Lies I Told

  Dedication

  For Jennifer Klonsky,

  who gave me a second chance

  Epigraph

  Wild honey smells of freedom

  The dust—of sunlight

  The mouth of a young girl, like a violet

  But gold—smells of nothing.

  —ANNA AKHMATOVA

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Promises I Made

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Michelle Zink

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Looking back, I should have known Playa Hermosa was the beginning of the end. We’d had a good run, and if things were sometimes tense between Mom, Dad, and Parker, it was nothing a new job couldn’t fix. Just when they’d be at each other’s throats, we’d move on to another town.

  And there was nothing like a new town to remind us which team we were on.

  But Playa Hermosa was different. It was like another world. One where the old rules didn’t apply. Like the exotic birds on the peninsula, we were suddenly all on our own.

  Except it didn’t feel like that right away. In the beginning, it was business as usual. Plot the con, get into character, work our way in, stick together.

  I don’t know if it was my relationship with Logan that tipped everything over the edge or if the signs had been there long before. Either way, I tell myself it was for the best. The universe seems to have its own mysterious plan. I guess we’re just along for the ride. I can live with that. The harder part, the impossible part, is living with what I did to Logan and his family.

  We knew what we were doing. Knew the risks. But Logan and his family were good. Maybe the first really good people I’d ever met. They loved one another, sacrificed for one another. Not because they didn’t have anyone else, but because that’s what love is.

  What happened to them is my fault. And I’m still trying to figure out how to live with that.

  Then there’s Parker. Deep down, I know the choice was his. But I can’t help wondering if he stuck around because of me. If he hadn’t, everything would be different, and he’d probably be drinking beer in Barcelona or coffee in Paris or something.

  I can’t think about the other stuff. Thinking about it forces me back to the question: Why didn’t I see it? Had the end of our family been one sudden, impulsive decision setting into motion a string of events that changed everything? Or had it all been a long time coming? I think that would be worse, because if it was true, it meant that I was hopelessly, unforgivably naive.

  And there’s no crime as unforgivable as naivety when you’re on the grift.

  One

  I swam my way up from sleep, trying to remember where I was against a mechanical roar outside the window. The room didn’t help. Filled with the standard furniture and a few unpacked boxes, it could have been any bedroom in any house in any city in America.

  I ran down the list of possibilities: Chicago, New York, Maryland, and then Phoenix, because that was where we’d worked last. But it only took a few seconds to realize that none of them were right. We’d arrived the day before in Playa Hermosa, a peninsula that jutted out over the Pacific Ocean somewhere between Los Angeles and San Diego.

  It was like a different world, the slickness of Los Angeles falling away as we entered an almost tropical paradise, shady with low-hanging trees and dominated by Spanish architecture. I caught glimpses of the Pacific, a sheet of shimmering blue silk in the distance, as my dad navigated the Audi up the winding roads and my mom pointed things out along the way. Parker sat silently beside me in the backseat, brooding and sullen like he always was when we started a new job. We’d passed fields, overgrown with dry brush, that led to turnouts where people could stop and take pictures. We didn’t take any, because that was one of the most important rules: leave no proof.

  And there were more rules where that one came from, rules that allowed us to run cons in affluent communities all over the country, worming our way into the lives of wealthy neighbors and trust-fund babies with more money than sense. Rules that allowed us to make off with tens of thousands of dollars, staying in place just long enough after every theft to insure that we weren’t under the cloud of suspicion. That was one of the worst parts: staying put, pretending to be as shocked and innocent as everyone else.

  Only after the dust settled would we move on, citing a job transfer or start-up opportunity for my dad and changing our identification through one of his underground sources. If anyone ever suspected us of committing a crime, we were too long gone to know about it.

  A portion of each take was split between us, the rest of it used to set up the next con. From the looks of things, it hadn’t been cheap this time around.

  The roar of the leaf blower outside grew louder as it moved under the window, and I put my pillow over my head, trying to block out the noise. We’d spent the last few weeks in a hotel in Palm Springs, preparing for the Playa Hermosa job, but I still wasn’t ready to face my first day in a new school. There had been too many of them. Right now, in this unfamiliar room, I was in a pleasant kind of limbo, the last town far enough away to be a memory, the new one still a figment of my imagination.

  But it was no use. The down in my pillow was no match for the rumble outside, and I finally tossed it aside and got out of bed, digging around in a still-packed box until I found a hair tie. My gaze was drawn to the reflection in the mirror over the dresser. The brown hair was a surprise. I hadn’t been a brunette since Seattle, and I still approached every mirror half expecting to see my face framed by a sheet of straight, shiny blond hair. My eyes—a dark blue—were the only thing I could count on to be the same when we moved from city to city. But they were a little different now, too. Older, shadowed with something weary that echoed the way I’d felt ever since our near miss in Maryland the year before.

