He navigated the car up the Pacific Coast Highway toward the Santa Monica Pier. The windows were down, the sunroof open on the BMW. The setting sun streamed in from the beach on our left, casting everything golden as it reflected off the water in the distance. I tried to focus on the moment, to be present. But I felt Rachel’s suspicion like hot breath on my neck.
I had no one to thank but myself. The rules were in place for a reason. My mom and dad had been on the grift long before Parker and I came along. They’d established the rules to protect us, and I’d put us all at risk for some kind of childish reassurance, for the kind of false security people like us couldn’t afford to believe in.
Logan parked in one of the lots near the beach and we walked up to the Third Street Promenade. He’d made a reservation at a seafood place, and we settled into a plush booth. We were halfway through a meal of stuffed snapper and grilled vegetables when he surprised me by reaching across the table and taking my hand.
He smiled into my eyes. “I’m happy you’re here, Grace.”
“I’m happy, too,” I said softly, suddenly shy.
“Mostly, I’m happy you’re with me.”
I smiled. “Me too.”
He sighed a little and looked down at the table.
“What is it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t think I knew how lonely I was until I met you.”
“Lonely?” I’d imagined Logan a lot of things. Lonely hadn’t been one of them. “But . . . you have so many friends. And your mom and dad . . .”
“Yeah, but the guys and I talk mostly about surfing. And girls.” He blushed a little. “We don’t really talk about serious stuff.”
“And your parents?”
He took a deep breath. “I guess you could say they are the serious stuff.”
“How do you mean?” He had no way of knowing that I was fully aware of his dad’s condition. My question was just one more lie between us.
He fidgeted with his water glass. “My dad’s kind of . . . sick.”
“Sick?” I hesitated, giving it time to seem like it was sinking in. “With what?”
His laugh was a little sad. “A lot of things, actually. Bipolar disorder, paranoid schizophrenia . . .”
I could see the pain in his eyes. Worse, I saw shame there, and I knew it was because he was worried about me. About what I would think of him and his family.
I squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, Logan. Is it . . . manageable?”
“More or less. He’s been institutionalized a couple of times, but he’s been home for over two years now. This course of meds seems to be doing the trick. So far, at least.”
“That’s good,” I said. “But it still must be hard for you and your mom.”
He nodded. “Even when he’s good, I think we’re both always wondering when the tide is going to turn, you know?”
“Yeah.” Parker hadn’t been diagnosed with anything, but I knew what it was like to watch and wait. To wonder if something small would set him back, maybe take him from us for good.
“Because of Parker?” Logan asked, as if reading my mind.
My nod was slow.
Logan laughed a little. “Sucks to be the normal ones, right?”
“Definitely.” I laughed with him, surprised either of us could find any humor in the situation.
“Well, now we have each other,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine.
I’d never wanted something to be more true.
He paid the bill and we wandered down to the pier. It was cold and dark, the lights from the boardwalk and Ferris wheel reflecting off the water, making it look like the sea was strung with thousands of Christmas lights.
Logan looked up. “How do you feel about Ferris wheels?”
“I’ve never been on one,” I admitted.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Well, we have to fix that right now,” he said, pulling me toward the ticket booth.
We got our tickets and stood in line. Logan put his arms around me from behind, pulling me close while we waited our turn. Surrounded by flashing carnival lights and squealing children, Logan’s warm body against mine, I almost felt normal. When it was our turn, we ascended a small flight of stairs to a metal platform under an empty Ferris wheel seat. A man with a scraggly gray beard and clear blue eyes lifted the safety bar, and Logan took my hand as I climbed into the seat. It rocked slightly as I sat down, and I had a moment of vertigo where the sky and sea tilted. I clutched the side of the seat, fighting a wave of panic. Then Logan was next to me, his arms around my shoulders, and everything seemed to steady.
The bearded man smiled his encouragement and lowered the safety bar before putting his hand on a big metal lever. My stomach lurched as we were swung backward. We stopped a second later as the man assisted passengers into the next seat, a step that was repeated several more times, each one taking us higher and higher into the night sky, the sea receding farther and farther below us.
Finally, the Ferris wheel lurched to life and stayed that way, swinging us up and up, closer to the top. I clutched the side of the seat with one hand and grabbed Logan’s knee with the other, terrified to look beyond the safety of our little bucket.
“Grace,” Logan whispered in my ear.
I dared a glance up at him.
He smiled. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Look around.”
But I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his. Secure in the safety of his gaze, the way he looked at me that said everything would be okay, I was too scared to look anywhere else. I shivered, and he kissed the top of my head, pulling me close. Heat seeped from his body into mine.
“Look, Grace,” he said softly. “It’s all for you.”
And that time I did. I saw the sweep of beach, a smudge against the darkness of the sea, as it curved in and out, all the way to the cliffs of Playa Hermosa in the distance. The lights on the water from the pier gave way to the mystery of open sea that went on and on. And far below, people laughed and shrieked, lost in their own wondrous moments.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Logan said in my ear.
