Down to the Liar(28)

Anyway, the first clue came with a gun. My mother’s gun. On the gun was an inscription: PER A.N.M., LA MIA FATA TURCHINA. For Alessandra Nereza Moretti, my blue fairy. At the time, I had no idea my mom owned a gun. I still don’t know where it came from, why she had it, or why she hadn’t taken it with her when she walked out on us eight years ago. But Alessandra Nereza Moretti was undoubtedly my mother, and the thing in my hand was inarguably a gun, and whoever called her “my blue fairy” was definitely not my dad. I gave the gun to Sam, and as far as I know, he still has it.

In any case, Mrs. Antolini’s mentioning a blue fairy can’t be a coincidence. Coincidences don’t exist. Somehow the New World Initiative is connected to my mother. The question is, what is the blue fairy and what truth is it going to show me if I find it? That the New World Initiative is a cult? That Mr. Antolini was manipulated into stealing the money? Or that my mother was somehow involved?

Mrs. Antolini was marvelously unhelpful in providing intel. She had no idea what the blue fairy was—only that the two men in suits who questioned her about it wouldn’t tell her anything else. She couldn’t even tell me what agency the men worked for. Which means that the people looking for the blue fairy are likely not legit lawmen. If they were, they’d have identified themselves.

“Julep Dupree?”

A young girl of ambiguous Asian descent is standing in the row in front of me. She looks about twelve, and she must be a recent transfer student, because I’ve never met her before. She does look familiar, though, so I must have seen her wandering around campus.

“Excellent day for devotion,” I say, gesturing for her to take a seat. “How can I be of service?”

Skipping study hall is not my only motive for hanging out in the chapel. After Dean Porter—St. Aggie’s dean of students and my personal nemesis—nearly busted me outside the music room last semester, I realized I needed a place on campus to meet potential clients where Porter couldn’t go. Then I found out a couple of months back that, per the strict orders of the school’s president, Sister Rasmussen, the dean doesn’t police the chapel. I’m not sure if that’s Sister Rasmussen’s way of protecting the sanctity of the church or the secrets of one Julep Dupree, but I’ll take it.

My visitor stares at me for five full seconds without saying anything. I raise an eyebrow and start to tell her she should take a picture, it would last longer, but she moves before I do, taking the seat I’d indicated and staring straight ahead. It’ll make conversation awkward, but I have a feeling that the conversation is going to be awkward anyway.

“I’m Lily,” she says. Simple enough introduction, but the way she says it is weird—assertive, angry. This girl has some kind of baggage.

“What can I do for you, Lily?”

She lowers her gaze to her lap, her glossy black hair swishing over her secrets before I can tease them out.

“Do you have a job for me?” I prompt.

“No,” she says forcefully.

“Then what do you want?” I’m too amused to be annoyed. “You came to me, remember?”

“I—” She stops and glances over her shoulder at me. “I want to…work for you.”

I laugh. “You want to what?”

“I need a job,” she says.

I roll my eyes at this outrageous lie. She’s clearly well cared for—designer haircut, perfect makeup, professionally pressed St. Aggie’s uniform. She needs a job like she needs a makeover. Which is to say, she doesn’t.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I don’t hire liars.”

“Aren’t you a professional liar?”

“Good point,” I admit. “Still.”

“Okay, I don’t need a job.” She turns in the pew to face me. “I want a job. Not just a job. I want to work for you.”

“You can’t join me like you would a country club. I’m not hiring.”

“I was a research assistant for one of my teachers at my previous school. I type fast, I don’t charge, and I make a mean caramel macchiato. Can Murphy Donovan make a caramel macchiato?”

“I don’t have an espresso machine.”

“I can throw in an espresso machine.”

“I have no need for an espresso machine.” I stare at her, trying to figure her out. Why is she doing this? “Are you trying to piss off your parents or something?”