by Meg Cabot
“You conniving little bitch,” he said.
I smiled at him pleasantly.
Just For Men and his companion had both whipped out cell phones and were whispering urgently into them. Randy Junior had sunk so low into his chair, he looked as if he were boneless. Randy Senior had taken a bottle of Mylanta from a desk drawer and was measuring out a capful of the chalky white liquid. Only Kristin was glancing around confusedly, going, “I don’t understand. Why are the police here? Who is this Hannah person? And why does everyone keep talking about videotapes?”
I looked at her and said, “Your boyfriend has been secretly filming the two of you having sex, then selling the tapes over the Internet on amateur porn sites.”
Kristin knit her pretty brow. “No, he hasn’t.”
“Yes,” I said. “He has.”
“No,” Kristin said with a smirk, “he hasn’t. And I think I would know. I mean, I’d have noticed a camera in the bedroom.”
“The camera was hidden in the bedroom closet,” I said. “Behind the mirror—which was really two-way glass—over the dresser.”
Kristin blinked her heavily mascaraed eyelashes. Then she said, “Nuh-uh.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Kristin. I’ve seen the tapes. You’re wearing a matching red tiger-stripe-bra-and-panty set. You also,” I added, “have a tendency to squeal.”
Kristin went pale beneath her blusher. Her head swiveled towards Randy Junior.
“How would she know that?” she demanded shrilly of her boyfriend. “How does she know that?”
“Because I’ve seen the tapes, Kristin,” I said. “I’ve seenall the tapes. Carly. Jasmine. Beth.”
Quick as lightning, Kristin’s hand whipped out, meeting with Randy Junior’s face with crackling force.
“You told me Jasmine was your sister,”she hissed, tears of fury standing on the ends of her dark eyelashes.
“That’s funny,” I said as Randy Junior tried to shrink into a ball in his chair. “That’s what Jasmine says he told her about you, Kristin.”
Kristin swung an astonished gaze towards me. So did Randy Junior. So, for that matter, did Rob.
“You talked to Jasmine?” Randy Junior breathed.
“Oh,” I said calmly. “I talked to them all this morning, Randy. And you know, I have to say, even though you made sure to select such a wide variety of different girls—blondes, brunettes, redheads, short, skinny, tall—they all had one thing in common. And that was that they didn’t know they were being filmed. And they’re all pretty pissed off about it. Most of them pissed off enough to press charges.”
“Oh, sweet Lord,” Randy Whitehead Senior said, dropping his balding head into his hands.
Randy Junior, meanwhile, had curled into the smallest ball he could. He had to, if he wanted to escape Kristin’s slaps, which she was raining down on him with feminine fury.
“You jerk!” she cried. “You lied to me! You lied! You said you loved me! You said I was the only one! You said you’d always take care of me! Where am I going to go now? Huh? Where?”
“You could go home,” I suggested quietly.
This caught her attention. She stopped slapping Randy long enough to glance my way.
“No, I can’t,” she said with a sniffle. “My dad kicked me out.”
“He’s willing to let you come back,” I said. “At least, he was when I spoke to him this morning.”
“You…you talked to my dad?” Kristin asked as if she didn’t dare believe it.
“If you’re Kristin Pine from Brazil, Indiana,” I said, “then yeah, I did. Your dad was pretty relieved to hear from me, as a matter of fact. He and your mom have been worried about you. Well, who wouldn’t worry,” I added with a glance at Mr. Whitehead Senior, “about their runaway fifteen-year-old?”
“Christ,” Randy Senior said, burying his face more deeply into his hands.
“How…how did you know?” Kristin breathed, staring at me incredulously. “Who my parents were…whoI was?”
“She’s Lightning Girl,” Rob said simply.
I glanced in his direction. I wouldn’t say he’d spoken with extreme bitterness, or anything. But he hadn’t exactly sounded thrilled. He was sitting back in his chair, sort of just taking the drama in as it unfolded in front of him. He seemed almost relaxed. Well, more so than anyone else in the room.
