something changed in Trigger's face, as if he'd figured out Chet wasn't bluffing. He inched backward. He held a hand out, signaling Chet to keep his distance. His other hand cradled his jaw, which glowed violet with a fresh bruise.

  "Your girlfriend isn't who you think," Trigger said, pointing accusingly at me. "The foster-kid story is a cover. She's got a mom--a strung-out mom in Philadelphia. And that's only one of her secrets. I'm digging. I'll find more. Something about her just ain't right."

  "When I'm finished here, people will say the same about you," Chet said, advancing toward him.

  "Ain't you listening?" Trigger yelped, scrabbling away. "I just told you your girlfriend is lying to you. To all of us."

  "So she's got a few secrets, does she? What the hell does it matter to you?" Chet leaped to my defense, but I could hear an underlying pain in his voice. It hurt him to know Trigger was right. I'd lied to him, and while he apparently wasn't going to hold it against me, he wasn't ready to forget, either. His eyes flashed. "Why does she matter so much to you? Why can't you leave her alone?"

  "All right, man, calm down. I'll stay away from her."

  "You'll give her every opportunity to forget you exist."

  "Yeah. Yeah, that too. Whatever, man."

  "She won't see you again."

  "Not on account of me." Trigger backed up cautiously, making no sudden movements. "I'm leaving now. Just stay away from me, you hear?"

  As soon as he was a safe distance from Chet, Trigger turned and limped hurriedly away. Chet and I ducked out of the galeforce winds, shutting ourselves inside the Scout. But the wind was blowing so hard, even after we'd rolled up the windows it continued to rock the car.

  Chet shook his fist, flexing his fingers. "Been a while since I hit someone. Forgot how much it hurts."

  "Why did you hit him? It was so--" I searched for the word. It was so--unlike Chet.

  "He beat you up at the Sundown, didn't he? He was your attacker," he said quietly.

  I swallowed. "Chet--"

  "You didn't tell me. You knew, but you kept it from me."

  "I was scared you'd go after him. I was scared of seeing you in trouble. I didn't want Trigger to be the cause of a black mark on your record. Or worse."

  "Yeah?" His eyes turned fiery. "Well, I'm scared of seeing you in trouble. It kills me to think of him hurting you. Nobody--not Trigger, not anyone--touches you that way. You were bruised and broken, Stella," he said, his voice climbing. "How could that not affect me? How could I not go after him? When you love someone, you look out for them. You fight their battles."

  I frowned. "I don't need you to fight my battles. I'm not a fragile little girl. I can take care of myself."

  His head c
ocked as he scrutinized me. "You're angry that I hit him."

  "No."

  "Like hell you're not."

  "Take me home." I said it with my face to the glass, not looking at him.

  "Now I get the cold shoulder?"

  "I said, take me home," I said through my teeth.

  "Tell me why you're pissed. That I can deal with. The cold shoulder? Silent treatment? I've lived with a guy the last year, Stella. I don't do passive-aggressive. Tell me what you're thinking. Don't punish me with silence. Don't treat me like I'm one of your girlfriends."

  "You condescending bastard."

  "Tell me what's bothering you," he said, louder than before.

  Tears of rage stung my eyes. I wanted to tell him I resented him for thinking I was weak. I'd been looking out for myself for years. He had no idea what I'd been through or how strong I was. But most of all, it scared me to think he was falling in love with me. I wasn't going to let him fight my battles, only to leave him. It wasn't fair. It was a cowardly thing to do, and I was done being a coward. Leaving him would be easier if I didn't have to deal with knowing he loved me.

  He tried again. "You're pissed that I fought over you. You don't like male aggression. Or violence. Did someone hurt you? Someone in your past? Is that it?"

  I turned on him, furious. "Shut up, Chet. Just shut up."

  At the sight of my face, he stopped abruptly. "What's wrong? Dammit, just tell me. I won't fight anymore, if that's what you want. I just need to understand you."

  Plowing my hands through my hair, I tried to calm my thumping heart. I wanted to tell Chet the truth. It hovered on the edge, just like my tears. I could tell him. It would feel so good to be honest with him, to have someone to share my burden, to open the floodgates and finally be free of these toxic secrets.

  But telling him the truth would only give me momentary relief; it wouldn't solve my problems. In fact, it would compound them. And it would entangle Chet in a web of danger that wasn't of his making. So I locked down my pain and ordered myself to swallow the words I desperately wanted to get out.