Lies I Told(57)

“The Fairchilds will be out of town Friday night for a family wedding,” my mom said. “We can do it then.”

Her use of the word we got under my skin. There was no we in this job. At least not this part of it. Parker and I would have all the exposure. We were the ones who’d have to cover for them if we were caught. But that was the con. It’s not like it was anything new.

Parker sighed in resignation. “Fine.” He glanced at me. “But we stay together. That way if it’s wrong, we can beat it out of there at the same time.”

I nodded, feeling a little sick. I don’t know if it was the idea of breaking into Logan’s house or the looming end of our stay in Playa Hermosa, but I suddenly wanted to freeze time. To stay in the here and now, where Logan still cared about me and I hadn’t yet committed an unforgivable betrayal. Where everything that had been done could still be undone.





Forty-Three


We were in the kitchen the next morning, eating a late pancake breakfast made by my dad, when the doorbell rang. We froze, looking at each other. It was Sunday morning. We weren’t expecting anyone.

My mom got up and headed down the hall, hurrying back to us a moment later. “It’s Harrison Mercer.” And then, as if any of us needed the reminder, “Rachel Mercer’s father.”

“Well, open the door,” my dad said.

She nodded and left the kitchen. Parker met my eyes over the business section spread out in front of him. A few seconds later I heard the front door open.

“Harrison! How nice to see you!” My mom’s voice, slightly muffled, carried through the house. “What brings you here on this lovely morning?”

I strained to listen, catching only the murmur of their voices and a few scattered words before footsteps sounded on the tile floor.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” my mother joked, entering the room with Harrison Mercer.

My dad stood, a smile washing over his face. “Harrison! How are you? Would you like a cup of coffee?”

But I already knew this wasn’t a social call. I could tell from Harrison Mercer’s pained expression, the worry lines in his normally smooth brow.

“No, thank you,” he said.

“Cormac,” my mom said, “Harrison has something he’d like to speak to us about.” She turned to Rachel’s dad. “Shall we go to the living room?”

Harrison nodded. “That’s fine.”

It was obvious from the way the three of them left the room that Parker and I weren’t invited. I sat there, my heart thudding painfully in my chest, adrenaline flooding my body as I contemplated all the things Rachel Mercer’s dad could want to talk to my parents about.

I shrugged when Parker raised his eyebrows in silent question.

Turning my head toward the hall, I listened to the voices in the living room, hoping for some kind of heads-up. But everything was a little muffled, and I could only make out snippets of conversation.

“. . . sorry to have to do this,” Harrison said.

And then my dad. “Don’t be . . . What’s . . . your mind?”

After that it was a series of whispers, an occasional word finding its way through the halls of the house. Fifteen minutes passed before my mother appeared in the doorway, her face tight with something that could have been fear or anger. I didn’t know which would be worse.

“Come with us,” she said, leveling her eyes at me. “Both of you.”

I followed Parker out of the kitchen and into the living room. My dad sat in one of the upholstered chairs while Harrison looked on from the sofa. Parker and I sat at the other end of the couch.

My mom reached into her pocket. When she held out her hand, she was holding my Chandler High School ID and a folded piece of paper. She opened it, and I was shocked to see the assembled remnants of the Fairchild property map glued carefully onto it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough. Despite my feelings about Rachel, I felt a burst of admiration. I couldn’t imagine the kind of persistence it must have taken for her to piece it together.

“You’re fortunate to have Rachel as one of your new friends,” my mom said, casting a smile at Harrison. “It seems she’s a good one.”

I searched her face, trying to get a feel for which direction we were headed. “What . . . what do you mean?”

Harrison spoke up. “My daughter can have a bit of an overactive imagination. Somehow she got it in her head that you”—he laughed a little—“that you had something to hide.”

My mom set the ID card and map down on the coffee table. “Your father and I explained to Harrison that we haven’t been the best parents lately, what with the move to Arizona followed by the quick turnaround in San Francisco.” She sighed. “It’s not easy chasing your dad’s next big deal.”

Harrison glanced sheepishly at me. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware you were adopted.”

“It’s no problem at all,” my dad said. “Now that the paperwork has gone through, Grace is officially a Fontaine.”

My mind was calculating, cataloging the story my parents had told: that my Chandler ID card listed me as Grace Rollins because I was adopted. That we’d lived only briefly in Arizona before a quick stop in San Francisco. Then, Playa Hermosa.

“And I certainly understand your wanting to duplicate what the Fairchilds have done to their property. Landscaping is a language all its own. I let Andrea take care of that stuff,” Harrison said with a wave, referring to Rachel’s mom.