Lies I Told (8 page)

The Fairchilds lived high upon the peninsula. My dad drove, telling us how beautiful the club was and how Warren Fairchild had already put in a recommendation for his membership.

I sat next to Parker in the back, thinking about Logan. I hadn't stopped thinking about him, actually, since the bonfire the night before. As Warren and Leslie's only child, Logan was key to the con. My ability to get close to him could be the difference between getting out clean with Warren Fairchild's gold and being arrested.

But I wasn't thinking about the con. Not the way I should have been. I was thinking about Logan. About how real he was, vulnerable and strong all at the same time. About how he'd looked at me on the beach, like he knew all my secrets and didn't care, and how his fingers had sent a spark across
my bare shoulders when he'd given me his sweatshirt.

About what he would think of me if he knew the truth.

We pulled onto a private street, and the ocean and sky seemed to open up around us. The Fairchilds' house sat alone at the end of the road. It was a Spanish-style structure, and smaller than I'd expected. It looked old, not like one of the giant reproductions I'd gotten used to seeing in California.

“Wow . . .” Parker looked out the window. “This must have cost a fortune.”

“Warren and Leslie bought it in the early nineties,” my dad explained, pulling through the open gate. “Don't get me wrong; it was still one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Southern California. But the market was a bit lower then.”

My mom laughed as we headed up the long, winding driveway. “So it was ten million instead of the twenty million it would be now?”

“Something like that.”

We parked behind a row of other cars and headed for the front door. My stomach was fluttering, although I couldn't tell if it was because this was our first chance to check out the job site or because I'd get to see Logan again.

The walkway was paved with stone, heavily shaded from the trees overhead. I heard a squawk and looked up, catching a flash of brilliant red and blue through the foliage.

I pointed. “I think I just saw a parrot!”

Parker gazed upward, peering through the trees. “I don't see anything.”

My dad rang the bell. It echoed through the house on the other side of the door. A minute later, it was opened by a voluptuous brunette, her hair graying at the temples.

“Renee! How nice to see you.” Her face was transformed by a generous smile. She opened the door wider. “Please, come in!” Her gaze found my dad. “You must be Cormac. Warren has told me so much about you. Seems he's met his match on the back nine.”

“I don't know about that,” my dad said, laughing and stepping into the foyer. “Warren's been keeping me on my toes.”

My mom introduced us, and then we were following Leslie down a long tiled hallway toward the sound of music and conversation. I tried to put my finger on why I was so surprised. Was it because Leslie, clearly not a devotee of the treadmill, was rounder and softer than my mom? Because she wore a loose, caftan-type garment instead of the fashionable, semirevealing clothes that were a uniform for the other mothers in Playa Hermosa? Or because she seemed unconcerned with the silver threading her hair, in no hurry to get to the salon to cover it?

Whatever it was, I liked Leslie Fairchild immediately.

The unmistakable sound of a party in full swing grew louder as we crossed through the kitchen. A few seconds later we stepped outside. I had to stop myself from gasping at the view.

The lot was huge. A graduated stone terrace stepped down to a lush lawn stretching toward the cliffs, the ocean
shimmering in the distance. The property was private, with no neighbors on either side and mature trees reaching into the sky, flowering bushes and vines growing a little haphazardly all around them. I glimpsed the top of a peaked roof at the back of the property and wondered if it was the carriage house I'd seen on the plans of the Fairchild estate.

We stepped into the crowd, and I turned my attention to the party. People stood around in clusters, talking and laughing. Across the lawn, Rachel played badminton with Olivia and Raj.

“Well!” Leslie clapped her hands, leading us to an outdoor bar. “Let's get you something to drink and then we'll make the rounds.”

She poured my parents a glass of wine each and told Parker and me to help ourselves to a cooler of sodas. Then she started the procession, leading us around the lawn and introducing us to everyone.

We met Rachel's parents first. Her mother was attractive and slender, her hair a familiar shade of copper. When it came time to shake the hand of Rachel's father, Harrison, I heard an echo of Harper's confession at the beach:
Rachel's dad has a way with the Playa Hermosa housewives.

I could see it. Harrison Mercer was no balding, overweight dad. Instead his trim figure, dark hair, and bold smile gave him a George Clooney–esque charm that was probably irresistible to the bored women on the peninsula.

Liam's father, Blake, was next. A property developer
planning a green housing initiative, he and his wife also owned the Town Center.

And they were just the beginning. There were movie people and writers and tech-company owners and shareholders. Real estate managers and commercial agents and local business owners. I lost track after a while, content to smile, nod, and observe while the adults did most of the talking.

