Liars, Inc. (18 page)

Maybe DeWitt bailed me out as bait.

My fingers shake a little as I finish the third taco and ball up the wrapper. Wiping my hands hard on a napkin, I stare down at the scuffed tabletop, at my three crumpled paper balls. Preston. Adam. Violet. What if the three of them
had threatened to expose DeWitt's affair and subsequent abandonment of his other son just as DeWitt was about to get appointed to the president's cabinet? I know how much Preston liked money. I wonder how much he could have gotten for keeping a secret this big. But would he really sabotage his father's entire political career just to make a quick buck? Maybe he was so angry about being lied to and denied his only family that he wanted everyone to pay for it. Either way, I still couldn't believe that Senator DeWitt would really kill Preston to shut him up. Politics couldn't possibly mean more than his own children.

Did Preston ever tell you about his childhood?
I glance around, suddenly nervous. If DeWitt did kill Preston, that means Langston and Marcus know about it. And that means they're just keeping tabs on me to make sure I don't figure it out.

IT'S TIME TO DO MORE
research. If I head home now I'll get caught in traffic, so instead I drive through the streets of Rosewood until I find a small brick building with a sign that says
LIBRARY
out front. It's mostly empty inside, but a handful of college students and older people look up curiously as I stroll through the metal detector. A librarian with thin lips and a cone-shaped pile of graying blonde hair on top of her head stands as I approach the desk. It's like she's already judged me as a troublemaker and is preparing to throw me out by my ear.

“Yes?” One word. Curt. Sharp.

“I need to, uh, is it possible to use the internet?”

Her mouth twists like I just admitted to a hard-core porn
addiction. “Do you have a library card?”

“No.” I'm about to tell her I don't live in Los Angeles when I get a better idea. I lower my voice. “I'm from Rosewood Center, you know? The group home.”

Her voice loses a bit of edge. “Why do you need the internet?”

“Research,” I say. “School project.”

“So why not use the internet at Rosewood?”

I look down at the floor. “I got in trouble there. For online gaming. I'm not allowed any internet or video games for a week, but I've still got to get this paper finished.”

“Ah. Well, I suppose I can set you up with a one-day pass,” she says. “But they'll have to get you a library card if you're planning to come back.”

She hands me a little plastic card printed with login information and then directs me to a glassed-in room with two tables of computers. I find Number 9 and log on.

I type “Adam Lyons” into the search box. Hundreds of pages pop up. I add “disappearance” and “Rosewood” to my search criteria, which narrows the results to just two pages. The first one is an article from a few years ago about the problem of runaways in warm-climate states. It only mentions Adam's name in passing, as one of several kids who disappeared from group homes in the Southwest. The second link is to the article from the
LA Times
that Anna mentioned. It doesn't say much, only that Adam Lyons was
the second ward of the state to disappear from the Rosewood Center for Boys in the past five years. The article goes on to question some of the Rosewood policies and call into question whether the staff members are qualified to care for “at-risk” youth. There's a tiny black-and-white picture of Adam embedded in the article. It's grainy, but it still looks a lot like Preston. There's no mention of the exact date that Adam disappeared, but the article is dated February 11, almost eight years ago.

I try Preston's name with “Rosewood” and then Preston's name with “Adam Lyons.” No hits. Other than the picture, there's no evidence linking Preston to Rosewood
or
Adam Lyons. I try the name “Violet Cain” with all of the other search terms. Nothing. I drum my fingers on the tabletop, not sure what to look up next.

I'm missing something important, but I don't know what it is. I turn back to the computer, intending to log off, but instead I type something completely unrelated into the search box: “Alexander Keller Los Angeles.”

A whole string of hits come back. I click on the first one and my father's picture pops up next to a news story. I study his piercing eyes and square jaw. I wish I looked more like him.

“UCLA Professor of Oceanography Alexander Keller died this morning of an apparent heart attack . . .”

My phone buzzes. Stern Librarian glances up from her desk. She points at a sign that says
NO CELL PHONES
. Damn, how can she even hear it from way over there?

It's Parvati, of course. I let her go to voicemail. There's nothing else for me to find here. I take one last look at my real dad's picture and then log off the computer. I turn in my internet card as I pass the librarian's desk on the way out.

The railing for the library steps is a low cement wall, and I hop up onto it and let my feet hang down. I don't know where to go next. The FBI could probably access more information about Violet Cain or Adam Lyons, but there's no way McGhee and Gonzalez would believe a crazy story about Senator DeWitt putting out a hit on his own son to cover up some affair he had almost twenty years ago. I can't even believe it myself.

