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  Silas and Drew share another one of those opaque looks, including Mark in it this time.

  “Say it,” I order, snapping at Silas.

  “Say what?”

  “Every damn time the topic of Monica comes up, you two share a dark look. What is it? What do you know?”

  “We can’t – I can’t,” Silas says to me.

  I stand.

  “Where are you going?” Lindsay shouts.

  “I’m leaving. I was told this meeting would be open. I’m not staying if there are secrets.”

  “We know Monica has been actively planting fake evidence that implicates you, Jane,” Silas says, even as Drew tries to stop him.

  “What?” Lindsay screams.

  “She was behind the microchip search and that abusive doctor. We’ve connected Nolan Corning directly to the bomb in your car at the coffee shop in Santa Barbara. What we don’t have yet is proof of a connection between Monica and Nolan Corning.”

  “Why the hell would my mother be connected to him? He’s the one who is behind my attack! The gang rape! What Stellan and Blaine and John did...” Her voice winds down.

  Silence feels like thousands of razor blades being poked into me.

  A shaking hand goes to her mouth as Lindsay absorbs what they’re not saying.

  “Oh, God,” she says, Drew reaching for her. “Oh, God, don’t tell me my own mother ordered a gang rape on me.”

  “We’re not saying that,” Mark cuts in quickly. “We’re not.”

  “But you’re not not saying that,” I elaborate.

  “Right.” Silas’s single-word response feels like a break, a snap, a trap door shutting with finality. My heart is crushed for Lindsay.

  And yet a part of me feels vindicated.

  “How?” Lindsay moans. “How?”

  “Let me be very, very clear, Lindsay,” Mark says, compassion making his voice rich, low, and textured with emotion. “No evidence exists to connect your mother to intentionally calling for what happened to you. None.”

  She starts to breathe heavily.

  “Monica, however, has set up some serious webs of deceit. We’re only now learning how extensively – and for how many years – she’s been engaged in a power grab. As you know, in Washington power is about the dirt you have on someone else who has slightly more power than you.”

  “Does this have something to do with my biological father?” Lindsay asks Drew. “Or my mother – if she’s that power hungry.” A bitter laugh fills the air, a breeze pushing it into our faces as if it’s a sheet, a towel, a physical wall. “If? She’s definitely that power hungry. Do you think my biological father is a politician? Or –” She looks at Mark in horror. “El Brujo?”

  Laughter pours out of him. “El Brujo is one hundred percent not your biological father.”

  “How do you know?”

  Drew clears his throat. “He wasn’t a match in the paternity tests we ran.”

  “You suspected him?”

  “Not directly, but...”

  “DREW!” Lindsay shouts.

  “Besides,” Mark says, shouting her down with a firm tone, commanding and calming. “I’ve spent considerable time with El Brujo and his daughter, Claudia. You look nothing like either of them.” His eyes take in Lindsay’s long, blonde hair. “He’s Mexican and very dark. Monica is a natural blonde, like you. There’s no way.”

  “Not that I’d put it past Monica to sleep with a narcotrafficker,” Drew mutters.

  “Claudia? Claudia Landau? I haven’t thought about her in awhile. We were in a foreign-film club together back in college. Wow.”

  Mark gives me a really weird look. “Yeah. We know.”

  “What does brujo mean, anyway?” I ask. “Isn’t bruja witch in Spanish? Why is he a witch?”

  “Not witch,” Mark says in an offhand way. “Wizard. Or maybe warlock.”

  I go cold. Ice runs through my veins. It stops an inch from my heart.

  Warlock.

  I look at Silas.

  He looks away.

  You have got to be kidding me. He knows.

  He knows.

  Silas

  “The sweepstakes,” Jane says to me. Her voice is heavy with meaning. My tongue is an anvil. My lips are icebergs.

  “Yes.”

  “You knew. You set that up, too.” Jane taps Lindsay’s knee and gets her attention. “They knew about the sweepstakes.”

  “I knew,” I admit. “We all knew. But I didn’t set up the replies.”

  “Who did?” Jane demands.

