Liars Like Us

47

Everything my parents sacrificed for won’t be in vain.

I gaze at the picture of them hanging on the wall behind the register. It’s from right after they were married. Taken in front of the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier, the picture shows them young and happy, smiling and carefree.

I miss them with a sudden ache that leaves me breathless.

My mom’s been gone for twenty years, but I can still hear her voice in my head, always encouraging me. And my dad’s big, unselfconscious laugh that would fill a room, I hear that too.

I don’t know if they’d be proud of this decision I’ve made or not. One of my dad’s favorite sayings was “If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.”

Remembering that sends a little chill of foreboding down my spine.

Squaring my shoulders, I tell myself that what matters now is getting on with the important business at hand. With the paperwork I took from the kitchen counter, I go into my office, where I fire up the computer and have a look at the trust account.

It’s all there. Twenty million in my name.

I stare at the number, letting it sink in.

Then I make myself an espresso and take it back to my desk, where I compile a list of everything that needs to get done.

The first thing on that list is calling my employees to tell them they’re rehired.

And that they’re all getting a nice fat raise.

Days go by. I pay the rent. I catch up on the overdue bills. I leave a message for the guy at the CDTFA to try to make arrangements to pay the tax thing, but he doesn’t call me back, so I go online to check my account with them.

I can’t find a balance due anywhere.

Typical government bureaucracy bullshit. The website probably hasn’t been updated in years.

I expect some collections thug will come and try to impound my car, so I start parking blocks away from the store. Until I can clear that debt, I’ve got some hiding to do.

Then I find a local defense attorney and send him all the information about the lawsuit along with a big retainer check.

He informs me how the litigation process works and tells me to sit tight, because lawsuits can take years to settle. When I ask if we’ll go to court, he laughs. Apparently, only a tiny percent of lawsuits ever go to trial.

In the meantime, I’ll need to keep sending him cash on a monthly basis.

What a racket. The Mafia probably doesn’t even have such a good money-making scheme.

I move my things into the modest guest bedroom at the castle, carrying my clothes from the master closet down the long corridor myself. When the packages from my shopping spree with Dani arrive, I put those into the guest bedroom too.

And because I’m vindictive and want revenge on Callum for weirdly knowing how I like my eggs and coffee, I make a game of ordering breakfast from the chef, but only unhealthy sugary things that come in a box.

One day it’s Froot Loops. Another day it’s PopTarts. Another it’s Pillsbury cinnamon toaster strudel. I imagine the chef reporting back to Callum that he married a child.

Every night, I lie in bed and wonder what will happen when the lord of the manor returns.

I wonder about the rope in his drawer and the other locked cases.

I wonder if I’ll be left alone like this most of the time and if that’s a good thing or not.

I wonder if he’s out banging some hot model and hate myself for even thinking about that.

I drive by my apartment several times after work, still in disbelief I don’t live there anymore. There’s already a For Rent sign in the front yard, so whoever came and collected all my stuff must’ve also told the management company I was moving.

Purely from curiosity, I call to ask what the balance is on my lease and if there’s any penalty for breaking it. They tell me the whole thing has been paid in full, penalties included.

I don’t have to ask by whom.

All the while, Callum McCord himself simmers on the back burner of my brain.

Then, in the dead of one sultry summer night, he returns.

Eighteen

I

sense him before I see him, the way a storm brewing in the atmosphere can be felt long before the first drop of rain ever hits your face. I’m not sure if that’s what wakes me up, but when I open my eyes to the darkness of the guest room, everything is still and quiet.

So quiet, the beating of my heart seems loud.

The air crackles with electricity. Some animal awareness deep in my brain warns me that danger is nearby. When I turn my head, I see Callum in the doorway of the room.

Silhouetted in light from the hallway, he stands motionless, his hands by his sides, his legs spread apart. He’s barefoot and bare chested, wearing only a pair of jeans. His face is obscured by shadows, but I know he’s looking at me.

I’m lying on top of the sheets in a thin cotton camisole and panties, my arms and legs exposed.

For a moment, nothing happens. Neither of us moves. I’m still in that hazy dream state between sleep and waking and am not entirely sure he isn’t a figment of my imagination.

Then he steps into the room and an electrical current sizzles through me, alighting every nerve.

Quiet as a panther, he moves closer.

He stops beside the bed and gazes silently down at me.

Even in the shadows, the bulge under his zipper is unmistakable.

“You’re back,” I whisper nervously.

“So it seems.”

He leans over, plants a hand on the mattress beside my head, and settles his other hand possessively around my neck. Staring down at me, his dark eyes glint silver in the shadows, like a cat’s.