As soon as I see it, everything becomes devastatingly clear, like a rope around my throat. Like a smoking gun.
“Julep?” Tyler says, steadying me with a hand on my arm.
“I know where the evidence is.”
Tyler freezes. “Where?”
I look at him, my heart beating and shattering. I crumple, and Tyler sinks to the floor next to me, wrapping me in his arms as I cry.
The reason the clues never seemed to be leading me anywhere is because there was never anywhere to go. My father never found anything. There was never a hidden ledger or a recorded confession or a wiretap or anything.
The clues he left weren’t a trail to a prize. They were a message, and the rose is the final sentence. Even without a note, without any words at all, it says everything important, everything there is to say between my father and me.
It says he loves me. More than anything. And he’s never coming back.
THE FOLD
I scoop another forkful of the greasy diner eggs into my mouth and force myself to chew and swallow. I haven’t consumed anything more substantial than a bag of Cheetos and some coffee in the two-plus days since the dance, and my mind is starting to go dull around the edges. As far as last meals go, it could be worse.
Not that I can afford to pay for it. I had a long, discouraging talk with my wallet this morning. I’m looking at a dollar thirty-seven to cover this bounteous feast. Mike froze my bank account—some bull about it being “evidence” in the case against Sam. He’s trying to keep me from doing anything stupid, but sadly for him, I don’t need money to do something stupid.
The door jingles as another patron enters the diner. I peek over my shoulder and notice his heavy horn-rimmed glasses, trucker hat, I HEART IRONY T-shirt, and outrageous mustache. He makes his way over to the counter where I happen to be sitting. He’s perfect.
I paste on a smile and pick up my coffee while he orders the blue-plate special.
“At least it’s hot,” I say, and take a sip.
“Pardon?” he says, looking around to be sure I’m not addressing someone else.
“The coffee.” I make a face. “If this wind ever lets up, it’ll be a miracle. But getting a decent cup of joe from this place? That would take the second coming of Christ.”
He laughs. It sounds free, open—innocent of irony, despite the T-shirt.
I flick my eyes to his hat and smile, feigning an innocence to match his.
“Well, it isn’t Agrippa, that’s for sure,” he agrees. The waitress gives him a sour look but sweeps by without comment.
“Ah, Agrippa. Temple of the coffee gods. Too bad it’s on the other side of town.”
We chitchat for a few minutes as we wait for his breakfast to arrive—weather and other inanities. I’m going for a lighthearted mood here, so I steer clear of topics like politics and work, and focus more on witty remarks designed to amuse.
When the waitress hands him his plate, I set my cup down on the counter between us.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” I say, smiling. “But I’ll need to borrow your hat.”
“My hat?”
I extend my hand for it. He looks puzzled but curious. When he hands me the hat, I set it down over my still mostly full cup.
“I’ll bet you the price of breakfast that I can drink that entire cup of coffee without touching your hat.”
“No way.”
“Yep, I can. It’s really quite something. I learned it from a swami on a book tour.”
“Okay, you’re on.”
I close my eyes and affect my best imitation-swami pose—thumbs touching middle fingers, face lifted up to nirvana—and make a humming noise deep in my throat. Then I swallow three times. I open my eyes and smile at him.
“All done.”
“Right.”
I shrug. “It’s true. I can’t help it if you don’t believe me.”
He narrows his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “You didn’t do anything.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“Fine.”
He lifts the hat off the counter, revealing the still nearly full cup. I calmly pick it up and drink the contents.
“Hey!”
I smile at him. “I never touched the hat.”
I get up to go, signaling to the waitress that my patsy is paying the bill.
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” he says, already shouldering the responsibility for me fleecing him.
I pull out the dollar thirty-seven and lay it on the counter.
“For the coffee,” I say and walk out the door.
I catch the “L” and head to school. I haven’t done any of my weekend homework, but then, I don’t plan on attending any of my classes. I figure what’s the point when there’s a pretty decent chance I won’t live beyond the next twenty-four hours? But I do have a batch of IDs to deliver. Seems like all I do these days is make these ridiculous cards. It’s not like pretending to be someone you’re not is going to get you anywhere good. Look at me, I want to tell them. Don’t make the same mistake. But their money is green, and they wouldn’t listen to me, anyway.
It’s been more than two days since Sam got pinched, and he won’t answer any of my texts, emails, or calls. I’ve never gone this long without at least a text from him. I’m not sure how to give him space, or if I should, or if I’ve ruined his life. In one long, rambling voice-mail message, I filled him in on my discovery of the rose. I don’t know if he wants to know, if he’s even getting my messages. But I figured I owed him closure.
Meanwhile, Tyler’s been out of town for the championships. He offered to invent some sort of illness and stay with me because of how upset I was about the rose.
I told him what it meant as he was driving me home that night. He asked me several times if I was sure. But of course I’m sure. The only time my dad would ever call me by my real name is if he was saying good-bye.
