Flawed (Flawed, #1)(72)

Her eyes glisten, the hardness cracks. “They’re safer with their dad for now. Good luck, Celestine.”

I look at all the Lisa Life articles she has left behind on the table for me and my eyes scan the quotes, exact quotes that I have said, for the first time nothing twisted or out of context. I realize as I read them all that I have only ever said these words to one person and that’s to Pia.

Pia is Lisa Life.

“I thought that you hated me,” I say.

She smiles, sadness in her eyes. “I did.”

I respect her honesty, and I want her to know that I know the full extent of what she’s doing for me. I feel a lump forming in my throat as we say good-bye, and I hope that the next time we see each other, this will all be behind us and Crevan will be gone. “If you meet Lisa Life along the way, tell her I said thank you, from my heart.”

She smiles, knowing that I know, tears in her eyes. And she leaves.





FIFTY-ONE

“IS PIA ILL today?” Mom asks as I pass by her open bedroom door. “She didn’t seem her usual self. She was wearing jeans and not a hint of peach to be seen.”

“Yeah,” I reply, distracted, hugging the file about Carrick close to my chest. My heart is pumping. Just by having this information, I feel so close to him already.

I lean against the doorframe as Mom lifts a sweater over her head and throws it down on the bed. Her bed is covered in what looks like the contents of her entire wardrobe, only they’re not. They’re clothes I don’t recognize, and each one still has a tag on it.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying on clothes.”

“You went shopping?”

“Got a delivery while you were at the police station.”

I enter the room and start picking up some items. I’m intrigued because something doesn’t seem right, and I’m confused because I can’t figure out what it is, but then I realize what it is that’s jarring with the picture. The clothes are the wrong color, they’re the wrong shapes, they’re not meant for her.

“What are you doing?” I ask again. “Really.”

Mom sighs and pulls a red T-shirt down over her toned stomach. “I’m trying a different look.”

My mouth falls open. Sure, Mom does this every day for a living. As a fashion model, she has to try different looks, but at home, in her personal life, Mom has a very specific look that she sticks to. A look that has been studied and honed to within an inch of its life, a look that tells the world exactly the kind of person she is. She is the leader of this type of dressing. Her looks are flawless, seamless, figure-hugging, shape-flattering, coordinated with that of her family’s, safe when they want to be, daring when they need to be. Appropriate for all occasions.

She pulls on a pair of ripped denim jeans and a pair of scuffed-up boots that she has bought brand-new. They’re cool, but they don’t match. Not one thing goes with any other item she is wearing; she is clown-like. She looks in the mirror, studies her reflection with an intensity that concerns me.

It’s not just Pia who is different today. Mom still looks perfect, flawless makeup, not a hair on her head out of place, but … I study her. There is vehemence in her eyes, a determined line to her jaw, the finest of creases in her brow. Am I seeing a crack in the surface?

“Did Mr. Berry get in contact with you lately?” I ask.

She looks up and tries to read me. When she can’t, because I fix her with my best impression of her own unreadable face, she replies, “Not since Naming Day. We never got in touch with him about the sixth brand, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Not what I was wondering, but good to know. “Did he give you anything? Send anything?”

“A bill,” she snorts. “But I’m sure that’s not what you mean.”

“A bill?”

“Turns out if the Guild finds you Flawed, you have to pay for your representation. Bills that they rack up. Judge Crevan just so happened to hire us the most expensive representation going.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to … We’ll sort it out.” She sighs, throwing an oversized purple cardigan over the red T-shirt.

“Your Beauty Box contract can cover it for now, though, can’t it?” I ask. “I mean, I want to pay you back, eventually, but I can’t right now.”

“Celestine”—she comes toward me and gently wraps a braid behind my ear—“you’re so kind, but we’re covering the cost. Beauty Box has a new ambassador for the foreseeable future.”

My heart falls. Beauty Box was Mom’s cash cow, a cosmetic company whose famous tagline was “Flawless on the outside, Flawless on the inside.” Mom had been saying those words for almost a decade. She is synonymous with those words. When people think of Beauty Box, they think of Mom; she is the face and voice of it.

“I can’t believe they fired you,” I say, shocked.

“Oh, they didn’t fire me,” she says, lifting a loose dress out of another bag. She always said unstructured clothes were a no-no, that people must always be able to see her figure. “I just couldn’t bring myself to say those words. Flawless on the outside…” She trails off, unable to finish. “What does that even mean? Why does anyone even want that? Whoever said that is what we should be?” She looks confused. Conflicted. Tortured even. Then it disappears again.