Down to the Liar

by Mary Elizabeth Summer

  My first thought is she’s going to ruin everything. Her attacker’s not going to show up if she’s sitting right in the middle of the room.

  My second thought is much worse.

  Murphy starts to stand, but I clamp my hand on his arm, stopping him with a look. He sinks back into his chair without a sound.

  Something about this isn’t right. Something about this job has been irking me from the beginning.

  I’m not strong like you or Bryn.

  We watch as she pulls up the Facebook account, as she navigates to the message I sent with the honeypot URL, as she clicks the link that leads to nowhere. We watch as she tries to destroy herself.

  “What the hell?” Murphy murmurs.

  I stand and walk slowly to Skyla. She’s facing away from me, so she doesn’t see me at first. When she does finally catch sight of me, she jumps up and makes a break for the door. Murphy blocks her exit, and she whirls to face me.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Ms. Shirley asks from her desk.

  “She deserves it,” Skyla says. “She’s a conniving slut. She doesn’t deserve him.”

  I keep my voice as calm and nonthreatening as possible. “Who deserves it?”

  “You can’t make me say her name. I know your tricks.”

  Her eyes are wild, and…different. It’s like she’s seeing me and not seeing me at the same time. She recognizes me, but she’s not acting like Skyla.

  “Please, tell me. Who deserves it? Who are you talking about?”

  Murphy’s face is ashen, and I’m sure mine is just as bloodless. Something is very, very wrong here.

  “Skyla Wood-bitch. She’s just using him. She’s a bad, bad girl. She needs to be locked in the dark. She needs to die.”

  She pulls a razor from her bag and slashes at us with it. Murphy and I jump back. She manages to snag Murphy’s forearm anyway. A trickle of blood drips down to his hand, but he ignores it. Instead he leaps forward, grabbing her wrist. But then Ms. Shirley hurtles into the mix and hijacks the razor from Skyla’s grip.

  Skyla passes out in Ms. Shirley’s arms. Sort of. Her eyes are still open, but she doesn’t seem to be seeing any of us.

  “You can let go, Murphy,” Ms. Shirley says. “Can you please get the dean?”

  He leaves, and I stand there shaking like a leaf, trapped in visions of somebody else’s blood, somebody else’s vacant eyes staring up at me.

  “Julep.” The emphasis in Ms. Shirley’s voice leads me to believe she’s said it more than once.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

  “Please have a seat. And breathe for me, okay?”

  I do as she says, though I have no conscious thought of locating a chair.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  I tell her the whole story from front to back. I don’t leave out anything. All the names, dates, and places. I’ll have to tell it again to the dean, and probably the police officers, and maybe some kind of social worker.

  But I actually don’t mind. This is beyond my ability to help. I can’t fix this. I can’t fix this for her. I’m going to have to give her a refund.

  The incongruous thought sparks a laugh. It’s small and hysterical, and nothing about this situation is funny, but it comes out anyway. And to be honest, I much prefer it to the tears I can feel hovering like an anvil in the back of my throat.

  The rest of the day is a blur of interviews, debriefings, questions and answers that go around and around and nowhere at the same time. And all I can think is that she was right in front of me the whole time, begging for me to help her. And I didn’t hear it. I wasn’t listening.

  When Mike finally manages to pry me free from the chaos, he drives me back to his house in silence.

  “We’ll talk in the morning,” is the only thing he says to me, for which I’m profoundly grateful. He gets me, I’ll give him that.

  But before I crawl into bed, knowing the terrible nightmares I’m going to have, I kneel on the floor and offer up the first real prayer I’ve ever said.

  …Our Father, I pray that through Your intercession of St. Nicholas, You will protect the children…

  —

  The whole school is still on fire with gossip Monday morning. A lot of heads are turned toward me, but nobody’s asking me anything. I almost skipped, but when Dani showed up this morning to drive me, I was too grateful to see her to play sick.

