All the Pretty Lies (26 page)

But that was before Sloane.

With steel resolve, I punch in a number that
I’ll probably never forget. When a familiar voice answers, I feel
disgust rise in my throat like bitter bile. “Sebastian, it’s Hemi.
I need a favor.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE- Sloane

I have a hard time meeting Steven’s eyes when
I climb into the passenger seat.

“What the hell happened? How’d you end up out
here?”

The backs of my eyes burn. With heartache,
with shame, with humiliation.

“Steven,” I begin, turning my head to stare
out the window and let the tears fall as he drives toward The Ink
Stain to let me get my car. “Did you know anything about some dirty
cocaine being impounded a couple of years ago?”

“What kind of a question is that? I don’t
know anybody who works in narcotics except Duncan’s dad. Why would
I keep up with shit like that?”

I’m relieved at the speed of his answer, and
how in character it is with his surly attitude. He doesn’t seem
defensive or act suspicious in any way. In my head, I curse Hemi
for making me doubt him for even one millisecond.

“Is there any way you could’ve been connected
to a bust that went down or something? Any way your name could’ve
come up in association with something like that? Or with Duncan’s
dad?”

“Not that I can think of. What’s this about,
Sloane? Are you gonna tell me why I had to pick you up at a gas
station, all alone, and now you’re asking me bizarre
questions?”

“Somewhere out there, someone thinks you had
something to do with selling some rich kid bad coke. He ended up
dying and no bust was ever made. Now his family thinks you had
something to do with it. I think that’s why you’ve been getting
threats.”

“I don’t know where you get your information,
Sloane, but the threats I’ve been getting are obviously a case of
mistaken identity. They’re from someone who…who…”

He trails off as if a light bulb just went
off. “What, Steven? What is it?”

“One of the phone calls I got was from a
burner phone. All it said was, ‘We want our money’. I have no
frickin’ clue who it was or what money they thought I might owe
‘em. That’s why I didn’t take it very seriously at first. It wasn’t
until they started threatening lives and shit that it got
real.”

“Steven, who could they have you confused
with? How could something like this happen? Do you have any
questionable friends? Informants? Anyone that could’ve implicated
you without you knowing?”

“Not that I know of. But hell, Sloane, I’m a
cop. A detective no less. I
have
to consort with the pond
scum to some extent just to get information.”

I’m running over the details in my mind,
trying to shake something loose that might mean something. That’s
when I remember Hemi’s odd question to me a few weeks ago.

“What about when you and Duncan lived on
Tumblin Street? Did you have any run-ins with people that might’ve
been involved in something like this? Did you make any enemies that
might use some outlandish detail to make it seem like you were a
dirty cop?”

Steven shakes his head. “No. For most of that
time, we just laid low. Hell, we didn’t even have any parties after
those first few weeks.”

“What about Duncan? Did he have any
questionable friends?”

Steven shakes his head again. “No. He laid
pretty low, too. In the beginning, I thought he had a girlfriend.
I’d hear his car leaving at night sometimes. And he was awful damn
happy during that time. I figured he was getting laid. A lot.”

I feel the frown wrinkle my brow. My first
thought is that Duncan is somehow involved. I don’t know why, but
something in my gut just jumped when Steven said that. The problem
is, Duncan is Steven’s partner. That’s like some sort of weird
sacred cop thing. You don’t question your partner. You don’t
suspect them. You don’t distrust them. You just give them your
loyalty. Your unwavering loyalty. This is the person you trust with
your life every single day out in the field. That blind faith is a
very strong bond between partners and I know Steven won’t take it
well if I start casting suspicion on Duncan.

“Well, maybe something will turn up. We’ll
just have to keep our eyes open and our ears to the ground,” I say,
having every intention of talking to Dad about it later.

Steven laughs. “Oh really? And what
connections, pray tell, do you think you have that might give your
eyes or your ears a clue as to what might be going out there in the
criminal underworld?”

I think immediately of Hemi. I don’t ever
plan to speak to him again, but little did Steven or I know that I
was consorting with someone who has lots of secret ties to
different people, not all harmless ones.

