Liars, Inc. (17 page)

“Nothing happened,” Darla says quickly. “I just needed someone to talk to and didn't feel like I could talk to your
dad. But I lied to him in order to go meet the other guy, and he found out about it.”

“But then he forgave you?”

She smiles fondly. “Yeah. You and I are both pretty lucky that happened.”

She's right. As much as I complain about babysitting and stuff, growing up with Ben and Darla has been pretty solid. “So . . . Parvati . . . you're telling me to forgive her?”

“I'm just saying to give her a chance to explain,” Darla says. “And don't do anything rash.”

I don't know. It sounds good, and Darla's pretty smart. Maybe I can think about it after my brain stops playing imaginary sex tapes of Preston and Parvati on infinite repeat. Until then, I'm more concerned with finding out who's trying to frame me. But I nod like I'm in total agreement. “And if I take this advice of yours, does that mean I can borrow your car?”

She sighs. “If I tell you no, you're just going to do something stupid like steal one, aren't you?”

I wouldn't really steal a car, but I don't answer. I can tell she's mulling over in her mind whether to help me or not. Things always work out better for me when I don't rush them. It's like surfing. You can't just chase wildly after every wave. You have to wait for the right one to come to you.

“Do you promise,” she continues, “not to break the law in
any way while you're gone?”

I raise my hand like I'm swearing an oath. “I won't even roll through a stop sign.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“Nowhere far, I promise. I just need to check out a couple of leads.”

She sighs again, like maybe she's already second-guessing herself. “Take the truck, as long as it's only for tomorrow. Just please be careful with it. That pickup is your dad's baby and he'll kill us both if anything happens to it.” She leans forward to pat me on the hand. “And you be careful too, okay? I know you're eighteen now, and that you don't think you need a mom, but that doesn't mean I don't need my son.”

My throat tightens and I look away. I wish I'd been a better kid, that I'd given her a real chance, but it's too late to start playing house now. “You can tell Ben I took the truck without asking if you want,” I offer.

She shakes her head. “We both agreed we wouldn't lie to each other ever again. I try hard to keep my end of that.” She stands up to take her coffee mug to the sink.

I take it from her hand. “I got this. You get some sleep.”

On cue, one of the twins starts crying. “I may never sleep again,” she grumbles, but her lips curl into a smile as she says it.

“I'll see you soon,” I say.

“Be safe.” She stops just before rounding the corner. “By the way, I like your hair.”

I snort. “It's not polite to lie.”

“No, really. I can finally see your face,” she says. “You're actually kind of cute. Who knew?” Her eyes sparkle in the dim light of the hallway, and for the first time in years I go to her and give her a hug. Her body stiffens in surprise, and then relaxes. She squeezes me tight. “You're a good kid, Max. I love you.”

I swallow hard and start to tell her I love her back, but before I can get the words out, the other twin begins to wail. Darla breaks away and heads to the nursery, and the moment passes me by.

December 9th

IT'S BEEN A WHILE SINCE
I've slept and I don't want to wreck Ben's truck, so I decide to crash for a bit before driving to Rosewood. I won't be able to find Anna until at least 7:00 or 8:00 a.m. anyway. I set the alarm on my phone to wake me at five. My mind is still racing as my head hits the pillow. Everything that's happened is all tangled together, twisted up and matted like a half-eaten ball of yarn barfed up by Preston's cat. My brain yanks at the knots, reviewing the suspects and the chain of events, until it finally gives up and I fall asleep.

When my phone wakes me, I sneak through the still-darkened house, stepping extra cautiously as I pass the nursery. It takes two tries to fire up Ben's pickup. The motor
grinds and gurgles before sputtering to life. I baby the clutch as I drive toward Los Angeles, keeping one eye on my rearview mirror, watching for cops. I'm not supposed to leave town. Is driving to the far side of the city a violation of the terms of my bail? I don't think so, but I keep to the speed limit just in case.

I pull off the highway at the Rosewood exit and make my way through the suburban streets. I pass the elementary school some of the other boys attended and the corner park where Anna took us to play four square. It's like traveling back in time. I even
feel
younger—unsure, afraid. When I pull Ben's truck over to the curb, my eyes are immediately drawn to the crumbling porch steps and the stone lions on either side. I slide Preston's picture out of my pocket for comparison. There are a few more cracks in the stone, but it's the same porch, just like I thought.

I turn the truck's engine off, but I don't get out right away. It's amazing how the house hasn't changed. It has the same pink-and-white-painted wooden front with ash-colored shingles. The paint is still peeling, the roof still looks in danger of collapsing in a couple of places. My heart knocks hard against my breastbone and my sweaty fingers are clinging to the steering wheel. I'm being stupid. It isn't like I got tortured by the staff or violated by my fellow residents. I got beat up a couple of times. Big deal. Henry was
older than me. He's probably dead or in prison by now. I'm not going to walk through the door and get punched in the stomach.