Drumming my fingers on the cement, I stare off into the distance. The sun is starting to set. A neon sign on the parking garage next to the library crackles to life. Reluctantly, I listen to the message Parvati left.

“Max. I need to see you. There's something else that you should know. Please call me when you get this.”

Maybe she's got new information. I breathe in and out a few times and then dial her number.

“Max!” She sounds so happy to hear from me that it kind of makes me feel sick.

“You said you had something else to tell me?”

“Yeah, but not over the phone. I need to see you.”

“I'm not home right now.” I'm also not ready to see her yet. I glance down at the manicured lawn at the bottom of the railing and try to quell the jittery feeling in my stomach. It's not like what she has to tell me could possibly be any worse than eight-by-ten glossies of her and Pres having sex. “Just spit it out, P.”

“Sooner or later you're going to have to let me explain the Preston thing.”

“Yeah? Well, I choose later,” I say. “There are more important things than us right now, like finding Preston's killer. So unless what you want to tell me has to do with that . . .”

There's a long pause. “No,” she says finally. “At least I don't see how it could.”

I hear a voice in the background. It sounds like the Colonel. “Isn't this the day you stay late for newspaper class?” I ask.

Parvati sighs again. “My parents pulled me out of school. I'm going to finish up at Blue Pointe Prep in the spring.”

“What about this semester?”

“I'll have enough credits that I don't need it,” she says. “Another thing I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Sorry,” I say tersely. “Didn't mean to get you in trouble.”

“It's not just because of you,” she starts. “My mom was
snooping around in my room and found—”

Condoms? Sex tapes?
A lump starts to form in my throat. “I have to go,” I say quickly.

“What? Go where?”

I don't answer her. I just click the disconnect button and slip the phone back into my pocket. I'm still sitting on the wall, my dangling feet growing heavy in my sneakers. People pass back and forth in front of me, colored blurs against the gray sky.

I spent most of my life being no one, and not really minding. And then I met Pres and Parvati and started to feel different. Not because they were popular or had money—I never cared about any of that. With them, I was part of something. Only maybe I wasn't. Maybe it was never the three of us. Maybe it was always the two of them, and me. Either way, Preston is gone and I kind of wish Parvati was too, even though that would clearly make me no one again. It kind of sucks having nothing to lose, but it sucks even worse having everything good taken away from you.

Or to realize it was never yours in the first place.

LANGSTON CALLS ME ON THE
way home. I flip on the cruise control and turn down the music.

“Marcus and I took care of your car,” he says.

“Do I want to know what that means?”

“It means that it's gone for good.”

“Shit. I guess I'll be walking everywhere from now on.” I drum my fingertips on the steering wheel.

“Sorry.” He pauses. “Better than life in prison, though, right?”

Corporate campuses rush by me on both sides of the highway. I pull the truck into the exit lane to switch highways, swearing under my breath as I nearly sideswipe a black BMW that was hovering in my blind spot.

“There was nothing useful in the trunk. Anything new on your end?” he asks.

“No. I've been staying out of it, like you said I should,” I say quickly.

Langston chuckles. “You sound anxious. What's wrong, Max? Still worried we're going to revoke your bail?”

“I just don't know how all this stuff is going to play out.” I swerve around a dead possum, trying not to notice the guts spread all over the highway.

“Everything will be fine. I'll be in touch.” He hangs up.

I crank the radio volume, zoning out a little as the truck eats mile after mile of open road. The sky has gone from gray to navy blue. The hard-rock station starts to broadcast an interview with a band I hate. I flip through the rest of the stations, but everything else sucks, so I turn the radio off.

The silence quickly makes me crazy. What am I coming home to? Had news of Preston's death been made public yet? Could Pres really have blackmailed, and then died at the hands of, his own father? The questions swirl together inside my head, and I can't answer any of them.

But I know who possibly can. Just the thought of Parvati's throaty voice makes my insides ache. She's always been able to make me feel better, and now I'm avoiding her because every time I talk to her it hurts me. And every time it hurts
me I get one step closer to realizing the two of us are over. But maybe I should stop hiding and just deal with things. Darla's right—I need to hear her out, even if talking to her means officially breaking up. Plus, she's smart, and she's the only one who understands this whole Preston mess. If she can help me find his killer, I should let her.

She picks up right away. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm sorry I hung up on you.” She doesn't respond right away, so I keep going. “I've been doing a really shitty job of dealing with things. Finding out about you and Pres from the FBI was not ideal, you know? But I can't avoid hearing the whole truth forever . . . even though I kind of want to.”