  “We still don’t know.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Not bullshit. We don’t know. We’ve been watching and gathering info so we could figure it out.”

  “You have your fingers in everything.”

  “It’s our job.”

  “This is too much.”

  “You wanted the truth,” Drew says. I look at him, expecting smugness. Instead, I find sympathy.

  “The sweepstakes texts. That message: All witch hunts have a warlock. Why would someone send me that message?” she asks.

  Mark looks at Jane. “Why do you think?”

  “An attempt to get me to see El Brujo was part of all this? I mean, at Yates he was just Dean Landau. Dean of Arts & Sciences. Everyone thought of him as a guy who was full of himself. You know the type. Pompous, self-important blowhard. No one there had any idea he was El Brujo until the DEA killed him.” Her discomfort sets me on alert. “I don’t remember much about it. It all happened my sophomore year. I was still reeling from what happened to Lindsay.”

  “Wait.” Jane focuses on Mark. “Were they connected? What happened with El Brujo and your fiancée and the sex-slave trafficking and Lindsay’s gang rape?”

  Drew’s jaw tightens at those last two words.

  Can’t blame him.

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. How much of this overlaps? How much connects? Where are the straight lines? Where do separate events and plots intersect? The more we uncover, the more there is to uncover,” Mark explains. “But we know this: Harry was being pulled into a vote on legislation that was a money grab for El Brujo. Nolan Corning spearheaded it. Harry told my mother and Drew’s father about it. Both were killed. And then Lindsay’s attack happened.”

  “And you were there,” Drew says to Jane.

  “Was I the true target?” Jane asks, making my jaw tighten, my heart race. The thought of those animals touching her makes me want to rip limbs, stomp heads, empty bullets into those sonsofbitches.

  Drew and Mark make faces that say they don’t know.

  “Mandy told me – right before they killed her – that Blaine wanted me there. At the house. That Blaine was upset I didn’t stay. Really pissed at her, Jenna, and Tara for not making me stay. Could that have been part of all this? Does Nolan Corning know I’m Harry’s daughter?” she asks Mark, who turns.

  And looks at me.

  He’s asking permission. He’s ceding power. This is your woman, his pointed gaze says to me.

  This is your choice.

  This is your mission.

  I take command.

  “No,” I tell her. “As far as we know, as of now, no. But Monica knows. And whatever Monica knows is information that could be used by her to accomplish her goals.” Yet again, all I want is to pick her up and run away with her, put her in a safehouse. Never leave her side.

  Never let her feel fear again.

  “Which are?”

  Lindsay speaks up. “I used to think her only goal was to be first lady. But now I don’t know. What has my mom done?” She looks at Mark. I’ve never noticed before how much they look alike, the California beach look perfectly represented by blonde hair and a tan. Each embodys the male and female versions of thousands of suntan lotion ads. Mark tilts his head as he listens to her, Lindsay a mirror image, using the same gesture.

  “I don’t know what else she’s done, but the fact that she knows everything about Jane is dangerous.”


  My blood runs cold with Mark’s words.

  “We need to get you into an even safer environment,” I tell Jane.

  “We?” One eyebrow goes up as her skepticism comes flooding to the surface. “You’re fired. There is no ‘we.’”

  There is no we.

  Between the call from my mom on the way here and this disturbing conversation, too many boxes are already open, but that one sentence – There is no we – opens a thousand lids inside, all fluttering open like bees in a swarm, flapping their wings in unison.

  Damn it.

  “Monica spread the rumor that I was behind your sister’s death,” Jane says to me. “What proof did she have?”

  “She connected your friendship with Claudia Landau to the fentanyl found in Tricia,” I tell her.

  “Friendship! I wasn’t friends with Claudia. We just sat on the same film-selection panel a few times!” Jane frowns. “Besides, I thought El Brujo’s whole empire was destroyed when the DEA killed him in that coffee shop.”

  “Not the whole thing, no,” I tell her. “Claudia Landau has been operating parts of it. A very specific kind of fentanyl is associated with her. That’s what killed Tricia. It’s unique, and the only drug death in the county with that profile.”

