Hush Hush #2 (16 page)

The muscle in his jaw jumps with what he says next. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to see me after this. After seeing who I really am.”

I can feel my heart leap in my chest. The words come before my mind has time to think.

“But I do.”

My back stiffens with resolve. I’m now realizing that the mystery of my parents’ incarceration is just beginning to unfold. And I have a duty to my parents—and to myself—to follow the truth, wherever it may lead.

And yet—there’s also something else. It’s persistent, tugging at my thoughts. It’s the notion that, despite everything he’s shown me, I’m still not convinced that he’s the criminal he claims to be. And if it’s true, I need to know. I need to justify my intractable attraction to him. It transcends all reason. It’s magnetic.

“I’ve told you before that this is a dangerous road to go down,” Liam says. “That you don’t want to get mixed up with a person like me, not emotionally.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do,” he counters. “It’s safer for you, if I’m just a stranger. If we keep our relationship strictly physical. But anything more than that, if you start to know the things that I know…and if people find out…”
 

Liam’s voice trails off for a moment.
 

He looks back at me. “My world is filled with dangerous people, Sophia. I need you to think hard about what you’re getting into.”
 

“Don’t you want me in your world?” I ask softly, leaning my cheek against his touch.

His thumb grazes my cheekbone. “Very much.”

“Then why do you seem to be trying so hard to keep me out?” I say.

“Because I don’t think you’ve weighed the risks of what you’re in for,” he says. “Listen, just think about what I said. Sleep on it, all right? But first—“

He leans in. His lips find mine.
 

The kiss is warm and soft and slow and utterly wonderful, like being kissed for the first time all over again. I can feel my knees sway beneath me, and my body turns featherlight. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the birds chirping, and for a moment it feels like I’m flying with them.
 

I’m too wired to go back to my hotel, so I end up driving loops around the French Quarter after coming back from Liam’s house. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, my mind spinning back to Liam’s ominous, so-called dangerous world.
 

How dangerous could it be, really?
I think to myself. But then, almost instantly, the possibilities leap out to mind. Mobsters. Cartel heads. Or maybe something worse.

I find myself wishing that I could talk to Miranda about all of this. I could use some of her professional insight right about now.
 

But if I call her, I can expect one of two things. Option A: if she’s still angry with me, she’ll berate me, call me some names, and then hang up the phone on me. On the other hand, there is Option B: if she’s ready to reconcile, she’ll tell me, in detail, why I was the one in the wrong, and then she’ll demand that I apologize.
 

I wince. I’d really rather not do either one, honestly. But if I ever want to talk to her again, it’s going to happen eventually. Better to call her now and just get it over with, like ripping off a bandage.

I pick up the phone and dial her number. She doesn’t pick up at first, but I am undeterred. I try again.

This time, finally, she picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hey doll, sorry about that. Didn’t realize I had my phone on silent.”

I had expected a sullen tone, or name-calling, or
something
. But she sounds effortlessly cheery, as if our blow-up the other day had simply never happened. I’m taken aback by this, momentarily speechless.

“Sooo…what’s up?” she says.

“I…uh…” I say, trying to collect myself. “We’re okay, right? We’re cool?”

“Like the other side of the pillow,” she says. “Sorry, I know I totally lost my temper. You know I’m not very good about that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tease gently, testing the waters. To my relief, she laughs.

“All right, all right,” she says. “So what’s going on?”
 

I hesitate. That’s it? Really?
 

This seems almost too easy.

But there’s nothing else to say, so all I can do is chalk it up to a good mood and move on.
 

I tell her, “I saw Liam.”

“Yeah? So, what, you’re calling because your lipstick is smudged from a rollicking make out session and now you need some beauty tips?”

I roll my eyes. It’s funny, how instantly Miranda and I can spring back to our normal goading banter. It’s second nature.

“He opened up, Miranda,” I say, my voice rising with excitement. “He finally opened up.” I tell her all about Finn, and the charity-robbery-gone-wrong, and—more intriguingly—the Hawthornes’ mysterious boss.

When I am done, Miranda is quiet for a moment, and then says, “Hmmm.”

“‘Hmmm’? That’s it?” I say disappointedly.

“Sorry to waste all your hard work, doll, but this is all a moot point by now. While you were going on field trips with Mr. Bondage, I was busy putting together a new plan,” she says, “so we can finally complete this scheme and get the hell out of here.”

This piques my interest. “Yeah? What’s the plan?”

“I can’t tell you. Not yet. I need to smooth out a few details first.”

This wouldn’t be the first time that Miranda’s kept me in the dark, but there’s something odd about her tone. And although she may be a skilled actress, she can’t fool
me.
I know her far too well.

“What’s going on?” I ask suspiciously.

“You’ll see soon enough. But trust me, this is going to fix
everything
,” she says quickly. “The Hawthornes are going down.”

“If you say so,” I say, still feeling vaguely uncertain. “Are you still in New Orleans?”
 

“The hotel’s booked through the end of the week, so yeah, I am.”

“I see,” I say. “Are you busy? Can you step out long enough to have a drink? I’m feeling a little restless.”

“April, I really wish I could, but I’ve got to go heads down on this right now. Tell you what, you go ahead and have two drinks: one for you, and one for me. Say something hilarious and pretend that I said it.”

And then, abruptly, she hangs up the phone.
 

A black feeling of foreboding sweeps over me. Whatever it is that she’s planning, I have a suspicion that it won’t be anything good.

16

I find out the next morning.

It begins like any other: I wake up around eight, kick off the perpetually tangled sheets, and shuffle over to the coffee maker. I make a small pot of coffee, then slug it down while I inspect my notes for the thousandth time. This time, though, I’ve added a few new ones:
 

FINN.
 

