All the Pretty Lies (Pretty #1)(54)
Author: M. Leighton

“Steven, who could they have you confused with? How could something like this happen? Do you have any questionable friends? Informants? Anyone that could’ve implicated you without you knowing?”

“Not that I know of. But hell, Sloane, I’m a cop. A detective no less. I have to consort with the pond scum to some extent just to get information.”

I’m running over the details in my mind, trying to shake something loose that might mean something. That’s when I remember Hemi’s odd question to me a few weeks ago.

“What about when you and Duncan lived on Tumblin Street? Did you have any run-ins with people that might’ve been involved in something like this? Did you make any enemies that might use some outlandish detail to make it seem like you were a dirty cop?”

Steven shakes his head. “No. For most of that time, we just laid low. Hell, we didn’t even have any parties after those first few weeks.”

“What about Duncan? Did he have any questionable friends?”

Steven shakes his head again. “No. He laid pretty low, too. In the beginning, I thought he had a girlfriend. I’d hear his car leaving at night sometimes. And he was awful damn happy during that time. I figured he was getting laid. A lot.”

I feel the frown wrinkle my brow. My first thought is that Duncan is somehow involved. I don’t know why, but something in my gut just jumped when Steven said that. The problem is, Duncan is Steven’s partner. That’s like some sort of weird sacred cop thing. You don’t question your partner. You don’t suspect them. You don’t distrust them. You just give them your loyalty. Your unwavering loyalty. This is the person you trust with your life every single day out in the field. That blind faith is a very strong bond between partners and I know Steven won’t take it well if I start casting suspicion on Duncan.

“Well, maybe something will turn up. We’ll just have to keep our eyes open and our ears to the ground,” I say, having every intention of talking to Dad about it later.

Steven laughs. “Oh really? And what connections, pray tell, do you think you have that might give your eyes or your ears a clue as to what might be going out there in the criminal underworld?”

I think immediately of Hemi. I don’t ever plan to speak to him again, but little did Steven or I know that I was consorting with someone who has lots of secret ties to different people, not all harmless ones.

I think about Steven’s reaction to Hemi and I amend my first thought. Maybe Steven did know. Maybe I should’ve trusted my brother more all along.

Maybe I don’t have the good judgment to go and spread my wings. Maybe I was better off living my life in a cage.

********

My phone buzzes against my side. I don’t even turn on the ringer anymore. It’s depressing when it doesn’t ring and it’s depressing when it does.

I glance at the bright screen. I see Hemi’s name and Hemi’s number. Again. He’s called at least six times every day since the day I got out of his car. And every day I ignore him. The first few times, he left messages. Short ones that said things like, “I’m sorry, Sloane” and “Please forgive me, Sloane.” Nothing that really makes a difference. They’re just words. Empty words.

Now he says nothing. He just waits for the voice mail to pick up and I hear silence.

I tuck the phone away where I can’t see it or feel it. I close my eyes against the clock on my nightstand that says it’s already eleven o’clock. And I’m still in bed.

I didn’t go to school today. I couldn’t. It’s been almost a week and I still can’t sleep. I can’t think. I can’t seem to face the world anymore. So I’m here. Waiting. For what, I don’t know.

I drift in that space between sleep and wakefulness for another hour before the doorbell rings. Drowsily, I open my eyes and look at the clock again. I turn over and snuggle back down into the covers.

And the doorbell rings again.

With a growl, I throw back the blanket and stomp down the stairs to wrench open the door. I think for a second that my dad would kill me if he saw me forget to check the peep hole. Unlike him and my brothers, though, I’m hardly used to my life being in danger and of being suspicious of every single person I pass.

But this is no one to be afraid of. It’s a woman. Dressed in a blue polo shirt with FLOWERS BY WANDA embroidered on the left breast.

“I’ve got a delivery for Sloane Locke,” she says in her deep smoker’s voice.

“I’ll take it,” I say, eyeing the enormous vase of lilies. I can smell them already.

The woman hands me the vase and then extends a clipboard. “Those are beautiful,” she says as I tuck them into the bend of my arm and scribble my name on the paper.

“Thank you,” I tell her, moving to shut the door.

“Have a great day,” she throws over her shoulder as she turns to walk back down the sidewalk.

“It’ll be shitty,” I mutter, flipping closed the deadbolt. “Just like yesterday.”

I set the vase of flowers on the never-used dining room table, taking out the card to glance at it. “I hope you’ll find a way to forgive me. H.”

I toss it beside the vase and make my way back up to my bedroom, wishing this day would be over already.

The next three days progress in much the same way. Each day I sleep in and each day the doorbell rings sometime in the late morning. It’s always the same lady carrying a beautiful vase filled with an explosion of color and fragrance.

Every day she tells me the flowers are beautiful, and every day I sign my name and thank her. And every day, after that, I leave them on the dining room table with the rest. Card and all.

Today is Friday. For some reason my father is home from work. I know this because at seven thirty, he knocks at my door. “I’m sleeping in,” I mutter from behind my pillow. I hear nothing for a second before I catch the sound of him turning and walking away.

I wake up hours later, my first thought being that it’s nearly one in the afternoon and the doorbell hasn’t chimed. Deep inside my chest, my heart breaks a little more than I thought was even possible. Today marks the day that Hemi gave up. Yesterday was how much he cared about me, how sorry he really was. But not today. Today marks the end. Today marks the day he gave up.

I’m still crying into my pillow when I hear the doorbell. My heart trips up into a little faster cadence as I listen to the muffled voices of Dad and a woman. I wait for a few minutes before I venture downstairs. My father is standing in front of the dining room table, staring at the vases full of gorgeous flowers of every color and variety. I notice the new vase right in front of him. It’s holding at least two dozen pure white roses, and in the center, a single blood red one. I don’t know what it means. It could mean anything. But for some reason, this single bud speaks more clearly than anything else has. It’s as though Hemi knew his calls and his flowers were all white noise in the background of my hurt and disillusionment. But this is him screaming at me from the haze, telling me something I’m not sure I believe.