The first rule of running a con is simple: don’t get too close.

I’ve already broken that rule many times over.

The second rule is always be prepared. There, I have some success.

“Ruby.” Eleanor calls the shop the day after I’ve realized I’m the worst human being on the planet. Possibly the galaxy.

“Hey, Eleanor.”

“You know how you said you could help with some of the charity gala stuff? Do you think you could come by this afternoon? We have so many people promising donations that the paperwork is getting completely out of hand.”

“Of course. I can be there around three, if that’s okay.”

The bell over the shop door jangles and I glance up from the counter.

It’s a thirty-something couple I don’t recognize. Must be tourists. I smile and wave at them before getting back to my conversation.

“That would be perfect,” Eleanor says. “I need help going through the paperwork and organizing the volunteer duties for the night of the event. Tabby said she would help, too.”

“Awesome.”

We chat a little longer before I make my excuses, since there are customers in the store.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” I ask.

The couple looks over from the bookcase full of information on everything from healing herbs and crystals to interpreting auras.

“You’ve got an interesting store here,” the man says.

He’s on the short side, just a few inches taller than his wife. But he’s stocky, like he works out a lot. In fact, her arms look fairly toned, too. Maybe they’re health-nut types. And I’m assuming she’s his wife because they’re both wearing rings. They’re also wearing Castle Cove T-shirts I recognize from one of the stores on the boardwalk.

“Thank you. Is there anything I can help you find?” I repeat my earlier question.

“No. We’re just looking around.” He glances around at the words.

The conversation and the couple are innocuous enough, but it’s an act. And not a very good one.

“Okay. I’ll be up at the counter. Just let me know if you have questions.”

I smile and walk back to the register, pretending to balance the books, but really I’m watching the customers.

They’re too quiet. They don’t act like a married couple; there’s no shared glances or laughs or touches . . . although, who knows, maybe they hate each other. I don’t have time to dwell on them though because the bell over the door rings, and the parents walk in hand in hand, smiling and laughing with each other. Further proof it’s impossible to tell what people are like, what a relationship is like when you’re looking from the outside.

“Hello, darling,” Mother says, her voice happy, her face smiling for our audience.

“Hello,” I say brightly.

Without breaking eye contact, I move my hand under the counter, trailing my fingers until they reach the recorder’s on switch. The movement is familiar and instinctive by now.

The tourist woman stops before making her exit, her eyes flicking over the parents before she follows her husband out the door.

Once the door shuts behind them, Mother drops the act, her mouth flattening.

I expect them to rail at me for the whole trying-to-frame-them-with-stolen-jewelry thing, but they don’t.

“I suppose it would be too much to ask that you’ve gotten better information from your little boyfriend,” Father says.

“So we won’t ask.” Mother hands me a folder.

I’m almost scared to open it.

But I can’t avoid it.

The first item is a categorized list, things I’ve done mixed with things they’ve done on my behalf, all typed and bullet-pointed for ease of reading.

Underneath, they’ve listed more info to back up the list. Articles about the real Ruby and her very much living family, a glossy print of me planting the bag of jewels under the pier in broad daylight, and a document linking Jared’s account to an account in my name. Not Ruby Simpson, but “Charlotte Hampton.” They even gave me their current last name.

This is not good.

The folder is snapped out of my hands.

Father is smiling, the expression smug.

Mother is severe, her lips in a straight line. “The gala is our last night here. There will be a lot of donations made during the auction. You have until nine o’clock on Friday night. If you don’t—”

Father puts a hand on her shoulder.

She smiles at him, though the meek expression never reaches her eyes, before turning back to face me. “You know what to do.”

With one last parting look, they leave.

I’m thankful the shop is empty for the moment. I shut off the recorder and then close my eyes to think.

Well. At least that’s one more thing I can use to show who they really are. Too bad it implicates me as well if the cops ever get ahold of it.

It might be enough to prevent them from double-crossing me and Paige, but it’s not enough to stop the scheme they have rolling now.

There’s only one real option left.

It’s the only way to keep Paige—and Castle Cove’s coffers—safe from them.

I have to turn them in, which means I have to turn myself in, too.

But first, I have one last angle to work. Maybe there’s something in their secret safe, something even slightly incriminating that I can use against them. I have to try.

Either way, this is going to be the end for me.

I have to look Jared in the eye and tell him the truth, about every deception, every lie, every betrayal. I’m going to jail. But I don’t matter anymore.

The only thing that’s ever mattered is Paige.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

I make it to the library just after three. A teenager running the front desk directs me to a room in the back.

I have to go through a door marked Employees Only and then down a darkened hallway, following the light coming out of an open doorway.

“Oh good, you’re finally here,” Tabby says. The room isn’t necessarily small, maybe the size of Ruby’s shop, but floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stacked with books line the walls. Reams of paper and office supplies litter the floor. Most of the center of the room is taken up by a massive table surrounded by decrepit plastic chairs with metal legs, the same kind I had to sit in during Paige’s parent-teacher conference. Something I won’t be doing ever again, if all goes to plan. But Paige will still be sitting in these damn uncomfortable chairs for a while yet. I’m going to make sure of it.

“This place is like a prison.” Tabby pushes a stack of papers in my direction. “You get to do the heavy lifting. I’m going to work on the donation list.”

