All Over You (All Falls Down #3)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  Cam is a good guy…a great guy. He doesn't deserve to go down with me, and if anyone finds out he's been spending time with me, he could be in serious trouble.

  I can't let that happen. I won't.

  Drawing on the strength that got me through losing my family, I take a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "I don't think that's a good idea," I say, curling my hands into tight fists, fighting to keep my voice level and steady. I don't want him to hear the regret in my words. I don't want him to know that he's become important to me. In a few short days, he's wriggled his way in, and I don't want to kick him out now. "I appreciate all of your help, but I don't think we should see each other anymore."

  "Kitten," he growls in warning, but I don't let him say anything else. I can't.

  "Goodbye, Detective Lewis. Thank you for everything," I whisper into the phone, and then I hang up. I turn my phone off and stumble away from the building. My mind spins, nausea rolling through me with each step. I steel myself against the feeling, trying to think. I have to figure this out. And I have to do it without Cam.

  Was Rory the one at Shae's, or was it Fake Ivy? Has he ever met her before? Or did she string him along the entire time, making up stories about why she couldn't meet him like Daphne did with Jay?

  I don't have time to wait for Cam to request to view the security tapes to find out who was in the store. Not now, when what is more than likely Rory's body has washed up on shore. I have to find out if Rory ever met Fake Ivy, and I know only one way to do that. I have to go to Los Angeles.

  Ducking into a bank at the corner, I make my way to the short line for the ATM, my mind racing as a plan begins to form. I'll drive to L.A. tonight and head to the UCLA campus first thing in the morning. Surely someone there would know if Rory ever met Fake Ivy in person.

  My checking account is woefully depleted, leaving me barely enough to pay my bills. There's no way I can use any of it, not if I plan to survive when I get home. I regretfully withdraw every penny I have in savings and then make my way back to the trolley and then to my car.

  Once inside, I hesitate, torn between running home to pack a bag and driving straight to Los Angeles. And then I think of Cam and realize I can't go home. If I do, he'll find me there, and try to convince me to let him help me. And I can't let that happen. For his sake.

  Backing out of my parking spot, I head toward the freeway.

  "Are you okay?" Bryan asks nearly seven hours later, concern in his voice.

  "I'm fine, Bryan," I lie, rubbing my temples. I'm lying on the double bed in my cheap motel room, staring at the old, boxy television on the stand across from me. It doesn't work. Not that I expected it would. The motel is run down, in a rough neighborhood in L.A. Police sirens and music blare on the street below. The curtains in the room are thin and stained, and so is the carpet. The sheets are threadbare, the comforter thin and worn. The water in the bathroom is tepid, the shower offering little more than a trickle. It's not ideal, but I don't have the money to waste on luxuries like hot water and soft sheets.

  I've been here for less than an hour, and Bryan's the only person I've spoken with aside from the clerk who checked me in. My cell phone is still turned off. I'm not brave enough to power it on and see the missed calls from Cam. I barely know him, but I miss him already.

  "Are you sure? I can take a few days off and come help you," Bryan offers.

  "Really, I'm fine. I just wanted to let someone know where I was in case…" I can't seem to make myself say the words in case I'm charged with murder. Coming here wasn't about trying to hide from the charges probably being filed against me right this moment. I'm not hiding. I'm simply trying to find evidence that exonerates me before those charges catch up with me. I doubt the police will appreciate that distinction. I already know Cam won't.

  "You shouldn't be doing this alone, babe."

  "I'll be back in a couple of days. If anyone comes looking for me before then…"

  "Yeah," he says with a tired sigh. "I'll make sure they know you aren't trying to hide. Be careful, Ivy. And call me if you need anything. I mean that."

  "I will," I promise. "Goodnight, Bryan."

  "Goodnight."

  I replace the room phone on the base before reaching for my laptop. After firing it up, I open my email to find a new message from Erin.