At least until Randy Whitehead Senior said to me in a voice that was deathly quiet, “You’re going to regret this, girlie. I know you did it to get back at my boy for what he did to your friend’s sister. But dragging in all those other girls and the police…you’re going to regret it.”
Now Rob didn’t look relaxed at all. He leaned forward in his chair and said, “Excuse me. But are youthreatening her?”
“Oh, you’re damned straight I’m threatening her,” Randy Senior said. “Her. You. Her parents. This is war, girlie. You crossed the wrong man, this time.”
“I don’t think so,” I said matter-of-factly. “And here’s why. The only person going down here today is your son. If anything happens to me, or to my family or friends, you’re going to be joining your son in the big house. Or, in your case, I guess you’d call it the doghouse.”
Randy Senior blinked at me.
“Just what in the hell,” he said, “are you talking about?”
“Well, as the owner and developer of the Fountain Bleu apartment complex, you are, of course, ultimately responsible for the management of it, including who you employ to run it…. In this case, that would be your son, Randy, who, as we know now, took advantage of his position there to illicitly house underage runaways, then film them in sex acts with himself—” Across from me, Kristin let out a sob. “Sorry,” I said to her apologetically.
“It’s okay,” she said with a sniff.
I went on. “Obviously, this leaves you pretty open to both criminal and civil charges. You’re in a very vulnerable situation right now.”
Mr. Whitehead Senior stared at me. “Just what, exactly, are you saying? Are you trying to offer us some kind of deal?”
The buzzer on the intercom sounded again. “Mr. Whitehead.” Thelma sounded tense. “I don’t know how much longer these police officers are willing to wait on you….”
Randy Senior threw Just For Men and his friend an appealing look. “Go on out there,” he said. “And see if you can stall them.”
Just For Men nodded. “Will do,” he said. And they both left.
Randy Senior looked at me. “Now. Just what kind of deal are we talking about?”
“Oh, no deal for your son,” I said quickly. “Obviously. But for you…well, there’s a piece of property I know you have your eye on—Pine Heights Elementary School?”
Mr. Whitehead’s eyes narrowed at me. “That’s right. You were at the city council meeting last night. That’s where Randy said he met you.”
“Right. Your plan is to convert the building to condos. If, however, you could see your way to abandoning the condo plan and put your support—and a sizable donation—towards establishing an alternative school there, I think I might be able to work out a deal with the offended parties that will keep you out of jail and civil court as well.”
Randy Whitehead Senior stared at me. So did his son. So did Rob. The only person in the room, in fact, who was not staring at me was Kristin, and that’s because she was looking at her reflection in her compact mirror and carefully wiping away the mascara tracks her tears had made down her cheeks.
“Just how much,” Randy Senior wanted to know, “of a donation are we talking about here?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said. “To a man of your wealth, anyway. And you could write it off as a tax deduction, I’m sure.”
His voice was cold. “How. Much.”
“I think three million dollars would work,” I said.
Down crashed the golf-ball paperweight again. Kristin jumped, with a little hiccup.
“There is no way!” Randy Senior bellowed. “No way! Just who in the hell do yo
u think—I have friends in this town, girlie. I’ll take my chances in court! I’ll pay off whoever I have to! I’ll—”
Rob stood up. He was so tall and broad-shouldered that he seemed to take up an astonishing amount of space in the large office.
“You’ll do,” he said in a deep, quiet voice, “what she tells you to do.”
Randy Whitehead Senior made a mistake then. He looked up into Rob’s face, and he laughed.
“Oh, yeah?” he squawked. “Or what?”
A split second later, Rob had pulled Mr. Whitehead halfway across his desk, and had the golf-ball–shaped paperweight pressed against his carotid artery.
“Or I’ll kill you,” Rob replied with no change in tone.
Which is when Randy Senior made his second mistake. He gurgled, “Do you know who I am? Do you know who I know? I can have you snuffed out like a candle, fella.”
“Not if you’re already dead,” Rob said calmly, pressing the golf ball so deeply into Mr. Whitehead’s throat that he began to choke.