  Lately, it had begun to feel like too much. Too much lying. Too much risk. Too much work. I had been eleven when I was adopted by my mom and dad. I’d spent a year thinking my life would be normal, then Parker joined the family and we were quickly initiated into life on the grift. It had been nonstop ever since. I hadn�
��t been this tired since my fifth foster home, back when survival meant dodging a woman who was a little too quick with the back of her hand, her son a little too generous with the creepy glances.

  I leaned away from the mirror and took a deep breath, forcing the past back into the dark corners of my mind where it belonged. Then I reached into the unpacked box, feeling past my books, the little makeup I owned, the one framed photograph I had of our family. When my hand brushed against a smooth wooden container, I pulled it from the box.

  It was a simple unfinished rectangle, the kind you could buy in any craft store for five bucks. It was meant to be a jewelry or treasure box, but I’d never gotten around to decorating or staining it. I probably never would. Its contents were against the rules. I’d never be able to keep it out long enough to make it look nice.

  Anyway, that wasn’t the point. It was the stuff inside that mattered, and I reached for the flimsy gold clasp and lifted the lid, pushing aside the carousel ticket from Chicago, the postcard from DC, the cheap plastic taxicab I’d bought from a street vendor in New York City. Finally, I found what I was looking for, and I brought the plastic ID card—Chandler High School emblazoned across the top—close to my face for a better look.

  My teeth were white and straight in the picture, my blond hair shining even in the crappy fluorescent lighting. The picture belied none of the fear and anxiety I’d felt in Phoenix. I could have been any popular high school student. A cheerleader. Class president. Lead in the school play.

  The ID was dangerous, against the rules. All my mementos were. But they were the only things that made me feel real, that made real all the places I’d been, all the people I’d met. Sometimes I thought my forbidden trinkets were the only proof I existed at all.

  I closed the wooden container and placed it back in the still-packed box. Then I slipped the ID card into the pocket of my boxers, pulled my hair into a loose ponytail, and stepped out into the hallway.

  Two

  The house wasn’t huge, but already it was one of my favorites. I ran my hand along the walls as I headed for the stairs, enjoying the rough feel of plaster under my fingertips. The house was authentic in a way the McMansion outside Chicago hadn’t been, its walls and windows more solid than in the flimsy house we’d rented in Phoenix. That one had looked fancy on the outside, but the walls were thin, the windows so poorly sealed that a steady stream of hot air blew on my face when I lay in bed during the 115-degree summer.

  This one was nice, even if I didn’t recognize any of the furniture, which we’d bought brand-new like we did at the start of every new job. At first it had been hard, leaving everything behind at the end of each con. But like a lot of things, I’d gotten used to it. Now I could pack my clothes and books in less than fifteen minutes.

  I took the staircase to the main floor, the giant ceiling fan whirring softly in the tall-ceilinged foyer, and headed for the kitchen at the back of the house.

  Parker was already there, sitting at a table under a bank of open windows and spooning cereal into his mouth while he read the business section. I hardly thought about my share of the money we earned, but Parker was obsessive, determined to invest his piece of each take so he wouldn’t have to rely on Cormac and Renee—or anyone like them—ever again. Articles and books about stocks, bonds, and IPOs were his reading material of choice, something that stood in contrast to his new appearance. It was always a little weird watching everyone in the family transform, and I stood in the doorway, trying to get used to this new version of my brother.

  He’d ditched the preppy young Republican he’d played in Phoenix in favor of a Southern California surfer boy. The longer hair worked on him. Dark blond and a little messy, it made him look like he’d just climbed out of the water. He was my brother in everything but blood, yet I could understand why girls fell all over themselves for his attention. With his perfect white teeth, strong jaw, and boyish dimples, he was every girl’s type. Add in the bad-boy brood, and he was basically irresistible.

  I glanced at the lines of leather cord marching up his arm, strategically placed to hide his scars. I’d asked him about the bracelets once, wondering why he wore them in any kind of weather, even when long sleeves covered his arms all the way to his wrists. He’d just shrugged and said, “They remind me who I really am.”

  I didn’t understand it. I wanted nothing more than to forget the past, riddled with unfamiliar beds and unfamiliar faces. But Parker didn’t want to forget. The past was what drove him, and I had a sudden flash of him at thirteen, the day he’d been adopted into the family, eyes hooded, his forearm wrapped in gauze. In a foster care system that had seen everything, Parker’s record had rendered him unplaceable in another home.

  Even good-hearted people didn’t want to come home to a bathroom covered in blood.