I looked up at him with a smile.
It was. And so was he.
Thirty-Four
I was still light on my feet when we headed back to the car hand in hand. High above it all, Logan and I had been in a world all our own. I still felt a little untouchable. Like nothing in the world could hurt us.
We were almost to the car when Logan slowed his pace. “What the . . . ?”
“What’s wrong?” I looked around, following his gaze.
He was looking at the BMW, parked about fifty feet ahead. At first I didn’t know what he was seeing, but a second later my eyes adjusted to the dark and I caught sight of the hooded figure, bent down near the driver’s side window.
“Hey!” Logan shouted, hurrying toward the car. “What are you doing?”
The figure straightened, turning toward us. I couldn’t make out the person’s face in the split second before he took off sprinting in the opposite direction.
I followed Logan, stopping a few feet away when I caught sight of the damage. Someone had keyed the driver’s side, and a deep gash ran all the way from the rear tire well to the front bumper.
“Oh, my God . . . ,” I said.
“Stay here, Grace.” Logan took off after the man.
“Logan!” I looked around, not sure what to do. “Be careful!”
A gust of wind blew in off the ocean, and I wrapped my arms around my upper body, scanning the parking lot, suddenly aware of how alone I was. I don’t know how long I stood there before I heard footsteps pounding the pavement in the distance. I peered into the darkness. A rush of adrenaline hit my system as a figure came into view beyond the streetlight casting a weak yellow glow across the pavement. Could it be the vandal coming back to do more damage?
I braced myself to run. The promenade wasn’t that far away, and we’d passed plenty of people walking to an
d from it on our way to the parking lot.
But a second later the figure emerged under the streetlight. It was Logan.
I hurried toward him. “Are you okay? What happened?”
He bent over, panting, trying to catch his breath. “I found a cop. They’re going after the guy. Told me to wait here.”
I nodded, looking back at the car. “Who would do something like that?”
“I don’t know. Let’s just hope they catch him.”
We walked back toward the car. We’d been waiting about ten minutes when the blue and red lights from a police cruiser passed over the parking lot. It pulled behind the BMW, and a uniformed officer emerged from the driver’s side. She was small, her dark hair pulled back into a short ponytail.
“You the owner of the car that was vandalized?” she asked us.
Logan nodded.
The woman turned toward the squad car, and a tall man got out of the passenger side. He opened the back door.
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to get a better look at the person in the back of the cruiser. He stepped out, head bowed, posture defiant.
The male officer tugged off the hood that concealed the suspect’s face in shadow.
“Parker?” I said it almost without thinking.
“You know this guy?” the woman asked me.
I nodded, glancing quickly at Logan before turning back to her. “He’s my brother.”
She grabbed hold of Parker’s arms, cuffed behind his back, and tugged him toward me. “What are you doing messing with your sister?” She shone a penlight in his eyes. “You drunk? High?”
“Should we test him?” her partner asked.
She shook her head. “Nah, he’s clean.” She looked at me, tipping her head at the BMW. “This your car?”
“It’s mine,” Logan said softly.
I searched his face, fear welling inside me. Not because I was worried about the con, worried that Parker had blown all my work with the mark. Not for any of the reasons that should have had me afraid.
I was scared because I didn’t want Logan to think less of me. Didn’t want my association with Parker to change the way Logan saw me.
The woman held out her hand. “License, insurance, and registration.”
Logan went around to the passenger side and opened the door. He dug around in the glove compartment before returning with some slips of paper. He handed them over to the woman.
“Run them,” she said, handing them to her partner. He went back to the squad car. “You guys have some kind of beef?” she asked, looking from Logan to Parker.
“Not that I was aware of,” Logan said.
Parker had yet to say anything.
We stood in awkward silence until the male officer returned with Logan’s documents. “He’s clean,” he said, handing them back to Logan.
The woman sighed. “You want to press charges?”
Logan didn’t even hesitate. “No. It’s fine.”
She glanced back at the car before turning to Logan. Her expression as she shook her head said it all: Any seventeen-year-old with a BMW can afford a new paint job.
She looked at Parker. “You got a free pass this time. Looks like you should be nicer to your sister’s boyfriend.”
She returned to the police cruiser with her partner, and they got in the car and pulled slowly out of the lot.
“Parker . . . ,” I started.
He turned around and started to walk away.
“That’s it?” I shouted at his back. “No apology? No explanation?”
But he just kept walking. I watched him go, waiting until he’d disappeared into the shadows to turn to Logan.
“Logan . . . I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
He shook his head and took a step toward me, pulling me into his arms. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. You’re not responsible for Parker.”
I laid my head against his chest, his words echoing through my mind. It wasn’t true. Our parents had taught us well. Taught us that the only way to make it unscathed out of a long con was to stick together no matter what. We were responsible for each other.
