Game of Lies

by Amanda K. Byrne

  “The one and only.” I drop another kiss on his sleep-softened mouth. “C’mon. How about we go someplace with an actual bed?”

  “You want to get me naked, all you have to do is ask.”

  “Ha ha.” As gratifying as it is to hear him snarking about it, sex is the last thing on my mind. I don’t even know how we’d accomplish it without causing Nick more pain. “You need more sleep.”

  Leather creaks as he pushes himself up, hissing in discomfort. “Quick nap. We’re not done.” He swings his legs off the couch. “Hand me my crutches?”

  “Depends. Are you going to go back to your desk? Because if you are, then no, you can’t have them.”

  He gives me his scary face, the one that’s no longer intimidating. The expression fades slowly, resignation taking its place. “We don’t have any place to go, Cass. I might as well keep working until I can figure something out.”

  “Who says you have to be the one to figure it out?” I get to my feet and hand him the crutches. “Does it matter if your family knows where we are any longer?” I help him up, and he tucks the crutches under his arms with a frown.

  “Yes, but I’m out of safe houses, and our only other option is a hotel.”

  If he’s worried about someone sneaking up on us, my old apartment isn’t an option. The new apartment isn’t, either, at least until we can arrange to have the furniture moved. Which leaves one place.

  My father was as vigilant about personal security as Nick is, if not more so. The house has a security system, motion detectors, and a panic room. It’s also in the middle of the block, the neighborhood peopled with middle-class families where anything remotely suspicious sticks out.

  “My parents’ house,” I say at last. “Turner’s security measures rival yours. They may still find us, but at least we’d have advance notice.” And unless Mom cleaned it out, we’ll have access to Turner’s gun safe.

  Nick must be more tired than I thought because he agrees without protest. He sticks his head in Constantine’s office to tell him we’re leaving, but quickly withdraws. “Sleeping,” he murmurs.

  “Did you guys make any progress?” I ask once we’re in the car.

  Nick tips his head back and shuts his eyes. “Some. We’ve run a slew of tests, and Constantine thinks he’s figured out the problem. Sometime between when the virus ate away the code and a couple of days ago, someone logged in and deleted random sections. It’s not anything huge, but it screws with the installation. So someone could download the app and possibly even get it installed, but it won’t run.”

  I turn onto Sepulveda Boulevard. “Have you isolated all the sections?”

  “Not quite. It took a while to figure out that’s what’s wrong, and then Peter assigned sections to the programmers. The three of us were running tests on the servers when we decided to take a break. I can run tests remotely, but any adjustments would need to be made at the source.”

  I blow through a red light. “Can I ask you something?”

  “What’s up?”

  I tighten my grip on the wheel and swerve around a car turning right. “I feel like I’m missing something as far as your family is concerned. I get that your father doesn’t want me anywhere near you, but that they’d go to, well, violent measures to ensure that seems weird. Also counterproductive, but definitely weird.”

  A horn blasts as a Mustang screams by, and I watch it weave in and out of traffic, zipping through a red light. I sneak a glimpse of Nick’s face. He looks…done. Not exhausted, not worn out, just done. Like the fight’s drained out of him.

  “Dad and Uncle Anton agreed with the original plan,” he begins. “They knew something needed to be done and were willing to allot the necessary firepower to ensure it would happen. Your decision to take action on your own meant they had no control. Control’s huge. They couldn’t predict who was going to be killed next because you didn’t stick to a pattern. We had to scramble to clean up some of the sites. Families came to Dad, demanding retribution, and he had to tell them no because above all else, he had agreed that this needed to happen. They don’t take kindly to cleaning up other people’s messes, Cass. And because I didn’t try to stop you sooner, he withdrew his support. He won’t have someone with such volatile tendencies in his family in any capacity. It’s jeopardized my standing within the organization.”

  Each word is a barb, piercing my skin and sinking in deep. I drive without thinking, without seeing, and have to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the car in front of me. “Why aren’t you angrier?” He said he was mad, and while he’s withheld affection, he’s still protected me.

