Follow Me (Corrupted Hearts) (5 page)

I overlapped the edges of my flannel shirt, hugging it to me. Rarely did I contemplate my looks. I’d come to terms a long time ago that while I was cute, I didn’t have the patience or ambition to spend a lot of time on things like hair, clothes, and makeup. I had good hair, thick and long, but never knew how to style it so always settled on a ponytail.

My dad had tried to get me contacts when I was in high school, but I couldn’t get the damn things in. Not even the optometrist could pry my eye open long enough to push the little lens inside. I didn’t really care. The idea of sticking my finger in my eye twice a day grossed me out anyway. Yuck. I’d stick with my glasses, thank you very much.

Seeing Jackson’s nice clothes reminded me of my own, and I glanced down at my faded jeans. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone shopping. I ordered all my stuff online and if it was too big—which the jeans usually were—I just used a belt and rolled them up. My wardrobe consisted of about five dozen T-shirts, numerous jeans in various states of wear, and a rainbow of long-sleeved shirts I used for warmth (I was perpetually cold)—and to conceal my less-than-curvy figure.

The only things I wore that were expensive were my bra and underwear.

I was on an ongoing quest to find a bra that would actually make my (barely) B-cup chest look like I had actual cleavage, and I stalked Victoria’s Secret on a regular basis. And I couldn’t buy the pretty bras without buying the matching panties and I certainly couldn’t
wear
a mismatched set, which meant every day I wore ridiculously expensive lingerie underneath my T-shirts and jeans.

Though I’d yet to find that perfect bra, I didn’t mind searching.

Jackson seemed content to let the wind rushing by fill any need for conversation, which suited me just fine. I was nervous enough as it was, just thinking about having to carry on casual conversation during lunch without also stressing about what to say while he drove.

The awesome thing about this convertible was that the car was designed in such a way that you didn’t get blown to pieces just because the top was down. It also had a climate system that sensed the temperature and kept you warm from the neck down—in my case, the eyebrows down—so even if it was a bit chilly like today, I was still toasty warm. It was an absolute dream car and I didn’t want to know how much he’d paid or what part of his soul he’d sold to get it before it had been released to the market.

Unfortunately, the restaurant really was right around the corner, as in less than a mile away, so I didn’t get to ride in it for very long.

The staff knew Jackson on sight and the host smiled, rattling off something in Spanish to which Jackson readily replied. Apparently, he knew Spanish.

A gorgeous, filthy rich, multilingual genius. Was there anything this man couldn’t do? Maybe animals hated him. Or he was stumped by a Rubik’s Cube. I bet he had ugly feet. Oh, who was I kidding? His feet were no doubt as perfect as the rest of him.

We were led to a booth and I slid in on the far side. The host set a menu in front of me and another in front of Jackson. I immediately began studying it as though preparing to take a pop quiz.

“The enchiladas are particularly good here,” Jackson said.

I took that as a decent suggestion and when the waiter showed up, ordered the enchilada trio. Jackson ordered the same thing, plus a margarita with Patrón. Now it was my turn to stare.

“Did you want a margarita as well?” he asked politely.

“I don’t really drink much,” I said. “But thank you.” Which was an understatement. I drank once in a blue moon, mostly because I couldn’t hold my liquor. Zero tolerance plus a body weight barely into triple digits meant I could handle approximately one and a half drinks before I was drunk. Being drunk wasn’t a particularly good look for me, so I avoided alcohol.

Once the waiter had brought my water and his margarita, Jackson smiled and said, “So tell me a little more about yourself, China.”

My mind went blank, like a deer caught in headlights.

“Um . . . well, uh . . . I, um, guess there’s not a lot to tell,” I said at last.

“Sure there is. I read your employee file. You’re quite extraordinary, actually. And you come from the Midwest, right?”

I was blushing from the “extraordinary” comment, but managed to nod. “Omaha.”

“You have siblings?”

“Two older brothers.”

“I see. So you’re the baby of the family, then.”

“I’m the youngest, if that’s what you mean,” I said. I’d always disliked being referred to as the “baby.” Maybe it was because of my size. My brothers both topped me by a foot or more and nearly a hundred pounds each.

“Are your brothers similarly gifted?”

“That’s a trick question,” I said.

Jackson’s lips lifted ever so faintly. “How so?”

“Well,
A
, I don’t think of myself as ‘gifted’ and
B
, my brothers are extraordinary in their own ways. I’m not ‘better’ than them just because my IQ is higher.”

“So then tell me what these
extraordinary
older brothers do for a living,” Jackson said, and I had the feeling he was being sarcastic, but I couldn’t be sure.