  “And you made the leap to me?”

  “Monica did.”

  “This is crazy!”

  “Yes. We knew it was crazy, which is why we needed to take drastic measures.”

  “Like setting me up for this morning’s test – this morning!” Jane snaps. “That was just a few hours ago!”

  “Look,” I bark at her, standing. “The people behind all this have killed Mark’s parents. Killed Drew’s. Gang raped Lindsay. Tried to kill you repeatedly. May or may not be behind my sister’s death. It goes on and on –Tara. Mandy. Your mother. The courier. You name it. We had to test you. Had to.”

  “Don’t forget Rebecca,” she says softly.

  “Trust me. I never, ever do.”

  She stands, too. “Is there anything else? Any more information I need to know about? Because as of now, it seems like the basics are clear.”

  “You feel like you know what you need to know?” I ask her.

  Her look. Ouch. “I know everything I need to know, Silas. You’ve made that obvious.” Turning on her heel in the sand, she twists away, like a dandelion seed on the wind, spun by two opposing currents but drifting away nonetheless.

  I follow her. “Where are you going?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “Stop.” I go to grab her but restrain myself. Last time I did that, I hurt her arm. Hurting her is the last thing I want.

  She doesn’t stop. It’s easy to catch up and keep pace, her legs shorter than mine. “Jane. Talk to me.”

  “No.”

  “The evidence connecting you to Tricia’s death was flimsy. I knew that. But it was enough to send ripples through the whisper networks, and that was what we needed to put to rest.”

  “Rumors? You cared about rumors?”

  “Not rumors. Not just rumors. When enough people in dark corners of power start to assume, flimsy evidence takes on much more weight. We had to get to the heart of it.”

  Her eyes go to my chest. “Literally.”

  She has no idea how literally.

  “I don’t expect you to understand. I do expect you to take your safety seriously.”

  “Define safety, Silas. Because I sure as hell don’t feel safe with you.”

  This time, when she walks away, I let her go.

  But I don’t let her go unwatched.

  Chapter 6

  Jane

  The Lilac Inn is a nice place to avoid Silas.

  I don’t want to go back to my apartment. Staying with Lindsay is obviously out of the question, mostly because she’s married to an asshole (who, for the record, still has not apologized). I’ve ordered room service to arrive in an hour. The pendant camera Silas gave me is shoved deep in my pocket. I am waiting for Lindsay to come over and hang out. Our last time here at the Inn involved great tea service and coffee. I need more greatness.

  My room is breathtaking.

  On the third floor of a sprawling Victorian house that looks like something from a Boston historical-romance novel, I’m in a turret. The walls are curved, the windows too. It’s magical, like a princess trapped in a castle tower, waiting for a knight in shining armor to arrive.

  My phone buzzes.

  Lindsay texts, I need another hour or so. Sorry! Delayed but still coming.

  Another text from Silas. I try not to read it. That makes four now, each increasing in intensity. This one says: I’ll leave you alone. The next move is yours. Please know I love you.

  Ribs aren’t supposed to ache from a text. Mine do.

  I quickly call room service and ask for an hour delay, the issue settled with a caring efficiency that makes me deeply appreciate systems that work.

  The room itself is nothing but white and lace, with purple wallpaper on walls that climb up ten feet to painted tin ceilings, the pattern mosaic-like and floral. It’s not too much, with an airy, bright feel that is strangely minimalist. Lace accents, mostly in the form of curtains and pillowcase edges, add a feminine appeal. It’s the kind of room made for relaxing. For living slowly. For savoring time itself.

  I stand and look out the window. The surf ripples and foams along the sand, over and over, like it’s practicing for a big show that will never come.

  My eyes drift to a small tea tray, where a packet of something peppermint catches my eye. The electric kettle is easy to fill and within minutes, I’m holding a big, purple mug in my hands, a handmade ceramic piece designed for moments like this. One of the curved windows in my room has a window seat attached, with a section for leaning back. Stretching out my legs, I let the steam from my tea warm the tip of my nose.

