Lucky(42)

“I’ve been too many people now to ever have a blank slate.”

“Are you sure about that? We can start fresh, whenever we want. And I’ll love all versions of you. I’ll love you no matter what you do, no matter what you say, no matter who you are, always. And I’ll take care of you. You won’t have to be alone.”

“I’m fine on my own,” she said. But she had never been alone in her life.

“You know we can do anything, if we stay together.” Betty was wagging her tail, hard. “See? She agrees. And she’s a smart dog.”

Cary put a finger under her chin, lifted her face to his. “I know all your dreams,” he said. “I know those were real, when you told them to me. And I want to help make them come true. Let me take care of you. Don’t walk away alone.”

She stood. He handed her Betty’s leash, and together they walked away from the boat and toward The Hill, where there was an empty mansion waiting, and a brand-new life, too.



* * *




Later that summer, the arraignment for the “Foster Kid Fakers,” as Priscilla, John, and Reyes had been dubbed by the media, was reported in the papers. All the details about the fake charity they had been running were there. And Priscilla Lachaise was negotiating a plea bargain, the article explained. She had information on another case.

“I’m worried,” Lucky said to Cary as she sat at the kitchen island in Priscilla’s mansion and pored over the article. “When she gets out, Priscilla is not going to be happy you used her bail money for my tuition.”

Cary was making dinner. He tasted it, then turned to face her. “I didn’t think she’d do this. Didn’t think she had the guts. But she’s ratting out all my dad’s old drug and Mob associates in exchange for a lighter sentence. Which is crazy, because they’ll kill her the minute she gets out of jail. She knows that. She’s got a plan. I wish I knew what it was.”

Lucky kept reading. “Reyes is a first-time offender, so she could go to prison for up to five years. And my dad…” Her chest tightened. “My dad could serve twenty-five years to life because he has two priors. I didn’t know that.”

“Those are the rules in California,” Cary said, opening a cupboard and hunting around for spices. His tone was light. It grated at Lucky. Didn’t he care about her father at all?

“I love my dad, and I miss him. It’s not like with you and your mom. He doesn’t deserve this!”

“You think everyone always gets what they deserve?” Cary wiped his hands on a dish towel, then came around behind her. He started massaging her neck, but she held her body rigid. “Twenty-five years is a long time,” he said. “And that’s just the minimum. A huge chunk of his life. You’ll be a different person when he gets out, and so will he.”

He was silent now, his hands no longer moving on her neck and shoulders. Lucky knew he was thinking about his own father. “You should forget about your dad,” he went on. “It’s the best thing to do. It’ll protect you from the pain. I’m telling you this because I love you.”

She reached up and took one of his hands. “I know,” she said. “I love you, too.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Now put that paper away and focus on your lecture notes, would you? You told me you got the hardest prof in business accounting. I’m making dinner so you can focus. And this new recipe is going to blow your mind.” Cary had taken an interest in cooking lately, and often when she came home he would proudly present her with some new dish or other. “And later, when we’re eating, I want to tell you about my plan to get ourselves out from under my mother’s roof by the time she gets out of jail so you don’t have to think about her anymore. It starts with me pretending to be a student at Stanford…” A grin, and that familiar sparkle in his eye. Lucky pushed the paper away and tried to forget about her worries. But when he talked this way, he reminded her of her father. Her worries were all around her.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


Priscilla’s Place was on a dead-end street in Fresno, a big yellow clapboard house surrounded by a high black gate. Lucky could see pod shelters in the back of the lot: they looked like little sheds, all painted the same cheery yellow as the house. There was a BEWARE OF DOG sign on the gate, and Lucky could see a massive doghouse, almost as big as one of the pods. But when she reached up and pressed the intercom, she didn’t hear barking. Maybe it was just meant to be a deterrent.

The intercom buzzed. “Name, please?”

“Jean.”

“Come in the gate, check in with security, then come on through the front door to the waiting area.”

Lucky was startled by a large man with a shaved head, dark sunglasses, and a leather Lakers jacket. “Name, please?” he said.

“Jean.”

“Last name?”

“Fantine.”

“ID?”

“Don’t have any.”

He studied her face and her heart rate accelerated, but then he said, “Go ahead.”

Lucky did as she was told, and found herself inside a small reception area that smelled vaguely of dog. There was a reception window protected by thick glass; a woman sat behind it, her hair coiled in tight braids around her head. She glanced at Lucky, typed something, then stood and slid the window open.