Dangerous Lies (6 page)

BY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, MY
temper had cooled slightly. I wasn’t in the mood to put on a dress and sit on a hard pew for an hour, but after spending most of the night stewing in a rage, I’d started to see things from a new perspective. Price wasn’t going to lift a finger for me if I didn’t show him I was trying to make things work with Carmina. Surely he knew me well enough to know I’d
never
go to church. Which meant if I did end up going, my willingness would become a powerful bargaining chip.
Look, Price,
I’d tell him,
I’m giving this my best shot. I even went to church. But in the end, Carmina and I aren’t a good match.

Ditto for Nebraska. But right now, I’d fight my battles one at a time.

Of course, there was always a chance they’d send me someplace worse. . . . Could things get worse than Thunder Basin? I cast a look full of disdain out my bedroom window. And had my answer.

I showered and flat-ironed my dark brown hair to sleek perfection. Standing before the mirror, I tousled my bangs. They were getting long, which I sensed was going to be a problem. I was better off trimming them myself, I decided, than letting someone at “Haircuts, 7.5 Owed” botch them.

Shortly before nine thirty, I trotted downstairs wearing a mint-green sundress and espadrille sandals that one of the deputies had hastily packed from my home. The shapeless muumuu dress Carmina had hung in the closet could hardly be called clothing. I was pretty sure the dress was the unspoken half of my punishment for taking the Mustang last night. Church
and
public humiliation.

“You look respectable,” Carmina said somewhat stiffly when I came downstairs. She carefully avoided my eyes. She hadn’t forgotten about last night, or forgiven me. We were on equal ground, then. What made me even angrier—what was extra painful—was that Carmina, a stranger, was mothering me when my own mother wouldn’t.

“I don’t want the dress you hung in my closet. Please remove it by the end of the day.” Without breaking stride, I continued into the kitchen and poured myself a mug of coffee.

“There’s a linger longer after church today,” Carmina called from the hallway. “If you don’t want to stay for it, you’ll have to walk back here or catch a ride.”

“I don’t know what a linger longer is,” I returned, burning my tongue on the hot black coffee. I would have preferred a heaping spoonful of sugar and a dash of cream, but I wasn’t about to ask Carmina for help finding either. Instead, I sipped as much of the coffee as I could tolerate before I felt my insides start to curl.

“Potluck. Everyone brings a dish and a picnic blanket.”

“Isn’t that adorable. A country picnic. I’ll pass.” I put my mug in the sink and met her in the hallway. She was wearing a long denim skirt, a white blouse, and those same red cowboy boots. Her platinum hair was smoothed back in a nineties French braid. I tried to come up with a snide remark about her sense of style, but in the end, I just rolled my eyes. “Well, it’s nine thirty sharp. Let’s get this show on the road. Wouldn’t dream of being late.”

“With attitude to spare,” Carmina murmured as she followed me out.

Oh, I was just getting started. I couldn’t wait to meet her church friends. If I had anything to say about it, Carmina and her new foster daughter would be the gossip of Sunday dinner tables across town tonight. I fully intended to be the one who left
her
feeling humiliated. She was an ex-cop. People saw her as an authority figure. Their opinions might shift after today.

I was going to walk all over her.

*  *  *

Carmina’s congregation met in a plain building that mildly resembled a large white barn. Arched windows ran along the sides of the church. A steeple capped the roof. A wide brick staircase led up to the double doors, which were open and letting out a stream of organ music. But what really caught my eye was the marquee sign on the lawn that read
EXPOSURE TO THE SON PREVENTS BURNING
.

I really hoped this meant the clergy had a sense of humor.

We were greeted at the door by a man wearing a crisply ironed black shirt and a clerical collar. His salt-and-pepper hair was parted on the side, and he smiled warmly at us. He was by all accounts so bland, it was impossible to be offended.

“Good morning, Carmina,” he said, clasping her hand affectionately. “I see you’ve brought a visitor.”

