by Jen Klein
Shit.
“So Thursday night was the last time you laid eyes on Todd?” I asked Corabelle, determined to keep what little control I had over the situation.
“Yes,” said Corabelle. “I told him I’d wait for him in his room, but he never came in. I finally fell asleep. When I woke up, he was gone. His roommate said he went camping.”
That sounded suspicious. On the other hand, maybe Todd was one of those guys who had to tramp around in the woods and commune with nature when he was working something out . . . like how to dump his high-schooler girlfriend.
“I know it sounds crazy that I think it’s a curse,” said Corabelle, “but I read about it online.”
There you go. Another belief that my clients have in common: if it’s on the Internet, it must be true.
“I started with Google because I was trying to find articles about keeping a guy interested. I ended up on a website selling love spells.” She paused. “I was curious, okay? Anyway, I found some site that was talking about love curses, when love gets reversed. It’s like the opposite of a love spell. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Some other girl saw him and wanted him for herself.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “He’s been gone for three days straight. I don’t know if he’s alive or . . .” She burst into tears again.
“Come here,” said Sky.
He pulled her to her feet and right into his chest, hugging her close. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder.
Corabelle raised her head and looked up into his eyes. “Do I sound crazy? Maybe I should call the police.”
Maybe she should, I thought. Maybe she didn’t even need to pick up the phone. Maybe she was standing in the arms of the police right at that minute.
Still, I needed the money. Badly. My dad’s house didn’t even have electricity right then, for crying out loud. So unless I wanted to move in with Norbert’s family, if there was a chance that Sky really was what he might have been pretending to be—Hot New Guy, Fan of Bullshittery, and Protector of Gorgeous Teenaged Rock Stars—then I needed to stay on task. I needed to seal the deal with Corabelle, end this gruesome threesome, and handle Sky later.
In private.
Still, I felt a tiny, confusing pang as Sky-Who-Might-Destroy-Me soothed my client. He was good at soothing.
Finally, he pulled back and looked Corabelle in the face. “Now listen,” he said. “The hellfire, could you smell it on Todd’s clothing?”
“On everything,” Corabelle answered in a little-girl voice. “In his hair and on his breath too.” She reached mascara-smeared fingers into her purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here. I wrote down all the things I could think of. His work information and cell phone number, everything.”
Instead of handing the paper to me, she handed it to him.
“Don’t worry,” Sky said. “We’ll find out who cursed your boyfriend. And then we’ll find your boyfriend.” From behind Corabelle, he flashed me the sweetest of smiles.
Maddening.
Five
The bell rang immediately after Corabelle signed my nondisclosure agreement, which I desperately hoped she understood—she couldn’t tell a soul; I repeated that part out loud—and handed me an envelope full of cash. At least she gave that to me. I assured her I would be in touch.
Only then did Sky trot away. Convenient timing.
I would have chased him down to force an explanation out of him, but our school doesn’t give us much time to get to class. I raced to my locker and then into my literature class right as the teacher was about to close the door. I flung myself into the only empty seat: front and center, which happened to be right next to Sky Ramsey.
“Really? You had to take Greek Mythology too?”
He shrugged. “The other options were Short Stories of the Depression Era or Dystopian Literature. This sounded more uplifting.”
I turned to face the whiteboard. I thought about punching him. There was a tap on my shoulder and I whirled. “What?!” I snapped.
But Sky’s hands were folded on his desk, his gaze fixed straight ahead. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned back to see a familiar girl named Lauren. Or maybe Laurel. We had been in Algebra together last year. She was in the seat behind me, one hand clutched against her chest, her eyes huge and terrified. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just . . . uh . . . your pen fell.”
I followed her trembling finger to where my pen lay on the floor.
“Thanks,” I said to Lauren-or-Laurel, not sure why she was that scared of me. Maybe she had been in the cafeteria that day in ninth grade to witness the kicking of Mario’s ass, or maybe it was just because she’s one of those girls who seems to be afraid all the time. Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t remember a single time she’d raised her hand in class. If a teacher called on her, she went all shaky and could barely get the answer out.
“It’s my favorite pen,” I lied as a peace offering.
Lauren-or-Laurel mustered a grateful smile. “It’s an awesome pen,” she breathed.
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I picked up my “awesome” pen (run-of-the-mill Bic, institutional blue). As I uncapped it, I had a depressing thought: maybe every kid at this school was messed up in some way. Maybe they all needed healing. Or maybe, like me, they all had secret criminal lives.
Probably not.
More likely: maybe everything was exactly as it appeared. Lauren-or-Laurel was a quivery basket case, Sky was a hot-but-pushy student or cop, and I was the only screwed-up freak among us.
As usual, I spaced out during class—alternating between obsessing about the obituary and wondering if Sky Ramsey was a narc—while Mr. Lowe welcomed us and droned on about his expectations. Really, these teachers needed to get some new material.