  “There’s no point,” he says simply. “You’ve damaged my trust. Part of me’s waiting for you to run out and finish the job, even though Isaiah’s gone. You took advantage of me, but when I knew I couldn’t handle any more, I put a stop to it. Circumstances beyond our control took care of Isaiah.”

  Circumstances beyond our control. “I’m sorry.” God, that sounds trite. As if an apology can make up for everything I’ve done. He was right to call me a selfish brat.

  I can’t do this to him.

  “If I’m no longer around, there’s no threat to either of us, right? I mean, Isaiah’s dead. There’s no one left for me to go after. At his core, Turner was a reasonable man, and so is your dad. Maybe living apart for a few months will allow things to calm down.” When he doesn’t respond, I take my eyes off the road and glance over. “What is it?”

  He fists a hand on his thigh. “Someone has to be held responsible for Tris’s death. I got a call from our guy in the department. A courtesy. He can’t bury this one, even if he’d like to. Then I spoke with my father to confirm what you were told. He agrees that someone has to hang for Tris.”

  “I did it to protect you!”

  “Doesn’t matter. Tris is dead, and he’s not supposed to be. Dad was waiting to find out for certain what the police would do before making a move, but now that he knows, he’ll come after you. That’s why you were approached last night. One attempt to ask you to turn yourself in before Dad moves on to other less diplomatic methods.”

  Just like that, the target’s firmly attached to my back again.

  Chapter 13

  The house looks the same. The windows glint in the sun, the yard neat and tidy. Somehow I thought with both parents out of the house it would have fallen into disrepair, especially given how zombie-like Mom was the last couple weeks.

  I step out of the car and dash up the front walk to the door, heart beating triple-time. The system’s designed to send an alert within twenty seconds if one of the motion sensors is tripped, though Turner usually had them off if no one was home. A separate alert went out within fifteen seconds if one of the entry points—door, window, or garage—was triggered. I reset the codes myself the last time I saw my mother. Hopefully she hasn’t changed anything.

  The panel’s beeping as I step into the front hall, and my fingers shake as I punch the buttons. The beeping stops, and I press the panel cover into place. It’s a house. A place to stay. There are good memories and bad, like any other house. A car door slams outside, and I jump, stifling a whimper. A car door. Not a gunshot. No gunshots here. Nothing but my breathing echoing off the tile entryway. Nothing but Nick’s crutches thudding on the front walk.

  He swings through the door and stares up at the ceiling. I follow his gaze. The pendant light is kind of amazing. Mom saw a gorgeous piece of glass on a trip to Seattle but couldn’t justify buying it. A slim, oblong shape, the blues and reds form a violent storm of color racing around the curves of the glass. Turner bought it for her and had it turned into a light.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” I say.

  Daddy!

  I point to an entryway on the left. “Bedrooms are that way if you want to take a nap. Living room, dining room, Turner’s office is to the right. Kitchen’s off the dining room. I’m going to get our bags.” Before Nick can respond, I escape outside and force
air into my lungs, willing the panic to recede.

  All those visits when Mom was still here, when I couldn’t breathe and kept hearing Turner’s voice in my head… I thought it was because of her. I thought she was the reason I felt on the verge of collapse the instant I set foot inside.

  Coming here was a mistake. But Nick’s right. We have nowhere else to go.

  I pop the trunk and haul out bags, then carry them into the house. By our neighborhood’s standards, the house is on the small side, boasting three bedrooms instead of four or five. I avert my gaze from the closed master bedroom door and drop Nick’s duffle in the guest room.

  My room hasn’t changed much. Same dark green walls, same pine furniture, everything coordinated, thanks to my mom. It looks like she stripped the sheets before she left for Montana.

  “This yours?”

  I glance over my shoulder. Nick’s leaning against the doorjamb, both crutches tucked under his opposite arm. “Yeah. The guest room’s next door, my parent’s is across the hall. Bathroom next to their room. I’ll get you some sheets and make up the bed for you.”