  I breathe.

  I breathe again.

  And again, and again, until that is all I do.

  Muscle groups are deceptive. My shoulders, for instance, feel like a monolithic block of granite most of the day, shoulder blade like a gear that turns only when needed. Sitting here, letting my body turn into a loose pile of bones connected by ever-relaxing pieces of Jane, I can feel distinct muscles in my neck, my upper back, my shoulders, my humerus bone long and heavy, weighed down by my release into gravity. It takes peppermint and lemongrass tea, piping up into my nose with a calm, soothing aroma, and an oceanside view of endless waves to even begin to coax the separateness of my stress to reveal itself.

  Tension is a glue.

  As I sip the tea, I feel the bones of my ass sink into the window-seat cushions, my hips rolling just enough to let my lower back lighten, all of the stress trying to find a way out, a way through, a way to unclench and unwind, too.

  “Silas,” I whisper, my intentional relaxation coming at a price. That price is true emotion.

  Tears flow down my cheeks, one plunking into my cup of tea, looking to join what I drink. Maybe it’s searching for a way to recreate itself, shed as pain, swallowed back inside me as comfort. A karmic act, my tears eventually join the same ocean waters that mesmerize me. I let go of them, feeling what I need to feel, reliving what I need to relive, imagining worst-case scenarios and just noticing my own thoughts.

  Alice once told me that the greatest form of art is awareness. Not self-awareness, which she viewed as a form of conceit. Awareness. “Pay attention to everything important, Jane,” she told me then.

  “What are the important things?” I had asked.

  “Only you can know that. The answer is different for everyone. I cannot tell you what is important for you.”

  Cryptic. Elusive. Critical. Incisive.

  Just like Alice.

  I weep for her as I stretch my legs and cross them at the ankles, shoulders settling into the pillow behind me. The knob for the window brushes against my wrist bone. I grasp it, the window inching open. A blast of sea air is my reward.

&n
bsp; My phone contains unanswered messages from Hedding Stuva. Lottie Crenshaw has texted twice. I know I need to answer them and so many others, but there’s a wall inside my head. It’s so tall, I can’t see the top edge. Once I start climbing, I don’t know when I’ll get a break. It’s not about returning one call. One text. One letter. One request.

  It’s that the pile of all of it is insurmountable.

  My eyelids start to droop, the tea tasting like sunshine and tears. I’m sleepy. Mellow and loose, I’m crying and feeling without fear. That sense of revealing my emotions to myself, to the empty room, to the window, to the ocean, is an old feeling. When I was little, I did this.

  I made time to be.

  As my breathing slows, my skin starts to warm, a pleasant feeling of giving in to my own comfort. I put my tea mug down. Curling in, I find a soft place on the window seat and let my eyes close, hearing my own breathing in my ears. As I fade out, one word resonates, a chant that won’t stop.

  Truth.

  Truth.

  Truth.

  * * *

  Dappled sunlight makes polka dots on my skin. Whatever clouds are in the sky, they scatter as if commanded, revealing a perfect summer day. Behind me, a field of wildflowers, the buttercups and Queen Anne’s lace making a patchwork that looks like daisies from afar. Butterflies flit above, hovering a foot or so over the blossoms, making the field seem ripe for any happiness I seek.

  Before me, the ocean. The sand is clean and clear, so soft, it’s like walking through melted butter, so warm, it’s a caress filled with love.

  “Jane!” a man shouts, holding hands with a woman whose very presence makes my heart swell with joy. I break into a run, a sprint, a full-throttle expulsion that rockets me into my mother’s open arms. She lets go of my dad’s hand, Harry laughing with her as I crush myself into her, smelling Mom and love and happiness and sunshine.

  “You’re alive!” I rasp into her neck, her embrace strong and true.

  “Of course I am, sweetie. What are you talking about?”

  I turn to the man. “Harry, where did you –”

  “Harry? Now you’re calling Daddy by his first name?” Mom says, her accent there, her voice filled with an incredulous wonder. “Why the change?”