I think about Steven’s reaction to Hemi and I
amend my first thought. Maybe Steven
did
know. Maybe I
should’ve trusted my brother more all along.

Maybe I don’t have the good judgment to go
and spread my wings. Maybe I was better off living my life in a
cage.

********

My phone buzzes against my side. I don’t even
turn on the ringer anymore. It’s depressing when it doesn’t ring
and it’s depressing when it does.

I glance at the bright screen. I see Hemi’s
name and Hemi’s number. Again. He’s called at least six times every
day since the day I got out of his car. And every day I ignore him.
The first few times, he left messages. Short ones that said things
like, “I’m sorry, Sloane” and “Please forgive me, Sloane.” Nothing
that really makes a difference. They’re just words. Empty
words.

Now he says nothing. He just waits for the
voice mail to pick up and I hear silence.

I tuck the phone away where I can’t see it or
feel it. I close my eyes against the clock on my nightstand that
says it’s already eleven o’clock. And I’m still in bed.

I didn’t go to school today. I couldn’t. It’s
been almost a week and I still can’t sleep. I can’t think. I can’t
seem to face the world anymore. So I’m here. Waiting. For what, I
don’t know.

I drift in that space between sleep and
wakefulness for another hour before the doorbell rings. Drowsily, I
open my eyes and look at the clock again. I turn over and snuggle
back down into the covers.

And the doorbell rings again.

With a growl, I throw back the blanket and
stomp down the stairs to wrench open the door. I think for a second
that my dad would kill me if he saw me forget to check the peep
hole. Unlike him and my brothers, though, I’m hardly used to my
life being in danger and of being suspicious of every single person
I pass.

But this is no one to be afraid of. It’s a
woman. Dressed in a blue polo shirt with FLOWERS BY WANDA
embroidered on the left breast.

“I’ve got a delivery for Sloane Locke,” she
says in her deep smoker’s voice.

“I’ll take it,” I say, eyeing the enormous
vase of lilies. I can smell them already.

The woman hands me the vase and then extends
a clipboard. “Those are beautiful,” she says as I tuck them into
the bend of my arm and scribble my name on the paper.

“Thank you,” I tell her, moving to shut the
door.

“Have a great day,” she throws over her
shoulder as she turns to walk back down the sidewalk.

“It’ll be shitty,” I mutter, flipping closed
the deadbolt. “Just like yesterday.”

I set the vase of flowers on the never-used
dining room table, taking out the card to glance at it. “I hope
you’ll find a way to forgive me. H.”

I toss it beside the vase and make my way
back up to my bedroom, wishing this day would be over already.

The next three days progress in much the same
way. Each day I sleep in and each day the doorbell rings sometime
in the late morning. It’s always the same lady carrying a beautiful
vase filled with an explosion of color and fragrance.

Every day she tells me the flowers are
beautiful, and every day I sign my name and thank her. And every
day, after that, I leave them on the dining room table with the
rest. Card and all.

Today is Friday. For some reason my father is
home from work. I know this because at seven thirty, he knocks at
my door. “I’m sleeping in,” I mutter from behind my pillow. I hear
nothing for a second before I catch the sound of him turning and
walking away.

I wake up hours later, my first thought being
that it’s nearly one in the afternoon and the doorbell hasn’t
chimed. Deep inside my chest, my heart breaks a little more than I
thought was even possible. Today marks the day that Hemi gave up.
Yesterday was how much he cared about me, how sorry he
really
was. But not today. Today marks the end. Today marks
the day he gave up.

I’m still crying into my pillow when I hear
the doorbell. My heart trips up into a little faster cadence as I
listen to the muffled voices of Dad and a woman. I wait for a few
minutes before I venture downstairs. My father is standing in front
of the dining room table, staring at the vases full of gorgeous
flowers of every color and variety. I notice the new vase right in
front of him. It’s holding at least two dozen pure white roses, and
in the center, a single blood red one. I don’t know what it means.
It could mean anything. But for some reason, this single bud speaks
more clearly than anything else has. It’s as though Hemi knew his
calls and his flowers were all white noise in the background of my
hurt and disillusionment. But this is him screaming at me from the
haze, telling me something I’m not sure I believe.

