Lies I Told (4 page)

“You closed the windows, right, honey?” my mom asked, checking them anyway.

We were in the upstairs den, the designated War Room for the Playa Hermosa con. Every job had some kind of War Room. It was the only place we were allowed to discuss strategy, brainstorm solutions to problems, and give progress reports. Limiting our discussion of the job to one room meant we couldn't make a mistake in deciding if it was safe to talk. Couldn't forget where we were and discuss the con near an open window or out in public where anyone could be listening. It was a rule that had been ingrained in Parker and me since the beginning. I couldn't remember anyone breaking it.

The Playa Hermosa War Room looked like any suburban media room. Overstuffed sofa? Check. Bar? Check?
Massive TV complete with surround sound? Double check. Except it also had a small table for our meetings and a shredder, essential for adherence to our leave-no-proof rule.

My dad sighed. “I said I was going to, didn't I?”

“Sometimes things slip.” She bristled, taking a seat on one of the chairs. “I was just asking.”

“Security doesn't ‘slip.' Not now, not ever,” he said tightly.

I shifted nervously on the sofa. It had been happening between them more and more often, little annoyances and irritations, disagreements over seemingly insignificant details. I told myself that it wasn't unusual. Everyone got nervous at the start of a job. We were like an overworked acting troupe, trying to keep our roles straight even as we were given new lines and costumes every few months. It would be stressful for anyone.

But part of me knew it was more than that. Our cracks were starting to show, spreading out like the fault lines that lay under California, the pressure building and building until, one day, the earth moved with it.

“Let's just get started.” My mom looked from me to Parker. “How did it go today?”

Parker made no move to answer, so I spoke up. “I sit next to Rachel Mercer in AP Euro.”

“That's an unexpected bonus. Any interest?”

“A little. She's a queen bee, though, so I have to play it cool.”

She smiled affectionately. “I'm sure you can handle
Rachel Mercer. And if she doesn't let you in, Logan will.”

“I actually ran into him in the hallway.”

“I thought you weren't working him until we were inside,” Parker said from the other end of the couch.

I shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “I had an opportunity, so I took it.”

Parker took his job as older brother seriously. He hated it when I ran point, when I was “used” to further a con. But I never saw it that way. We were a family. As much as I sometimes struggled with what we did, I liked doing my part, pulling my own weight.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I pretended to drop something and he picked it up, so I introduced myself.”

“Nicely done,” my dad said. “Any other interesting contacts?”

“I met a girl I really like,” I answered. “Selena Rodriguez. I sat with her at lunch.”

“Selena Rodriguez.” My mom repeated the name. “Was she in the subject files?”

I shook my head. “I needed a place to sit and ended up at her table. She's nice.”

She smiled. “I'm glad you made a friend. Maybe you can use her.”

I flashed on Selena's clear brown eyes, her unguarded smile. Something twisted in my stomach, and I immediately regretted mentioning her. “Yeah, maybe.”

I was relieved when my dad turned his eyes on Parker.
“What about you?”

“Not much. I have gym with Logan and one of his friends. The coach put us on the same basketball team. It's only the first day, but I think I can work my way in.”

“Sounds like a productive first day.” He leaned forward. “Now, let's go over some details.”

I sat back to listen. The broad strokes of the Playa Hermosa job had been laid out before we arrived, but we were never given all the details of a con until we were in character and on-site.

“As you know, the target is the Fairchild family,” my dad began. “More specifically, Warren Fairchild, son of Richard Fairchild the Third, CEO of Fairchild Industries, one of the oldest and richest companies in the world. Fairchild Industries got its start in transportation and now has divisions in technology, pharmaceuticals, communications, even space tourism.”

He was selling us the mark, making it seem like Warren Fairchild wouldn't miss what we were stealing. Either that, or Warren didn't deserve what he had in the first place. It was something my dad did to alleviate any guilt we might feel over what we were about to do. Most of the time, I believed him. I tried not to think about the other times.

“Warren wasn't the only Fairchild offspring,” he continued. “He had an older brother who died in a boating accident when Warren was sixteen, leaving him the only remaining Fairchild heir. It was unfortunate for Richard, because Warren was unstable from the beginning.”

That got my attention. “Unstable how?”