  Hey chica,

  Sorry I didn't call you back. My fucking phone got no fucking reception at the lake house. I promise I didn't drown or get dragged off to by a hot rancher to be his dirty sex slave. Oh, wouldn't that be hot? Mmm. Hot ranchers. How do you feel about moving to Montana? We can make this happen, right?

  You sounded weird in your voicemails. Is everything okay? And why the hell is your phone turned off? You never turn your phone off. If Mr. Gleeson finally bent you over his desk, I want details, you kinky bitch!

  See you when I get back on Wednesday. Love you!

  xx,

  Your Bestie

  I scroll through the few selfies she sent of her at the convention with some of my favorite authors, smiling at one of her holding a giant margarita in one hand, shooting me a saucy wink. She looks good, as if she got a little sun and found her happy place again while at the lake. I shoot off a reply to her, giving her the phone number to my room and telling her I'll explain later.

  I hover the cursor over the little X in the corner of the browser tab to close it down for the night, but I find myself hesitating. Before I can talk myself out of it, I quickly load one of the San Francisco news stations in the browser, and immediately wish I hadn't. Rory Clark's face is splashed across the homepage. "UCLA Student's Body Found," screams the headline at the top.

  Stupidly, I click the article, only to find a picture of his parents embracing, heartbreak etched onto their faces. I don't even get halfway through the first paragraph before the tears I've held off all day spill over to run down my cheeks and I have to stop reading. I already know my name hasn't been released yet, but it's only a matter of time.

  Pushing my laptop to the side, I curl up in a miserable ball, wishing Cam was here to tell me again that everything is going to be okay. It's not though. Not this time.

  Whoever Fake Ivy is, she's a heartless, evil bitch.

  "What's your favorite book to read?" I ask my class, turning from the chalkboard to face them.

  "Goodnight Moon!"

  "Buwty and da Beast!"

  "The mouse and cookie book!"

  "The Nightmawe Before Chwistmas!"

  "That's not a book," Tommy Howell says, laughing loudly at the little blonde seated beside him.

  "Yes, it is!" Lilah Rodgers narrows her blue eyes on him and tilts her chin up. "My daddy wead it to me."

  "Did not!"

  "Did so!" Lilah yells right back at him.

  "Did not, did not, did not," Tommy says, pushing his glasses up his nose before scowling at her.

  "Tommy, Lilah, behave," I warn the two of them, clapping my hands together to get their attention.

  They reluctantly back down, but not before Tommy sticks his tongue out at Lilah, who gives him a haughty sniff and pointedly turns her back on him.

  "What happening to raising our hands?" I ask the rest of the class.

  Half of their little hands immediately shoot upward.

  "Much better," I say, scanning their eager faces. I stop at Malik Turner, who sits in the very back of the classroom, his head bent over the sketchbook on his desk. At six, he's already an incredibly talented artist. Unfortunately, that's the only thing he's shown interest in since being placed in my class. He doesn't talk much, and struggles with most of his work. "Malik, what about you?" I ask him softly.

  His brown eyes turn in my direction and he blinks as if only just noticing I'm there.

  "Malik doesn't read," Tommy snorts. "He doesn't know how."

  Laughter ripples around the room.

  "Thomas Howell." I snap my head in his direction, my hands on my hips. "What did I tell you about bullying your classmates? Five minutes of
f your recess. If you interrupt again, you'll be sitting beside me for the entire period, do you understand?"

  "Ah, man," he groans, slumping down in his chair.

  Lilah smirks as if she's pleased.

  My gaze drifts back to Malik to find his head down, his shoulders hunched as if he's embarrassed.

  "Malik," I say again, causing him to glance up at me again. "Go ahead, sweetheart. What's your favorite book?"

  "Ivy Kendall?" someone says from the doorway before he can answer.

  I turn to find Cam standing at the door beside two San Francisco officers in full uniform. He looks so handsome as he stands there, his feet planted and his arms crossed, causing the muscles in his arms to bulge beneath his tattoos. But gone from his face is the wicked smirk. The soft way he always looks at me is gone too, replaced by a grim, business-like expression. One that sends a chill through me.

