All the Pretty Lies (Pretty #1)(51)
Author: M. Leighton

“She’s the sister of the enemy. Close enough.”

“We don’t know for sure about her brother yet.”

“No, you don’t know for sure about the brother. But you were damn sure when you told me you found him, weren’t you?”

“Everybody makes mistakes.”

“Especially you, right Hemi?”

“Fuc—”

The click of the phone interrupts what I wanted most to say to Reese.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN – Sloane

As I put mascara on my eyelashes, a million questions run through my mind. And, following them, a million rationalizations. And a million excuses that I’m making for Hemi. Anything to keep me from drawing the most obvious conclusion.

For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been telling myself that I only heard part of the conversation. Hemi could’ve been talking about anyone or anything. It doesn’t necessarily have to be as bad as it sounded.

But it sounded pretty damn bad.

My stomach is turned in on itself, balled up into a tight knot of apprehension. Although I still believe everyone is entitled to their secrets, this isn’t something I can let go. I’ll have to ask some questions. I have to know—beyond the shadow of a doubt—if I heard what I’m afraid I heard. I have to know if Hemi had something to do with the attack on my brother, on my house, on my family.

A fist of fear and dread squeezes my already-quivering guts. Some part of me refuses to believe that it could be true. But another part, a more suspicious part, looks at all the strange things, all the inconsistencies, and it wonders…

And I can’t live with that kind of wonder. And doubt. It would eat away at me until there’s nothing left. No, Hemi is going to have to answer some questions or I’ll be forced to take measures.

I close my eyes against my reflection, unwilling to even consider what “measures” might be.

********

I’m trying to act as natural as possible. I have no idea if I’m a convincing actress or not, and Hemi’s expression gives nothing away.

“Thank you again for letting me stay with you,” I begin, being as nonchalant as I can be.

Hemi glances over at me and grins. “Oh trust me, it’s been my pleasure.”

I feel my face flush as I react to him. It seems my body doesn’t care what the hell he may or may not be involved in.

I laugh nervously.

“Your house is beautiful. You must make really good money as a manager.”

Hemi shrugs noncommittally.

That got me nowhere, so I decide to try another tack.

“Do you have family around here?”

“None that lives close. They’re kinda all over the place.”

“Really? Like where?”

Hemi slides me a glance. I can’t decide if it’s suspicious or if it’s just my imagination.

“All over.”

“Are you from around here originally?”

“No.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Chicago.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. Tell me about it. Tell me about your family.”

His look is openly wary now. “What’s this about, Sloane?”

“They’re just questions, Hemi. Innocent questions about your family. About your life. Can’t I get to know you better?”

He deflects, calling upon his ever-present charm and sexual charisma to do it. “I think you know me very well.”

I turn in my seat, suddenly feeling frustrated. “Why are you so secretive? These are just simple, innocent questions.”

“Are they?” he tosses back.

“Of course,” I proclaim, shifting my eyes away from his, unable to tell the little white lie with him staring at me. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Who do you think you’re fooling, Sloane?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. And you’re a terrible liar.”

He’s right, of course, which leaves me with only one choice—to be direct.

“I heard you on the phone, Hemi.”

A dead silence fills the interior of the car. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I hear Hemi hiss an explicative under his breath. My heart sinks. It seems like he didn’t want me to hear that conversation. And if he didn’t, that means he had something to hide in it. From me, specifically.

My pulse picks up as I consider the very real possibility that Hemi is the enemy. Sharp talons sink their lethal tips into my chest and tear.

“Please tell me I misunderstood, Hemi. Please,” I whisper, my throat closing around a ball of emotion lodged there.

“Sloane, you have to understand that I never did any of this to hurt you.”

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

I lean forward in the seat, laying my chest on my thighs and my forehead against my knees. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the part that can think beyond the pain I’m feeling right now, I say to myself that this is over. Over in the worst possible way.

“What did you do, Hemi?” I say, squeezing my eyes shut and rocking forward. “What did you do?”

I’m barely aware of the sound of gravel as Hemi pulls off the main road. I’m barely aware of the feel of the car slowing around me. I’m barely aware of the taste of tears as they slide down my cheeks and over my lips.

“I have three brothers. Harrison is thirty. We call him Reese. I’m the next oldest. Haliefax is twenty-five. We call him Leif. And Hollander. Ollie. He’d be twenty-four if he were still here.” Hemi pauses, his voice breaking on some unimaginable pain. “But he’s not. He died. Just over two years ago.”

I want to empathize with him. And, to some degree, I do. But right now, I’m so devastated over what I feel is coming down the pipe, I am almost numb. Numb to Hemi’s pain. So I let him talk, uninterrupted.

“My last name is Spencer. Hemsworth Spencer. My father is Henslow Spencer.”

Instantly, it clicks together in my head. “Henslow Spencer? As in the oil magnate Henslow Spencer?”

Hemi’s laugh is not pleased or proud. It’s bitter. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

At first, I’m stunned. Hemi is the Henslow Spencer’s son? How can he hide so effectively?

But that question is drowned by my second thought. It’s with an agonizing pain that my heart breaks for my brother. And my family. Whatever is happening here, whatever is going on, my blue-collar family won’t stand a chance against it. Justice works one way for people like Henslow Spencer. Theirs.