In any case, I wouldn’t let Tyler skip the game. I’m not going to be responsible for ruining his life, too. With Petrov breathing down my neck, he’s better off as far away from me as he can get. Besides, I’m a con artist. As much as I wish I weren’t, I’m still all smoke and mirrors. You can love an illusion, but the illusion can’t love you back. Even if it wants to.
I stare out the “L” window as the train passes all the familiar landmarks. I’m pretty sure once I pull off the biggest con of my life, I won’t be seeing them again. And that goes for both Tyler and Sam as well. Even if I manage to keep from getting shot during the next twenty-four hours, my life will still be over.
I send a text to Heather. A few seconds later, my phone pings with a return text. I scroll through the message and then delete it.
When I reach my stop, I walk through the sliding doors and toss the phone onto the tracks.
Ten minutes later, I stroll through campus, ignoring the blowing leaves, the chattering of my classmates, the fluttery feeling I get right before I bite off more than I can chew. Remember how I explained at the beginning that everyone has something in their past they’re not proud of? Well, I’m about to become a glass house. Let’s hope that stoning isn’t as painful as it sounds.
My plan is simple enough, but as with most cons, it involves betting heavily on one’s ability to foresee all possible reactions on the part of other people without them suspecting a thing. Easy enough with strangers, harder with people you know. If that seems backward, don’t look at me. I call it like I see it.
When I reach the second floor, my feet slow of their own accord. But it’s time and past to get this over with. People are counting on me. Sam deserves someone better than me. And Tyler will land on his feet.
I step into the dean’s outer office; my backpack, filled with illegal IDs, bumps against the doorframe. Heather is standing at the copy machine, and her eyes get huge when she sees me. What are you doing here? she mouths at me. I give her a small smile of apology but otherwise ignore her as I push open the dean’s inn
er office door and stride into the lion’s den.
I empty my bag of cards onto her desk.
“I have a confession to make.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting outside the president’s office as the dean, the head of security, and various assorted board members decide what to do with me. I imagine my phone, under the “L,” lighting up like a Christmas tree with texts from Heather.
I feel bad—I do—for throwing her and the rest of them under the bus. But there’s more at stake here than partying privileges. And yes, I know it’s more than that. I’m gambling with their future, our future. But it’s the only way I’ll be able to live with myself. I have to finish what my father started.
“Ms. Dupree?”
Finally. I follow the executive assistant into Sister Rasmussen’s office, the plush carpet masking the footsteps of doom, as Sam would say. The door closes behind me with a click, and the stares of five adults in various stages of appalled settle on me.
Of all of them, Sister Rasmussen should be the most irate. Ultimately, the behavior of the students, the reputation of the school, and most important, the robustness of the endowment fall on her shoulders. But she seems the least upset of the five. Her expression says concerned but curious. Which is not what I’d hoped for. It would be better for me if she were furious. Anger is almost always based on fear, and fear is the easiest emotion to manipulate. Ask any politician or pastor.
The dean is the first to speak. “This is your chance to plead your case. I wouldn’t—”
“I think it would be advantageous for me to speak to Ms. Dupree first,” the president interrupts her, coming out from behind her desk and gently ushering the other board members, including the dean, out into the hall. “Thank you. I’ll call you all back in a moment.”
Then she shuts the door and calmly returns to her chair. I force myself to unclench my fists. I won’t gain anything by acting nervous. But Sister Rasmussen is one of too many linchpins in my shaky plan. And she’s the one I have the least power over.
“You may speak freely,” she says, gesturing to a recently vacated chair.
I sit, because she’s asked me to. “I have a favor to ask,” I say.
She laughs. “You break three major school rules, not to mention the law, on this grand a scale, and the first thing you say is you need a favor?”
“According to those same rules, you’d have to expel every one of the students on those forged driver’s licenses. Plus the fifty or so other students I can name who I’ve also created forgeries for. Am I right?”
The president leans back in her chair, folding her hands and looking at me like she’s trying to solve a riddle.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks.
I ignore the question. “If you expel more than a hundred students, that’s nearly a tenth of the school population. You’d have to close the school without that tuition money.”
“We have enough to cover the shortfall until we enroll more students.”
“Even if that’s true, the school’s reputation would be ruined. Or would at least take a serious hit. Alums would pull their financial support, parents would take their kids elsewhere, you’d have a harder time recruiting new students. And it would all be for nothing.”
The president absorbs this, still unruffled. She must have considered all of this already. Does that mean she has another plan in place? She needs to accept my alternative, or none of this is going to work.
“I assume you’re bringing this up because you wish to offer a solution.”
“Don’t expel anyone yet,” I say. “I know a way they can pay their debt to St. Agatha’s and keep the honor, and the finances, of the school intact.”
“I will have to expel someone. The board is out for blood, and the dean has more power with them than I think you bargained for.”
“Give the dean what she really wants, and you won’t have to expel any of them.”
“Give her you, you mean?”
I don’t say anything, but I don’t have to.
“I ask again, why are you doing this?”
