by Mary Frame
“There’s something I want to show you,” I tell her.
She stops doggy paddling around the shallow end and stands as I head for the steps leading down into the pool. “What are you doing?”
“Watch.”
Jared stays on the patio chair, watching with a small smile while I step into the pool without panicking and then crouch down—because it is pretty shallow—and doggy paddle my way over to where Paige is.
It’s not the most impressive of moves. I mean, I could stand at any time so the risk of drowning in the shallow end with multiple onlookers might not be an extraordinary feat of . . . well, anything, but Paige’s reaction is absolutely worth every second.
She shrieks. “You can swim!”
I paddle closer to her and she tackles me.
Laughter and Paige’s slight weight push me under and make a bit of water go up my nose. But not for long. I stand up, snorting-slash-laughing while Paige hangs off me like a spider monkey.
“I can’t believe it!”
“Jared has been teaching me.”
“He has?” She glances his way.
“Yeah. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Best surprise ever! Can we play Marco Polo until bedtime?”
“Sure, but I’m not a pro yet so go easy on me.”
We spend the next hour swimming and splashing and playing together, like we have no other worries.
It’s one of the best nights of my life.
And then it’s bedtime.
Once we shower and get ready for bed and Jared is safely ensconced in his room, I sneak over to Paige’s bedroom to finalize our plans.
“You worry too much. I got it down.”
We already set everything in motion earlier in the week. When I was at Ruby’s one afternoon, I called Paige like normal to make sure she was home and doing her homework, and then we laid the first set of our plans: misdirection.
We talked about the dance and how Paige would stay the night with Naomi afterward. I told her I would pick her up on Sunday morning, early, with our bags packed and leave town from there.
None of that is actually going to happen, but it’s what we want our parents to think is going to happen.
It’s a solid plan, but I’m still worried.
“I promise I’ll be careful and keep an eye out,” she says.
“Fine. I know, you’ll be fine.” I let out a sigh and slump next to her on the bed. “It’s almost over.”
“Yep,” she says.
If for any reason one of us doesn’t make it to the school after the dance, we’re going to rendezvous at Jared’s. He’s the safe spot.
My safe spot. I know if anything happens to me before Sunday, he’ll take care of Paige. And really, that’s all that matters.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Thursday morning, Tabby shows up with coffee right at nine.
Paige is in school, Jared at work.
The drive to Roseburg is interesting. Tabby makes me listen to Christopher Cross and Earth, Wind & Fire the entire drive.
“This is not the music I pictured you listening to,” I say when she’s done belting out “Sailing.”
“I am full of surprises.”
Once we reach downtown Roseburg, she parks in a public lot and we walk along the bustling main street. It’s quaint with an old-timey vibe and lined with boutiques and shops.
The first store we stop in has a bunch of dresses, most of which are dark with velvety fabrics.
“Hell, no,” I say.
“Oh come on, Ruby, it’s fun. What size are you?”
“I don’t know, medium?”
“I mean dress size.”
“I’ve never really had to buy a dress like this,” I admit.
My parents dressed up all the time, but I was never allowed to go with them to their fancy dinners. They always used me for the more menial tasks. The only time I was allowed to attend anything swanky, it was suited up as the waitstaff.
“You never went to prom? Or were a bridesmaid?”
I never really went anywhere. I stopped going to high school at fifteen—unless my parents wanted me to for show or to get close to the kid of one of their marks. I never had any friends who would have asked me to be in their wedding.
“No. Prom wasn’t really my thing,” I hedge.
“Well here.” She grabs a dress off the rack and holds it up to me. “This looks like it might work. Hold this.” And then she begins stacking dresses. Some she keeps, and some she flings in my direction.
The dressing room is a wide, circular space where she insists I show her every single dress I try on.
“There is no way I’m wearing any of these.” I’ve put on a slinky black dress that’s too long in the sleeves.
Tabby laughs. “You look like you belong in a cemetery.”
“All I need is dark makeup and a black wig. I vant to vear somethink that vill make people veddy veddy scared ov me,” I intone.
Tabby snorts out a laugh.
Then I take note of her outfit. “What is that thing?”
“These clothes are crazy.” She’s wearing a short yellow dress with puffy lace sleeves. She flaps her arms so the sleeves flutter up and down, then shuts the dressing room door to change. “But isn’t this fun?”
It is fun.
I shut my own door to change into my clothes and a wave of sadness washes over me. I wish we didn’t have to leave.
Tabby drags me to another store, this time not just for fun. We actually find a few decent dresses.
“This one.” She holds up a slinky, light-blue, strapless dress.
I finger the soft fabric. “The color is really pretty.”
“It will look amazing on you. Here, go try it on.”
“What are you getting?”
She holds up a much shorter, bloodred dress with spaghetti straps. It looks like it could fit a baby.
“Is that for Paige?” I tease. “Because I think that’s too small even for her.”
“Ha ha. I’m want to make Ben go crazy.”
“I think that will do it.”
