Dangerous Lies (3 page)

She leaned out of bed and pushed the door closed in my face.

My back went up, and I walked stiffly to my room. I cast an evil eye out the window, watching as Chet Falconer finished another row and swung the mower around. From this angle, I couldn’t see his face, but a small patch of sweat soaked through the front of his white T-shirt, and when he paused to wipe his cheek on his sleeve, the hem of his shirt hitched up, revealing a taut stomach. His arms were tan and muscular, and he tapped his thumb against the mower’s handlebar to keep time with whatever music he was listening to. He’d obviously started the morning with an entire pot of coffee. Since I couldn’t say the same, I just scowled at him. I was tempted to open the window and yell down something obscene, but between the earbuds and the mower, there was no way he’d hear.

I sprawled facedown on the bed and folded the pillow tightly over my head. No luck. The lawnmower continued to whine through the windowpane like an angry insect. Taking Carmina’s advice, I jerked open the bottom drawer of the dresser and nearly choked on my laughter.

A Sony Walkman, complete with AM/FM radio and cassette player. I blew dust off the surface, thinking I hadn’t traveled to Nebraska—I’d traveled into the previous century.

Sorting through the cassette tapes littering the bottom of the drawer, I read the handwritten labels. Poison, Whitesnake, Van Halen, Metallica.

Did Carmina have a son? Had this been his bedroom before he’d bolted—wisely—out of Thunder Basin?

I chose Van Halen, because it was the only tape that didn’t need to be rewound. Hitting play, I snuggled under the sheet and turned up the volume until I could no longer hear the rumble of Chet Falconer’s lawn mower.

*  *  *

I wandered down to the kitchen at ten. I followed the smell of bacon and eggs to find my way. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had bacon and eggs. Disneyland, probably, when I was seven, with Mickey Mouse–shaped pancakes. The idea of eating a meal at a table set with real dishes, let alone having someone cook for me, was unfathomable. My go-to breakfast was a skinny latte and whole-grain oatmeal from Starbucks. I ate in my car, on the way to school.

As I entered the kitchen, I found the table cleared and the food gone. Through the screen door leading to the backyard, I could see Carmina on her knees in the vegetable garden, pulling weeds. Judging by the large pile beside her, she’d been out there a while.

“I think I missed breakfast,” I said, crossing the yard to her.

“Think so,” she said without looking up.

“Did you save any for me?”

“Last I checked, bacon and eggs don’t taste good cold.”

“Okay, I get it. You snooze, you lose,” I said with a shrug. If she thought she was going to make a point by starving me, she was pretty inexperienced at parenthood. I could do just fine on a mug of coffee. Wouldn’t be the first time. “When’s lunch?”

“After we drive you around to fill out summer job applications.”

“I don’t want a job.”

“School’s out, so most of the good jobs have been snatched up, but we’ll find you something,” she went on.

“I don’t want a job,” I repeated more firmly. I’d never had a job. My family wasn’t old money—we didn’t live in a country estate on the Main Line, and I didn’t dress effortlessly like Jackie O.—but we weren’t living paycheck to paycheck, either. My mom had been a debutante in Knoxville, and while she’d burned through what could be called her dowry, it was important to her to keep up appearances. It just would not do to have me seen in the workforce. My dad was a principal in a venture capital firm, and after he divorced my mom more than two years ago, he left her with enough money that she didn’t have to work. Up until a few days ago, I’d lived with my mom in the suburbs, in a beautiful gray fieldstone cottage that sat at the end of a long, tree-lined cul-de-sac. Circumstances as they were, I’d never had the motivation or desire to break a sweat for minimum wage.

And I definitely wasn’t used to taking orders. My mom was more like a roommate than a parent; we were often ships passing in the night. I hadn’t had someone tell me what to do in years.

Carmina sat back on her haunches and looked at me squarely. “What’re you gonna do all summer, child? Sit around and feel sorry for yourself? Not under my roof. Time a girl your age learned to look after herself.”

