“I’ve been worried about you.” Creepy Jack leans over; I avoid his kiss by buckling in.
His mouth slides over my cheek, and he sends a cold shudder through me by breathing deeply into my hair before easing back onto the driver’s side. There isn’t much space in the front seat and less in the back. This is the kind of car men buy when they start losing confidence in their ability to pull women in other ways. Close up, I can see the lines around his eyes that weren’t evident in either picture, along with the receding hairline; he’s older than the late thirties I initially guessed, and on his left hand, a golden ring glints on his fourth finger.
I feel like throwing up again.
He puts the car in gear and it lurches forward like a barely leashed beast. He’s quiet until we put some distance between us and the house. The radio is playing some easy-listening station that underlines the massive gap between us. I don’t want this; I’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Are you hurting?” he asks.
I nod. Because surely a painful, seeping incision will put him off. He rests a palm on my thigh, and the touch tells me everything about their relationship. We drive until I realize we’re headed for the quarry. Earlier in the summer, I would’ve worried about being seen with him since a certain crowd comes here to party. But this is a school night and once September begins, it would be hard to find a more deserted locale.
For drowning a minor indiscretion.
I shudder.
“Is the air-con on too high? Before, you complained if I didn’t set it to max.”
“The accident took something out of me,” I say.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” The term sounds worse in the darkened privacy of the car, as if each letter has spider legs, tiny furry creeping things that are biting their way into my leg courtesy of the five fingers and a burning hot hand on my thigh. His fingers are stroking, stroking, stroking, like I’m a pet or something.
“It’s been a while,” I say softly.
That seems to make sense anyway since Morgan was in Europe and then a week after that, the accident. Since then, I’ve been in charge, and I definitely haven’t hooked up with Creepy Jack. He nods, putting the car in park. It’s so dark here. The place has been closed for thirty years. I’ve always secretly hated the quarry; it’s a scar in the earth filled with dark water. Trees ring the place like they’re standing guard over wicked things, drowned and buried deep.
“I know. The summer is too long.”
Not nearly long enough.
He takes one of my hands between both of his, and the crawly, squiggly impression increases. “Don’t feel neglected, but I’ll be busy for a month or so.”
“Okay,” I say, though Morgan would probably protest, even if she’s playing him.
She never liked being ignored.
“You weren’t kidding. The crash stole all your vinegar. But that’s fine, I like sugar better anyway.” He nuzzles my ear, hot breath moist on my skin.
In another second, his mouth will be on my neck. Stir-fry veggies and tofu heave into my throat. I clamp a hand over my mouth and hunch forward. “Uhm…”
The bastard lets go of me so fast, I might be on fire. He even nudges me toward the passenger door. “Don’t throw up in here. Get out if you have to.”
“Sorry,” I whisper. “Can you take me back?”
I need to find out more about their relationship, but it won’t be today. Between the scene with Nathan and this mess, it’s just been an incredibly long day. In silence he starts the car and drives toward the Frost mansion. He doesn’t touch my leg again.
“I’ll give you some time to heal … and to miss me. You know I love you, right?”
I don’t think Morgan would say it back, even if she was in love with this scary asshole. So I give an enigmatic smile. “I know.”
“Don’t tease me.” In that moment he’s more like a sixteen-year-old boy than a powerful politician, hungry for any scrap of affection.
“Isn’t that what you like best?” I don’t even have to think about what Morgan would say anymore; the words just slip out. “The fact that you can’t be sure of me.”
“Maybe. Here, I got this for you.”
Creepy Jack hands me a black velvet box, and I open it to the unmistakable sparkle of jewelry. This is way over the top, a heart pendant studded with diamonds on a fine silver chain, could be platinum or white gold, too. Even I have heard of the shop it comes from, very expensive. He clasps it around my neck; the metal feels like ice against my skin.
“Thanks.” Before he can reach for me, I add, “Give my regards to your family,” as I slide out. I hurry toward the gate and input the passcode, unable to relax until the wrought-iron doors shut behind me.
I did it. I met with Morgan’s sugar daddy and I didn’t get abducted or molested. That shouldn’t be the watermark for a successful day. More than anything, I want this asshole arrested. But without evidence, it’s my word against his. One meeting, a hand on my leg, and a valuable present? If the news has taught me anything, a good lawyer will make Morgan look like a nympho with daddy issues trying to ruin a good man’s life.
She must have had her reasons for doing this, and for the sake of my sanity, I have to unravel this tangle.
Mrs. Rhodes meets me on the back patio. Her eyes are guarded and watchful. “Your father was looking for you a few minutes ago. I told him you were resting.”
Why did she cover for me?
“I appreciate it,” I say.
“My monthly … bonus is overdue,” she tells me, biting her lower lip. “I know you’ve been preoccupied but … I really need the money.”
“I’ll take care of it right now.”
She seems relieved as I head upstairs so I guess I wasn’t supposed to hand her a wad of cash. No wonder Morgan always seemed to get away with everything. Mrs. Rhodes is on standby, ready to provide an alibi. In the white room of doom, I take off the necklace and hide it in Morgan’s jewelry box. But when I open the bottom drawer, I find two more pieces, a bracelet and earrings, both with the heart-and-diamond scheme.
So. Gross.
My best friend’s e-mail account beckons, but first I have to see if there’s a bank log-in. I’m ecstatic when I’m able to import her browser history and then I find the website. Since I don’t know the password, I repeat the “forgot password, send me a code” routine I used earlier. There’s also a security question, but I know the name of her first pet. I type Trixie, and the site tells me it recognizes my IP. Then I’m into her financial world, staring in astonishment.
I mean, I know she’s well off. But Morgan has $102,191.82 in her checking account. In checking. There’s roughly twice that in savings, plus CD and bond accounts with terms and benefits I’d have to google to understand. Yet I can do the math. In combined assets, Morgan Frost has over a million dollars already, and she’s the sole heir to Frost Tech.
I feel sick to my stomach, like I set out to rob her or something.
Determined, I suppress the shock and nausea, perusing the account records. In history of bills paid, Morgan sends money to Wanda Rhodes on the twenty-eighth, but the amount varies. Best guess, the “bonus” depends on how helpful the housekeeper was. Amounts range between $250 and $1,000, so I average the payments and send $583 via e-transfer. For a little longer I study her spending habits and I’m astounded to see how much she bought in Europe.
Damn.
I shut that site down and do a search using the keywords “Jack,” “politician,” “Renton, GA,” and “Randall Frost.” Five seconds later, I have a picture of Jack Patterson, public assemblyman, smiling beside his wife and two young children, one boy, one girl. There are rumors that he might run for state senate in a few years.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
Next I get into e-mail. There isn’t a whole lot since we keep in touch mostly via messaging. But I dig up a subscription to a cloud storage service and reset that password, too. I’m not sure what I expect but, given what I already know about Morgan, I’m braced for the worst. Still, it’s surreal to open the folder labeled Photos and find my best friend in her underwear along with Creepy Jack not wearing much more than a smile.
This is evidence.
The photos aren’t time or date stamped, but I remember that haircut. Morgan was fifteen when these pictures were taken. Fifteen. That’s not a lot older than my younger brother, and no matter what was going on in her head, no matter why she did this, it’s not okay. That asshole needs to pay.
As I’m fuming, I open a folder marked Stuff. Something tells me that title is misleading, more important than anyone would guess. Inside there’s a subfolder, called Read Me. At this point a random snooper would probably lose interest, as the most boring software instruction files in the world are called that.
I open it. And everything changes.