When I was dressed, I packed everything into my backpack and left the room. I couldn’t risk leaving my stuff just in case someone discovered my whereabouts while I was out. I had to be mobile, ready to run and hide, at all times.
I stopped at the front desk and paid for one more night, trying not to stress as I peeled another hundred and twenty dollars from the stack of bills I’d stolen from Cormac. Then I walked to the Denny’s next door and chose a seat in the back, as far from the windows as I could get.
I ordered a giant breakfast of blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and black coffee before taking my notebook out of my bag and starting the lists I would need to organize the next phase of my mission. The first one was easy. Things I Need: a track phone, a prepaid credit card, a new ID, sunglasses, laundry soap, a few toiletries.
The next one was a lot harder.
I wrote WICDTHP at the top of the second page. It stood for What I Can Do to Help Parker, but I didn’t dare spell it out in case I was caught by the police.
I was still staring at the blank page when the waitress brought my food. I closed my notebook and leaned back in the booth while she set all the plates and a carafe of coffee on the table. The tag on her uniform said her name was Ashley, and she wasn’t much older than me. Her hair was blond, almost the exact shade mine had been when we were in Playa Hermosa. Her face was bright and open, the face of someone who’d never had to hide anything important. I wondered about her. Was she working her way through college? Saving for a gap year? What would it be like to have a life where you could wake up with your own name? Where you didn’t have to look over your shoulder all the time?
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
I devoured the eggs, bacon, and toast before pulling the plate of pancakes toward me. Then I opened my notebook and shoveled bites into my mouth while I studied the blank page, my mind turning over the possibilities. It didn’t take me long to realize the list of things I could to do help Parker was short: I could break him out of jail or I could turn myself in.
Breaking him out of jail was basically out of the question. I might as well just turn myself in and save everyone the trouble, because there was no way I could get someone out of the LA County Jail system. And even if I could, it would take time and planning. A lot of time and planning. I would need resources way beyond the ones I had. At some point, Parker would go to trial. After that, my chance to help him would be gone, and I couldn’t let that happen. Parker wouldn’t survive a long sentence. Not because he wasn’t tough; he was one of the toughest people I’d ever met. But he had a wild heart. Even with Cormac and Renee, Parker would slink off into the dark, disappearing for hours and sometimes even days without a word. Being in a cage would kill him.
Which brought me back to turning myself in. Could I trade myself for Parker? Would they go easier on him if I stepped forward and corroborated his story, that he and I had been adopted by Cormac and Renee to further their cons? That we’d had little choice but to follow the lead of the only parents we had? They were truths I’d avoided for a long time, but that time was past. I had to be honest now—starting with myself—because I was finally beginning to understand that those were the most dangerous lies of all.
Would an attorney be able to tell me if turning myself in was an option? I was pretty sure they couldn’t rat me out if I paid them something. Then I would be their client, and they were obligated by law to keep the confidence of a client. At least, I thought that was how it worked.
I did some quick math on the next page of my notebook. I still had a little over twenty-four hundred dollars. It sounded like a lot, but at a hundred and twenty dollars a night, the hotel would eat through my money fast, and that wasn’t counting the cost of food and transportation. At my current spending rate, I guessed I had enough money for a couple of weeks. I might be able to find a slightly cheaper hotel, but nothing was really cheap in the neighborhoods surrounding Playa Hermosa, and a less expensive hotel would buy me an extra week or two at most. I didn’t know how long it would take to help Parker, but I was pretty sure it would be longer than that.
I poured myself another cup of coffee and toyed with the possibility of renting a room or studio apartment. I quickly discarded the idea. By the time I paid first and last months’ rent, plus a security deposit—something I knew was required from all the places Cormac and Renee had rented for us—it would be a wash. Definitely not worth the extra exposure.
I watched as Ashley came back and cleared the dishes from the table. I could get a job. Maybe. But then I’d need a new Social Security card and ID, both of which would take time and connections. And there was the exposure problem again. Bosses and coworkers and customers. No good.
I’d known I was going into my rescue mission unprepared, but I’d expected to have more money at least. More money meant more time to figure things out. Now I was short on both.
“Can I get you some fresh coffee?” Ashley asked.
I shook my head. “Just the check, thanks.”
She reached into the apron at her waist and withdrew my ticket. “Have a great day.”
“You too,” I said. I wondered what she would do after her shift. Go to the gym? Meet up with friends at the beach?
I paid the check and headed for a Rite Aid two blocks down. It was almost noon, but the temperature was mild, the sun hiding behind the marine layer blowing in off the beach. The coastal eddy, I think they called it. Selena had once told me that it didn’t get really hot and sunny in the South Bay until late July. Before then, a heavy layer of clouds rolled in off the ocean, draping itself over the area like a soggy blanket. It kept the temperatures mild and sometimes even cool, the antithesis of the stereotypical Southern California climate.
