The Almost Truth (11 page)

“I guess no one wants a nanny who lost her last charge. It’s not very Mary Poppins–ish.”

“Exactly. She started doing interviews with all those tabloid shows, because they would pay. That pissed off the McKennas, but what really set them on edge was when she started selling all that crap.”

“The safety stuff?” I asked.

“The McKennas obviously support people doing whatever they can to keep their kids safe, but the idea of her making all this money based off the memory of their daughter doesn’t make them too happy. The whole ‘I lived through this nightmare, but you don’t have to’ thing sets their teeth on edge.”

“Have they asked her to stop?”

“I don’t know all the history, but I know they had lawyers involved at one point. There really wasn’t much they could do as long as she didn’t use their daughter’s name in her promotional material, but she always found a way to phrase it where everyone knew who she was talking about.” Chase shrugged. “Goodall makes it sound like she’s still connected to the family, but they don’t want a thing to do with her, and I can’t blame them. Using someone else’s pain to make money is pretty low.”

This was good information. Chase motioned to the waiter, indicating he wanted another bottle of San Pellegrino for our table. I wondered what he would think if he knew what I was after. The con I was planning was just a different way of trying to make money off someone’s pain. I watched Chase. He was the
kind of person who believed in doing the right thing. Brendan would point out that having all the money in the world makes it easier to worry about what is right or wrong. I couldn’t afford to feel guilty.

“Do you want some more bread sticks?” Chase asked, breaking my chain of thought.

“Not if we’re going to try those Venetian fritters,” I said. “And after the sell job you did, I feel like I pretty much have to try them if I can fit them in.”

“Well, if you can’t fit enough of them in tonight, we’ll just have to come back.”

My heart sped up at his casual mention of another date. He wanted to see me again. What made me nervous was that I wanted to see him again too, and it had nothing to do with the con. I wanted to know him better, and he didn’t know me at all.

C
hase insisted on walking me back to my car. It was a perfect summer’s night. The air felt warm, like a soft breath on my shoulder. Tortuffo’s wasn’t on the beach, but it was quiet enough that I could hear the waves hitting the shore a block or so away. I was stuffed. I was lucky I hadn’t exploded out of my sundress. The fritoles were amazing, like fresh warm doughnuts covered in powdered sugar with raisins and pine nuts inside. We started off with sharing one order, but ended up ordering a second plate while we talked.

I couldn’t even remember everything we’d talked about. The conversation had bounced around from favorite books, to what movies we like, to what each of us thinks of ghosts (he’s a believer, I’m a skeptic), to what each of us is afraid of (him heights, me
spiders). The only time the conversation felt strained was when we talked about family.

Chase has two older sisters. His parents sounded pretty perfect to me, but I had the sense Chase felt he couldn’t live up to his dad’s expectations. It wasn’t clear to me if his dad was unreasonable or if it was just the way Chase interpreted what his dad said. He, of course, wanted to know about my family, but I was pretty sure saying my mom was a maid and my dad was a convict would have brought the date to a quick close. I sort of blurred over the details, saying that my dad was self-employed (technically true—he certainly wasn’t working cons for anyone else) and that my mom was in “the hotel business.”

We stopped at my car, and Chase gave a low whistle before leaning over to look inside the window to see the interior.

“That is a sweet car.”

“Thanks.”

“And you’re sure your crew won’t mind helping out tomorrow?” Chase asked. Over dinner I’d volunteered to have my imaginary service organization stuff the flyers for the event. Either I was going to have to figure out how to bribe some of the waitstaff to help me or I’d be stuck doing it all myself.

“You bet.” I shifted in place. I had the sense Chase was going to try to kiss me. In terms of the con, that was a big plus. It showed I was getting his trust. The downside was that I wanted him to kiss me, which meant he was becoming a distraction. I forced myself to focus on an image of Berkeley. I could meet all
sorts of guys at college. There was no reason to let one attractive guy who happened to wander off to Italy to write novels, and volunteered for a children’s charity, distract me from my goal.

“Can I take you for dinner again tomorrow?” Chase asked.

