Down to the Liar(2)

“What are you going to tell your client about his fiancée’s ‘affair’?”

I slide into the passenger seat of the Chevelle. “I can’t tell him she’s secretly taking classes from the rabbi so she can convert to Judaism for him. First, it would ruin the surprise. Second, I might hurl.”

Speaking of, I text myself a reminder to send an invoice to my client for his super-secret spying mission. I’ll be charging extra for the fire-escape episode. If you’re going to pay an investigator to snoop on your fiancée for you, you deserve to get gouged.

“I’ll probably tell him she’s in a book club or something. He doesn’t look like the type who—”

The phone rings while I’m holding it, and a purple orchid user pic appears on the screen.

“That’s weird.”

“What?” Dani’s voice is low and even like always, but there’s tension in it that didn’t exist a moment ago. She’s almost as paranoid as Mike Ramirez, my FBI handler and (technically) foster parent. I’ve given up assuring them both that the mob boss I took down last October is safely behind bars and not likely to leap out of every shadow. They’re both hardwired to believe that anything out of the ordinary is a trap.

“Bryn’s calling. She never calls me.” I tap the Answer button. “Hey, Bryn—I don’t have your boyfriend with me, but I’m sure if you switch on his GPS tracking chip, you’ll find him in—”

“Can the snark, Julep,” she says. “If I wanted Murphy, I’d call him. I need you.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Really? What for?”

“I have a job for you.”

—

Fifteen minutes later, Dani and I roll up to the Ballou, my coffee haunt and after-school office. The Ballou is its usual self: rickety tables, stuffed chairs, and lacquered bar. The lighting is as moody as the teens still packed around tables, studying feverishly for St. Agatha’s infamous midterms. I should be studying for said midterms myself, but my Yale dreams have all been smashed anyway, thanks to last year’s Ukrainian mob fiasco. It’s all about the Benjamins now. Well, and coffee.

I skip the line and put in my usual order with Yaji, my trusty barista. He rolls his eyes at me but starts my drink anyway. He’s gotten used to me over the last few months, insofar as someone can get used to me. I like him well enough, even if he only gives me free drinks on my birthday.

Dani follows me as I walk over to the table Bryn and her BFF, Skyla, have already staked out for us. I sink into the chair across from them, while Dani leans against the wall next to me. I don’t have to look to know her eyes are on the room instead of us. But she’ll hear every word we say, and that’s what’s important. The client is my job. Territory is hers.

Speaking of clients, Barbie-doll Bryn looks pissed, which is actually not all that unusual for her, at least when I’m around. Tall, dark-skinned, and gorgeous Skyla, however, looks miserable. And that is not normal. I don’t know Skyla very well, but I know enough to describe her as generally sweet and cheerful, if a little on the shy side. She’s one of those rare popular girls who gets along with everyone.

Both Bryn’s blue and Skyla’s brown eyes swing to Dani as we settle in. Bryn knows Dani in passing, but Skyla’s never met her before. There’s no need to introduce her, though. Dani’s notorious at St. Agatha’s for her role in the aforementioned Ukrainian mob fiasco. And even if she weren’t, she’s magnetic and kind of frightening. People tend to forget I’m present when Dani’s around. Which is exactly the way I like it most of the time.

“Show me,” I say, taking the seat across from Skyla.

Skyla leans back, dropping her watery gaze to her lap. Bryn opens her Bedazzled laptop and turns it so I can see a fairly ordinary-looking Facebook page. But I grow cold as I scroll through the litany of insults, racial slurs, fat jokes, and requests for Skyla to off herself. I’d bet an A in psych class that it’s unprovoked, since the content of the attacks all center on Skyla’s looks, her fabricated sexual exploits, and her worth as a person, rather than referring to specific events. To me that says someone’s hacked off about Skyla’s mere existence, not anything she did.

Worse than the attacks themselves, they show up across multiple Facebook accounts, which indicates a group of bullies. I check the names at the top of each Facebook profile, but none of them ring a bell. They’re normal names, like Jo Black, Allie Trask, Kimmy Plith. But I’m fairly familiar with who’s who at St. Aggie’s, and I don’t recognize any of them. The odds on that are not great, so I’m guessing the names are fake to keep the perpetrators from getting caught.