“Pastor Lykins, may I present Stella Gordon,” Carmina said. “She’ll be staying with me for the summer.”

Before Pastor Lykins could ask a host of follow-up questions—and I could see by the stark surprise in his widening eyes that he wanted to—Carmina propelled me inside by my elbow.

“You’re not even going to let me say hello to people?” I said as she steered me to a vacant pew. “Tsk, tsk, Carmina. Where are your manners?”

“You can open your mouth during the hymns.” She set her green bean casserole for the linger longer between us. “Something tells me you’ve got impressive pipes.”

Two silver-haired women shuffled into the pew in front of us, their gazes fluttering speculatively over me and Carmina. Just as one of them tried to catch Carmina’s eye, she fixed her attention on removing a ball of lint attached to her skirt, putting true diligence into the task. At that moment I realized just how uncomfortable Carmina was with having me stay for the summer. I knew my supposed reasons for being in Thunder Basin, but I’d never thought about Carmina’s side of the cover story. A reclusive and aging ex-cop fostering a seventeen-year-old? It was sure to raise a few eyebrows. I wondered why the U.S. attorney’s office had picked her. Her background in law enforcement had undoubtedly made her a desirable candidate.

Probably, she was getting paid a boatload for taking me in. I wasn’t an average foster—I was in WITSEC. The higher the danger, the steeper the pay. It was happening all over again: I was being used for money. The only reason my mom had fought for custody was so she could get child support from my dad . . . which she proceeded to use on drugs. And now Carmina was using me to pad her retirement.

Then again, Carmina didn’t seem that interested in money. Everything she owned was on the fast track to the junkyard. I got the feeling she hated shopping more than putting up with me.

Whatever her motivations, I strongly sensed Carmina’s game plan was to power through the summer by keeping her head down, dodging invasive inquiries, and praying the time passed quickly. I wondered what it felt like for her to lie to her friends and neighbors. After all, long after I was gone, she’d still have to live with these people, knowing she’d kept secrets and never been fully honest with them. I almost felt sorry for her.

But I wasn’t ready to let her off the hook just yet. Not after she’d forced me to come to church. I should have been sleeping in. That’s what the weekend was for.

“Why did you take me in?” I asked her, my tone a little bit demanding, a little bit suspicious.

“Pardon?”

“What’s in it for you? What do you get from all this? What made you take in a seventeen-year-old girl you don’t owe a thing to?”

“Now, that’s one question I can’t get off my mind.”

Carmina and I turned in our seats as Chet Falconer sprawled comfortably in the pew behind us. He’d cleaned up for church, putting on chinos and a lightweight navy polo. He’d ditched the cowboy hat and grass-stained boots, and it had completely transformed his appearance. I’d say one thing for Chet: He knew how to put a little flutter in my stomach. His blue eyes glittered, and he raked his damp curly hair behind his ears. He smelled like soap and sun-dried laundry, and it was an irresistible combination.

“Good morning, Chet,” Carmina said rigidly, then turned to face forward. Conversation over. I couldn’t tell if Chet had done something to offend her—now or in the past—or if she was always this ornery. Given that she’d bought his Mustang as recently as last year, and that he mowed her lawn, I was leaning toward the latter.

“Aw, Gran, you know I’m not gonna give up that easily,” Chet went on, leaning close to speak in her ear. “If you wanted help around the house, I could have loaned you Dusty. Kid’s an angel. Wouldn’t give you a single gray hair.”

Carmina made a
harrumph
sound. “You’re one to talk. You were just as much trouble at sixteen. Wasn’t that about the time I first arrested you?”

“This conversation is finally getting interesting,” I said, arching my eyebrows inquiringly at Chet.

“Outta luck, soldier,” he informed me. “Carmina keeps all my secrets. She knows I’d stop mowing her lawn if she let my skeletons out.”

“I made no such agreement,” Carmina scoffed.

“Your hair looks different,” Chet told me. “All dressed up, I almost didn’t recognize you. ‘Now, who is that pretty girl?’ I asked myself when I came in.”