I forced myself to be vigilant as I walked, watching for signs that I’d been made: nondescript cars with more than one person hiding behind sunglasses or a newspaper, windowless vans that could be hiding surveillance equipment, an unusual number of clean-cut guys in an area known for hippies and surfers. But everything was cool, the sidewalks basically empty. This was the Southern California suburbs; no one walked anywhere when they could drive instead.
At Rite Aid I picked up the stuff from my list and started back for the hotel. I entered through the front doors first and took the elevator up, but instead of stopping at the door to my room, I continued on to the stairwell, wanting to make sure no one was waiting there. I’d heard too many of Cormac’s raid stories—accounts of fellow grifters who’d been caught—to be careless so close to Playa Hermosa. According to Cormac, SWAT teams hid on fire escapes and in adjoining apartments, in stairwells and in work vans. Sometimes someone would come to the door disguised as a delivery person, asking for a signature to make sure they got the right person before the rest of the team swooped in. Other times a group of them would come in full force so the suspect wouldn’t have time to plan an escape.
I took the stairs to the first floor, confirmed that the stairwell was empty, and headed back upstairs to let myself into the room. Housekeeping had come while I was gone, and the room looked exactly like it had when I’d checked in two days before.
I put my backpack down on the bed and set my laptop up on the little table by the window. I used my new prepaid credit card to access the Wi-Fi for the next twenty-four hours, then signed up for an account on a VPN to mask my activity.
I started by looking up attorney-client privilege. According to Wikipedia, privilege existed as long as the communication happens between a client and his or her attorney for the sake of securing legal advice. I read through the list of exceptions, my gaze snagging on the third one: the communication is made for the purpose of committing a crime. I wasn’t planning to commit a crime. Was I? Did it count that I was willing to do anything to get Parker out of jail? What if I talked to the attorney and then decided that committing another crime was the only way to do it? Would the possible logistics of my situation—like getting a
new fake ID—count as committing a crime?
I didn’t know, and I wasn’t willing to risk finding out. I filed the option away for later consideration and went back over the newspaper articles about the Fairchild con and Parker’s arrest.
I typed the name of Parker’s attorney into the search bar, then clicked Images. A severe-looking woman blossomed in several photographs across the screen. Her face was smooth and unlined, her red hair pulled back into a tight bun. Once I had a picture of her in my mind, I searched for information about her other cases, hoping she had experience with at least one high-profile case like Parker’s. But the closest she’d come was a robbery gone bad in Hawthorne. The suspect had been seventeen and coerced into the theft by his older brother, a well-known gangbanger. The younger brother was convicted as an adult and sentenced to ten years for accessory to murder. Not exactly promising.
I read through articles on the Fairchild theft chronologically, starting with the ones that appeared right after we’d stolen the gold. There were stock photos of Warren, commanding in a suit and tie, obviously some kind of promotional photo for the billion-dollar company owned by his father. The picture held no trace of the Warren I knew, the mentally ill man who’d stockpiled gold in a bunker under his carriage house, security against an unknown threat that only he saw coming. There were a few pictures of Parker, too, and my heart leaped into my throat at the defiant lift of his chin, the stubborn shine in his eyes. His face was more familiar to me than my own, and I suddenly missed him with a force that almost brought me to my knees.
I clicked on more of the results, skimming the articles for something, anything, I could use.
. . . Detective Castillo said the investigation is ongoing.
A press release issued by lead detective Raul Castillo claimed that . . .
. . . questions into the investigation, led by Detective Castillo . . .
It didn’t sound like they had much. Parker wasn’t talking. I knew it was because of me. He didn’t care about the grifter code. If he could have sold Cormac and Renee down the river to save himself, he would have. And I didn’t blame him. But he knew I’d gotten away, and he had no idea what had happened with Renee. He probably thought I was still with her and Cormac, and he would never do anything to put me in danger.
My stomach twisted. I needed to get word to him that I was in town. That I was going to help him. But first I needed to figure out what to do.
I looked at the name on my screen. Raul Castillo.
Five
I took a bus to the Galleria later that afternoon. There was another mall that was closer, but I wanted to get as far away as possible from the hotel. I knew the cops couldn’t track the disposable phone to me through an account, but I didn’t know if they could track its location. I was covering my bases, just in case.
When I got to the mall, I took the elevator to the roof of the parking garage to make sure I had a solid signal. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the piece of paper where I’d written the phone number. Then I dialed.
“Good afternoon. You have reached the Playa Hermosa Police Department.” A recorded voice filled my ear. “If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial nine-one-one. Please listen carefully, as our menu options have changed. If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it at any time. If you know the name of your party, please press one now.”
I took the phone away from my ear and pressed the 1 key.
I followed the directions to enter the first three letters of Raul Castillo’s last name. A moment later I heard a soft click, followed by a tinny electronic voice:
“Raul Castillo, extension four-twenty-three.”
I made a mental note of the extension number as the phone started to ring. A few seconds later, a purposeful male voice spoke.