  Bryn looks wrecked and Murphy has hardly left her side all day. He walks her to and from all her classes, which is sweet. I actually try to think of a person who owes me a favor that I like enough to force them to walk me to and from all my classes, but I can’t think of anyone. So I walk the halls alone.

  When I saw Bryn before school, she told me about the crates and crates of journals they found in Skyla’s room, all of them filled with half normal diary entries, half jumping-off-the-crazy-train entries, which proved that Skyla’s mental illness has been years in the making.

  I’m not sure how no one’s caught on before now, but Bryn’s guess is that Skyla’s dissociative state manifested only when she was alone or felt threatened. Which means she must have used her laptop at Garrett’s house to access that first link when he wasn’t around.

  The really odd thing is that Skyla has no memory of the times when she’s in demon-Skyla phase. She can’t even physically see the diary entries her crazy half wrote.

  I can’t imagine how terrifying all this must be for her. But Garrett’s being a champ about it. He’s staying with her in the hospital until her parents show up. If they show up.

  After school, Murphy and Bryn meet me in the student parking lot. Murphy leaves Bryn in my care while he wraps up some loose ends with the tech club. He’s agreed to disable the spyware for me, minus the one on the dean’s computer, so I can sleep at least a little better at night.

  “How are you holding up?” I ask Bryn as Murphy heads off toward the computer lab. Her eyes trail after him in a bereft sort of way.

  “I’m all right,” she says without looking at me. “I’m just worried about Skyla.”

  “I am, too,” I say.

  She arches an eyebrow at me, finally turning her head my direction.

  I glower back, though not as heatedly as I might under normal circumstances. “She may not be my BFF, but I care about my clients’ well-being.”

  “You saying that is not the strange part,” Bryn says. “The strange part is that I believe you.”

  I watch classmates chatting around their cars, joking and bickering and bonding like nothing has changed. Like Skyla isn’t broken. Like Tyler isn’t dead.

  “What happens now?” I ask, though I don’t want to know.

  Bryn fidgets with her bag strap, shifting her weight uncertainly. “Now she goes through a ton of tests and a lot of therapy, and hopefully, she can come out of this in one piece. But she’ll have the best help money can buy.”

  “The best help would be her parents’ support,” I point out.

  “Like I said. The best help money can buy.”

  We stand in glum silence for a moment, and I think of last October and all the ways we sabotage ourselves and the people we love.

  “Do you think we’re doomed to repeat our parents’ mistakes?” I ask out of nowhere. I’m not the heart-to-heart type, and even if I were, I wouldn’t do it with Bryn, of all people. But it’s too late now.

  To her credit, though, Bryn doesn’t immediately smack me down. She actually thinks about her response before answering, which just shows how distraught she is. “I think we’re doomed to make our own mistakes, whether they relate to our parents or not.”

  “Great,” I say. “So we’re doomed and it’s our fault.”

  She actually smiles at me. A half of one, but I’ll take it. It’s a rare feat to make Bryn smile.

  “Want a coffee?” I ask.

  “You paying?” Bryn snaps back. She’s already starting to sound more like her old s
elf.

  I start moseying in the direction of the Ballou. “Well, I’m officially broke now, since Skyla’s in no position to pay me for the job I didn’t quite do, and Tog’s still expecting his fee.”

  Bryn bumps me with her shoulder in an almost friendly way. “You did make the posts stop,” she says quietly. And I nearly trip over the thank-you behind her words.

  To distract myself from the surreal feeling of Bryn being nice to me, I change topics. “I probably owe Garrett an apology. I called him a psychotic, abusive loser.”

  She rolls her eyes. “He’ll get over it. Besides, he has bigger problems right now.”

  I push back thoughts of all the people who have left me when I say, “Skyla’s lucky to have him.”

  Bryn shrugs. “He loves her,” she says, as if it’s that simple.

  I shake my head. “People say ‘love’ like it’s the answer to every question, but love is just another wire game. It sets you up with a tale about something that doesn’t exist. Then it shuts you out, just to drive you crazier for it. The second you go all in, it takes you for everything you’re worth, leaving you with nothing.”