~*~
After dress shopping, we stop at a little cantina a few blocks away.
“The margaritas here are to die for,” Tabby tells me, holding open the door to the restaurant.
It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust in the dimly lit interior. There’s a family in line ahead of us, putting in their names for a table.
“How many?” the host asks when it’s our turn.
Shit.
He’s a young, dark-haired guy in his late teens. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a smart suit. This time, he’s in khakis and a polo shirt emblazoned with the cantina’s logo, but I recognize him regardless. His nametag reads Justin. What are the odds? And why on earth does he have another job an hour away from Castle Cove?
The moment recognition washes over his features, my stomach drops.
“Hey,” he says.
“We have two in our party,” I rush. If he’s working multiple jobs, he probably sees all kinds of people all the time. He probably won’t remember—
“It’s Charlotte, right?” He’s already making a note in a seating list.
“Charlotte?” Tabby asks from behind me. “Who’s that?”
“Oh, that’s my . . . middle name.” Only a slight delay gives me away. Here it is, the moment of ugly truth. First the confusion, then the anger, then the throwing things at me. There’s a handy tub of dinner mints on the host stand I’m sure will make excellent ammunition—
“Ruby . . . Charlotte?” Her nose scrunches up. “That’s the worst name combo ever. What were your parents thinking? “
But Tabby isn’t suspicious. She isn’t looking for tells or reasons to doubt my word. Because I’m her friend. I’m her lying, kidnapping, thieving friend. Is that relief or regret draining the blood from my head?
“It’s a family thing.” I shrug and turn to Justin. “We have two in our party,” I repeat. Deep breath in,
deep breath out. Just get us to a damn table, Justin.
Tabby smiles at Justin, then at me. “How do you guys know each other then?”
Double shit.
But before I can come up with an answer to derail this line of inquiry—or fake a seizure, or shout, “Look, Elvis!”—ever-helpful Justin answers for me. “We met at my other job at The Seaside Inn.” He bends over to pull menus and napkins from a cupboard under the counter.
“The Seaside Inn is pretty far from here,” I say.
“My parents own both properties. I normally don’t come all the way out to Roseburg, but someone had an emergency and they needed me to cover a shift.” He shrugs.
Of course.
Tabby lifts a brow at me.
She’s going to ask why I was at the Seaside.
Think, dammit. This used to be so easy. Why can’t I think?
“Right this way,” Justin says.
We follow him through the restaurant to a booth, at which point he lets us know our server will be right with us before thankfully departing.
Tabby grabs one of the menus. “So what were you doing at The Seaside Inn? Illicit rendezvous? Drug deal? Do you have a secret life moonlighting as a high-class escort?” Her eyes are wide and excited.
The trick to remembering your own lies is to keep them as close to the truth as possible.
I laugh. “Nothing so exciting. My aunt and uncle were in town. They left me a note at the front desk where”—I tilt my head in the direction Justin walked—“Justin works. My family always calls me Charlotte. It’s after a great-great-grandparent or something.”
“Oh. You didn’t tell me you had family in town.” She smacks my arm with the menu, though the hurt in her eyes makes the playful gesture more painful than it should be. “I would have loved to meet them.”
Talk about a nightmare.
I suppress a cringe.
“They were just passing through. I missed them as well. Hence the note.”
The waiter comes over to take our drink orders and as soon as he leaves, I change the subject to the mocktail night and Ben and anything else I can to distract her with until we leave the restaurant—and Justin—behind.
Tell the truth too long and you lose the knack of lying. Stay in one place too long, and those lies catch up with you. Maybe the parents are doing me a favor, showing up now and forcing us out. What ever made me think we could stop running from the truth?
~*~
We’re walking off too many carne asada tacos down Main Street when Tabby stops and opens a shop door, motioning me to enter.
When I peer inside, it’s a beauty salon.
“I made appointments to get our hair done.”
“Tabby . . .”
“Before you argue, I already paid for it.”
“Tabby . . .”
“Okay, I’m lying. I didn’t pay for it. Jared did.” She grins.
Dismay sinks into me. “He did?”
She laughs and nods, a whole lot more excited about that prospect than I am. “I told him where we were going and I might have mentioned getting our nails and hair done or something. Then he insisted it be his treat, since we’re doing all this to help with the case, you know. Don’t look so upset, Jared is totally loaded, he doesn’t care. He also told me to tell you it’s already been paid for, and if you back out, the money will be wasted. No refunds.”
She pats me on the head and then walks into the salon.
I follow her.
The thing is . . . I do care.
Tabby makes me feel a little better, though. She gets super excited about getting our nails painted to match our dresses.
While our hands are drying, she asks, “What do you want to do to your hair?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I guess cover up the roots or something.”
She stops blowing on her nails and eyes me. “Why don’t you go with your natural color? It looks like it’s the same color as Paige’s. She has beautiful hair. Why’d you dye it anyway?”
I shrug again. It was my mother. She insisted that blonds were better cons. Men love blonds, she would say. You have to use every advantage you can because you don’t have many.