I still hadn't spotted Logan, so I focused on the property instead, making note of security cameras, walkways, outdoor lights that were probably triggered by movement, and anything else that might help us when it came time to make our move. It had become second nature, almost instinctual, to store my observations, and I wasn't surprised to see Parker's eyes wandering, too.

Once the introductions had been made, Leslie Fairchild led us to a massive grill, where a silver-haired man wearing a Kiss the Cook apron stood over a bunch of smoking meat. He jumped a little when Leslie put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Warren, honey,” she said gently, “the Fontaines are here.”

There were shades of Logan in his father's face. Warren had the same openness, the same attentiveness that made me feel like he'd been waiting all day just for us.

“Cormac!” He reached out and shook my dad's hand. “So glad you could make it.” He turned to the rest of us. “And this must be your beautiful family.”

“That it is,” my dad said. “This is my wife, Renee, and
our kids, Parker and Grace.”

Logan's dad shook our hands and insisted we call him Warren. When it was my turn, his eyes seemed to hold mine.

“I've heard a lot about you,” he said.

I laughed. “Oh no!”

His eyes radiated warmth. “I assure you that it was all good. My son seems to enjoy your company.”

My cheeks were suddenly warm. “Thank you. Where is Logan?”

Leslie looked around. “He was here a minute ago. . . . Oh, here he comes!”

Logan stepped onto the terrace, carrying a plate of raw chicken. I wondered if it was my imagination that his eyes seemed to light up when he spotted me.

“Hey! I was wondering when you were coming,” he said.

I couldn't help but smile. Everyone else was so coy when they liked someone, so careful not to seem interested. But here was Logan, grinning at me like I'd made his day just by showing up.

I looked down at the chicken. “Need some help with that?”

“This? Nah, I'm good.” He carried the plate over to the grill.

I introduced him to my parents, and after a little small talk Leslie led them off to meet the VP of some big advertising agency.

Logan touched his dad lightly on the arm. “Need anything else?”

I don't know why I was surprised by the concern in his
voice. It was just so genuine. So real. I'd expected Warren Fairchild's condition to put stress on the family dynamic. Instead it seemed to make them closer.

“No, no!” Warren said. “You kids go. Have fun. And if you want to gnaw on some meat, come find me.”

Logan laughed, touching his dad lightly on the back. “You'll be the first to know, Dad.” He looked at Parker and me. “You guys up for some badminton?”

We traveled a gravel path to the big grassy area at the back of the property. Logan filled us in on the aftermath of the bonfire as we walked, telling us who had been busted by beach patrol the night before. I hoped he didn't notice the tightness in Parker's jaw, the protective gleam in his eyes when Warren Fairchild said Logan liked my company.

We stepped onto the grass, and Olivia and Raj paused their game, greeting us with waves and genuine smiles. Rachel was decidedly less enthusiastic, although she did warm up a bit for Parker.

We spent a few minutes talking before splitting into teams: me with Logan and Olivia, Parker with Raj and Rachel. The game got under way, and I told myself to forget about the con. About casing the Fairchilds' house and the fact that I needed to get close to Logan to further my part
of the job. The weather was perfect, warm and dry, a breeze blowing off the water that crashed against the cliffs below. I was allowed to have fun. It was all part of being in character.

Part of fitting in.

We played three games—Rachel, Raj, and Parker taking two out of the three—and went our separate ways. Olivia and Raj got drinks while Parker and Rachel walked toward the edge of the property, sitting on the grass that overlooked the water.

Logan turned to me. “You're not one of those girls who never eats, are you?”

I laughed. “Definitely not.”

“Great. Let's eat, then.”

He held out his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, and when I took it, it kind of was.

We got plates of food, and I slipped off my shoes as we sat on one of the ledges built into the patio. The grass was cool and moist under my bare feet, the breeze soft and scented with jasmine. Looking around, watching everyone laughing and talking, I felt strangely content. I was surprised by how low-key it was: Logan's father working the grill, his mother perfectly at ease hosting fifty people with no catering help at all.

“I get the feeling your brother doesn't like me much,” Logan said, setting aside his plate.

I shook my head. “Parker's just . . . moody.”

Logan seemed to think about it. “I can see that. He seemed so laid-back when we went surfing, but today . . .”

“He had a great time surfing with you guys,” I said. “He told me so.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He's just protective.”

“Why does he feel like he has to be protective around me?”

Because he doesn't like the idea of our parents using me to steal your dad's gold. Because he is one of very few people in the whole world who care if I live or die. Because he's the only one—other than my parents—who knows how hurt I've been, and he wants to protect me from ever being hurt like that again.