  It made my heart hurt to remember Parker that way, alone and unwanted. I shut the memory down and sat across from him at the table.

  “Hey,” I said quietly, not wanting to startle him.

  He looked up, his eyes a little glazed. “Hey.”

  He lowered his eyes back to the paper, and I looked around the room, surprised by the lack of moving boxes on the counters and floor.

  “Wow . . . Mom must have really gone to town unpacking last night.”

  “You know how she is,” Parker said, not looking up.

  As if on cue, the sound of heels clicking on tile sounded from the hall. A couple of seconds later my mom walked into the room, trim and lithe in white slacks and a halter top that managed to look both classy and subtly sexy. It was one of her many gifts: the ability to fit into any town in a matter of hours. She nailed New York, donning designer clothes that cost a fortune but looked effortless. In DC she was all about crisp, menswear-inspired slacks and tailored button-downs that hugged her still-youthful body. And I would never forget Arizona, where she’d spent thousands of dollars on linen trousers, perfectly cut sleeveless dresses, and expensive golf ensembles. I’d laughed out loud the first time I’d seen her in one of the Phoenix getups. Golf skirts and polo shirts were the antithesis of the tight jeans and slinky tops she favored when we were between jobs.

  Still, I envied her. It always took me a while to figure out the wardrobe code of a new high school, and I usually had to enlist the help of a new friend under the guise of a joint shopping spree to get it right. In the meantime I fell back on a style I thought of as “neutral trendy.” I never hit the sweet spot right away, but I managed to not be cast as a misfit, either. I cut a glance at Parker, looking just right for anywhere in fitted jeans and a tailored Euro tee. Guys had it so much easier.

  “Good morning.” My mom’s green eyes were bright, her blond hair perfectly styled as she crossed the kitchen to the coffeepot. No one would have guessed she’d been up half the night unpacking.

  “Morning, Mom.”

  Maybe it was because I remembered so little about my biological parents, but from the start, having someone to call Mom and Dad had felt like a gift. Parker was different. He called our parents by their first names unless we were working. Sometimes it seemed like he did it on principle. Like he was trying to prove that while he lived and worked with them, they couldn’t make him love them. Deep down I thought he did, though. It was just hard for him to show it.

  My mom poured coffee into two mugs and sat down at the table, pushing one toward me. Parker didn’t drink coffee.

  “Everybody sleep okay?” Mom asked, taking a sip from her steaming cup.

  I nodded and followed her lead, the coffee dark and bitter in my mouth, as a fresh round of noise started up outside.

  I tipped my head at the window. “They’re already doing yard work?”

  She nodded. “It was a little overgrown.”

  I laughed. “We’ve only been here a day.”

  “First impressions are important, Gracie. You know how it is.”

  “I guess.” I tried not to sound like a brat, but the truth is, I was tired. We’d lived in three different states
in the last year alone. I’d started sophomore year in Maryland and hadn’t even been able to finish it in Arizona. I was a good student, but I’d still have to retake some of the classes this year to get credit, something that was made harder by the fact that I’d missed the start of the school year in California. I was only sixteen, and I was house-lagged, worn out from all the packing and moving, the changing of hair colors and names, the running. It wasn’t the life I’d imagined the day my mom and dad adopted me out of the Illinois foster system.

  My mom reached over and took my hand, her eyes full of concern. “I know it’s hard sometimes, honey,” she said gently. “But we’ll be able to take a break soon, maybe even go on that girls’ trip to Paris: shop, visit the Louvre, wear berets.”

  I forced a smile. Ours wasn’t an easy life, but I loved my parents, and I knew they loved Parker and me.

  She squeezed my hand. “You just have first-day jitters, Gracie. It’s natural, but everything will be okay, you’ll see.”

  I nodded, turning toward my dad as he walked into the room.

  “Morning.” He stalked across the kitchen, staring out the windows that overlooked the backyard. “What is that racket?”

  “The landscapers.” My mom took a last drink of her coffee before walking to the sink and dumping the rest of it. “I told you they were coming, remember?”

  My dad turned away from the window. “Tell me again why we need landscapers?”

  “You have to spend money to make money,” the rest of us said in unison. Parker didn’t bother to look up from the newspaper.

  It was true, but I knew my mom enjoyed it. In her eyes, buying clothes to fit the part or furnishing a new house every six months wasn’t work—it was a perk of life on the grift. My dad didn’t get it. For him, the con was all about the con. It was the challenge he loved. The danger.

  He leaned against the counter, looking like a middle-aged but still good-looking actor, his dark hair dusted silver at the temples.

  “What’s on tap for you today?” my mom asked him.

  “I’m touring Allied Security,” he said. “I might buy a system for the house. I also need to check out the club and ask about membership. How about you?”