EVERY PAGE, EVERYONE.
 

THE HAWTHORNES’ BOSS??

I stare at them for a while, as if somehow the answers will reveal themselves to me. But of course they don’t, and when I finish my coffee, I finally break my gaze.

Coffee is followed by a quick shower and a change of clothes. I pick out a form-fitting navy dress, matched with a white cardigan with navy trim. I scrutinize myself in the mirror, running my hands over my curves, wondering if Liam will like it. Liam’s not expecting to see me, but after our yesterday’s excursion, I don’t think he’ll mind if I drop by his office.

Because I’ve thought about what he’s told me, just like he asked. And I’m absolutely certain—I want to keep seeing him.
 

No, it’s more than that. I
need
to. Dangerous or not, there’s nowhere I can go but further into his world. My quest for vengeance pushes me forward; my magnetic attraction pulls me in.

There is a cleaning lady in the hotel corridor when I leave my room, stuffing towels into the bottom of a trolley. She watches me intently as I lock the door; I can feel her eyes on my back all the way down the corridor. It makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable, though I try not to give it too much thought.
 

But then as I walk into the hotel’s main lobby, I can sense the two women at the front desk watching me too. Their eyes flick away just as I look up. Their conversation turns quick and hushed. I can feel the hair on the back of my neck prickling.
 

Don’t be paranoid
, I tell myself, trying to ease my discomfort.

I turn away from them, intending to hunt down a quick bite for breakfast. That little flutter in my stomach is a symptom of hunger, not nervousness. Or at least, that’s what I try to tell myself.

But when I pass the large entryway table, which is lined with complimentary morning newspapers, something catches my eye and I grind to a halt. There’s a photo on the front cover, a frowning face stamped in black and white.
 

With a gasp, I recognize the dark eyes, the slightly freckled nose.

It’s
me.

DAUGHTER OF NEW ORLEANS CON ARTISTS RETURNS TO CITY UNDER FALSE IDENTITY,
the headline screams. Underneath, it reads:
APRIL MORRISON, 25, IS THE DAUGHTER OF RON AND DARLA MORRISON, CONVICTED 11 YEARS AGO FOR FRAUD…

I grab the paper and read frantically. The article is a wild work of fiction, with only hints of truth laced throughout. It claims that I had inherited my parents’ devious ways, learning at their feet even as a young child. That I had taken on the pseudonym of “Sophia” as soon as I turned eighteen, leaving the name “April” behind for good. My life following that moment had been a lie.

It claims that I had oriented my entire life around one goal: vengeance against the Hawthornes. I blamed them for my parents’ incarceration. I intended to carry out the scam that my parents never could, bleeding every possible cent from the Hawthornes.

And that I was going to use their son Liam to do it.

So this must be it. This must be Miranda’s plan,
I think numbly, turning over the pages in my hand.
But why?
Why would she do this to me?

My fingers are shaking violently when I reach for my phone. Miranda answers almost immediately.

“I was waiting for you to call. Sleep in this morning, did we?” she says in that smarmy tone of hers.

“My face is in the
paper
, Miranda! You burned me!” I burst out, rushing back to the safety of my hotel room. The women at the front desk stare as I pass. “What the
hell
is wrong with you?”

“Look, don’t take it personally,” she says matter-of-factly. “You weren’t holding up your end of the deal, so I needed you out of the way so I could finish the job.”

“Not holding up my end of the deal?” I repeat hotly. “
I
was the one gathering information.
I
was the one doing all of the leg work.”

“See, that’s exactly the problem—you just don’t understand how this works, even though I’ve explained it to you a hundred times. It’s not about ‘gathering information,’ it’s about
action
,” Miranda says. “You lost sight of your goal. You let your feelings for this guy cloud your vision.”

“That’s not true,” I argue. “I still want to see the Hawthornes go down.”

“But when? How? What was your brilliant plan, April?” It’s clear from her tone that she knows I don’t have an answer.

“Well…I’m working out the details,” I admit uncomfortably.
 

“Uh-huh,” she replies in an I-told-you-so voice.

“But, Miranda, Liam just started opening up to me yesterday,” I say. “He was
finally
starting to trust me, to give me information that I could use against his parents. This was
working
. I could feel it in my gut. It was only a matter of time.”

“Are we talking weeks or months?” she retorts. “Not all of us have the luxury of that kind of time, April. I
told
you that we were on a strict schedule here.”

“And so how are
you
going to finish the job, then?” I challenge. My voice quavers. “Liam knows you as
Sophia’s
friend. If you show your face around him, he’s going to know you’re a liar. When you exposed me, you ruined your own cover.”

“Wrong again,” she snaps. “April Morrison’s been using a false name since she was eighteen years old—didn’t you read the article? Carol Guyette has no idea that her former friend has such a
sordid
history. Believe me, it will give her and Liam
plenty
to talk about.”

There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. She really does have everything figured out.

Almost
everything. “You’ve made a mistake,” I tell her. “This thing with the Hawthornes goes way deeper than we realized. They have an employer. The
Hawthornes
have an employer—can you imagine how much money
they’d
have? Don’t you think it was worth looking into them?” Of course, I’m not actually interested in a heftier jackpot—only vengeance—but I’m just trying to speak her language.

“I’m not interested in dismantling some grand rich-criminal network, April. I’m just interested in getting some quick cash,” Miranda says. She pauses, then adds thoughtfully: “And maybe a jet.”

And then she hangs up.

I stare at the phone in stunned disbelief. The screen suddenly lights up again—a text message. I bring it closer, expecting it to be Miranda with one final parting jab.
 

But it’s not her.

It’s Liam.

Come right now
, the message reads.
We need to talk.