“You have reached voice mail for Raul Castillo, detective with the Playa Hermosa Police Department. Please leave your name and number, and I’ll return your call.”
I was frozen by the beep. Seconds ticked by in silence before I finally spoke, afraid the voice mail would disconnect without some kind of noise indicating I was still on the line.
“Uh . . . this is . . . this is Grace Fontaine. I want to talk about Parker. Parker Fontaine.” I hesitated, then finished in a rush, worried about staying on the line too long. “I’ll call you back.”
I disconnected the call, my heart bumping against my chest like a wild bird in a cage. I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself down enough to figure out what was next. I had been stupid to think Detective Castillo would pick up on my first try. Everyone had voice mail, and cops probably weren’t at their desks a whole lot, especially cops investigating a high-profile crime like the Fairchild theft.
It was after four in the afternoon, but detectives sometimes worked late, didn’t they? And maybe it would be better to catch Raul Castillo when most of the people in his office were gone. Would he wait for my call when he got my message? Would he even get it tonight?
I finally headed into the mall. I wasn’t anxious to go back to the four walls of my hotel room, the taupe paint and bad art a reminder that it was temporary shelter, that I’d have to find another place to stay soon.
I wandered around for an hour, looking in the windows of the stores Selena and I had visited together, remembering how it had felt to have a friend, to laugh about clothes and guys and forget myself for just a little while. At the time, it had felt unexplainably like a beginning. Like the mistakes of my past had been wiped clean and I was finally getting a chance to start over. That’s what people say when you’re young, isn’t it? That it’s okay to make mistakes, that you can afford to make them because there’s always time to set things right?
I knew now that it was a romantic notion, one that was only true for certain kinds of people. People who had a storehouse of opportunity like a cat that has nine lives. People who hadn’t made mistakes that were so big, there was no coming back from them.
When I’d circled the mall twice, I stopped at the food court and got a plate of greasy Chinese food. I ate it at a table on the edge of the crowd, watching people come and go. When I was finished, I dumped my trash, careful not to look at anyone too long or too hard.
It was almost six thirty when I headed back to the parking garage. I took the stairs to the top again and pulled out my phone. I’d give Raul Castillo one more try tonight. If he didn’t answer, I’d go back to the hotel and try again tomorrow.
I dialed the number for the Playa Hermosa Police Department, but this time I entered Raul Castillo’s extension number. I was preparing to leave another message when a voice filled my ear.
“Raul Castillo.”
There was expectation in it, and I knew he’d been waiting for me.
“It’s Grace Fontaine.”
He exhaled. “Grace, I’m so glad you called back. Where are you?”
“I’m not ready to tell you that yet,” I said. “I want to talk about Parker.”
“Okay, let’s talk.”
“I want . . .” I stumbled a little. I wanted Parker to be free, to be let go, but I wasn’t naive enough to believe just asking for it would make it happen. “What happened wasn’t his fault. I want to help him.”
“That’s a tough one, Grace.” I thought I heard genuine kindness in his voice, although it could have been an act. He was a detective. They were probably trained to get people to turn themselves in or give themselves away. “Crimes have been committed. Someone has died. Parker is the only one here to take the fall.”
I glanced at my phone, wanting to keep track of how long I was on the line so I could disconnect the call before too much time had passed. It had been forty-five seconds.
“That’s not his fault. He’s just a kid like me.”
“Not a kid.” I could almost hear Detective Castillo shaking his head. “Parker’s eighteen. Even you’re not considered a kid by the justice system. Not if you’re seventeen or older.”
My stomach clutched a little at his words
. I’d celebrated my seventeenth birthday in Bellevue, with a gourmet strawberry cake from Miranda’s favorite bakery and a Tiffany bracelet, probably bought with Miranda’s money, from her and Cormac. Miranda had thought I was turning eighteen.
“We were forced to do what we did. We had no choice.” Saying the words out loud for the first time did something to me. Made my voice crack, my throat fill with thick and tangled tears.
“I have no doubt that’s true, Grace. Why don’t you come in so we can talk about it?” He hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “Are you all alone?”
I looked at the phone. One minute and thirty-two seconds. I thought I remembered Cormac saying that it took the police two minutes to trace a call, but I couldn’t be sure.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Listen to me, Grace.” His voice was a rush of wind into the phone. Then he spoke lower, softer. “I can help you, but things are getting complicated here. There’s not much time.”
One minute forty-one seconds.
“I have to go.”
“Meet me somewhere,” he said hurriedly, trying to get the words in before I hung up. “Anywhere. Just you and me. We’ll figure out a way to help Parker.”
One minute forty-eight seconds.
“I’ll call you back.”
I hung up, my chest rising and falling, breath coming fast and hard, like I’d been running.
Six
I spent the night eating takeout in my underwear while my clothes, washed in the bathtub, dried on hangers around the room. I stared at the TV while I ate, letting the images flash in front of my eyes as I replayed Detective Castillo’s words. He’d sounded sincere, like he really cared and wanted to help.