Lies I Told(68)

He stood. “Did you find something?”

I couldn’t speak. Could only stand there, looking at him.

“Grace? Are you okay?”

I closed the distance between us slowly, stopping when I was right in front of him. “I don’t want to watch a movie,” I said softly.

His eyes were locked with mine. “You don’t?”

I shook my head, lifting my hands to his shoulders, letting them run down his chest, feeling the muscle under my palms. I moved my fingers to the top button of his shirt and undid it.

“Grace . . .” His voice was hoarse.

He kept his hands at his sides, like he was afraid to touch me, as I undid the buttons of his shirt. I leaned forward, pressing my lips to the warm skin of his chest.

“I want to be with you, Logan.”

I heard the intake of his breath. “We don’t have to . . . I’m happy just to hold you.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and looked up at him. “I want to.”

“Are you sure?” His eyes burned into mine.

It would make saying good-bye harder. It would mean leaving a bigger part of myself in Playa Hermosa. But on the eve of my betrayal, I wanted to give him something that was real. Something that might make him doubt all the things he would hear about me in the weeks ahead. Something that might make him believe in me despite what I would do.

I didn’t answer. Instead I took the blanket from the couch and laid it on the floor with some of the throw pillows. Then I took his hands and pulled him down next to me.

He held my face in his hands as his mouth found mine. And then his hands were in my hair, lifting my T-shirt over my head, burning into my skin like a brand. There was nothing but him: his lips on mine, his hands exploring my body in the flickering firelight. I was lost, and I shut out everything, made him the center of my universe, if only for a couple of hours.

Afterward, I lay in the crook of his arm, the lights from the Christmas tree playing across his face.

He kissed the top of my head. “I love you, Grace. I think I’ve loved you since you first looked into my eyes in the hallway, the day you dropped your schedule. Remember?”

I nodded. “I love you, too.”

It was true. And it was all I had to give.





Fifty-Three


It was after eleven when I got up for water. I’d been careful not to drink too much of the wine, but I was feeling drowsy and a little sluggish, too comfortable in Logan’s arms by the fireplace. I couldn’t put off the job forever. I needed to get on with it.

I padded to the kitchen on bare feet and poured two glasses of water. Then I pulled the vial from the pocket of my jeans. I uncapped it, holding it over one of the glasses. This was it. Once I drugged Logan, there would be no going back.

But there was already no going back. Parker was at Allied, baiting the guard. My mom and dad were parked somewhere nearby, waiting for the signal that Logan was out. I couldn’t leave them hanging. And even if there had been time to rehash everything, to tell them I’d changed my mind, then what?

One way or another, we were on a collision course with the Fairchild job. It was too late for me to develop a conscience. Or too late for me to do anything about it, anyway.

I tipped the vial into one of the glasses and pulled a spoon from one of the drawers, stirring until the powder dissolved. Then I picked up the glasses, careful to keep Logan’s in my right hand.

I climbed the stairs with my heart in my throat.

Compartmentalize, I ordered myself. Stop thinking about Logan and what this will do to him. To his family. Think about this moment. About the job.

It was a tactic Cormac had taught Parker and me when we’d first started grifting. He told us it went all the way back to Buddhist teachings. They called it mindfulness, but it was the same thing: Focus only on what’s in front of you. Block out everything else.

I entered the media room and handed Logan the water, taking a drink from my own glass as I sat down next to him on the floor. I had a fleeting hope that he wouldn’t drink it, or at least not enough of it to put him out. I shouldn’t have worried. He downed the whole thing in one long swallow and then set down the glass.

He reached out, pulling me back onto the floor with him. I lay against his chest, listening to the soft drumming of his heart, trying to memorize the rhythm of it, the feel of his bare skin under my cheek. I stayed there too long after his breathing had settled into the regular cadence of sleep, not wanting to set into motion the string of events that would solidify my betrayal.

Finally, I eased out of his arms and sat up. I leaned down and kissed his cheek, trying to imprint his sleeping face on my mind. Then I got up, grabbed my bag, and hurried downstairs.

When I got to the foyer I texted my dad. All clear.

His reply came a few seconds later. Stand by.

I sat on the bench near the Fairchilds’ front door, pushing away the thought of Logan, upstairs in a drug-induced sleep. I wanted to go to him, pull the blankets over us both, and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. Pretend I didn’t exist.

The house was dark and eerily quiet. The soft ticking of an old-fashioned clock sounded from somewhere down the hall, the occasional gust of wind ringing the chimes Leslie had scattered throughout the property.

I checked my phone. It had been ten minutes since my dad’s last message. I texted him again. Everything okay?