I ran my tongue over my teeth, checking my words. If Carmina wanted a fight, I could give her one. But if she, an adult, was baiting me into a fight, it stood to reason that she had an agenda. Maybe she thought if I could just yell and scream and get all my pain out in the open, I’d suddenly become a new person. One who wanted to be in Thunder Basin for the summer. One who wanted to make Carmina’s life easy.

“All right,” I said, forcing myself to speak calmly. “What kind of job do you think I can get?”

Carmina frowned, proving I’d guessed right. She’d expected me to fight back, to let my anger out. She’d hoped I would. I had news for her: The cop had lost her edge in retirement. She couldn’t read me. And I couldn’t think of a bigger victory.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully at last, “there’s food service. I hear the Sundown Diner is hiring carhops. Or you could work in the cornfields; they’re always looking for help. But it’s hard, hot work with long hours, and the pay isn’t anything to smile about.”

“Okay,” I said, still cool and collected. “I’ll take a shower and get ready.”

By the time I’d climbed the stairs to my room, I’d changed my mind about the job. I’d probably hate it, but it couldn’t be worse than sitting around the house all day with Carmina. And since I got the feeling she expected me, a bratty teen with an attitude problem, to fail at manual labor, I was invested in proving her wrong. How hard could a summer job be? Flipping burgers was gross, but hardly rocket science. And if I got the diner job, it would have air conditioning. Surely Nebraska had embraced that modern convenience.

I found it a touch ironic that I, the proverbial princess from the castle high on the hill, was being forced to take the disguise I least wanted—that of a poor, hardworking servant girl. I wondered if Deputy Price and the rest of his friends at the DOJ had planned this—to give me a heaping spoonful of humble pie. They probably found it amusing.
Go ahead, boys. Laugh all you want. When this is over, you’ll still be wearing cheap suits and dealing with the scum of the earth. Meanwhile, the government will have to unfreeze my family’s accounts, I’ll have my money back, and this humiliating summer will be nothing more than a distant memory.

A half hour later I emerged from the bathroom with damp hair and the cheap smell of Ivory clinging to my skin. I wore cutoffs and a basic white tee. I’d skipped putting on makeup, except for a quick dab of tinted moisturizer and a swipe of lip gloss. Although it was so humid out, I hardly needed either.

Carmina had moved her weed-pulling to the front yard. She knelt over the flower bed at the bottom of the driveway, tossing weeds into a bucket. When the porch door slammed shut behind me, she looked up from beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat.

“What kind of job are you hoping for dressed like that?” she asked, rocking back on her heels to examine me.

“Don’t care.”

“You don’t care, you’re gonna get stuck with the cards at the bottom of the deck.”

“Somebody has to get them.”

“You’ve sure got the attitude down, don’t you? Get in the truck, then.”

An old Ford truck with peeling blue paint was parked in the driveway, and after wrenching the heavy passenger door open, I climbed in. The insides of both doors were rusted over and the seat covers had split open to reveal foam cushioning. The glove box lay open. I tried to shut it, but the securing mechanism must have been broken, because the door flopped open in the same position I’d found it. I rolled my eyes and hoped the next surprise wouldn’t be a rat darting across my foot.

“Really hoping you loan me this clunker,” I breathed cynically as Carmina hoisted herself behind the wheel.

“Buy your own truck. That’s what a paycheck’s for.” She pumped the gas pedal, cranked the ignition, and the engine growled to life. “Bought this truck working my first job. Felt good to be an independent woman. Wouldn’t dream of robbing you of the same satisfaction.”

“What year’s the truck?”

“ ’79.”

I whistled. “You’re older than I thought.”

“That what you think?” She laughed long and heartily. “Girl, didn’t anybody tell you you’re only as old as you feel? Judging by your long, sour face, I’m not the one who’s got something to worry about.”

As we drove down the gravel road that led to the paved street that would eventually take us into town, we passed a two-story redbrick house shaded by a grove of cottonwood trees. There were hanging flowerpots on the porch, and the architecture had the charm of, and potential for, a country bed and breakfast.