“Oslo is a risk analyst for an insurance company,” I said. “He’s the oldest. Jack is the middle child. He runs my dad’s farm now. Oslo is twelve years older than me, Jack is eight.”

“So you came along late?”

I nodded. “My mother really wanted to have a girl, but they had trouble getting pregnant again. I think they’d given up and then wham! I showed up.”

Jackson smiled slightly. “Are you close to your parents?”

That struck the part of me that always hurt when I thought about my mom. “I was close to my mom,” I said, ignoring the twinge of sadness. “But she died in a car wreck when I was eight.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” He seemed sincere, which was a nice change since up to now he’d had a slight edge to his questions, as though he was humoring me or finding me amusing or something like that. It was hard to say, which only fueled my frustration and irritated me.

I couldn’t fake a smile now even if I cared to make the effort, which I didn’t. “Yeah. It was . . . hard.” An understatement. I’d spent years longing for my mother, wishing she’d been able to give me advice. She alone had understood me and how difficult it was for me to interact with people. She’d guided me and “translated” when I just couldn’t understand. Were they laughing
at
me or did I say something funny? Is that person sad or angry? Was that a sarcastic statement or were they serious? I missed her every day.

Mom had been the one who’d fought to keep me with other kids my age, saying they could get me tutors to advance my schooling, but that my social development was important, too. Once she’d died, Dad had quit fighting the schools that recruited me, dangling scholarships in front of us and saying it would be a crime to not allow me to explore my full potential.

“And your dad?” Jackson asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

“He coped okay. He’s never remarried and he’s stayed on the farm. Jack worked for ConAgra for a while, then started working with my dad when he needed help. He’s gradually taken over more and more as my dad has gotten older.” I didn’t want to keep talking about myself, so I turned the conversation toward him, as my mom had taught me. “What about you?”

The waiter interrupted, setting two identical plates down in front of us. The food smelled heavenly and my stomach let out another growl in anticipation.

“Not much to tell,” he said. “Only child. Parents still alive, but divorced.”

I burned my tongue on the enchilada, of course, and had to gulp down some water, so it was a moment before I could respond. “Do they live around here?”

Jackson shook his head as he chewed his own enchilada, which obviously didn’t burn his tongue. “They both live in Florida now.”

“Did they know you were . . .” I faltered.
Special
didn’t sound quite right, and I wasn’t sure I could say
genius
without sounding like I was sucking up.

“Did they know I was gifted?” he supplied. I nodded. “They found out pretty quickly. I was speaking in full, complex sentences by the time I was two. Reading by the time I was four. Math development was similar. Things took a pretty advanced path after that.”

I nodded, then drew a blank on what to ask next or how to keep the conversation going. I settled for taking another careful bite of my food.

“How do you know about cars?” he asked.

Shit. That’s what I got for not having another question prepared. Now I had to talk about myself again and he’d see just how boring I actually was, if he didn’t realize already.

“Nothing special,” I said. “Self-taught.”

“But why? You just like them?”

“It was something I could talk about with my dad and brothers.” If I was being bluntly honest, and really, that’s the only way I knew how to be. The art of subtle obfuscation escaped me.

Jackson paused in his chewing, his brown eyes intent on me. I was rethinking that blunt honesty thing when he spoke.

“Why would you think you needed to find something that interested them? Couldn’t they have been the ones to find a commonality between you?”

And again, I couldn’t think what to say. But he was waiting for an answer, so again that honesty thing came out.

“I’ve never thought that way,” I said with a shrug. “They’re normal. I’m not.”

“Bullshit. You’re better than normal.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, taking another bite of his food afterward. My throat thickened and with horror I realized my eyes stung.

Oh my God . . . was I going to
cry
??? I never cried. Ever. It would have to be while I was having my first, and probably only, lunch with my boss that my girly emotions decided to let me know they really did exist.

The waiter walked by and I reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Margarita on the rocks, no salt.”

“Sí,”
he said with a smile and nod before hurrying off.

I cleared my throat and applied myself to eating my food, avoiding looking at Jackson. If I’d been unsure what to talk about before, now I was at a total loss.

The food was good and I was starving. I pushed the unsettling conversation to the back of my mind and ate every bite on my plate. The margarita arrived and I sucked that down, too, ignoring the little voice of warning in my head that said it might not be the best idea.

The waiter took away our plates and I expected him to bring the check, but instead he brought fried ice cream and set it in front of Jackson.

“I always get fried ice cream,” he said, pushing it into the center between us. “Have some.”

My last date had been five years ago. It had been with my lab partner at MIT, Rolf. He’d taken me to Cracker Barrel for dinner, then had spent an inordinately long amount of time in the bathroom. There hadn’t been a second date. But we’d both gotten an A in the class. However, we
hadn’t
shared dessert.