All of us.
Thirty-Five
I left the house early Sunday morning before anyone else was awake. I’d spent the night in a kind of half sleep, drifting in and out of consciousness, floating in that space between dreams and the endless loop of my thoughts. It was six thirty when I finally gave up, and I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt before letting myself quietly out of the house.
I didn’t have a destination in mind. I just needed to move. I headed down Camino Jardin, turned onto another residential side street, and kept on going. The morning was damp, a light mist falling from an overcast sky. The smell of the sea was heavy in the air, the ebb and flow of the tide audible in the distance. Every now and then a flash of color caught my eyes from the trees. I thought about the parrots, making themselves a home in the only one they had. I wondered if they were happy here.
Parker hadn’t been home when Logan had dropped me off, although the door to his bedroom was closed when I left this morning. I knew I should tell our parents about his behavior. It was erratic, a danger to us all. But I wasn’t sure I could do it. Wasn’t sure I could put the job—or even my own security—before Parker.
And that’s what I’d be doing, because if my dad believed that Parker was jeopardizing the job, he would find a way to eliminate Parker from the equation, pay him to leave or hold something over his head to get him to step back.
And then what? After the Fairchild con, we’d move on. There would be no Logan. No Selena to cushion the blow of my loneliness. We needed each other, Parker and I. My isolation had never been more palpable. Normally, I would talk to Parker about my problems. Now he was the problem, and I had nowhere to turn.
I was turning the corner, ascending one of the peninsula’s steep hills, when I saw the figure coming toward me. Shrouded by the mist, almost blending into the early morning twilight, there was something familiar about the gait, the slight stoop to the shoulders. He was only a few feet away when I realized it was Parker, wearing the same hoodie he’d been wearing the night before when he’d vandalized Logan’s car.
He slowed down as I approached. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said.
“Mind if I join you?”
I shrugged, and he fell into step beside me. For a few minutes we walked in silence, our companionship like an old friend in spite of everything that had happened.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said.
I glanced over at him. Even in profile, I could see the dark circles under his eyes, his sallow complexion. “For what you did to Logan’s car or for jeopardizing the job?”
We were outside the War Room, out in the open where anyone could hear. But somehow I couldn’t find the energy to care.
He looked at me. “For putting you in that position.”
“I’m not the only one exposed here,” I said.
His eyes were unwavering. “You’re the only one I care about.”
I shook my head. “And what do you think would happen to me if the job went bad? If something happened to you or Mom and Dad?”
His laugh was bitter. “Trust me, you’d be fine without ‘Mom and Dad.’”
We came to a dead end, the sidewalk stopping at a chain-link fence. A field of brush lay past it, and beyond that the ocean. Parker bent down, lifting up a piece of the fence that had been cut. I ducked under it and waited for him to follow, the unspoken language of longtime allies flowing between us. Following a path through the overgrowth, we stopped at the edge of the cliff, the water frothy and violent below us.
I dropped onto the ground and looked out over the sea. “We’re all in this together. If one of us goes down, we all go down.” I paused, trying to figure out where things had gone so wrong. “I guess I just don’t get it.”
He looked at me. “What?”
“What
’s changed? Why now?”
His gaze tracked the seagulls gliding in circles over the water. “I see how you look at him,” he said softly. “At Logan.”
The flush of humiliation warmed my face, as if he had unearthed my deepest secret, laid it bare for us to inspect and analyze.
I didn’t look at him. “Haven’t you ever liked someone? Gotten attached?”
He was silent so long I wondered if he’d heard me. “There was someone once.”
I looked at him, surprised by his honesty. “Who?” I thought back, trying to guess. “That girl in Seattle? Maya Richardson?”
Maya had been Parker’s mark. I’d spent a lot of rainy afternoons with her younger sister, Lacey, watching movies in the family room with a fire blazing in the giant fireplace. They had been nicer than a lot of our marks.
He shook his head. “Her little brother, Ben.”
“Ben?” I only vaguely remembered him, a small, quiet boy with dark, glossy hair and eyes that had seemed too big for his delicate face.
Parker nodded. “I played basketball with him when it wasn’t raining, built LEGOs in his room when it was. He . . . well, I think he looked up to me.”
“You told Mom and Dad that Maya and Ben were close,” I said, remembering. “That you could get on her good side by spending time with her little brother.”
“It wasn’t a lie,” he said.
“But that’s not all there was to it.”
“No.” He hesitated. “He was so innocent. It was like . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Like seeing myself. The kid I could have been if I’d had parents with boring jobs and a house in the suburbs, the kind who put out presents from Santa at Christmas and pretend to eat the cookies left by their kids.”
“Was it hard?” I lowered my voice. “Stealing from them?”
The job had been simple: steal the savings bonds purported to be somewhere in the house. After two months of snooping, Parker had found them in a couple of shoe boxes at the top of the parents’ closet.