At that moment, Chet Falconer rounded the side of the house carrying a rusted toolbox in one hand and a ladder in the other. I still couldn’t see his face, but I recognized the low-tipped cowboy hat and white T-shirt.

“How old is he?” I asked.

“Nineteen.” After a beat, Carmina’s eyes darted to mine, as if she’d suddenly perceived something important. “Oh, no, you don’t. Don’t you get any ideas. That boy has enough trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“There’s only one kind of trouble—the kind you stay away from.” Carmina said it in a way that let me know she wasn’t going to give away more, no matter how hard I pressed. Fine by me. I could be patient. What she probably didn’t realize was that in telling me nothing, she’d made certain I would dig deeper into our resident man of mystery.

I watched Chet’s arms flex as he hoisted the toolbox onto the porch and braced the ladder against the side of the house. One thing was for sure, he had a nice body. Maybe country boys knew how to work it.

“He does a lot of home maintenance for a nineteen-year-old,” I said. “His parents must be slave drivers.”

Carmina cast me a disproving look. “His parents are dead. He’s man of the house. If he doesn’t take care of the place, no one will.”

I couldn’t believe he had the entire house to himself. In three months, I could be like him. Living alone, in the city of my choice. I couldn’t go back to Philly, but there were other places I liked. Boston was at the top of the list. “Where’s he going to college in the fall?”

“He isn’t.”

“He’s going to stay here in Thunder Basin and mow lawns for the rest of his life?”

Her eyes broke from the road to meet mine. I saw a flash of something in them. Anger, sorrow. A glimmer of pain. “Problem with that?” she said coolly.

“Yes. It’s a loser thing to do. He should get as far away from this place as possible and get a real life, a real job.”

Carmina didn’t answer, just kept her gaze forward, but I knew she’d understood my insult perfectly. Being a cop in a sleepy town like Thunder Basin wasn’t a real way of life. But the fact that she sat there and took the snub with nothing more than a resolute upward tilt of her chin made me somehow feel like she’d won this round.

*  *  *

We spent the next two hours popping in and out of fast-food joints and greasy diners dotting the seven blocks that made up Thunder Basin’s downtown. Most of the buildings were either redbrick or whitewashed cinder block. A bulbous water tower and a few grain silos made up the rest of the cityscape. Nailed to one storefront was a handmade sign that read
HAIRCUTS, 7.5 OWED
.
The tip alone on my usual cut is three times that,
I thought dryly.

I filled out an application at every restaurant, leaving it with the manager. I gave my fake name and my fake Social Security number, which matched the details in my fake passport. Carmina helped me fill out the address and phone number where I could be reached. I checked the boxes for waitress, dishwasher, and hostess—I didn’t care what job they gave me. I’d hate them all. I’d spend the next three months doing what I had to, and then I was out of here.

On the ride back, Carmina said, “Anything strike your fancy?”

I stared out the window at the haze of green rushing past in a blur. There was no rise and fall of the road, no hills to be climbed or valleys to dip into. The road was a straight shot, with tidy rows of plants walling me in on either side and a dome of blue trapping me from overhead. I felt like an ant under a glass. Hot, hopeless, doomed. “Nope.”

“You should have put on slacks and a blouse.”

“Nobody calls them slacks anymore.”

“They make a better impression than hacked-off jeans that show half your leg.”

I ran my fingers seductively up my thigh. “More than half, Carmina. A lot more than half. Besides, I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

She turned to face me, eyes widening theatrically. “You don’t say.”

AFTER DINNER, CARMINA WENT TO
Bible study. I was left at the house, stuck. I didn’t have a car. I could only travel as far as my own two feet saw fit. It occurred to me that if I did get a job, Carmina would have to provide me with transportation. It wasn’t like I could walk the five miles into town and back. At this point, I’d be happy with a bike. More and more, I was becoming convinced that being employed wasn’t such a bad way to pass the summer.