Jackson dug into the ice cream like it wasn’t a big deal to be sharing with me, though it felt very different from my side of the table.

Tentatively, I picked up my spoon and scooped a bit of ice cream. It was good. Jackson ate more than I did.

It felt so odd to see him like this, casual and relaxed. In the office, he was unapproachable—the lord presiding over the peons. At least, that’s how I felt. Others spoke of him with admiration and awe. My interactions with him, until now, had been minimal and perfunctory at best. A “good morning” or “good evening” exchanged, but nothing more. And now I was sharing dessert with him.

Surreal.

I was feeling that margarita now, belatedly regretting my sucking down tequila in the middle of the day. It loosened my tongue, and, given my already dysfunctional social thermometer, that was a Bad Thing.

“What’s it like being you?” I blurted.

Jackson’s eyebrows climbed as he scooped up the last bit of fried ice cream. “What’s it like being me?” he echoed.

I nodded. “You’re like . . . perfect.” My voice got dreamy as I elaborated. “Supersmart, handsome, rich, famous. You have it all, right? What’s that like?” I couldn’t imagine. I was smart and yes, made a good salary, but that was where our similarities ended.

He grimaced. “It’s not as great as you make it sound. I live in a bubble, every move is scrutinized in the gossip rags, the finance pages, and the tech blogs.”

“Oh.” I was kind of let down. Jackson was likely the closest I’d ever be to an honest-to-goodness superstar.

Maybe Jackson sensed my disappointment, because he added, “But it does get me the Cabriolet.” And he winked. I smiled. “And apparently you think I’m handsome.”

My smile disappeared. “I-I’m sorry,” I stammered, cursing Jose Cuervo. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re not going to take it back, are you?” he asked, and he was still smiling, so I catalogued that as him teasing me. I relaxed.

“Nope.” I downed the final big swallow of margarita, ignoring the creeping embarrassment that would surely harangue me later when I was fully sober.

He paid, which I gave token protest to, but he overrode me with ease.

“Thanks,” I said, preceding him.

“You’re welcome.”

I felt a touch on the small of my back as we went out the door, and it felt as though I’d been given an electric shock. He’d touched me. Jackson. And I’d had just enough alcohol to appreciate it way more than I should have.

We were in the car when his cell rang. He answered and I tuned out the conversation, too busy studying the amazing stitchwork on the leather seats, until Jackson said, “I’ll be right there.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked as he ended the call.

“A friend of mine,” he said.

“Yeah?” I prompted when he didn’t continue.

“He’s dead.”

That sobered me right up.

4

I didn’t say anything as Jackson passed the turn to Cysnet and accelerated onto the highway. It appeared I’d be going with him . . . wherever we were going.

We headed north of downtown and twenty minutes later pulled into a nice, heavily treed subdivision. My eyes widened at the homes—beautiful, expansive brick structures with no two looking alike. It was a gorgeous neighborhood, especially with the leaves starting to turn, which is why it was so jarring to round a corner and see a line of emergency vehicles outside the last home in the cul-de-sac.

“C’mon,” Jackson said, parking on the other side of the street. He was up and out of the car before I’d even processed that he meant I should come, too.

I hurried to follow him, his long strides eating up the pavement and making me have to jog to catch up. He intercepted a fireman heading back to his truck.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” the man replied. “Privacy issues.”

“Fine. Where’s Madeline?”

“Who?”

“The resident.” Jackson sounded impatient.

“Oh. Yes, she’s inside. I believe the paramedics were seeing to her.”

Jackson was off before the man had even finished his sentence, heading for the front door, which was ajar. He went through and I followed.

The inside was as beautiful as the outside and tastefully decorated. The hardwood floor gleamed and the chandelier sparkled overhead in the sunlight, conveying a cheerful effect in stark contrast to the woman seated on an ottoman in the living room. She glanced up as Jackson reached her, and the expression of devastation on her face was painful to witness.

“Jackson, thank God,” she said, lifting her arms as her eyes welled with tears.

He crouched down and hugged her. I stopped a few feet away, feeling like an intruder.

The woman was older, perhaps in her fifties, and Asian. Her hair was beautiful: black, shot through with silver, and wavy down past her shoulders. Slim and long-limbed, she wore a long-sleeved wrap dress in a turquoise-and-white pattern.

“Tell me what happened,” Jackson said gently, pulling back and taking both her hands in his. His position put them at eye level as he crouched in front of her.