My mind spun around trying to figure out if I should play hard to get or agree. “You can’t possibly be hungry already after that dinner,” I said, buying time.

“We could take the ferry over to Seattle. I haven’t been there in years.”

“There’s a great mystery bookstore there. It’s been around forever. They always have author signings and stuff. For a mystery junkie like you, it should be heaven.”

Chase’s eyes lit up. “That would be awesome. If you take me there, then I’ll buy you dinner as a payback. You pick the place. Maybe something seafood?”

“It’s not like the store is a secret. You don’t need me to find it. They have a website. One Google search and you would be good to go,” I said.

Chase covered his heart with his hand. “Never. It wouldn’t be the same unless you came too.”

“Knowing your love for the supernatural, I have to tell you there’s a ghost tour in Seattle too. It goes through the market and one of the first cemeteries and where an old brothel used to be.”

“Well, now you have to clear your schedule so we can go. You can’t tell a guy about books and brothels and then not take him.”

I laughed. “Okay, but if we’re going to fit everything in, we should go over early.”

Chase looked at his watch. “When’s the next ferry?”

I punched him lightly in the arm. “I was thinking something more like trying to catch the three thirty ferry tomorrow.” I opened the car door. I needed to get out of there. The situation felt like it was spinning out of control. I’d planned to take some time to figure out if I should see him again, and I’d gone and thrown myself on him as his own personal Seattle tour guide.

“It seems like a long time to go without seeing you,” Chase said. He brushed a lock of hair off the side of my face, and my heart sped up again. He leaned forward to kiss me.

That’s when I freaked out. Not a minor freak-out either, but a full-on screaming and running in circles waving my arms kind of freak-out. Chase backed up quickly. I was fairly certain this wasn’t the typical reaction he got when he tried to kiss someone. But this was an actual emergency.

“Bee!” I squealed as I ran past him flapping my arms.

“Be what?” Chase asked. He looked around trying to figure out what was causing my reaction.

I stopped a few feet away. “Is it on me?” I spun in a circle trying to see my back.

“Is what on you?”

“The bee. A bee landed on me.” I looked around in case it was planning a sneak attack. “It must have been trapped in the
car and flown out when I opened the door. They’re not supposed to be out at night.”

“I’m guessing what you’re trying to say is that you’re not a big fan of bees.”

Now that the bee was gone, I felt like an idiot. “I’m allergic,” I explained. “I break out in hives and have a hard time breathing. I haven’t been stung since I was a kid, but I still can’t stand them.”

A group of kids ran down the street on their way to the beach. They had squirt guns and seemed to be involved in some sort of complicated military maneuver where everyone was changing sides at random. The kissing mood was over. Chase stood a respectable few feet away. I couldn’t tell if he didn’t want to kiss me when other people were around or if the fact that I’d acted like a total spaz had made him decide he wasn’t interested in kissing me at all.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” Chase said.

“Sure.” I opened the car door wider to give any other bees a chance to make a run for it. I should have been glad he didn’t kiss me. I didn’t need the complication. But I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. “Sorry about losing it over the bee,” I said. “Logically, I know I’m bigger than they are, and if I just stood still everything would be fine, but they freak me out.”

Chase chuckled. “No problem. I suppose if you’re allergic, then they go from being cute little honey-makers to winged assassins.”

“Exactly,” I said, relieved he wasn’t looking at me like I was a freak.

“I guess I lucked out. The only thing I’m allergic to is pollen. Unless I’m attacked by a flower garden, I’m pretty okay. Even if I am, the worst I have to deal with is a stuffed nose. Bee allergies are a whole different thing. You should carry one of those EpiPens.”

“Is there no end to the information you know? You’re also an expert on combating killer allergies?” I teased him. I didn’t mention that EpiPens cost a hundred dollars if you don’t have insurance, and you have to replace them every six months. I was willing to bet Chase lived in a world where everyone had insurance. Heck, his insurance would likely cover a full-time ninja nurse to follow you around with the EpiPen. She could leap from a tree and stab you with the lifesaving pen before you even knew she was there.