“I have a debt to pay, too,” I say. “Can you keep them at bay until I set something else in motion? A couple of days at most. If I can’t do it by then, you can do whatever you deem best for the school.”
“I always do,” she says. “I’ll give you till the end of the day tomorrow.”
I nod and sit a little straighter in my chair. “Now, about that favor …”
“That wasn’t the favor?”
“That was a solution to your problem,” I say. “That was my favor to you. Now I have a favor to ask in return.”
“I’m eager to hear it,” she says.
“I need five hundred thousand dollars.”
Ten minutes later, Sister Rasmussen lets me out the rarely used door leading from her office directly to the hallway, bypassing the sitting room and its livid inhabitants. I feel like I’ve been poking a wasp’s nest with a stick. Sometimes you can get away without getting stung if you’re bold enough. Of course, in my case, the sting will come later.
I collar my next victim on his way to the dining hall.
“Murphy,” I call, waving him over to an alcove off the main hallway. When he gets close enough to hear without me shouting, I say, “Did you get it?”
He nods and hands me the package. “You owe me fifty bucks, on top of the two hundred for the converter you quote-misplaced-unquote.”
As much as I’d like to make it square, I’ll probably have to owe him for a while. “Did you set it up?”
He sighs, looking worried. “Yes, but I really don’t think it’s a good idea. It’s not precise enough, and you have to be close.”
“Thanks, Murphy.” I squeeze his arm. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Murphy mumbles something back, his eyes wary. But I’m already past him and on to my next errand.
I leave campus and take an assortment of buses to a dumpy strip mall on the midline between downtown and the poorer districts. Disregarding the packed waiting room, I breeze past the receptionist’s desk without signing in. It’s a testament to how overworked the office is that the receptionist doesn’t even look up, much less protest.
The rows of desks crowded with paper and separated by cubicle walls in a superficial attempt at preserving client privacy do nothing to obscure my objective. Even without directions, I know her desk immediately. I can see her all-over brown exterior from here.
I sit in the empty chair next to her desk, and she looks up in surprise.
“Can I—?”
“Ms. Fairchild, right? My name is Julep Dupree. Actually, it isn’t. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m hoping you can help me.”
A twenty-minute conversation later, and I’m another to-do task closer to meeting Petrov’s ultimatum. One more stop before I take the hunt home to the hunter.
Apparently, one can walk straight into the FBI’s elevator, punch a button, and walk into the organized-crime wing of the building without so much as a blink from any of the suits circling the floor. I didn’t expect that, to tell you the truth. But I’m not complaining, either.
I walk into Mike’s office and shut the door, all my rage at his betrayal still present and accounted for. But despite the hurt and anger roiling in my chest, I need him as much as he needs me. I hate that I need him, but there it is.
“I can get you the Ukrainian mob,” I say.
“Julep,” he says, spilling coffee on his white button-down. “Damn it.”
He mops up the mess with a McDonald’s napkin he pulls from a drawer, which only makes the stain worse.
“How did you get in here?” he grumbles.
“I walked. Do you want the mob or not?”
Mike picks up his phone receiver. I yank the cable out of the phone before he can call anyone.
“What the hell?” Mike yells at me, replacing the now useless handset.
“You can call in the cavalry after we’re done here.”
&nbs
p; “You don’t get to make that decision.”
“I do if you want what I have.”
Mike stands and crosses his arms, his scowl intimidating. I see why the FBI uses him for undercover. But there’s enough riding on this that his scowl rolls right off me. I have to throw him off balance to keep him from taking over. I need his help, but I can’t let him call the shots. Not on this.
“Where is it?”
“Safe,” I say. “For now.”
“What do you want?”
I pull a pen out of the holder on his desk and hand it to him. “You’re going to need to write this down.”
Feeling lighter, I walk out of the FBI building a mere ten minutes later, congratulating myself that thus far everything is going according to plan. If this keeps up, I might actually get all of us through this with minimal collateral damage.
As soon as the thought enters my head, I know I’ve jinxed everything all to hell. And sure enough, in the very next moment, I bump into a familiar black-coated criminal. I look up into Dani’s blue eyes, stony as always but betraying her worry.
“What is it?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know the answer.
“Petrov has your friend Sam.”
THE STING
“Can we please talk about this?”
Dani ignores me, pushing the Chevelle to greater acceleration than is advisable on surface streets. I’ve been trying to reason with her for the last ten minutes, but logic, bribery, and manipulation don’t seem to be working. At this point, I’ve resorted to pleading.
She cuts the wheel to the left and merges onto I-90.
“There’s no place you can take me that he won’t find me once he knows I have the evidence. You know that.”
“Better to take you straight to him? This is your better plan?” She heads for the nearest state line, either not knowing or not caring that transporting me over it constitutes kidnapping.
“All I need is ten minutes with him and all this goes away. I swear, Dani.”
“It takes less than ten seconds to put a bullet in your brain.”
“It won’t come to that. He won’t do anything drastic until he has the evidence in his own hands.”
Trust Me, I'm Lying Page 20