I force myself out of the truck and across the gravel front lawn. The screen door opens with an impressive creak and I step into the front room of the house, which doubles as a waiting area. The walls, formerly dusky gray, are now a sunny yellow that almost matches the hair of the receptionist. She looks up from behind a plain oaken table that is serving as her desk.

“May I help you?” she asks. Her eyes flick downward for a second and I wonder if she's got an emergency button that'll summon a couple of goons to come tackle me if I get out of line.

“Does Anna still work here?”

The receptionist takes a long time to answer. She looks down at the desk again, furrowing her brow.

“Social worker,” I add, trying to be helpful.

“She's here,” the girl says. “Just trying to see if she has any free time. Do you have an appointment?”

I shake my head. “I used to live here,” I say, hoping she'll feel sorry for me.

“She's in meetings all day.” The receptionist flips through a leather-bound book. “I can make an appointment for you the day after tomorrow.”

“Sure.” I give her my name and number and watch as she jots down my information. I don't plan on waiting two days to talk to Anna, but I figure a normal person would make an appointment, so that's what I do. “Do you mind if I look around?” When she looks perplexed, I add, “I just have a lot of memories about being here.” Half of me is hoping she says no. The other half figures I might as well give the center a quick look-over, just in case I see something that clicks all the puzzle pieces into place.

“Guess it'd be okay,” she says. “But I'll have to go with you.”

I fidget nervously as the receptionist takes her time shutting the appointment book and straightening the pens and pencils on her desk into a neat line. She pushes back her chair and motions for me to follow her.

The main floor hasn't changed much except for the sunny new paint job. There's the small hallway with offices for the director and social worker, the kitchen at the back of the house, and the living area with a TV and bookshelf. I used to hide behind the books people donated to us. I would pull them out at random and pretend to be reading, just so no one would talk to me. It worked pretty well too. People are reluctant to disturb someone lost in a story.

We pass a desk with an old computer on it that might even get the internet. That's new.

“All the boys are at school right now,” the receptionist says.

I nod. I turn toward a creaky staircase and she follows me. Upstairs, I duck into one of the dorm rooms where the boys sleep. Four beds are arranged the same as I remember, so close to one another that if you happened to thrash around in your sleep you might accidentally slap the kid next to you. A Christmas stocking with a glittery name is pinned above each boy's bed. I can't stop myself from reading them, even though I know it's ridiculous. Obviously, there's no one named Preston. Or Henry. There are several more rooms, but wanting to look in each one will only make the receptionist suspicious. I rack my brain trying to remember all of the kids who were at Rosewood with me, but I was there for such a short time and never talked to any them, so they blur into a stream of faceless strangers.

I give up and let her lead me back downstairs. “Thanks for your time,” I say.

I head back out into the cool sunshine. My plan is to hang out in the truck and stalk the place until I see Anna leave at the end of the day. No need to sit around for hours, though. I kill time driving around town and grabbing some food at the diner on the corner. It's decorated just as I remember it—stark white walls with vinyl records glued above each booth. Ben and Darla took me here while they were waiting for the adoption paperwork to be drawn up. I remember how they told me I could order anything I wanted. Of course I
ordered way more food than I could eat, but Ben helped me eat some of it and the rest Darla had boxed up and sent back to the center with me. I hid it under my bed, even though I'm pretty sure it was eggs and biscuits and gravy, and should have been refrigerated. Henry snuck over to my bed after lights-out and ordered me to hand over the food. I did, and he punched me in the stomach anyway.

I hang out in a small city park for part of the afternoon, but I'm back in front of the center by three thirty, just in case Anna goes home early. I check my phone messages while I wait. There's another voicemail and a text from Parvati, both of them begging me to call her. It takes all my willpower to focus on the task at hand instead.

“Whipped,” I mutter under my breath. But the sharp pain of her betrayal is starting to dull a little bit. It shouldn't matter that much that she and Pres used to be together, should it? Parvati never cared about the girls I dated before her.

But I never lied about them.

I wish there were some way I could go back in time and never see those pictures. But I can't, so I do my best to forget about them and focus on the Rosewood Center.

Just after four o'clock, a woman exits the front door and cuts across the grass. She's got wide shoulders and frizzy hair that's pulled back in a low ponytail. She doesn't look much like the pretty social worker I remember, until she glances
in my direction. Same blue eyes and round face. My heart starts slam dancing around in my chest. Questions flood my brain. Will she remember me? Will she run away like I'm a crazy person? Has she heard about my arrest? What, exactly, am I supposed to say to her?

She makes it to her car before I even get out of the truck, so I end up following her to a fish taco restaurant a couple of blocks away. Great. Now she'll think I'm a stalker for sure. Oh well. Everyone else thinks I'm a murderer, so “stalker” feels like a promotion. I wait for her to order and then tap her on the shoulder while she's gathering her napkins and salsa packets.

“Anna?” I say.