  Bryn stops walking and turns a sulfuric glare on me. “Bullshit,” she says.

  I blink at her in surprise. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard her swear.

  She tosses her head. “You think because you can manipulate people that you know everything there is to know about love?”

  I never said I knew everything about anything, but she’s waiting for an answer.

  “Maybe I don’t know everything about love,” I admit. “But I do know that it usually causes the problems I end up having to fix.” Like hypersuspicious fiancés, for example. Or my own ruined heart.

  Bryn’s expression morphs into something that looks suspiciously like pity. But she lowers her voice so I’ll listen.

  “Murphy buys me mint-chocolate-chip-flavored gum every time he sees it, because I once said I liked it. I have an entire desk drawer at home full of gum now. I open it sometimes just to look at the piles and piles of gum he’s given me over the last few months. Because I know what love is, Julep Dupree. And it’s not some two-bit con.”

  I drop my gaze to the sidewalk. The sad thing is, I envy her.

  She storms up to the door of the Ballou, her heels clicking on the pavement. She grabs the handle but turns back to me before pulling it. “Maybe Tyler’s death made you jagged-edged and bitter. But love didn’t kill him just to piss you off. And if you really believe that crap you just said, then you didn’t care about him at all.”

  She walks into the Ballou without me, letting the door swing closed behind her. I stand there awhile and think about Murphy’s happily ever after and how I was wrong about his broken heart. If I was wrong about that, then perhaps I’m wrong about other things. And if I can be wrong about things, then perhaps there’s hope for me yet.

  Praise for Trust Me, I’m Lying

  “A sexy love triangle and madcap mystery…I loved this book.”

  —Jennifer Echols, author of Dirty Little Secret

  “Julep isn’t just another high schooler beset by the usual drama of boys and academia. Nope—she also happens to be a con artist and master of disguise, which comes in mighty handy when her father mysteriously disappears. Determined, she delves into the underbelly of Chicago to find him (bringing a bunch of fresh plot lines and unexpected twists along the way).”

  —TeenVogue.com

  “Summer creates a standout character in Julep. She lies and cheats with so much confidence and skill that readers will cheer her on, but she also adheres to her own strict moral code….A memorable debut; here’s hoping for a lot more from Summer.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Entertaining.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Well-paced, well-plotted.”

  —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  Someone wants Julep to pay for her mistakes…with her life.

  If you enjoyed this special Trust Me story, look for Mary Elizabeth Summer’s novel, Trust Me, I’m Trouble, the sequel to Trust Me, I’m Lying. Staying out of trouble isn’t possible for Julep Dupree. Murders, heists, secrets and lies, hit men and hidden identities…if Julep doesn’t watch her back, it’s her funeral. No lie.

  Here’s a sneak peek.

  If I could give fledgling con artists one piece of advice, it would be this: tacos.

  Specifically, Cemitas Puebla tacos.

  There might be a mark somewhere out there impervious to the fresh Oaxaca cheese and garden-grown papalo, but if there is, I have yet to meet him. The spit-roasted pork, the chorizo and carne asada, the chile guajillo…No one says no to tacos. At least, not these tacos. Which is why they are my secret weapon on my toughest cases.

  Holding a bag of taco heaven, I knock on the back door of our very own windowless 1996 Chevy van and wait for Murphy to let me in. Murphy opens the door, the cord of his headphones stretched to its limit. He doesn’t bother looking at me until he smells the tacos.

  “You brought me dinner?” he says, eyes lighting up.

  “Mitts off, Murph. These are for the mark.”

  Murphy grumbles something under his breath.

  “Well, if you’d get out of the van and actually, you know, work, the tacos could have been for you.”

  “The van is an extension of me. I do not leave the van. The van does not leave me.”