I got up from my chair and strolled towards Mr. Whitehead’s desk. His face had gotten very red. Beads of sweat were popping out all over his shiny forehead. He rolled his eyes towards me. One hand reached limply for the intercom. But even if he could have reached it, it wouldn’t have done any good. He couldn’t speak with the pressure Rob was putting on his larynx.
“You may know people in this town, Mr. Whitehead,” I said. “But the fact is, Rob here probably knows more. And the people he knows are local. He doesn’t need to send all the way to Chicago for muscle. So let’s put aside the physical threats for the moment, because the fact is, you’re going to do as I say, and not because if you don’t, Rob will kill you. You’re going to do as I say because if you don’t, I’m going to tell your wife about Eric.”
Randy Junior looked up from the twitching ball he’d rolled himself into.
“Who’s Eric?” he asked tearfully.
Kristin, who’d put away her compact and was staring, transfixed, at the way Rob’s muscles were bunched beneath his shirt sleeves (I’d have a word with her about that later), looked equally confused. “Who’s Eric?” she wanted to know.
“Yeah,” Rob said, looking down at me. “Who’s Eric?”
“Okay!”
We all glanced at Mr. Whitehead, surprised he’d been able to summon up an intelligible word.
But he was gripping Rob’s hands with white-tipped fingers and croaking, “Okay. Okay.”
Rob loosened his hold, and Randy Senior sagged against his desk, gasping for air.
“Okay you’ll do what she says?” Rob asked him cautiously.
Mr. Whitehead nodded. His face was slowly turning back to its normal color. “I’ll do as she says,” he wheezed. “Just don’t…tell my wife…about Eric.”
“Fine,” I said. “But you should know, I’m not the only one who knows about Eric, Mr. Whitehead. And if anything should happen to me, my associates will—”
“Nothing will happen to you,” Mr. Whitehead said. He’d gone almost as pale as he’d been red just moments before. “I swear it. Just don’t tell.”
“Deal,” I said. And I reached across the desk to slip my right hand in his sweaty, trembling one.
Then I leaned down and pushed the button on the intercom.
“Say it,” I said to Mr. Whitehead.
He coughed a few times, then adjusted his collar and tie where Rob’s grip had mussed them. Then he said into the intercom, “You can send the police in for Randy Junior now, Thelma.”
That caused his son to spring from his seat, looking panic-stricken.
“No!” he cried. “Dad! You can’t—”
“I’m sorry, Randy,” Randy Senior said. And the funny thing was, he really did sound sorry. “But I don’t have a choice.”
“But I did it for you, Dad,” Randy pleaded. “To show you I could handle more responsibility. You can’t let them do this! You can’t!”
But Mr. Whitehead just stood there as the police who’d come into his office instructed Randy Junior to put his hands up against the wall and proceeded to frisk him.
The police weren’t the only ones who came in, either. They were followed by a young guy in a Hellboy T-shirt, brandishing an X-Men comic book.
“Oh, hey, Jess,” Douglas said when he saw me. “How’d I do? Did I get ’em here on time, like you asked?”
“Perfecttiming, Doug,” I said. “Perfect timing.”
Sixteen
When we emerged from the DA’s office several hours later—I had a lot of explaining to do, it turned out, as to exactly how I’d come across the videos I’d given to Douglas to give to them. But they hadn’t kept me nearly as long as they seemed to plan on keeping Kristin, who was their star witness and who was being kept in protective custody until her parents could come to pick her up—I was famished enough almost to wish I’d taken Karen Sue up on her offer of brunch. I thought I might pass out on the courthouse steps.
Fortunately Rob seemed to feel the same way, since he went, “What would you say to some lunch?”
“I’d say hallelujah. Douglas?”
Douglas shook his head. “Sorry, no can do. I gotta get back to the shop. Someone’s got to make sure that the graphic-novel needs of this community are met.” The noon sun was pelting down on us, but I still saw Douglas’s gaze slide towards me. “But you guys go on ahead. You know, there’s a really nice place Tasha and I have been going lately, out by Storey, Indiana, that’s completely worth the drive. It’s right next to this river, and real romantic—”
I knew what he was doing. I knew what he was doing, and I hurried to put a stop to it by pointing across the square. “Oh, look. Joe’s is open. We could stop by there and pick up some burgers and take them back to your place, Rob.”