“I was out of town,” she said softly, and I had the sense she was trying to keep her composure. My heart went out to her. Obviously, the man—Jackson’s friend—had been her . . . husband? That seemed about right. “And I called last night. Tom was distracted, worried, but didn’t want to discuss whatever was bothering him. I don’t think he wanted me to worry.

“He said he had some work to do,” she continued, “so we didn’t speak for long. This morning, I tried to call him before I flew back, but he didn’t answer. When I got home, I couldn’t find him, and the house smelled funny.” Tears rolled down her cheeks now, but her voice remained steady. “I went into the garage, and that’s when I found him. The car was still running.”

Oh. Oh wow. She’d found her husband after he’d committed suicide. That was just . . . just horrible. It was hard for me to even begin to comprehend how Madeline must be feeling.

“Did he leave a note?” Jackson asked.

Madeline shook her head. “No. I just can’t believe he would’ve done this. I know he trusted you—that’s why I called. I thought you might know if he was in trouble somehow.”

“You’re thinking foul play.”

“It has to be, Jackson. You knew Tom. He wouldn’t have done this.”

I felt like an intruder, listening to them, so I backed off to give them some privacy. The police were wrapping things up and I saw the ambulance drive away. The fire truck was likewise gone.

A couple of cops were in the kitchen talking quietly when I walked in. They both glanced at me.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude. I was just giving the widow some privacy.”

“Sure, no problem,” one of them said. The other gave me a nod as he walked by and headed outside. “You’re a friend of the family?”

Easiest way to answer that was “Yes.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” I hesitated, then said, “Madeline thinks foul play might be involved. Could that be true?”

The officer grimaced. “They all want to think that,” he said. “I don’t blame them. It’s easier to think their loved one was killed than that they’d take their own life.”

“But you don’t think it was.”

“No. There’s nothing to suggest that. It’s pretty clear-cut.”

I nodded, thinking about what he said versus what Madeline had said.

“If you’ll excuse me, we’re going to clear out of here.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He moved past me. “You might not want to leave her alone tonight,” he suggested. “She’ll need some time to process this and we wouldn’t want her doing anything rash once the shock has worn off.”

I understood what he was saying. “Yes, good idea. We won’t.”

I waited a little longer in the kitchen, then drifted down a corridor to a set of French doors that were slightly ajar. I could see into the room beyond and it looked like an office. Maybe it had been Tom’s. Curiosity had me pushing open the door the rest of the way.

It was like any other office with a computer on the desk and three monitors attached. Papers were scattered and I moved closer, glancing over them.

Notes, it seemed, and a list of program errors in the software he must’ve been working on. Half of them had been checked off.

“There you are.”

I jumped at Jackson’s voice and spun around. “You startled me.” My heart was racing.

“I didn’t know where you’d gone.” He looked at me with that strange expression again. “Might be a little impetuous for you to wander the house, but you probably didn’t think of that.”

Oh shit. I’d done something rude and hadn’t even realized. I pushed my glasses up my nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted. “Like I said, it probably didn’t even occur to you. It’s not as though you were being deliberate about it.”

I couldn’t tell if he was angry or not, and since he hadn’t outright
said
he was mad, I went with not.

“The cops said it was a clear-cut suicide,” I offered.

Jackson winced. “He was a friend of mine,” he said.

I understood what he meant and immediately wanted to crawl into a hole. Could I have been more insensitive? This was why interacting with people exhausted me and left me feeling inadequate. Sometimes I just said the wrong thing. Oh, who was I kidding—not
sometimes
,
ALL
the time.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I’m not good at this. Can I do anything? Do you need something?” Being given a task would be so much easier than finding the right words to say. “Would you like some hot tea? I drink chamomile every night and it’s very soothing.”

“No. I was actually coming in here to have a look around,” he said. “And you don’t have to apologize. You’re probably the one thinking the clearest at the moment, without emotions affecting your logic.”

I wasn’t sure about that. Embarrassment was doing a pretty good job of impeding my thinking, but I didn’t say anything.

“Did anything catch your eye?” he asked.

“I hadn’t looked around very much.”

“Madeline seems to think foul play was involved.”

“I know. I heard,” I said. “But if the police can’t find any evidence, then I don’t know what else you can do.”

“Well, if he was murdered and they made it look like a suicide, they wouldn’t leave evidence now, would they?”

I didn’t argue, just resumed my trip around the office, stopping in various spots to peruse the dead man’s effects. “Where did he work?”

Jackson looked at me. “Wyndemere.”

Oh. “I really hope that’s just coincidence,” I said. “Because otherwise it’s a little . . . disconcerting.” I was proud that I’d found a better word than the one that had immediately come to mind, which was
terrifying
.

“Me, too.”