“He had brushes with paranoid delusions from a young age, but Richard managed to keep it quiet with a string of discreet therapists and expensive clinics,” he explained. “A few years ago, he finally gave up on Warren ever assuming a role in the business. Now Warren lives quietly on his trust fund, which is just the way Richard likes it.”

“So, what? We're going after the trust fund?” Parker asked.

My dad shook his head.

“Then what?”

I recognized the shine in his eyes. He would grift for a nickel if there wasn't a bigger mark around.

“For at least a decade,” he began, “Warren has been convinced there's going to be some kind of catastrophic worldwide event. And he's been preparing for it.”

“A catastrophic event?” I repeated.

My mom looked at me. “A major earthquake, an asteroid hitting the earth, a—”

“Zombocolypse,” Parker finished dryly.

I couldn't help laughing.

“We don't know,” my dad said. “And obviously, Warren doesn't know, either. It's something he's been preoccupied with for years, according to my sources. Part of his paranoid delusions.”

I didn't bother asking how he knew so much about Warren Fairchild. He just did. He never told us how or where he got his information.

“You said he's been preparing for it,” I said, trying to read between the lines. “What do you mean?”

“Word is he's been stockpiling.”

Parker narrowed his eyes. “Stockpiling what? Food? Water?”

My dad nodded. “And gold. Lots of it.”

“Gold?” I was trying to get my head around the idea that Warren Fairchild, member of one of the richest families in America, would stockpile anything. “But . . . why?”

“Money would be worthless in a catastrophic event,” my mom explained. “A lot of things would be. Warren is covering his bases, hoarding not only food and water, but gold for trade.”

“How much?” Parker asked.

“Last time we heard, he had about seven hundred bars weighing one kilo each and worth about thirty-five thousand dollars,” my dad said.

“Thirty-five thousand . . . ,” I said softly. “That's not very much. Not for everything we'd have to do to get it.”

Our last job had gone well, but rent on the house in Playa Hermosa had to be setting us back big-time. Not to mention
the new furniture, landscaping, cars, clothes, and everything else we needed to look as rich as everyone else who lived on the peninsula.

“Thirty-five thousand
each
,” my dad clarified. “In total, about twenty million dollars at the current price for gold.”

Twenty million dollars. The number echoed through my mind. It wasn't the money. It was what it could buy. Freedom. A chance to be a real person. Someone who didn't have to lie and hurt people and leave them behind every time I finished a job. Who could keep one last name for more than four months and could go to college, not to get close to some rich kid but to make friends, to learn and experience things. To build the kind of life I really wanted instead of chasing the big houses and offshore bank accounts that preoccupied our mom, the danger that fueled our dad.

“Twenty million . . . ,” Parker finally said. “Are you sure?”

My dad raised his eyebrows. He was always sure.

Parker nodded. “Right. Well, now I know why we're in Playa Hermosa.” He looked around the room, the rich plaster walls, the big windows, the plush draperies. “And why you sprang for this place.”

“Have to look the part,” my dad said. “Especially with this one.”

“So what's next?” Parker asked.

My dad leaned forward in his chair. “The Fairchilds have a pretty high-tech security system. The details are under lock and key. We know that the feeds are monitored around
the clock by Allied Security, but other than that, we've got nothing.”

“Do we know if the feeds are monitored by computers?” I asked. “Or by real people?”

“By people,” my dad answered. “I have Parker on that part of the puzzle, but we need to get information about the rest of the system.”

I didn't expect him to give me more detail. Parker and I were insulated, given only the information we needed to focus on our part of the con. It was a way to hedge our bets if one of us was picked up by the police. Sometimes I wondered if even my mom knew everything.

“Do we have any idea where he keeps the gold?” Parker asked.

My dad shook his head. “That's why we're here.”

“How do we even know it's on the Fairchild property?” I asked.

“We don't. Not really. But it's a safe assumption. If he's as paranoid as my sources tell me, he wouldn't keep something out of reach that he's stockpiled for a crisis. My guess is a panic room or safe hidden in the house.”

“And if it is off-site, getting close to the Fairchilds will help us figure out where it is,” my mom added.

I thought about it, trying to stem the tide of fear washing through my body. This was different from what we normally did. Bigger. Scarier. But looking around the table, I knew it didn't really matter. This was the only way we knew how to live.