“What the hell is this, Sloane? Are you
trying to open up a flower shop?” Dad asks when I reach around him
to take the card from the clear little trident that holds it in
place.

“Are you just now noticing these?” I ask in
astonishment, looking up at him as I tear open the tiny
envelope.

“I never come in here,” he defends.

“Wow, some detective
you
turned out to
be,” I mumble teasingly.

It’s the first time in days I’ve felt like
talking to anyone, much less teasing.

“Watch it, smart ass,” he says taking the
card from my fingers. I lunge for it, but he holds it high above
his head. Much too high for me to reach.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I was just playing, Dad.
Now give me the card.”

“No. I want to know what’s going on. You’re
like a damn vampire, sleeping all day. You won’t eat, you won’t
talk to anybody and you keep getting flowers.”

“It’s nothing, Dad. Nothing I can’t handle.”
I’m still fighting being the protected little girl, even though
sometimes I’d give anything for my father to pull me into his arms
and tell me everything will be fine.

“I’m not stupid, Sloane. I know there was
more between you two than just friendship. And I know a betrayal
like that is hard, if not damn near impossible to get over. But you
should try to put yourself in his shoes. Think about what lengths
you’d go to in order to protect one of your brothers. And God
forbid something happen to one. You act like you’re not a Locke in
some ways, like you don’t understand why we treat you the way that
we do, but if someone hurt one of us, you’d be a damn bear to deal
with.” I say nothing as I listen to him. He knows just enough of
the situation to know Hemi’s roll in looking for a dirty cop.
Beyond that, I gave him very few details, other than that some
things he’d discovered pointed to Steven. “Well,” he continues when
I say nothing, “I know I’ve always been hard on you, but I hope you
know you can talk to me. I’m still your father and I love you more
than anything.”

“I know, Dad. And I love you, too,” I
reassure him. “And I’m fine. Really.”

“Slo-ane,” he warns.

“Da-ad.”

“Are you still worried about Steven?” he
asks, making me sigh.

“Maybe a little.”

“You did what you had to do, what you thought
was best in coming to me. He’ll see that one day. Especially when I
tell him what I found out today.”

My ears perk up. “What? What did you find out
today?”

As I wait for him to tell me, I notice the
deep lines of worry etched into his forehead, the unhappy way his
mouth is pulled at the corners. Whatever it is, it’s not good
news.

“There
were
a few kilos of bad coke
confiscated by homicide during one of their investigations. It was
a joint Narcotics/Homicide kind of thing. It was around that time,
so I started looking into the impounded drugs. Turns out there are
a couple of kilos missing. From the very back of the shelf, where
no one would notice unless they were specifically looking. I
checked into the log to see who all came and went during the six
months after that evidence was logged in.” He pauses, spreading the
fingers of one hand over his forehead. “It shows Steven using his
access card to go in. Half a dozen times.”

I gasp. “What?” My heart is pounding so hard,
it feels like it might explode.

“Don’t get too excited now. This is your
brother we’re talking about. I checked the physical log to see what
was signed in or out. Someone signed Steven’s name as checking out
an evidence file on a cold case he’d worked the year before. The
thing is, it’s not Steven’s signature. I’ve kept this on the down
low up until now, and I’m gonna try and keep it that way. I made a
copy of the log sheet and I’m going to take it to one of the
handwriting analysts the city uses for court cases. When I take
this to Internal Affairs, I want the record to already show that
the handwriting is forged. And then I’ll be on this thing like
stink on shit until I find the bastard who framed my son.”

I can see fury emanating from him like steam.
“Who would do this to him, Dad? And why?”

“Well, I have my suspicions.” He looks at me
meaningfully and, after a few seconds, I realize why he is dreading
telling Steven what, at first, seemed like only good news.