  He limps across the room and lowers himself to the bed. “You’re sleeping in here?”

  “Yeah.” Though I’m not sure if sleep will happen. The entire week before the funeral, I’d close my eyes and see my father die, over and over, until the blood was so thick I’d wake expecting to be engulfed in a lake of it. “You’ll be in the guest bed. It’s bigger.”

  He raises a brow. “I’ve heard you.” His voice is quiet. “Do you know how many times you wake in the middle of the night?”

  I sit next to him, careful not to jostle his leg. “They have to end at some point.”

  I can sense his hesitation, and it makes me curious. “The guest bed’s big enough for both of us. You slept better when I was in your bed,” he says.

  We shouldn’t. It’s the opposite of what I asked for, what we need. But the need to say no is swamped and drowned by my desire to say yes. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Exhaustion washes over me. I want comfort. To be held. I scoot closer, releasing a breath when he wraps his arm around me. I tip my head onto his shoulder. “Guest room, then. I’ll get some sheets in a minute. Hungry?”

  “No,” he murmurs. “Have to get back to work. I’ll need to get on to your network.”

  I don’t want to move. I don’t think I can. Nick’s immediate presence is the only thing keeping me together. Inside, everything’s vibrating so hard I swear I’ve loosened some internal organs. I picture a countdown timer, complete with red, yellow, and blue wires, ticking closer to a line of zeroes. I want to brace for impact. I want to tell Nick to run as far as he can. The explosion will not be pretty. There may be nothing salvageable.

  I let out a shaky breath. “It’s been a while since I’ve needed to use it, so the password’s likely changed. I can try, but if it doesn’t work, you’ll have to hack in.”

  He sighs and squeezes my arm. “Better get to it.”

  I retrieve his laptop and charger from the bag in the guest room and lead him to the living room. “Make yourself comfortable.” I set the laptop on the coffee table and go to the kitchen for a glass of water.

  There’s no food in the fridge. I didn’t think there would be, but I don’t particularly relish the thought of going grocery shopping again. One day, Nick and I will be able have a place to live, and we won’t be forced to leave it behind days or weeks later. Which, in theory, could eventually be our new apartment.

  Dammit. Classes. Classes start next week. Target or no, I can’t skip the first days of the new term.

  “Cass?”

  I fill a second glass from the tap and bring it with me. I hand him the water.

  He fishes his pain pills out of his pocket and pops off the lid while I type in the last password I remember. It doesn’t work. Turner never picked anything obvious for passwords, but I try a few possibilities.

  “You’re going to need to hack in,” I say at last. “Um. I need to talk to you about something first.” Rather than join him on the couch, I perch on the edge of the coffee table. “Class starts next week. I can’t miss them. We need to come up with a schedule or a plan or something.” Returning to campus, being around all those people, having to pretend that everything’s all right, will be difficult, but it might be what pushes me forward.

  When he doesn’t say anything, I continue. “I’ll call a moving company and see if I can get the furniture moved over the weekend. You’re welcome to stay here if you don’t want to stay with your parents.”

  “I don’t have your schedule yet.”

  “I’ll forward it to you. Do you have any moving company preferences? Anything I need to do before contacting someone?” I boost a hip off the table and pull out my phone. Tapping into my e-mail, I find my class schedule, then pull up Nick’s name in my contacts. “I guess I don’t have your e-mail address.”

  He holds out his hand, and I pass him the phone. “We have our own company do our moves,” he says, thumbs flying over the surface. “Gentle Movers. So not them.” Instead of giving me my phone, he sets it on his lap. “Are you sure about this?”

  How many times are we going to have this argument? “Nick—”

  He holds up a hand to cut me off. “I’m not talking about your safety. Putting you in the middle of a busy campus is smart. And if someone wants to get at either of us badly enough, they’ll find a way.”

  I curl my fingers around the edge of the table. “Then what?”