When the bell finally rang, I shoved everything into my backpack as quickly as I could, but somehow Sky was able to scoot out the door ahead of me. I charged after him, but he was too fast, too nimble. By the time I reached the hall, he had already vanished into the crush of students.
I didn’t spot him again until the day was over. Turns out his locker was down the hall from mine. He was shoving books inside when I marched up. He slammed the door and turned to me, a picture of confidence: all white smile and tanned skin and green eyes.
“Hi, Jillian!”
The place was mostly cleared out, so I had nothing to lose. “Look, you and I both know there’s no such thing as a curse, so what the hell are you doing?”
His smile didn’t waver. “Some people would say I’m being helpful.”
“Some other people would say you should butt out.”
“Well, those people would be rude, wouldn’t they?” Sky didn’t seem bothered at all. In fact, as he leaned against his locker, he seemed amused.
No other guy at school had ever looked at me like that, like he was seeing past my reputation to me. No one pushed back. No one even engaged with me. No one cared enough.
So why did Sky?
I wasn’t sure exactly what the rules were, but I thought there was a thing about how police officers had to identify themselves if specifically asked. I jutted a finger into Sky’s face.
“Are you a cop?” He hesitated and I took a step closer. “I know my rights,” I lied. “You have to tell me if you’re a cop.”
“Fine.” Sky took a deep breath. He finally lost his smile. “I am a cop.”
Quick waves of emotion crashed over me.
First, victory.
Second, horror.
Third, anger.
He shook his head. “Okay, you got me on the cop thing. Don’t tell anyone, and we can work together to find Todd Harmon. Deal?”
Fourth: I was familiar with the smell of bullshit, and the odor had just become overwhelming. Sky stuck out a hand for me to shake. I looked down
at it for a second. This was way, way too easy.
I raised my eyes. “Let me see it.”
He grinned. “Wow, a girl who knows what she wants.”
“Not that it!” I whapped him in the chest. “It! It . . . your badge. Hand it over.”
“I left it at home.”
Uh-huh.
“Cops don’t leave their badges at home.”
He blinked. “We prefer the term ‘law enforcement officers.’”
“I prefer the term ‘big fat liar.’ If you’re a cop, prove it. Read me my rights.”
“Fine. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”
“And?”
“And that’s it.”
Yep. I definitely wasn’t the only one pretending here. I pulled out my phone and opened a search engine. “There’s more to the Miranda rights than that.”
“No there’s not.”
I touch-typed on my tiny screen. “There’s something else. Something about lawyers or courtrooms . . .”
“Court of law! I said ‘court of law’!” Sky tried to grab my phone, but I skittered backward, holding it out of his reach. “Come on, stop it.”
“Not until you tell me the truth.”
“All right. I’m not really a cop.” Again, he looked amused, which only annoyed me more. “Did you honestly believe I was?”
I crossed my arms in front of my body, assessing him. Maybe if I gave him a little truth, he’d give me a little in return.
“Look, my father’s not here, so you can’t impress him or get his autograph or whatever. I have to help Corabelle because I need to keep Umbra alive and going until he gets back. Why do you want in on it?” I gazed up at him and (lame) fluttered my lashes, trying to channel Corabelle mesmerizing a guy. “Please, just tell me. Why do you care?”
Sky turned away. He raked a hand through his hair, making it even messier than usual. After a moment, he turned back. “Okay, here’s the deal. I think Todd has been selling drugs at CSUN. The hellfire smell is from cooking meth.”
“That’s a lot to get from twenty minutes with Corabelle.”
“Maybe.” Sky wasn’t smiling anymore. “But I’m willing to guess that a lot of your cases involve people who drink or use drugs.”
I thought of Whack Job Paula from Saturday night. I kept silent.
“I’m not judging you or your dad or your profession. You know I think it’s awesome. It’s just that you might be on the wrong track here. Maybe Todd Harmon got made by the cops and dumped his stash. Maybe he’s on the brink of getting whacked by somebody who wants his money back.”
“Maybe you have an overactive imagination.” Even as I said it, I remembered a recent news story about a drug house in Northridge. It was certainly more plausible than “hellfire” and a cursing.
“I’m telling you this . . . because the same thing happened to my friend in Albuquerque.” The last part tumbled out of Sky’s mouth in a rush. His eyes fell to the floor. “He was my good friend. My best friend. He was only trying to pay for his sister’s education. His parents were gone, so he was all she had. Then he got diagnosed with cancer. He thought he didn’t have long to live, so he started cooking. He got mixed up with the wrong dealers and ended up dead.” Sky looked off into the distance. “When he died, it was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
My fists clenched at my sides. I wanted to believe Sky, because what kind of jackass argues with a person in mourning? Yet my very short history with this particular person was defined pretty much by its very long list of lies. I had no way of trusting him. That being said, I realized I could probably make him think I did.