I took a deep breath. “Okay, what's the plan?”

“I'm going to work on the details of the Fairchilds' security system while your mom and I get to know Leslie and Warren Fairchild. In the meantime, you need to get close to Logan. See if you can find out anything off the record. Anything we might not have in the file.”

I had a flash of memory: Logan looking back at me in the hall, his eyes clear of the duplicity and guardedness I saw in my own when I looked in the mirror.

I swallowed a wave of guilt. “Okay.”

“What about me?” Parker asked.

“Keep working Allied. We need to make sure no one has a visual on the place the night we make our move. Until then, try to get into Logan's group; befriend him and the others if you can.”

Parker glanced at me before turning back to our dad. “If I'm going to be buddy-buddy with Logan, why does Grace have to come on to him?”

“Because,” he sighed. “People say different things to friends than they do to significant others. Pillow talk and all that.”

Parker's face tightened, but he nodded. “How long will the setup on this take?”

“Hard to say.” He looked at each of us. “But it'll be worth the wait.”

I was stepping onto the back patio, trash bag in hand, when Parker's voice came from the shadows.

“You don't have to do it.”

I peered into the darkness, letting my eyes adjust until I could make out the smudge of his body. He was leaning against the house, a tiny orange light glowing in front of his face. The scent of pot, tangled with night jasmine and salt water, drifted to me on the sea breeze.

“You can't do everything,” I said carefully. “I'm part of the family, too, you know.”

A bitter laugh escaped his throat. He took a drag on the joint. “Family, huh?”

His words jabbed painfully at my heart. I didn't like it when Parker got like this. Dark and brooding, his sarcasm a shroud for the anger that seethed underneath it. I wasn't
stupid. I knew our life wasn't perfect. But we were safe and healthy. We had parents who loved us. It was more than a lot of people had.

“Parker . . .” I put a hand on his arm, choosing my words carefully. The backyard was shielded on either side by bougainvillea-covered fences, but it still wasn't the War Room. “Let's not do this again. There's no point. This is the way it is.”

“Well, the way it is sucks.” He pushed off the wall of the house and lifted a black backpack from the ground near his feet. Swinging it over his shoulder, he stalked into the dark.

“Where are you going?”

“To do my job.”

I stared after him as he faded into the night. Then I picked up the trash bag and headed for the side of the house, looking for the trash can my mom had said was there.

I was halfway down the walkway, so overgrown with trees and vines that the light of the full moon was almost completely obliterated, when I heard humming. I stopped walking and listened, trying to determine the source of the sound. A few seconds later I realized it was coming from the backyard next door, hidden from view by the fence that separated the properties, and was accompanied by a low gurgling that could have been the jets on a hot tub.

A man's voice rose into the night, singing.

You always hurt the one you love

The one you shouldn't hurt at all.

The song sounded old and a little sultry. I wondered if the man singing it was the same person who had watched Parker and me walk to the car that morning. And then I wondered something else: Had he heard me talking to Parker in the dark?

I walked carefully to the fence, peering through one of the gaps, hoping to get a look at him.

At first all I could see was the backyard. It was lush, almost overgrown, with so many flowers and trees I could barely make out the glow of lights on the deck, steam rising into the night air. A hairy arm was flung over the wooden edge of a hot tub, but the rest of the man was obscured by climbing vines on a trellis that acted as a screen for the Jacuzzi. I adjusted my position, trying to get a better look, but all I got was a glimpse of a baseball cap.

Stepping away from the fence, I forced myself to think, to remember what I'd said to Parker. Had I given us away? Broken one of the cardinal rules by talking about the job outside the War Room?

But no. I hadn't said anything incriminating—only that Parker couldn't do everything, that I was part of the family, too.

It could have meant anything.

I shook off my unease and continued to the trash can, dropping the bag inside before heading back down the path. A gust of wind blew through the trees, and a commotion rose in the branches over my head, a cacophony of flapping wings as birds took flight. I looked up, but all I saw was the
shadow of leaves and twisted branches.

“Yes, yes!” the man next door called out, his voice magnanimous.

I froze.

“Take flight, my little parrots. Be free,” he continued. “As free as you can be in this gilded cage. As free as any of us can be.”

I hurried to the back door, rubbing my arms against a sudden chill.