“I only know about it because of the McKennas. Their daughter, Ava, was allergic to bees.”

I
couldn’t stop thinking about it. I lay in Ms. Flick’s lawn chair with my hand resting on the head of one of her gnomes. The cap on the statue fit perfectly inside my hand. It was getting cool outside, but the inside of the trailer would still be hot, and I didn’t want to go in. I had a fan in my room, but it didn’t seem to do much to cool anything down. Instead, it made me feel like I was in a convection oven, slowly being cooked by the hot air swirling around. I wouldn’t be able to sleep. There was no point in lying in bed making the sheets damp with sweat.

I shifted on the chair. It wasn’t the heat that was keeping me awake. I was annoyed with myself, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was like having a sore tooth where you can’t stop jabbing at it with your tongue despite the sharp pain. You would do it, wince at the pain, and vow to never
do it again. Then you would find yourself having to do it one more time.

The idea was so absurd it was ridiculous. Yes, I looked like the picture. Sure, there were no pictures of me around from before I was three. Fine, I had a stuffed bunny, and I also had a bee allergy. But the idea that I might actually be Ava McKenna was insane. Wasn’t it?

I closed my eyes and tried to remember my earliest memory. I could remember being a kid lying under a scrawny Christmas tree, chatting to it. I’d fully believed that when the holidays were over, the tree would shake off the lights and ornaments like a dog after a bath. Then it would lift up its lower branches like a long heavy skirt and walk back into the forest, where it would rejoin its extended tree family. When Christmas was over, my dad shoved the tree into a chipper behind the Save-on-Food Mart. I had howled in pain, as if he were tossing me in feet first instead of the tree. I searched my brain trying to recall how old I must have been at the time. Could I have been less than three? Then another piece of the memory slid into place. I had been inconsolable at the tree chipper, and unable to explain how I felt the tree had been murdered. The only person who had been able to make me feel better was Miss Klee, my kindergarten teacher, who just happened to be doing her shopping at the time of the tree slaughter. So I must have been at least five. Even if I were advanced for my age, I wouldn’t have been allowed in kindergarten at two.

The problem with so many of my early memories was that I couldn’t recall if they were really mine or simply stories I’d heard growing up. I stared up at the stars and tried to tell if I had any memories of a nanny or being taken from my family. If I had been kidnapped, it would have been traumatic. Even at three, you would think that would be something that I would remember. If I could remember being devastated at the loss of a Christmas tree, it seemed the loss of my parents would have burned some sort of memory into my head, but there was nothing about that.

Then there was the fact that I could conceive of no reason that my parents would have kidnapped anyone. There was no doubt in my mind that my dad was a crook, but he wasn’t the kind of person who would harm a kid. It sounds absurd to say that he had a code of honor, but there was a sense that there were some crimes that were okay and others that were strictly off-limits. He always talked about how people might say he had no shame, but he’d never once conned an elderly person out of their money. My dad had a Robin Hood fantasy where he stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Of course, by “the poor,” my dad meant himself. Still, I had a hard time imagining him sneaking into the hotel to take a toddler.

As much as it didn’t make sense, I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility. My entire life would be different if I was Ava. Every kid dreams at some point about discovering that their “real” family has been found and is coming to take them
away, but this felt close to being real. I was sure if I’d grown up as Ava, I’d still have problems, but from where I was sitting now, having that other life seemed magical. I could picture what my Ava room would look like: large, pink, with a giant canopy bed. I’d always wanted one of those as a kid. There would be a giant window seat with one of those custom cushions so I could sit there for hours and read. I would have traveled; I might even have a favorite place that I liked to stay when I was in Paris. I’d know where to get the best ice cream in New York City. Scrambling to find money for college wouldn’t be an issue. Heck, if I really was Ava McKenna, my parents could buy me my own dorm. One thing was for sure, if I was Ava, I wouldn’t have to worry that my college money had been used to get my dad out of jail.

I sat up. That was something I could check. My dad had spent more time in jail than out since I was a kid. If he was in jail when the kidnapping happened, there was no way he could have been involved.