  "Cam?" I say, confused as the two officers start toward me. "What's going on?"

  "You're being arrested for murder," he says. His expression twists as he looks at me like he doesn't know who I am. "You murdered a kid."

  Chaos erupts as my students begin to scream and cry hysterically. I try to rush forward to comfort them, but the two officers grab my arms, jerking me to a stop. I'm forced to stand helpless as they slap handcuffs on my wrists while my kids watch, big tears rolling down their faces.

  "I didn't do this," I whisper to Cam.

  He watches me from the door, the disappointment in his gray eyes searing me to my soul. He doesn't believe me.

  Without another word, he turns on his heel and strides away, leaving me completely alone.

  "Cam!" I shout, struggling to break free to run after him. "Cam! I didn't do this."

  I jerk away with a jolt, Cam's name still echoing around the room. The sheet is twisted around my legs, holding me captive in the uncomfortable bed. I kick my way free before rolling to my feet. My heart hammers loudly, and I'm drenched in sweat. It's early morning, barely even sunrise. There's no way I'm going back to sleep now. Not after that.

  What in the hell kind of dream was that?

  "Ugh," I groan, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes as if doing so will clear away the image of Cam walking away from me while I'm handcuffed in front of a room full of kindergartners. "You barely know him," I mutter to myself, knowing damn well that reminder isn't going to make a difference. I've been telling myself the same thing since I met him, and I still can't get him out of my head.

  How mad is he right now?

  My gaze drifts to my cell phone. I take a step in that direction before forcing myself to stop. "He doesn't need you complicating his life," I mutter to myself. "You did the right thing."

  Except, with that dream still rattling around in my brain, the fact that I ran doesn't seem like the right thing. He's probably livid with me, especially since he told me I wasn't supposed to leave town. It's too late to do anything about that now, though, isn't it?

  Sighing, I grab the duffle of clothes and toiletries I bought on the way into L.A. and hurry toward the bathroom. If I'm not going to sleep, I might as well get to work on clearing my name.

  chapter nine

  last resort

  The UCLA campus is old and elegant. Gorgeous sculptures and fountains adorn the grounds, scattered between acres of trees and grassy walkways. The original four buildings draw the eye, the breathtaking architecture transporting visitors to another time and place. Growing up in L.A., I spent a lot of time on campus, even before I was accepted here during my senior year of high school. I know my way around, and no one stops me as I wander the campus, trying to work up the nerve to approach clustered group of students to ask my questions about Rory.

  If anyone recognizes me from my time here or knows about my supposed relationship with their classmate, they don't say anything. I half expect someone to point me out and a crowd of angry students to descend with pitchforks and torches, but everyone is quiet, subdued. A definite cloud hangs over the campus, and I have no doubt it has everything to do with Rory and the media vans stationed just off of campus.

  "Ivy Kendall?" a female voice calls as I wander around Janss Terrace near the west end of Dickson Plaza.

  I turn toward the sound to find an elderly woman seated on the edge of the fountain, a pair of sunglasses pushed up to the top of her head. I'm not sure how I missed her. Dressed in a dark pantsuit with a briefcase at her feet, she stands out, her poufy white hair and lined face make it difficult to mistake her for one of the students fifty years her junior.

  "Professor Burney?" I say, striding the few feet toward her with my hand extended. She was one of my favorite instructors during my freshman year, a battle-axe of a woman with a sharp wit, an even sharper tongue, and a devilish sense of humor. For reasons I still don't fully understand, she liked me better than most.

  "It's so good to see you, dear," she exclaims, rising to her feet to wrap me in a warm hug. "It's been far too long since you graduated."

  "Two years," I murmur, stepping back so I can see her more clearly. As much as I love the campus, being here reminds me of a rough time in my life. While my classmates were out partying, I was killing myself, trying to take care of my father, pay my tuition, and maintain my GPA. Those memories invariably trickle in and mix with my reason for coming here now, casting an oppressive shadow. "How are you?"

