Liars, Inc. (13 page)

BLACK SMOKE BILLOWS FROM THE
windows. Flames lick their way up the sides of the house. Fuck. I am out of the car in an instant, racing toward the front door. Parvati is right behind me. The heat scorches my skin, radiating straight through the front wall of the cottage.

Parvati grabs my arm, hauling me back just before I reach the porch. “Max, wait. You can't go in there.”

I know she's right, but I try to shake her off anyway. “What if Preston is inside?”

“Then we have to wait for the fire department.” She yanks me back a couple more steps until we're standing in the middle of the tiny scrap of grass that makes up Violet Cain's front lawn.

Sirens sing in the distance. High and shrill, low and honking. An EMS cavalry is on its way. Around us, neighbors are popping out onto their porches. Silhouettes of children peek between their parents' legs.

“We should get out of here,” Parvati says. Her blonde wig sits crooked on her head.

I don't want to go. I want to rush into the house. Preston is here. I know it. I can feel it.

A section of roof caves in, sending up a shower of dazzling embers. The neighbors murmur and point. Flames explode out of the gaping hole. Fingers of fire claw at the dark sky.

Parvati pulls me backward again. “Max, come on. It's not safe.”

We both know she's not just talking about the fire. The rescue vehicles are close now, and the cops won't be far behind. Sirens crescendo as fire trucks and an ambulance turn the corner onto the block. Around us, the clouds of smoke blink flashing red.

We stumble through the haze, getting back to the car just as a hook-and-ladder truck roars to a stop at the curb. Firefighters leap off, dressed in heavy coats and gas masks. They huddle together in the middle of the lawn. What are they doing? Why aren't they rescuing Preston? I hurry across the grass, intending to ask them what the holdup is.

“Max.” Parvati hollers from behind me. “Run!”

I spin around and move toward her but skid to a stop in the middle of the street. Agent McGhee has her up against the side of the Honda. Shit. How did they get here so fast? The fading moonlight glints off a pair of silver handcuffs.

“Run!” she repeats.

Leaving her feels so unnatural that it takes my body a few seconds to process my brain's request. Gonzalez sees me just as I take off down the street.

“Stop!” he screams.

I turn toward the neon lights of the Strip. I came here once with Ben and Darla and nearly got lost in the herds of people milling up and down the sidewalk in front of the big casinos. If I get up to Las Vegas Boulevard, I know I can disappear. I race up the driveway of a little brick house and vault my lanky body over a silver chain-link fence. I cut across the darkened backyard, hurdling what looks to be a giant cactus. The fence rattles behind me as Gonzalez clambers over it. I'm already at the other side of the yard, lifting myself over the next fence. He'll never catch me.

The next couple of yards are unfenced. I can still hear Gonzalez huffing and puffing behind me. I'm only a block from the Strip now. Adrenaline propels me. I lengthen my stride, pumping my arms and legs as I cut across the parking lot of a sleazy motel and explode out onto Las Vegas
Boulevard. Left or right? I go right, toward the Bellagio and Caesar's Palace. There seem to be more people that way. I push past a loose knot of what looks like bachelor party guys heading home after a long night. Shirts are untucked. Gelled hair is starting to droop. I dodge a couple of old men handing out advertisements for strip clubs. Somewhere, a girl screams. It's a playful, laughing noise, but it's enough to make me wonder what's happening to Parvati. Did McGhee really arrest her? Is she scared? I glance quickly over my shoulder. Several sets of headlights are prowling the Strip, but I can't make out any individual cars.

The toe of my sneaker catches a seam in the sidewalk. I fall forward, landing on my hands and knees. As I scramble back to my feet, someone tackles me from behind. The side of my face slams into the asphalt and something round and hard presses against my spine. At first I think Gonzalez actually has his gun out, but then he leans down to cuff me and I realize it's his knee that's planted in the small of my back. Around us, I see the clunky white sneakers and high heels of a small group of tourists. Camera flashes light up the night, like I'm just one more attraction in Vegas, something to occupy time while people wait for the Bellagio's water show to begin.