Although we went through the office, neither of us found anything. No work files that looked incriminating or worth killing over, and no suicide note. I even dug through the trash, but came up empty.

“Let’s go ahead and leave,” Jackson said at last. “Madeline’s sister is on her way to stay with her and I don’t want to intrude further.”

We said good-bye to Madeline, and Jackson promised to be in touch. He didn’t say anything on the way back to the office, appearing deep in thought, so I stayed quiet, too. Until my phone began shrieking at me.

“It’s me! Your favorite niece. Pick up the phone! I know you’re there. Answer me—”

I scrambled for my cell, digging in my pocket and pulling it out. It was even louder now. Mia must have changed my ringtone. When the hell had she done that?

“Yeah?”

“Hey, Aunt Chi!”

“What did you do to my phone?” I hissed as Jackson glanced sideways at me.

“Oh yeah, you like it? Way better than that boring ringtone you had, and now you know it’s me without looking!”

“I like
my
ringtone.”

“Seriously? It was some weird western song.”

Jackson was listening, I could tell, so I turned away slightly so he wouldn’t hear me. “It’s the theme to
Firefly
.”

“To what?”

“
Firefly
,” I said louder.

“What’s that?”

I sighed and closed my eyes. It wasn’t worth it. “What did you want?”

“Oh yeah, why I’m calling. I want to make brownies but I can’t find your flour.”

“You want to do what?”

“Make brownies.”

I didn’t even know if I owned a pan to make brownies in, much less have flour. “I don’t do a lot of baking, Mia. If you want brownies, you’ll have to buy them.”

“Okay, but homemade is better. I’ll walk across the street to the drugstore then. They’ll have brownies.”

Was that okay for her to do? Was she old enough? Would a good parent tell her no, she shouldn’t do that? I had no idea. I guessed if she thought it was okay, then it probably was? I had no clue.

“Ah, okay, I guess. Hey, did you call your dad?” The sooner I could send her back home to her parents, the better we’d all be.

“We had a long talk, yes, and guess what?” She sounded terribly excited, which I instinctively knew meant I
wouldn’t
be. “He said I could stay with you for a semester! And I researched it and everything and the high school here is only four miles away. I called and got an appointment to go in and meet with them and register.”

My mouth was gaping, but it took me several long moments to realize it.

“Aunt Chi? Are you there?”

“Um, yeah, I’m here. Listen, let me call you back in a little bit. I’m not in the office right now.”

“’kay. I’m so excited! Bye!”

My next call was to Oslo, and I didn’t bother going through conventional social niceties when he answered.

“You told Mia she could stay with me? For a
semester
?” That came out kind of squeaky. I cleared my throat, glancing at Jackson, who seemed not to be paying attention.

“Please, China,” Oslo said. “She and Heather are going through a rough time right now. They’re bickering constantly. If Heather says the sky is blue, Mia says it’s . . . orange.” He paused. “It’s because of her mom leaving, China, I know it is. I tried to get her to talk to a therapist, but she won’t. It’s been years, but that kind of thing . . . it doesn’t ever go away. Your own mother abandoning you. I mean, hell, it was excruciating for me and I was just married to the woman. She wasn’t
my
mother. Please. Can she stay?”

Damn it. No way would I say no now, and Oslo knew it. “I don’t know how to deal with a teenage girl,” I said, in one last futile attempt. “She’s going to hate staying with me.”

There was an awkward silence, and it clicked.

“Oh,” I said. “That’s what you want. If she hates it here, she’ll realize how good she has it there, and will change her tune. Nice, Oslo.”

He must’ve heard the hurt and anger I couldn’t disguise. “It’s not like that, China,” he said. “But . . . yeah. I’m hoping a few months there will . . . change her perspective.”

“You’re lucky I like her,” I said, then ended the call. And I did like Mia. I could understand how she’d feel about her biological mom leaving her. Although I knew that my mom hadn’t wanted to leave me when I was eight, the stages of grief included an anger phase where you do blame the person who died for leaving. Very common.

I stared out the windshield, my mind racing. I wasn’t equipped to deal with a teenager. I’d have to be like a pseudo-parental figure or something. I couldn’t even keep a goldfish alive, so my qualifications for caring for another actual living person were pretty slim.

“Everything okay?”

Jarred from my thoughts, I turned to Jackson. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, no, not really.”

“No? Or yes?”

“No, well, I don’t know.”

He was looking at me like I was an alien and I thought I should explain.

“It’s just that my niece, Mia, decided to run away from home last night and flew here. Now I guess she’s convinced her dad—my brother—to let her stay here with me for a semester.”

“Is she a problem kid? On drugs or something like that?”