  She waves a hand in the air, a mischievous smile on her face. "Still striking fear into the hearts of unsuspecting freshman," she says.

  I laugh in genuine delight, happy to see she hasn't changed a bit in the last few years.

  "And you?" she asks, settling back down onto the lip of the fountain and then motioning for me to join her. "Have you decided to rejoin us for your graduate degree or are you merely visiting today?"

  "Visiting," I say, easing myself down onto the cool cement. "I'm not quite cut out to tackle graduate school."

  "Oh, horseshit," she says frankly, arching a brow at me in a no nonsense way. "You'd do splendid in a graduate program. You've one of the quickest minds of any student I've taught in the last two decades, and you have the drive and determination, to boot."

  "Thank you," I murmur, a thrill of pleasure running through me at her kind assessment of my qualifications. "Unfortunately, grad school doesn't pay for itself, and I'm actually really happy where I'm at. My students are challenging, but being able to make a difference in their lives is worth any frustration." I don't bother mentioning that my job and any chance of graduate school I might have had may both now be gone, ripped away by the cold-blooded woman pretending to be me.

  "I had a feeling you would say that," she says, reaching out to pat my hand. "Your heart has always been one of the biggest things about you. I remember watching you fight tooth and nail to keep the Emery kid out of prison after he hit your parents. After everything you lost because of him, not many would have been so forgiving."

  "He was only twenty, with a two year old daughter at home."

  The night he hit my parents, he was doing twenty over the speed limit and texting, in a rush to get home after working late. He lost control and slammed into my dad's car, sending it over a cliff. My mom died instantly. My sister made it to the hospital, but passed away before they could get her prepped for surgery. My dad made it out alive, though barely. Sending a twenty-year-old to prison for being stupid wouldn't have brought my mom and sister back or made my dad whole again. Enough lives were destroyed by the accident without depriving a two year old child of her father, too.

  "He didn't deserve to spend the rest of his life in prison for making a mistake."

  Professor Burney squeezes my hand as if she hears the sorrow in my voice and knows I'm no longer talking about Tyler Emery. "Mr. Clark was a good kid from what I hear," she says, her voice pitched low, for my ears only. "I've heard rumors about the two of you. I won't presume to know what the truth is, but I don't doubt you will come out the other side of this."

  I want to ask her how she knows why I'm her
e, but swallow the question back. By now, I'm sure everyone on campus has heard whispers that I'm the reason Rory killed himself. How many of them believe I told him to do it? That I'm a heartless, manipulative bitch? Another image of a group of students descending with pitchforks and torches drifts through my mind, pulling out a shiver.

  "Do you know who…?" I lick my lips, hesitating before I forge ahead. "Someone stole my identity. I'd never even heard of Rory Clark until the police showed up on my doorstep. That's why I'm here. Do you know who might be willing to talk to me about him?"

  Do you know who here doesn't want to see me hang for this?

  "You're trying to clear your name." Her hazel eyes light up. "Good girl. Don't let these bastards blame you for a crime you didn't commit."

  "I won't," I promise her.

  She nods, satisfaction on her wizened face. "Start with the freshman engineering students," she says. "I can't promise they'll all be receptive, but some of them, at least, might be willing to talk with you. I'm not privy to what dorm he was assigned to, but his classmates will be." She glances at the watch on her delicate wrist and then up at me again. "I have a lecture beginning in a few moments, but you should visit in truth one day, dear. We'll spike our tea and have a grand time." She reaches into a pocket of her briefcase and pulls out a business card before handing it to me.

  "I'll do that," I promise, rising to my feet with her. "Thank you, Professor Burney."

  "Call me Sarah, dear," she says, dusting off her pants and straightening her jacket. "Give them hell."

  With that, she's off, marching across Dickson Plaza toward the Humanities building on the far side of Powell Library. I stand where I am until she's lost to sight, and then turn to the right to begin the trek toward the Court of Sciences, a short walk away from my current position.