“Where’s Eleanor?” I glance down at the papers she’s heaved at me. They look like bank statements.

“She had to help a customer or something.” Tabby dismisses the question with a wave.

I sit down across from Tabby and glance over the statements, shuffling through some of the papers. “What are these?”

“They’re proof of deposits from the Hamptons, and receipts for donations. We’re just copying the information onto a ledger to make sure the final balance matches what we’re sending to each charity. The receipts have the names of the charities. Then there’s a list of people who signed up for the dinner, fifty bucks per plate. So those deposits go on the other list so we can make the place cards for the dinner. I think we’ve got over two hundred people attending. They wanted us to do the accounting for a sort of checks and balances, to make sure nothing gets missed. Isn’t that awesome?”

“So very awesome.” And clever.

By involving the donating citizens in this way, the parents have pretty much assured no questions will be asked. And no one will ever know if the charities actually get the money or not. No one would have cause to be suspicious. After all, Tabby and Eleanor are going through the books at the Hamptons’ behest.

I have to unclench my teeth and focus on the positive. The bank account is in both of their names. They’re using a New York address, one I recognize as a fake. The important part is in the top right: the account number. I’m sure it’s a front.

As I copy numbers and receipts over into the ledger—what a waste of time—I think about ways to get the parents out of the house so I have enough time to break into their safe. What if I arrange some kind of get-together for the charity, but then I can’t make it? A dinner or something to keep them tied up for a couple of hours so I know they won’t be home. I can act like I’m going and flake out at the last minute. It would help if I could get it set up somewhere far enough away to give me extra time if I need it.

A swishing sound makes me look up. Tabby’s feet are up on the table and she’s filing her nails.

The picture makes me smile. I hate to use her like this, but it’s not like I have much of a choice. “I thought you were going to work on the donations?”

“I am. I’m thinking. We already have some, but I really think we need more. Hey, you wanna donate a free reading or something?”

“Sure.”

“Sweet. Do you think you could get Jared to donate something, too?”

“What would he donate?”

She shrugs and sets the nail file on the table. “I don’t know.” She stews for a few seconds and then her face brightens. “Oh, maybe a lap dance.”

I tilt my head at her. “Really?”

“You know how they have those strippers who dress up like cops and then pretend to arrest someone, and they’re like,” she deepens her voice, “ ‘You are under arrest . . . for being so hot’ and then they strip off their clothes and get all crazy?” She nods. “He could totally do that.”

“What about Troy? He could strip, too.”

“What? Gross. No one wants a strip tease from that lug of meat.”

“Sure they do, everyone but you.”

She winces. “Don’t tell me you would want one from him.”

“Nah, I already have my own lug of meat. What about you? You could donate something.”

She purses her lips. “I would totally offer a lap dance but so many people would bid it might cause a riot.”

I laugh. “Not a lap dance, but you could offer some handyman-type skills. Handywoman-type skills.”

“True.” She picks up her emery board again, peering at her nails. “Ben’s already doing an open bar at the gala, but I could probably get him to donate something, too. My list isn’t long enough. We need more people involved.”

My ears prick up. Here’s my chance. “You could go around to the local business and ask for donations.”

Her nose wrinkles. “That sounds terrible and it would take forever. You know how the people in this town like to chat. It would take me a week just to get through the shops on one side of the boardwalk. We don’t have the time. We only have two more days.”

“You could just send a letter or call.”

“Too informal. People here are weird about that. If you’re asking them for money, you should have the manners to do so while looking them in the eye.”

“Maybe the Hamptons will have an idea,” I say. “They’ve done this kind of thing before.”

“True. I’ve been meaning to bring them a casserole or something, to welcome them to town, but I’m not sure if they like that kind of thing.”

“They seem too fancy for casseroles.” The bait is loaded into the trap.

“You’re right. Hey,” she snaps her fingers, “maybe I can invite them over for dinner.”

And it’s taken.

“That’s a great idea,” I say, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. “And maybe some of the other local business owners, too. Get them all in one spot at a set date and time for a scheduled event so you don’t have to track them down and get stuck in conversation all day, but you can still look them in the eye while you have your hand out.”

She’s nodding slowly.

“I’ll help you clean and prepare your house. We might have to move some furniture around . . .”

“Ugh. My house is way too small for something like that.”

“Yeah, mine, too. Maybe Troy’s?” I suggest.

“No way. He’s the worst host ever. We’d all be using paper plates and plastic sporks from the general store deli.”

I nod and glance down at the statements in front of me, shuffling through them and writing down some more numbers while she’s thinking.

Finally, it hits her. “You should totally convince Jared to have it at his place. It’s super nice and big enough for everyone. Tell him we’ll cook.”

I laugh. “He’ll never let us cook. He’d worry we’d burn the place down or serve peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

“He would be correct to worry. Which is why it’s the perfect solution. He’ll do everything for us.”

“Probably. That would make me feel bad, though. I don’t want to take advantage of our relationship.” Even though that’s exactly what I’m doing.

“Well, I have no problems using Jared for personal gain. I’ll ask him first. If he says no you can butter him up and convince him. And by butter him up, I mean sex. Make him happy and thinking with the small head so the big head has no chance of refusing.” She nods sagely.

“Got it.”