  J.D. Investigations, which is the name Murphy and I finally settled on for our PI firm, purchased the van in March for all of the company’s creeper spying needs. Murphy practically drooled on the bumper when he saw the extended wheelbase. I liked the monstrosity for its diesel engine, the price of gas being what it is. But what sealed it for us was the 1-800-TAXDRMY hand-painted on the side. I’d like to see the curious bystander brave enough to peek in that windshield.

  “How does Bryn feel about that?” I can already tell you how Bryn, Murphy’s girlfriend for the past seven months, feels about that. Her queen-bee social status tanks any time she gets within a five-foot radius of the van. A type A personality, she is constantly appalled at the grease spots the van leaves wherever Murphy parks it. And her nerd-limit is obliterated every time he brags about the latest gizmo he’s added to it. Or maybe that’s just me.

  “Bryn loves Bessie almost as much as I do.” Murphy pets the periscope controls on the surveillance dash he spent six weeks installing. It drove me crazy that it took him that long to get the van operational, but he insisted. His love of geek gadgetry is even deeper than Sam’s is. Was. Is.

  Anyway, tomorrow is the start of the last week of the school year and the van’s been used on only one other job. Which means we’re still working out the kinks.

  I hop into the back of the van, setting the tacos down on the dash. “A, I seriously doubt that. B, for the last time, we’re not calling it Bessie.”

  Murphy opens his mouth to argue, but I redirect the conversation before we can go down that road. Again.

  “Any movement?” I whip off my frayed hoodie and slip a brick-colored polo shirt over my black tank.

  “Not a blip.” Murphy adjusts a knob. “Maybe this guy’s legit.”

  “Maybe. But we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Tacos.”

  Murphy snorts. “An insurance scammer pretending to be paralyzed is not going to get out of bed for tacos.”

  “Well, it’s either that or set his house on fire.”

  Murphy ponders this. “We could set his house on fire.”

  “We are not setting his house on fire, Murphy.”

  I miss Sam. He was more than just my hacker. More than just my partner, even. He was my best friend—the person I relied on to keep me from going off the rails. He should be the one arguing that we’re not setting anyone’s house on fire. It shouldn’t be my job to reel myself in.

  “Besides.” I slide the temples of my fake glasses over my ears and don a
Cemitas Puebla visor I conned the cashier out of. “Tacos always work.”

  “If you say so,” Murphy says, tapping something on the tablet he’d had custom-built into the dash. “Camera’s aimed at the front door in case you’re right.”

  “I’m always right.” Well, almost always.

  I slip out into the dying light, goose bumps prickling my arms in the slight chill of a Windy City evening. Even in May the wind finds a way to make its presence felt. Live here long enough and you start taking the wind for granted. That’s what Tyler used to say. And if anyone had known what the wind was capable of, Tyler had. I shiver thinking of him, of the night he died in front of me. Ghosts don’t haunt people. Guilt does. And on Thursday, I’ll turn all pruny marinating in my guilt when St. Agatha’s hosts a memorial vigil for him.

  I stuff thoughts of Tyler into the box in my brain marked Do Not Open and walk up to the one-story bungalow with drooping carport where the alleged insurance scammer lives. If I can prove he’s faking, I get a nice, fat check from the insurance investigator who contracted me.

  I ring the bell.

  The intercom speaker above the doorbell crackles. “Hello?”

  “Taco delivery!” I say brightly, smiling for the tiny camera that the mark had installed with the intercom.

  I have to hand it to the guy. He’s not taking any chances with his potential six-figure insurance payout. I’d feel bad about calling out another con, but this guy’s just a dabbler. He’s not really my people. He is thorough, though. Installing the intercom was a nice touch. Most insurance scammers fake their injuries for their doctor’s visits and court appearances and then resume waterskiing the next weekend. This guy is maintaining character even when he thinks nobody’s looking, which makes him a tough nut to crack.

  Or he could be legitimately injured, I suppose. The tacos will tell us for sure.

  “I didn’t order anything,” he says.

  “Really?” I pause, pretending to check an address on my phone. “The order says 675 North Hamlin Avenue.”

  “Must have been a typo,” he says, sounding grumpy.