The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(151)

"Um . . ." I started to speculate. I knew from experience that incorrectly identifying a child's Halloween costume is about the worst insult you could possibly give them.

Thankfully, Hannah was too impatient to wait for my erroneous speculation. She leaned in close to me and whispered, "I'm Carrie from Sex and the City."

"Ah," I said, examining the outfit for the second time, with new eyes. "Very good."

She leaned in again. "Olivia is being Samantha. Rachel is being Charlotte, and our friend Michelle is being Miranda, 'cause she's the only one who has red hair."

"That sounds fun," I said.

"My mom doesn't know," she continued stealthily. "She thinks I'm dressed up as Hannah Montana." She rolled her eyes at me and let out a mocking giggle.

I stepped farther inside the house and briefly greeted my mom and Julia before plopping my stuff down on the dining room table and taking a seat on the couch. I was somewhat concerned that it might be awkward between me and my mom, given the way our last phone conversation had ended, but she seemed to be acting fairly normal.

"Wait!" Hannah shrieked just as my butt hit the sofa. "I have to show you something."

I reluctantly stood back up and followed her into the kitchen where, after checking that no one was behind me, she pulled out a folded-up piece of paper from the pocket of her denim skirt and handed it to me. "Here's that other letter I got," she whispered. "From that guy." She appeared very proud of her secret detective work, and I offered her a grateful smile.

But just as I was about to unfold the paper and take a look at whatever new situation Raymond Jacobs had managed to secretly photograph me in before my little surprise visit to his office, I suddenly realized that it really didn't matter. He was of zero importance to me now. So why give him the satisfaction of even looking?

So instead, I scrunched up the letter and tossed it into the garbage under the kitchen sink.

Hannah looked at me in astonishment, as if I had just destroyed the last piece of evidence that had any hope of convicting a known serial killer. "Why'd you do that?"

"Because it doesn't matter," I said matter-of-factly. "I've taken care of it."

"But who was that? And why'd he call you that other name?"

I'd spent the last three weeks trying to come up with a believable story to answer those very questions. One that would cover all my tracks and keep me safe from discovery, while at the same time protecting Hannah from the cold, hard truth that she wasn't ready to hear and the harsh, outside world that she wasn't ready to see.

But I suddenly realized that my essential problem didn't lie in coming up with a story that successfully answered all of her questions, but rather in the fact that a story like that didn't actually exist. Because it was based on a misconception, on a wrongful assumption that lies are better than cold, hard truths. When in all actuality they are just as destructive.

Unfortunately for Hannah, there were some things she was just too young to know. And if keeping them from her made me that much less "cool," then so be it.

I looked down at her with adoration and gently pushed a loose strand of hair out of her face. "I'll tell you when you're older. How about that?"

And then, just as I was expecting her to start grumbling and griping and tossing me disapproving looks that accused me of betraying her and turning into her mother, she shrugged her shoulders and wrote the whole thing off with a simple "Whatever." And then hurried back into the living room to start her night.

"You ready?" Julia asked, grabbing her keys and purse as Hannah and I reemerged from the kitchen.

"Mom," Hannah groaned, "for the last time, you can't come. We're all meeting at Rachel's house and then we're walking around her neighborhood."

"You know, Hannah," Julia began tactfully, "for someone who's nearly 'too old' for Halloween, you certainly are making a big deal about it."

Hannah turned to me and shot me a look. "She's driving me crazy," she said through gritted teeth.

I flashed her a warm smile and then leaned in and whispered, "Go easy on her. She cares a lot about you."

Hannah pulled her face into a frown and then reluctantly turned back to her mom. "Fine, you can drive me to Rachel's. But that's it."

Julia cracked a smile and shook her head as she started toward the front door. "All right. C'mon, Hannah Montana. Let's go."

The door closed behind them and my mom and I stood awkwardly together in the living room. I walked over to the couch, took a seat, and then began rummaging through the large candy bowl until I located a Butterfinger and snatched it up.

I sat in silence, avoiding her eyes; the only noise in the room was the crinkling of the plastic candy bar wrapper as I removed it and bit into the chocolate.

I chewed nervously as I glanced around the living room, the very place I'd witnessed my dad's infamous act of infidelity. Before I even knew what infidelity was. Before I even understood what it meant.

The couch was, thankfully, a new couch. My mom had replaced it years ago. The curtains had been selected to match it. The coffee table was purchased a few years after that. Even the carpet was new. But the guilt? The guilt was the same as it always was.

And despite the new decorations, new color scheme, new furnishings, the guilt still seemed to match everything.