Gonzalez's phone rings in his pocket and he jams his knee
even farther into my spine as he goes to answer it. “Yeah,” he says. “Good. I just got him.” He hangs up and bends down so I can see his face.

“Max Cantrell,” he barks, like my ear isn't literally two inches from his lips, like maybe he's auditioning for a role on
Law & Order: Las Vegas
. “You're under arrest for obstruction of justice, flight to avoid prosecution, and assaulting a federal agent.”

December 8th

LATER THAT MORNING, I GET
arraigned. My court-appointed lawyer, a mousy-haired woman in a dark suit and sensible shoes, comes to get me from my holding cell. She introduces herself but I'm not paying attention, so I don't catch her name. I'm too busy thinking about how “holding cell” is now part of my vocabulary—how I'm back in one of those detective TV shows I never, ever wanted to be a part of.

My lawyer takes one look at my insane haircut and rumpled, stolen clothing and forbids me to speak in court. “I'll handle entering your pleas,” she says. “I'll handle everything. Just don't . . . speak.”

The courtroom is smaller than what you see on television and is set up like a church—vaulted ceiling, rows of long wooden pews, and a raised platform at the front. The judge is a white-haired black guy who looks like he might have had a long career as a drill instructor. With my luck, he's friends with Parvati's dad. There are only a few other people here, and I don't recognize any of them. My lawyer and I take a seat at a wooden table in front of the pews. Across from us, at another wooden table, sit a man and a woman I've never seen before. They're both wearing the same eyeglass frames and sharp expressions.

“The prosecution,” my lawyer whispers. The next fifteen minutes are a blur of incomprehensible legal jargon. I do my best not to piss off the judge, standing when my lawyer stands and sitting when she sits. The only words that stick out to me are my lawyer's name when she introduces herself for the court reporter—it's Kathleen—and the word “murder” tossed around repeatedly by the prosecution and always quickly slapped with an objection by my lawyer. Later, as things seem to be coming to an end, I hear five more words that I understand: “flight risk” and “bail is denied.”

Kathleen leaps from her seat, but puts a hand on my shoulder when I go to do the same. “Your Honor, may I approach?”

The judge nods.

“Stay,” she tells me.

She and the prosecutors approach the bench. A heated conversation takes place, complete with head tossing and hand waving by the prosecution. I'm not close enough to hear any of it.

She returns to our table a few minutes later wearing a cocky grin.

“What happened?” I ask in a low voice.

“Bail happened,” she says.

“Bail set at two hundred thousand dollars.” The judge sounds bored, like he's ready to move on to a more interesting case.

“Two hundred grand?” I hiss. “That's your big coup? My parents could sell everything they owned and not come up with that money.”

She starts to answer, but then the judge clears his throat and then bangs his gavel twice.

And just like that, I'm officially a criminal.

I don't get much time to think about it, though, because instead of going back to my cell, I get to go back to the interrogation room.

It's another fun session with my two favorite FBI agents. McGhee is wearing the same unreadable expression as always. Gonzalez's smirk can only be described as triumphant. I don't know if it's because McGhee is actually letting
him do something besides fetch water or because he's daydreaming about my trial.

“Nice hair,” Gonzalez says.

“Where's Parvati?” I've asked this question to anyone who would listen since Gonzalez hauled me up off the Vegas pavement and packed me into the backseat of McGhee's unmarked sedan. The FBI opted to take me straight back to Vista Palisades, since my alleged crimes were committed in California and I was a “person of interest” in Preston's disappearance. I have no idea what happened to Parvati. All I know is that they didn't let her ride back to Vista Palisades with me.

“We're the ones asking the questions, Max,” Gonzalez informs me. He's actually being nicer now that I've been arrested. I swear his smile couldn't get any bigger, not even if my lawyer hopped up on the table and started doing a striptease.

“I'll answer whatever you want if you tell me what happened to Parvati.”

“He doesn't mean that,” Kathleen interjects. “He's speaking under psychological duress.”

I turn to her. “No, really. I don't have anything to hide. I just want to know if my girlfriend is okay.”

“Thought she was your
ex
-girlfriend,” Gonzalez says. “Just one more lie?”

“Her parents forbade us from seeing each other, so we pretended to be broken up. You didn't arrest her, did you?”