Rob raised his eyebrows. “My place?”
“She’s the only one on the tapes,” I said, “I haven’t spoken to yet. I need to know if she wants to press charges against Randy as well. I gave all the other girls the choice.”
“You didn’t give the cops her tape?” Rob asked, looking curious.
“Not yet,” I said.
Rob glanced at his watch. “Gwen’ll be there to pick her up any minute. Guess we could get a burger for her, too. And about eight more on top of that, for Chick.”
“Or,” Douglas said, looking disappointed. “I guess you could do that instead.”
“We will,” I said firmly. “Thanks for your help this morning, Douglas. We couldn’t have done it without you.”
He perked up a bit at hearing this. “My pleasure,” he said. “Anything to rid the world of more smut-peddlers, and make room for wholesome entertainment likeSin City. You two have fun now. Call me later, Jess.”
And with a jaunty salute, Douglas started across the street for Underground Comix. He’d doubtless track me down and demand an explanation when he learned about Mr. Whitehead’s “donation”—Randy Senior was supposed to present the check personally to the head of the Pine Heights Alternative School committee, which was Douglas himself.
In the meantime, I was glad to have him out of my hair. I didn’t exactly need my big brother hanging around, trying to play matchmaker. Things between Rob and me were awkward enough without interference from my family—even though I knew Douglas meant well.
Still, I was totally willing to take advantage ofsome of my family…. The nice thing about having parents who own all the best restaurants in town is that you don’t have to pay to eat there. Even so, Rob insisted on leaving a hefty tip for our burgers…which I understood, considering the fact that his mom used to be one of our waitresses. Burgers bagged and in hand, we got back into his pickup and started for his house.
The silence that ensued in the cab on the way to Rob’s wasn’t at all awkward. Not. We hadn’t had a single moment to ourselves in order to discuss what had happened in Randy Senior’s office, because we’d been too busy explaining to the DA what Randy Junior had done. I really didn’t think there was al
l that much to talk about, anyway.
Rob seemed to disagree, though.
“So,” he said as we hurtled past cornfields—the corn was only knee-high. In another month, it would be well past the top of my head. “This new nonviolence thing you’ve got going…”
I let out an inward groan. I didn’t want to have to explain to Rob—to anyone, for that matter—why it was that hitting no longer held any appeal to me. I’d seen enough violence to last me a lifetime, and I’d hung up my (figurative) brass knuckles. Why couldn’t we just leave it at that?
But to my surprise, he finished with “…I like it.”
I glanced at him. He kept his gaze on the road.
“Yeah,” I said sarcastically. “I bet you do. Since your block was one of the first ones I was going to knock off, as soon as I got the chance.”
He still wouldn’t look at me.
“That’s not why,” he said. “I just think you’re good at thinking up nonviolent solutions to your problems. Like that thing today, back in Whitehead’s office. That was genius.”
I felt my cheeks heating up, and uttered a silent curse at myself. Why did I let this guy get under my skin? I mean, I was actually blushing, just because he’d given me a compliment. Why did he have this insufferable power over my body temperature?
“I always told you,” he went on, still not looking in my direction. Which was good, because if he had, he’d have seen my face heated up red as a lobster. “That the problem with your being so quick with your fists was that someday, someone bigger than you was going to hit you back. And you weren’t going to like it very much.”
“That would never have happened,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “I’m too quick on my feet. Float like a butterfly—”
“Yeah, well, I think both Randy Whiteheads would agree that your sting is much worse when you use your head,” he interrupted, “than your right hook. Who’s Eric?”
I blinked at him. “Who?”
“Eric.” We’d reached the long driveway to his house, and Rob turned the truck up it. It really was a beautiful piece of land—the one Rob’s farm sat on—complete with stately hundred-year-old oaks and its own stream. Randy Whitehead Senior, I’m sure, would have enjoyed turning it into a golf course or country club. “The guy you said you’d tell Mrs. Whitehead about if her husband didn’t do what you said.”
