Lies I Told(44)

I opened it, waiting a few seconds for it to reconnect to the house’s Wi-Fi before clicking on her open tabs. There were several shopping sites, a Wikipedia page for Martin Luther, YouTube, Spotify, and email.

I looked behind me to make sure I was still in the clear before scrolling through her emails. There weren’t many. A couple from teachers about school, something from the volleyball coach about tryouts, a link from her mother about a sample sale in the garment district, and a few others that were obviously spam.

I ran through my options. I could check her browsing history, but that would take time, and she had already been gone four minutes. It would have to wait.

Skimming the tabs again, I clicked on the open Wikipedia page. Then I hit the Back button. It returned me to the browser page, and my attention was immediately pulled to the name flashing in the search bar.

Grace Rollins. The name I’d used at Chandler High School.

The name on my old ID card.





Thirty-Three


Logan picked me up at five and we headed to Santa Monica. I was almost manic with anxiety, my nerves crackling like a live wire. I’d made a point to stay at Rachel’s, discussing our project, after she’d come back outside, but all I could think about was the fact that she had my old ID card.

And now she knew about my alias.

“You okay?”

Logan’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, and I looked over, trying to smile.

“Fine. I was just thinking about the project Rachel and I are working on for AP Euro.”

“How’s that going?” he asked.

“Not bad, actually. I think she might be warming up to me.”

“By which you mean she’s a number four on the bitch scale instead of a ten.”

“Well, maybe a five.”

He laughed, and I couldn’t help but smile. His laugh was deep and warm, as genuine as everything else about him. My pulse quickened a little as I looked at him, his faded jeans and button-down shirt fitting him just closely enough that I could make out his athletic legs, his muscular arms and shoulders.

He navigated the car up the Pacific Coast Highway toward the Santa Monica Pier. The windows were down, the sunroof open on the BMW. The setting sun streamed in from the beach on our left, casting everything golden as it reflected off the water in the distance. I tried to focus on the moment, to be present. But I felt Rachel’s suspicion like hot breath on my neck.

I had no one to thank but myself. The rules were in place for a reason. My mom and dad had been on the grift long before Parker and I came along. They’d established the rules to protect us, and I’d put us all at risk for some kind of childish reassurance, for the kind of false security people like us couldn’t afford to believe in.

Logan parked in one of the lots near the beach and we walked up to the Third Street Promenade. He’d made a reservation at a seafood place, and we settled into a plush booth. We were halfway through a meal of stuffed snapper and grilled vegetables when he surprised me by reaching across the table and taking my hand.

He smiled into my eyes. “I’m happy you’re here, Grace.”

“I’m happy, too,” I said softly, suddenly shy.

“Mostly, I’m happy you’re with me.”

I smiled. “Me too.”

He sighed a little and looked down at the table.

“What is it?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t think I knew how lonely I was until I met you.”

“Lonely?” I’d imagined Logan a lot of things. Lonely hadn’t been one of them. “But . . . you have so many friends. And your mom and dad . . .”

“Yeah, but the guys and I talk mostly about surfing. And girls.” He blushed a little. “We don’t really talk about serious stuff.”

“And your parents?”

He took a deep breath. “I guess you could say they are the serious stuff.”


“How do you mean?” He had no way of knowing that I was fully aware of his dad’s condition. My question was just one more lie between us.

He fidgeted with his water glass. “My dad’s kind of . . . sick.”

“Sick?” I hesitated, giving it time to seem like it was sinking in. “With what?”

His laugh was a little sad. “A lot of things, actually. Bipolar disorder, paranoid schizophrenia . . .”

I could see the pain in his eyes. Worse, I saw shame there, and I knew it was because he was worried about me. About what I would think of him and his family.

I squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, Logan. Is it . . . manageable?”

“More or less. He’s been institutionalized a couple of times, but he’s been home for over two years now. This course of meds seems to be doing the trick. So far, at least.”

“That’s good,” I said. “But it still must be hard for you and your mom.”

He nodded. “Even when he’s good, I think we’re both always wondering when the tide is going to turn, you know?”

“Yeah.” Parker hadn’t been diagnosed with anything, but I knew what it was like to watch and wait. To wonder if something small would set him back, maybe take him from us for good.

“Because of Parker?” Logan asked, as if reading my mind.

My nod was slow.