Lies I Told(60)

And he was wrong. There were things that could—that would—change the way he felt about me.

We were packing up, folding the blankets and stuffing everything back into the bag we’d brought with us, when he said something that almost stopped my heart.

“I’m sorry about Rachel.”

I looked up at him, trying to mask the fear thumping through my body. “What about her?”

He shook his head. “She told me about her theory. Or her nontheory,” he added sarcastically.

I sighed. “Which theory is that? The one where I’m here to usher in the apocalypse or the one where I’m secretly working for the IRS, gathering data on the illegal tax loopholes used by the residents of Playa Hermosa?”

He laughed. “She can be a little . . .”

“Crazy?” I volunteered, rooting for the power of suggestion.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. And high-strung.”

“It’s fine,” I said, brushing sand off my clothes. “I get it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. She still has a thing for you, I move in, she doesn’t like it . . .” I shrugged. “And we’re different. We move a lot because of my dad’s job, I’m adopted . . .”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it wasn’t the whole truth either, and I hated myself for that.

He came over and wrapped his arms around me, looking down into my eyes. “You didn’t tell me,” he said softly.

“Because it’s no big deal. I was in foster care for a while. My parents adopted me. It took some time for the paperwork to come through. . . . It’s not something I talk about.”

It was the closest I’d ever come to telling the truth about myself.

He brushed the back of his hand against my cheek. “Okay, but I’m here to listen if you change your mind.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

We grabbed our stuff and headed up the beach, taking the winding pathway back to the car. Logan talked about the beach in summer, about how nice it was, how warm. He talked about teaching me to surf and going to Catalina Island. He talked like this was just the beginning.

I smiled and nodded, but I knew the truth. This wasn’t the beginning he imagined.

It was the beginning of the end.





Forty-Seven


It was after midnight when we headed on foot to Logan’s house. There was only one road leading away from the Fairchild property, and we didn’t want the Saab spotted if anything went wrong. Plus, we’d have more options without the burden of a car. We could even descend to the beach, although the thought of making our way down the craggy cliff face in the dark made me light-headed with dread.

There was an occasional flutter and rustle in the trees overhead, but otherwise the neighborhood was hushed. Christmas lights winked on porches, and the air had a sharp edge as the wind blew in off the water. Despite my gloves, I stuffed my hands in my pockets as we hurried through the neighborhood, trying to stay in the shadows.

I wasn’t nervous. Not about getting in and out anyway. We’d broken into plenty of houses to gather information. The Fairchilds’ security system was a little more high-end, and they were a little more high-profile than some of our marks, but the plan wasn’t complicated. We didn’t even need to deal with the gate since we weren’t taking anything this time. We’d hop the fence instead, sneak our way onto the property—avoiding the cameras along the driveway and at the corners of the house—and break in through one of the windows. Then it would be a race to disable the alarm. If we had the wrong code, we were screwed. Things would go south fast and we’d have to beat it out of there.

But if we had the right one, we would proceed to the carriage house, where we’d try to confirm the presence of the bunker and the location of the gold. If we could get into the bunker easily tonight, we would do it, just to make sure the gold was there. If we couldn’t, we’d case the security protocol around it so we could plan a way in the night we made our move.

“You ready?” Parker said softly as we rounded the corner onto the Fairchilds’ street.

“Yep.”

We walked in the shadows of the bougainvillea plants that lined the sidewalk. I was glad this part of the peninsula, the most expensive in Playa Hermosa, was so isolated. There were only two other properties, both set back from the road and both marked by security gates like the Fairchilds’.

We approached the gates warily, giving wide berth to the camera mounted at the top of one of the posts. Once we were past the gate, we continued to the curve of the cul-de-sac, veering off the sidewalk and into the trees that surrounded the Fairchild property. I breathed a sigh of relief when we were off the street. In the trees, we’d be invisible to anyone making a late-night ice cream run or taking their dog for a walk.

“Let’s go a little farther,” Parker whispered. “We want to hit the house in the center of the west wall, out of range of the corner cameras.”

I nodded and followed him farther into the trees. We walked for about three more minutes before cutting up toward the fence that surrounded the grounds. Once there, we had a clear view of the property and our position in relation to the cameras at the corners of the house.

“A little farther,” I said, using my hand to signal the direction. “We’re too close to the southwest corner.”