The Masked Truth
Kelley Armstrong
PROLOGUE
If there’s anything more tragic than spending your Saturday night babysitting, it’s spending your Saturday night babysitting after canceling a date with the guy you’ve been dreaming about all year.
“Can’t you find someone else?” I say when Shannon asks me to take the gig because her grandma’s sick.
“You don’t think I’ve tried? You aren’t exactly at the top of my list these days, Riley.”
I wince at that. We had been friends. Best friends. Then, last summer, her boyfriend got loaded and made a pass at me. I shut him down, of course, but I didn’t tell her, and that was my mistake, because someone else had.
“You owe me,” she says.
“Can you cancel?” I ask. I know the Porters—I used to babysit their daughter, Darla, when Shannon couldn’t. “They’d understand—”
“Mr. Porter is getting an award. It’s a huge deal.”
I take a deep breath. “Fine.”
I’m walking to the Porters’ when my phone buzzes. Where r u?
I answer, Don’t ask.
The phone rings. When I pick up, Lucia says, “I just got a call from Micah. Seems he was shooting hoops with Travis when Shannon walked by … after you canceled with Travis to cover her babysitting gig. She said her grandma’s just fine, and she doesn’t know why you’d lie to him like that.”
“What? No. That’s—”
“Bullshit? Uh-huh. She totally set you up.”
Before I can answer, I plow into a man walking around the corner. As I apologize, I notice the butt of a gun poking from under his jacket.
“Riley?” Lucia says.
I shake it off. I’m a cop’s daughter; I know people legally carry concealed weapons all the time.
“Riley?”
“Sorry, I’m at the Porters’ place. I’ll call you back in a few, okay?”
“I can play Candy Land now!” Darla says as her mother tries to give me last-minute instructions while applying her makeup in the main-floor bathroom.
“Claire!” Mr. Porter calls from the living room. “We needed to leave five minutes ago.”
“Only because you agreed to cocktails first … without telling me!” Mrs. Porter rolls her eyes at me. “Men. Sorry, Riley. Tonight’s a bit of a disaster. First his sister got sick and couldn’t take Darla. Then an important client asked him to predinner cocktails. We’ll be at the Ritz all night. Our cell numbers are on the fridge.”
“You’re going out?” Darla says. “Again?”
“That’s why Riley’s here, sweetheart.” Mrs. Porter offers a strained smile as her daughter hangs off her arm. “If we don’t go out tonight, then you can’t play Candy Land with Riley.”
“I have an idea,” I say to Darla. “How about we set up the board, and then we’ll phone your mom and she can play on the way to dinner?”
“That’s a great idea,” Mrs. Porter says. “You can move for me. And if I win, you can eat my ice cream.”
“Ice cream?”
“Didn’t I mention that? Riley will walk you down to the Scoop after dinner.”
“But if I win, you have to watch me eat mine,” I say. “I think I’ll get bubblegum. You don’t like bubblegum anymore, do you?”
She squeals, and I laugh and propel her out as Mr. Porter calls, “Claire!” Then he sees me and says, “Sorry for shouting.”
“She’s almost done,” I say, smiling as Darla and I pass through the living room.
“What color do you want to be?” Darla asks.
“Purple.”
“There is no purple, silly. There’s …”
She rhymes them off, but I’m busy thinking I could text Travis an explanation as we set up the board … except that I left my cell phone downstairs. If I go down to get it, it’ll seem as if I can’t even wait for the Porters to leave before I start chatting with my friends and ignoring their kid.
I look at the pieces Darla holds out. “Green, then.”
“Mommy will be yellow.”
Darla hums as she lays out the board. I step toward the door. It’s quiet down there, and while I doubt the Porters would leave before saying goodbye, they are in a hurry.
“I just need to grab something from downstairs,” I say to Darla.
She nods and keeps humming, her attention on the board.
I walk into the hall. I’m at the top of the stairs when a sudden whoosh makes me jump.
“Really, Claire?” Mr. Porter sighs and then says, “Your hair must be dry by now,” and I realize I’m hearing the blow-dryer from the downstairs bathroom.
Maybe if I just grab my backpack, it won’t look suspicious. I start down the stairs.
“What the hell?” Mr. Porter says.
I freeze, but I’m only three steps down, too high for him to see.
“Who the hell—?”
A resounding smack. I stumble back. A thud follows, like something hitting the floor. I inch against the wall, and when I look through the railing I can see Mr. Porter’s outstretched hand on the carpet. I back up one step and crouch, my heart thumping so hard I’m struggling to breathe.