“You answer our questions and we'll tell you what happened to Ms. Amos,” Gonzalez says.

I glance at McGhee. “Do you promise?”

McGhee nods. “We'll tell you what you want to know.”

Kathleen clears her throat. “Max, I can't help you if you make these kinds of deals with them. You do know that anything you say to them can be used—”

“Yeah, yeah. Court of law. I got it.”

Kathleen sighs deeply and makes notes on her yellow legal pad.

“Tell me about the time you assaulted an eleven-year-old,” Gonzalez says. “How old were you again? Sixteen?”

“Fuck you,” I say. My lawyer puts a hand on my shoulder, but I shake her off. “That kid was picking on—”

Gonzalez doesn't let me finish. “Pretty violent tendencies. Was Ms. Amos part of it? Or did she just come pick you up after you set the fire?”

“Why don't you ask her?” I say. “She was with me the whole time I was in Vegas. She'll tell you I didn't burn anyone's house down.”

“You'll have to forgive me if I don't find either of you to be the most credible of witnesses,” Gonzalez says. “Why don't you tell us about Liars, Inc.?”

Kathleen raises an eyebrow but then quickly says, “You don't have to answer that.”

My first instinct is to tell Gonzalez to go fuck himself again, but suddenly it feels like every decision I've made in my whole life is coming back to haunt me all at once. Maybe I should go against my gut and tell him the truth. “It was just a stupid thing we were doing at school to make money,” I say. “Forging permission slips. Covering for kids so they could get away from their parents. That kind of thing.”

McGhee nods. “Kids like Preston.”

Kathleen sighs deeply and makes some notes on her pad. “Let's not talk about that anymore until after you and I have met in private,” she says. I can almost hear her writing my case off as hopeless.

Gonzalez clears his throat. “I figure it like this. You find out your best pal has been hooking up with your girlfriend. You attack him on top of Ravens' Cliff, but he gets away. He knows you're crazy, so he decides to skip town for a few days until you cool off. Only instead of cooling off you make a plan to find him and finish the job.”

“Genius,” I say sarcastically. “Too bad my best pal
wasn't
hooking up with my girlfriend.” I hold my face rigid, unblinking. “Just because they went to homecoming together doesn't mean anything. Your lame revenge theory
doesn't work because Parvati and Preston were never more than friends.”

“No?” Something in the way Gonzalez utters that single syllable makes me hate him more than I've ever hated anyone in my life. He opens a manila envelope. Glossy pictures slide out onto the table. Pictures of Preston and Parvati. The top one is of the two of them kissing. They're sitting at the edge of Preston's pool. Parvati has a towel wrapped around her shoulders. The image stings a little, but it isn't a betrayal. I know exactly what day it's from. Preston's New Year's Eve party, junior year, the night Parvati and I met.

I spent most of the evening swilling free beer and wandering around the DeWitts' cavernous mansion, checking out the Bristol Academy chicks from a distance. They were richer than most of the girls from Vista P, but other than that they were the same: tight dresses, lots of makeup, too much drama. I almost left early, bored by the usual bullshit. I was halfway out the door when I saw a shadow in the DeWitts' in-ground swimming pool. It was a cold night for Southern California—definitely not swimming weather—so I ducked out onto the deck to make sure no one was drowning.

A girl's lithe form moved beneath the wind-rippled water. Her dress flared up and exposed her slender thighs with each stroke. She finished her lap and then popped above the
surface. “Hi.” She dipped her head backward into the pool so that her long dark hair stayed slicked back out of her face.

“Are you okay?” I was pretty sure she wasn't okay. She was swimming in what was probably an expensive dress, and even though her teeth were chattering, she showed no signs of getting out of the water.

Instead of answering, she flipped onto her back and did a lap of backstroke. Her hair streamed out around her in a thick ebony halo as she glided across the pool. She looked otherworldly, like a ghost or a hot alien chick. She hit the far wall, did a graceful flip beneath the surface, and headed back toward me. Her arms barely made a splash as she cut the water with them repeatedly. When she got to the side, she saw me hovering above her and stopped again. “You're still here,” she said.