She turns around. “Yes?” Her brow furrows and I can almost see her mentally flipping through her group-home-kid Rolodex, trying to identify me.

“My name is—”

“Max Keller!” she blurts out. “Oh my God, look at you. Different body. Different face. Same messy hair.”

I freeze up for a second. No one has called me Max Keller in years. But then I smile. It feels good to be remembered.

She shakes her head in wonder. “I didn't know if you'd ever talk,” she says. “You never spoke to anyone.”

“Yeah,” I say, once again at a loss for words. I want to tell her how she's the one good memory I have of Rosewood. How
if it weren't for her I would have run away from the center, and who knows where I'd be. I don't say anything, though. It's like there's a statute of limitations on thank-yous. Like I should have said all that stuff the day I left, but I didn't, and to say it now would be weird.

“But I don't remember the name of the people who adopted you,” she says.

“The Cantrells,” I say. “They've been great.”

“I'm glad.” The corners of her eyes crinkle up as she smiles. “I remember how Mrs. Cantrell instantly fell in love with you.”

“Can I ask you something?” I cut her off before she can tell the much-repeated story.

I pull the picture of Preston sitting on the Rosewood steps out of my pocket. “Do you know him?”

Anna's jaw goes tight, like she's grinding her molars together. “Yeah.” She squints. “Adam. Lyons. He was at Rosewood . . . after you, maybe? I can't remember exactly.” She shakes her head. “Nice kid.”

“Are you sure about the name?” I don't tell her I think it's a picture of a young Preston DeWitt, and that he's dead now.

“Yeah. He disappeared from Rosewood and the center got audited because of it.” She glances around. “We almost lost our state funding. Child Protective Services had to come and recertify us.”

“Do you know what happened to him? Or where he is now?”

Anna takes a step back. “Why are you asking me all this?”

“I can't explain it,” I say. “But it's really important.”

“He just went to school one morning and never came back.” She fiddles with her handful of napkins, rolling them into a cylinder between her palms. “The teachers said he never made it to class.”

I stare hard at the picture. The hair is much darker than Preston's. Could I be wrong? Could it really be a picture of some other kid? But then why the hell did Preston have it? “Do you remember when it was that Adam disappeared?”

“Maybe eight or nine years ago?” she says. “The
LA Times
did a piece on how we might lose our funding. I'm sure you can find the information there.”

“Number four-forty-one,” the counter guy calls.

Anna looks down at her receipt and accidentally drops one of her napkins. For a second she freezes, like she's debating whether she should rescue the napkin from the sticky floor or just leave it.

“I got it.” I bend down to get the napkin, which has tumbled its way across the floor and is sticking to the bottom of the trash can. I ball it up and toss it in the trash.

“Thanks, Max.” She bites her lip again. “It was nice to see you, but I have to go. My daughter has a soccer game tonight and I'm running a little behind.”

I nod. “It was nice to see you too, Anna.” Once more, a bunch of sappy gratitude swells up on the tip of my tongue. “You were . . .” I crack my knuckles as I try to come up with the right words. “The one thing about Rosewood that didn't suck.” By the time I spit it out the cashier has abandoned Anna's order to ring up the next person in line.

Anna smiles faintly. “Thanks. I hope everything is okay, Max.”

“It will be,” I say. She leaves and I order a trio of tacos and a drink for myself. I stare at the photograph of who I thought was Preston while the food is being prepared. Now what?

The cashier calls my order number in a monotone voice. I grab my tray, load up on napkins and soda, and take my food to a booth in the corner. I set the picture on the bench next to me and unwrap the first taco.

Could Preston have a twin or brother I don't know about? It seems far-fetched, the wealthy and powerful DeWitts giving a kid up for adoption, but who knew what politicians were capable of? I finish the first taco in about four bites and crumple the waxy wrapper into a ball. I suck in a long drink of soda. Parvati thought Violet was Preston's mom. Maybe she was closer than I thought. Maybe DeWitt had an affair and this Adam kid is Preston's half brother.

I bite into my second taco. A couple of diced tomatoes and chunks of flaky cod fall from the shell and land on my
paper-lined tray. Tomato juice runs down my chin and I swipe at my mouth with a napkin. Maybe Preston somehow figured all of this out and went looking for his half brother, not knowing that Violet had actually given her child up for adoption. Violet might have gotten upset about being found, about Preston tricking her into meeting him, but why did they both end up dead? I crumple another wrapper and take a gulp of soda.

And then it hits me like a twenty-foot wave. Maybe Preston and Violet were the people blackmailing Senator DeWitt! I try to remember if one of the folders on Pres's hard drive was called RD, or anything else that might stand for the senator, but the two-letter folder names are just a jumble in my head. It makes sense, though. If Pres had video cameras rigged in the spare bedroom, surely he had them in other places around the house too. Who knows what he had caught his father saying, or doing?

And what if Adam was in on it, and he's still alive somewhere? Maybe Langston is looking for him and he thinks Adam will try to contact some of Pres's friends.