I stuck my tongue out. “Speak for yourself. Are the pigs looking after your boots and hat?”

Chet grinned. “I bet this one’s a real peach around the house, Carmina.”

She gave another
harrumph
. Then her brow furrowed, and she fixed me with a probing gaze. “Am I to understand the two of you have met? When?” she demanded.

“Last night,” I said. “Chet helped me start the Mustang at the library. I couldn’t get it running. He’s very good with cars,” I added, twirling my necklace around my finger guilelessly.

The smile on Chet’s face slipped. His face clouded with confusion before blanching with a certain sickened dread.
She knows?
he mouthed at me.

“She does now,” I said sweetly.

Slowly, Carmina turned in the pew, giving Chet a dark, berating look. “You knew she stole my car last night, Chet Falconer? You helped her get away with it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Anything to say for yourself?”

“Carburetor was acting up again.”

“I ought to have you both arrested.”

Just then, the organist finished the final chord of the prelude music, and Pastor Lykins took his place at the pulpit. The congregation quieted, and all eyes turned to the front of the meetinghouse.

Carmina gave Chet a long, cool stare. Then she took the hymnal out of the seat pocket behind her and whacked it hard against his leg.

I bit my lip to stifle a giggle, just as Chet’s breath tickled my ear. “Think that’s funny, do you? My turn next.”

I MUST HAVE BEEN IN
a really good mood, because after church, I let Chet talk me into staying for the linger longer. On the church’s back lawn, he added two bags of potato chips to the spread of salads, casseroles, and desserts on folding tables. He hadn’t brought a picnic blanket, so after separating ourselves from the congregation, we made do with the grass in the shade of a leafy oak.

Chet lay on his back, his arms folded under his head. “I’m gonna get you back, you know.”

I kicked off my espadrilles and sank languidly against the tree trunk. “Someone wasn’t listening to Pastor Lykins’s sermon on forgiveness.”

“You always this self-righteous?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah. So?”

He rolled on his elbow, facing me. He dropped his voice to a secretive hush. “I remember what Pastor Lykins said about casting the devil behind us. Go on, girl. Get where you belong.”

I kicked him in the leg.

“Before church, you and Carmina mentioned someone named Dusty,” I said. “Who is he?”

“My kid brother.” Chet’s countenance darkened and the banter went out of him. “I’d formally introduce you, but I didn’t get the pleasure of dragging his butt to church this morning. He never came home last night.”

“Little brother?” When Carmina said Chet was man of the house, I’d envisioned him living alone. “Aren’t you only nineteen?”

“Only? You’re not that far behind.”

“What I mean is, is it even legal for the two of you to live together?” I knew Chet’s parents were dead, but I hadn’t realized he’d taken on more than just ownership of the house—he was also his little brother’s guardian. “How old is he?”

“Sixteen. Old enough to drive, not that he waited until he got his license to start. My parents used to try to slow him down by hiding the car keys, but necessity is the mother of invention, and he taught himself how to hot-wire cars at thirteen. Park your car on the street at night, and he’s likely to borrow it. He’ll bring it back by morning, a little lighter on gas.” Chet made a sound of disgust. “When he finally does drag his butt home from whatever party he crashed, I swear I’m gonna lock him in the crawl space for a week.”

“Crawl space?”

“Surprised you didn’t have them in Tennessee. No? A crawl space is an underground tornado shelter. Just what it sounds like—a tunnel under the house with enough room to crawl inside on your hands and knees. Carmina has a newer shelter in her backyard, with two doors opening to a staircase that leads to an underground bunker. About ten by ten in size, lock on the door. Some neighborhood kids and I used to use it as a clubhouse—had a ‘No Girls Allowed’ sign and everything.”

As a matter of fact, I had seen a set of low-lying doors, mounted at an angle, not far from her back porch. I’d just assumed the doors led to a storage cellar.

Chet said, “You’ll get your chance to go inside one. It would be rare for a summer to pass without a tornado touching down in the area.”