“I know it was wrong to lie to you, Max. I guess I just didn't want to screw up our friendship. Would you have wanted to hang out as a group if you knew Preston and I . . .” She trails off.

“The feds have pics of you guys from Bristol Academy, Parvati. How did you not know Pres was recording you two having sex for
years
?”

Parvati shudders audibly. “I'm sorry you had to see that. I knew Pres liked taping stuff, but I had no idea how far it went. I swear to you, all the feelings I had for him are in the past.”

“I just don't get why you both felt the need to lie. I talked to
him before I asked you out, and he said you guys had never been together.”

Parvati's voice goes hoarse. “Probably because to him we never were. I'm fairly certain he only saw me as a casual hookup.”

“Oh.” I'm not sure what to say to that. Parvati is smoking hot, but the thought that someone could appreciate her sexiness but not get totally sucked in by how fun, and smart, and strong she is baffles me.

“Are you going to forgive me?” Parvati asks. “Or are we . . . breaking up?”

Did I mention her straightforwardness? “I don't know, I mean, jeez, what do you want me to say?”

“Say you forgive me for lying to you. Give me another chance.”

“It's not that easy, P. I never lied to
you
. Ever. Let's say I do forgive you. That doesn't mean I'm not still pissed.”

“I understand. Just don't make any decisions yet, okay? Maybe we can talk more tomorrow?” she asks. “Are you going to the funeral?”

This is the first I've heard about a funeral. “Preston's death is finally public news, huh?”

“Yeah,” she says. “It was on TV this morning. The funeral is tomorrow at four p.m.”

It all feels so . . . final. But if DeWitt actually killed his
son, I guess it makes sense he'd want to bury the body before anyone started asking the wrong questions.

“Do you think Preston could have been blackmailing his own father?” I ask.

She hmms. “I wouldn't put it past him. Why?”

“The guy who bailed me out said that DeWitt was being blackmailed.”

“Who bailed you out?”

“Just this guy,” I say. “He works for Preston's dad.”

“I think I know the guy you're talking about,” she says wryly. “Talk, dark, and creepy?”

“That's the one. Do you think it's possible Pres got carried away blackmailing his dad and DeWitt or some of his thugs killed him?”

“His own son? They never seemed close, but that would have to be some serious blackmail.”

“Well,” I say, “you know politicians. Most of them have a lot of skeletons in their closets.” I fill her in on what I learned about Adam. “Somehow, Preston is connected to this kid. I'm thinking DeWitt had an affair with Violet, and Adam and Pres are half brothers. Maybe the three of them decided to blackmail the senator about his kid out of wedlock.”

“So when Preston told me his parents gave him money because of the adoption, he was talking about this other kid,
a brother he never got to know.” I can almost see her nodding her head, her black hair swishing forward. “It all kind of works.”

“Well, if it's true, I have to find the information Preston was using for blackmail, because that's the only way I can clear my name. Either that or find Adam Lyons, if he's even still alive.”

“But if DeWitt did it, why would he report Preston's disappearance to the police?” she asks.

“Probably so he didn't look guilty when they found his body.”

“And why bail you out?”

“Good question. Maybe as bait. Maybe they think Adam's still out there and might go to one of Pres's friends for help.” I shiver as I think about how Langston and Marcus could have killed me, or how easily they could finish setting me up to get convicted for Pres's murder.

“It makes sense, in the most screwed-up way possible.” Parvati pauses. “You should come to the funeral. Pres would want you there And we can talk more afterward. My father won't make a scene in front of the whole town.”

“You don't think?” She's got more faith in her dad than I do. “I don't know if I'm going to go. I feel like time is running out, you know? I'm the only suspect and McGhee and
Gonzalez seem sure I did it. I probably only have a day or two before the forensics report comes back from Violet Cain's house.”

“So?”

“So they found my shark's tooth there.”

She sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh my God.”

“I know, right? I thought I lost it in the ocean, but I guess I left it in my car. Whoever put the phone in my trunk must have taken it at the same time.”

“I hate that you're going through this alone. Will you at least meet up with me tomorrow night?” Parvati pauses. “We don't have to talk about us. I want to help you figure this out, Max. I'm not going to let you go to jail for something you didn't do.”

“Okay. I could use your help.” I sigh. “And we can talk about whatever.” Maybe it's her voice, or the news of the funeral, or the stuff Darla said to me slowly sinking in, but suddenly part of me wants to give her another chance.

I can't help it. I miss her.