  “All you’ve done since your father’s murder is kill people, Cass. When’s the other shoe going to drop?”

  It amazes me how well he understands me after such a short period of time. He’s right. It will drop. “I don’t know,” I whisper, “but I can’t sit around waiting for it to happen. Please don’t make me.”

  He scrutinizes me like a trapped bug, his gaze flat and remote.

  “You can’t save me from this, Nick.” The edge of the wood cuts into my hands. “You told me once I don’t need permission to fall apart. I know it will happen. I also know there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

  Warmth seeps into his eyes and pushes away the distance. “You’ll come find me when it does?”

  I’ve been struggling with this for the past few days, ever since it became apparent my numb state wasn’t going to last much longer. It doesn’t seem fair to expect Nick to be there to keep me from shattering. If anything, I should be taking care of him.

  “Cass.” He snakes his hand around the back of my neck and brings me close. “Come find me,” he murmurs.

  I can’t lie to him, so I kiss him and stand. “I’m going to make up the bed.”

  As soon as I’m out of his line of sight, I start shaking. Mom never bothered with a separate set of sheets for the guest bed. No point, she said. Whenever there was company, she’d just pull out one of their sets.

  To make up the guest bed, I’ll have to go into the master bedroom.

  Standing outside the room, I shut my eyes, willing the trembles to stop. It’s a room. I’ve been inside plenty of times, even after Turner died, and I was fine. I’ll be fine this time too. I close my hand around the doorknob and push open the door.

  The air is stale, a hint of Mom’s perfume hanging around. I open my eyes and wait for them to adjust to the dim light. She stripped the sheets off the bed before she left and folded the blankets. Her closet door’s open; most of the hangers that held her non-work clothes are empty. It doesn’t look like she packed in a hurry. I take that as a good sign and step farther into the room.

  Turner’s side of the room looks the same as it always does, pin-neat and devoid of personal items. The sole exception is a picture of Mom and I on his dresser. Aside from the sheetless bed, everything’s the same. Like it’s waiting for Mom and Dad to return.

  I can’t remember what he smells like.

  Panic squeezes my chest, coiling and tensing
to spring. I walk around the bed to Turner’s closet and slide open the doors. His shirts are lined up by purpose and color, shoes slotted neatly in their cubbyholes. I choose one of the shirts he’d wear on the weekend and pull it off the hanger. The soft, worn cotton bunches in my hands as I lift it to my nose and inhale the dark, musky scent.

  He used Aramis for as long as I can remember. How could I have forgotten that? How could I have forgotten that so soon?

  The panic tightens, pounces, and I break. Hard. I shove the shirt into my mouth to muffle the screams. The room vibrates around me, and everything is red. Dark red, the color of the blood dripping down Turner’s face.

  I love you.

  He is gone. He is nothing but ash and memories, blowing away with each gust of wind. He will never tell me he loves me again. He will never sit at the head of the table and listen as my mother and I laugh and joke. He will never correct my grip, never spar with me.

  He will never hug me.

  Never see me graduate.

  Never meet his grandchildren.

  Never.

  Never.

  Never.

  My eyes are burning, and the room’s gone from red to hazy with water, my throat already raw from my muffled screams. I fall to my knees, curl into a ball, and land on my side. Tears stream down my face to soak into my hair. Pain sings up my arm as I pound my fist into the floor.

  I can’t breathe. Can’t see. The tears and the screams won’t stop. He should be here. Here, with his stone-faced disapproval, those quick, slight smiles that warm me from top to toe. My world is heat and fury and pain, then shatters so the splinters and shards slice through my skin. I wish my blood could bring him back. I’d cut myself open and give it all.

  Muscles locked, lungs seizing, I struggle for air and shut my eyes, and it just gets worse. Isaiah with his gun, Turner stoic to the last. Turner telling me to leave, to take care of Mom, three words that rip me to shreds, over and over. I am never fast enough. Isaiah won by taking the one person he knew would destroy me.