But I couldn't say any of it, so I spoke the other truth instead. The one I'd only barely begun admitting to myself. “I think he knows how much I like you.”

“You do?”

I immediately regretted the confession. “Well, I guess I don't know you that well. But I'd like to know more.” I laughed. “If that makes any sense.”

His smile was slow, reaching his eyes bit by bit. He reached for my hand. “It makes perfect sense.”

His fingers fit just right around mine, like they were meant to go together. Like I'd been crisscrossing the country, trying out different states and different schools and different last names, just to make my way to him.

“Logan!”

We turned around, following the sound of his mother's voice from the patio.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Can you bring some more soda in from the garage?”

“Yep!” He turned to look at me. “You'll be okay?”

“Of course,” I said. “Is it cool if I take a look around while you're gone? It's so beautiful here.”

“Definitely. I'll find you when I'm done.”

He took our empty plates and made his way up the terrace.

I scanned the property. Investigating the house was out. No one was inside, and I'd only just met the Fairchilds today. It would be too suspicious.

The grounds, however, were fair game, and I crossed the lawn and stepped onto the gravel pathway, following it toward the roofline I'd seen through the trees. I passed the grass where we'd played badminton and continued to the side of the property until I came to a narrow drive that seemed to run from the front of the house all the way to the end of the yard.

The trees and bushes were less pruned as I got farther away from the main house, and I reached out a hand, running it over the trailing shrubs and vines that lined the drive, feeling the silky petals of the bougainvillea under my palms. The air grew cooler, the sun blocked out by the trees overhead. I made note of the cameras spaced every twenty feet in the trees and of the gravel, noisy under my feet.

All things we needed to know.

The thought of it made me feel sick. I didn't want to think about conning Logan and his family, stealing from them, disappearing without an explanation. But wishing things
were different didn't change anything.

I knew that better than most people.

An aging outbuilding rose through the trees at the end of the path. It looked like an old carriage house, with sliding doors and peeling white paint.

I glanced up at the roofline, scanning it for cameras. There was one in the eaves, aimed at the entrance of the carriage house. I made a point to look around, wanting to seem casually curious to anyone who might be monitoring the camera feed.

From the outside, it didn't look promising as a potential hiding spot for Warren Fairchild's gold. Situated by itself in the middle of the trees, there was no space between walls or other structures for a panic room or safe.

I looked at the sliding doors. The camera made me nervous about going inside, but Logan had given me permission to take a look around. It might be the only chance I'd have to see it without raising suspicion. Besides, this was why Parker and I were so integral to the cons. People might suspect a teenager of sneaking off to make out, of stealing lip gloss from a department store or vandalizing something just for the fun of it. But no one ever suspected us of pulling the kind of jobs that were our specialty. Parker and I made it possible for our parents to blend in with other families. To join school fund-raisers and committees, to snoop around sprawling mansions during barbecues and birthday parties.

Or have us do the snooping for them.

The smell of dirt, old wood, and mildew assaulted my
nose as I stepped inside. I looked around: the far reaches of the building were shrouded in darkness, dust motes shimmering in a single beam of sunlight working its way through the open door. Old windows were stacked against the uninsulated walls, sunlight leaking in through cracks in the wood siding. It was both serene and a little spooky. I was standing there, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dimness, when I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned to find Rachel, standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.

“Doing a little exploring?”

“Rachel . . .” I was grateful for the darkness as guilty heat flooded my face. I recovered quickly. “Logan said I could take a look around. It's amazing, isn't it?” I looked up, making a show of taking it all in while I filed stuff away for later.

“What are you doing here, Grace?” Rachel's voice was cold.

“Just . . . you know, looking around.”

“Just looking around, huh?”

I met her eyes, forcing my gaze steady. “That's what I said.”

Rachel was quiet as she paced the floor of the carriage house, her eyes scanning the walls halfheartedly, like she'd seen it all before and just needed a place to focus her attention.

“It's weird, that's all,” she finally said.

“What is?”

“Your family . . . moving to Playa Hermosa right after
school started, renting a house on Camino Jardin, where hardly anybody rents, being so . . .
interested
in Logan. In all of us.”

“How do you know I live on Camino Jardin?”

Rachel stopped walking, her eyes taking on the shrewd, knowing shine that was starting to give me the creeps.

“I know lots of things,” she said. “Lots and lots of things.”

“What are you getting at, Rachel?”

She flashed a small, chilly smile. “Nothing in particular. Just that when I don't know something, I usually have a way of finding out.”

She held my gaze, silence looming between us, an abyss that seemed more impossible than ever to cross. Then she turned around and walked away, leaving me standing alone in the shadowed carriage house.