The last time I went to a salon, actually, was with my mother.
It was my twenty-first birthday and Mother took me to the spa—just me and her—for a girls’ day.
To anyone on the outside, it was a great present, and we had a fabulous time. We drank champagne, got pedicures and facials. “You’re so lucky,” the manicurist said. “Your mother spoils you.”
And she did, when people were there and watching and listening. She asked me questions and pretended like she cared. We’d played a game since I was a kid, one that sort of mimicked our reality. We would have conversations and pretend to be other people, making up stories as we went. When I was younger, it was little things, like I would tell her I won a spelling test, or she’d say she got a new job or a promotion. We would tell these stories to each other in front of people like they were real. We did it all the time. As I got older, the stories got more complicated and outrageous. The challenge was to keep all the details straight and natural sounding while Mom tried to trip me up in front of our audience. I got damn good at that game, despite the cantina catastrophe earlier.
We played the game that day at the spa. When Mom dropped the bomb that I was her daughter visiting from Harvard, I scrambled to remember anything I could use from Good Will Hunting. When the manicurist asked me what I was studying, I hesitated. What would I do, if I could do anything?
“Criminal justice,” I told her.
Oh, to be on the right side of the law for once.
“I’m so proud of my daughter,” Mother said. She smiled at me, and she made it look so real I almost believed it.
That was their gift, the parents. They could sell a gun to a pacifist. They were so convincing sometimes even I forgot they were the bad guys.
While we were driving home, Mother stopped. She pulled over on the side of the road and handed me a piece of paper.
It was a bank statement, one I had set up for me and Paige in our first attempt at an exit strategy. I had been slowly and carefully putting money into it for about six months. The printout she gave me showed a balance of three thousand dollars.
“Gone,” she said, ripping up the page and throwing the pieces in my lap. “Don’t try it again. I’ll find it. And you know who’s going to suffer? Paige.”
We didn’t speak the rest of the way home.
To prove her point, I didn’t see Paige at all for a full week. They refused to tell me where she was.
When Paige came back home, I cried.
Paige, on the other hand, was perplexed.
They had sent her to a weeklong science camp at a nearby lake.
An oddity in and of itself. They barely ever let her leave the house.
I learned my lesson: They could take her away anytime they wanted. I had no power over them or what they did with her.
I still don’t have power over the parents. No power over how long they will spend trying to find Paige and I, and no power over what they might do once they find us. But I do have power over myself. My choices. My actions. Right now. They can’t take that away from me.
“Honey, what do you want to do with this mess?” My hairdresser is a dark-haired, thin man with bright eyes and flamboyant gestures. He picks up a limp blond strand, holding it between two fingers like it might bite him.
Our eyes connect in the mirror. “I want to go back to my natural color.”
“Good idea.” He nods, one finger pressed against his lips for a moment before he taps it. “Maybe a few subtle highlights.” He bustles around me, murmuring, combing, and foiling and then washing and cutting. I try not to look as the dead strands of hair fall away.
Then he turns me away from the mirror. A blow dryer and circular brush emerge, and all I can hear is the hum of hot air as I’m fluffed and brushed within an inch of my life.
“Are you ready?” He purses his lips at me while still fluffing my hair.
I can see strands in my peripheral vision. No more bottled blond, it looks more like dark honey.
I swallow and nod. He spins me around.
It’s me in the mirror. I know the face, the eyes, the button nose and too-full mouth. It’s me. But it all appears drastically different underneath hair that’s not mine. I mean, it’s mine, I’ve just never seen it so . . . normal. So not like my mother.
“Dude. Jared is going to flip his shit.” Tabby appears behind me in the mirror, her eyes wide, her mouth open. “You are a goddess. I mean, you’ve always been hot, but now you’re like hot hot. Like, I will sleep with you if he doesn’t.”
I laugh, and the person in the mirror laughs too. It’s so weird. What a difference a haircut makes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
We leave Roseburg after our hair is done and styled. Tabby has an updo with some dark strands of her hair pulled out, curling and framing her face. Mine is all down in waves that are somehow both sleek and bouncy. I don’t know how hairdressers achieve what is nearly impossible for us mere mortals.
Tabby drops me off at Ruby’s, where I’m meeting up with Paige before we head to Tabby’s for dinner and to get ready for the night.
Paige oohs and ahhs over my new hairdo and dress. She’s more excited than I am.
“Do you think if we weren’t leaving, you would date Jared?”
I swallow, not realizing we had been so obvious. “I don’t know, Paige. Even if we didn’t have to leave tomorrow, Ruby is still coming back.”
“What if it wasn’t for that, either?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”
“It’s not your fault.”
I shrug off the depressing conversation and focus on the present. We drive over to Tabby’s and make it there before five. Tabby has snacks and champagne at the ready, as well as a ton more makeup than I’ve ever owned in my whole life.
Even though I was initially reluctant to get all dolled up, I have to admit, it’s kind of fun.