“I'm enjoying the show,” I admitted.

She stared at me for a long moment. “You don't belong here.”

“Why? Because I'm not rich?” A note of defensiveness crept into my voice.

She twirled her body in another back flip and then came up treading water. “No, silly. Because Preston's friends are all sheep.”

“Aren't
you
one of Preston's friends?”

“Sometimes I think I'm the worst sheep of all,” she said, her eyes dropping to the water for a second. Her olive skin was starting to look a little blue.

She didn't look like a sheep to me. The sheep were inside getting drunk and acting stupid. “Are you going to come out of there anytime soon?” I asked. “I could get you a towel.”

Her teeth chattered again and she ducked low so that everything but her face was submerged. “Do you know that SEALs have to stay in the cold water in their clothes for more than twenty-four hours? It's part of their training.”

“I didn't know seals wore clothes,” I said. Maybe hypothermia was already setting in.

“Navy SEALs, silly.” She laughed, and for the briefest moment I debated jumping in next to her. “My dad's friend was a Navy SEAL. He's teaching me to be hard core.”

That was twice she had called me silly, but for some reason I didn't mind. “I think it would be hard core if you got out of the pool.” Not to mention how hot she'd look shivering in her clingy little dress.

Her dark eyes widened. “So cute. You just met me and already you're worried.” She took in my unkempt hair and casual clothes. “Are you one of those hippies? Philosophically opposed to the military?”

“I'm philosophically opposed to hot chicks freezing to
death.” It wasn't the kind of thing I usually said to girls. I didn't usually say anything at all. I just stayed in my own world and hung out with the occasional cute girl who hit on me.

She smiled. “I need to finish my laps, but I promise I'll get out before I die, okay?”

I knew a blow-off when I heard one, so I left her even though a huge part of me wanted to stay. Instead, I found Preston inside and told him a crazy chick was doing SEAL training in his pool. “That's just Parv,” he said. “She's a freak.”

I didn't tell Preston that I kind of liked her. I didn't even admit it to myself until the next time I saw her, three months later, when she showed up in my English class.

Gonzalez rattles the photograph under my nose. “Where'd you go, kid?”

“Nice try,” I say, reluctantly letting go of the memory. “That's from New Year's Eve. Everyone kisses on New Year's Eve—it doesn't mean anything. And I didn't even know her back then.”

“So you're saying Preston and Ms. Amos were never an item?” Gonzalez asks.

“No. They were not.”

“Check out the rest of them,” he says.

“I don't need to,” I say. “I don't care what kind of bullshit
you think you have on my girlfriend. She wouldn't lie to me.”

“It's not bullshit. We like to call it motive.” He flips to the next photograph.

My eyes betray me. It's Parvati and Preston in his bedroom.

In his bed.

They look like they're sleeping. He's lying on his back; she's curled on her side, her head resting against his chest. The covers conceal their bodies, except for one of Parvati's bare arms.

A fist tightens in my stomach. “That doesn't prove anything,” I say, but my voice wavers and I hate myself for having doubts.
We made them together freshman year—razor-bladed out a square in the middle of the pages. It was my idea . . .
What else had they done together alone in Preston's bedroom?

The next photo answers my question. I train my eyes on my lap, but not before I catch a glimpse of Parvati on top of Preston. Long silky hair obscures her naked breasts. The photo tech has blurred out part of the image, but it's still obvious what's going on. “Where did you get these?” I ask. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know the answer. From Preston's hard drive. These are stills made from the videos. Of course if he has videos of Parvati and me, he has some of the two of them also. Preston and his obsessive fucking recording of everyone. “So they were together at some point,” I whisper. “That doesn't mean she cheated on me.”

It just means that both Preston and Parvati had lied to me about fifty times.

“And then there's this one,” Gonzalez says. “Looks like they've been pretty close for a while.”

I can't help it; I look. Then I bite back a gasp. It's Parv and Pres going at it again, but the room looks like a dorm room and Parvati looks like she's about fifteen. It has to be from Bristol Academy, which means not only have Preston and Parvati hooked up and lied about it, they've hooked up for years. Gonzalez fans a few more photos out on the table and then reclines back in his chair.