I placed a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
Sky swallowed. “Thank you. I don’t want to see it happen to anyone else, you know? I think this could all be fate. I think we were meant to come together so we could save Todd Harmon.” He tilted his head to look down at me, and as I looked back, I knew I was lingering a little too long on those green eyes. Something about Sky Ramsey made me want to believe, to say yes to anything he asked. It wasn’t just that he was new, that he was good-looking, that he’d latched on to me . . . Well, maybe it was all those things. Still, I wanted to tell him that it could work. We could figure this out together. We could be a team.
But I don’t let guys screw me, and I don’t let guys save me. And at that moment, I wasn’t sure which one Sky Ramsey was trying to do.
Six
There is a beautiful lake in Echo Park. Surrounded by palm trees, it’s dotted with ducklings and lotus flowers and paddle boats. Three graceful plumes of water shoot up from a center fountain. A view of the Los Angeles skyline is visible from its shores. It is serene. Lush. Gorgeous.
The lake went by in a blue-green blur.
I was driving to a different part of Echo Park, the part the real estate pages and websites don’t mention. The one with litter-strewn streets, chain-link fences, and graffiti-sprayed walls; home to my destination, a grubby strip mall. I slid out the driver’s side door and walked past a Chinese diner, an insurance company, and a Laundromat. I imagine that Echo Press doesn’t have the kind of neighbors most publishing houses do.
Tiny and dark, the office was papered with the company’s work: election brochures, business cards, neighborhood weeklies . . . and of course, framed covers of my father’s books. Behind a high wooden counter sat the owner, Ernie Stuart.
It had been at least a couple years since I’d last seen him. In that time, his ever-present mullet had started to slide down the sides of his head, leaving his skull gleaming through the strands of hair left atop it.
Ernie peered at me for a second before he made the connection. “Jilly!” He rose to his feet, arms spread wide, and embraced me over the counter. “Look at you, all grown up. How are you doing, sweetie?”
“Fabulous,” I told him.
Lies come easy to a professional liar.
“You know, I’ve been hoping you’d pop by and come see me,” he said. “I would’ve gone to your mom’s funeral—”
“But there wasn’t one. How’s it going here?”
“Eh,” he said. “Slow. You need something for your dad?”
I shook my head. “I was wondering if you could take a look at something . . . for me. On the DL.”
“The DL?”
“Down low,” I said.
“You kids.”
I pulled open the envelope and dropped the obituary—my obituary—on the counter. I watched Ernie’s eyes skate back and forth over the words before lifting to meet my gaze. “Joke or a threat?”
“I’m trying to figure that out,” I said. “Is it a real newspaper?”
Ernie slid a fingertip around the edge of the scrap, then nodded. “Feels like litho. Cold, probably. Or heatset. Maybe web-fed.”
I blinked at him. “Uh . . .”
“Sorry. What I mean is, any press could’ve done it.”
“So there’s no way to find out who?”
“Leave it here. I’ll call around.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
He made a copy of the obituary for me. I thanked him again and headed for the door. I was almost there when he spoke up.
“Funny you should come by today. I got an email from your dad.”
I stopped in my tracks and turned around, trying to make my voice sound casual. “Yeah?”
“He’ll be home soon,” said Ernie. “But I guess you already knew that.”
“Sure.” I hoped my tone sounded appropriately optimistic. “Can’t wait.” I ducked out. The last thing I wanted to do was celebrate the purported return of my father, back from his yearlong self-imposed sabbatical from life . . . from me.
Besides, there was no way it would actually happen. My dad was an even more seasoned professional l
iar than I was.
I was so busy zipping the copy of the obituary into my backpack that I didn’t notice Sky Ramsey until I was almost on top of him. He was leaning against my car, legs crossed at the ankles and arms crossed over his chest. I stopped short. That white smile floated over his face.
“What are you getting printed?” he asked.
“None of your business.” I reached for the door handle, but he blocked it with his body.
“Funeral programs for Todd Harmon? You’re going to need them if you don’t get on top of our case.”
Our case? Unbelievable. It was my case, period. He’d simply blackmailed his way into it. Anger simmered below the surface of my skin as my eyes traveled over him, this guy with the too-bright teeth and the too-intense gaze who was acting way too interested in me.
“You stalked me from school.”
He nodded. “I wouldn’t use the word ‘stalked,’ but yeah. And it wasn’t easy. You drive too fast.”
My jaw clenched. “Before that, before the driving-fast part, did you happen to notice what I was up to?”
“You were sitting in your car in the school parking lot, doing something really important on your phone. That reminds me, what level of Candy Crush are you on?”
I returned his smirk. “I wasn’t playing Candy Crush. I was doing research. In fact, I had a breakthrough. I made a really important discovery about the Todd Harmon case. My case.”
“Awesome! What did you find out?” He sounded genuinely excited. As if he could convince me, as if I could believe anything about him was genuine at all, other than a genuine talent for lying. Maybe he was a professional like my dad and me.
Time to find out.
“I thought it was really terrible, about the meth and your friend in Albuquerque. What did you say his name was again?”
“My friend? Bryan.”
I almost laughed. That was the clincher. “Right. A real tragedy.”
Sky nodded. “Super tragic.”
“Everyone must have been so sad.”
