Dangerous Lies Read Free Page B

Lives down the road. Wants to finish work before it’s too hot—good for him. Don’t you have one of those little music gadgets? Turn on a song and you won’t hear a thing.”
    “I wasn’t allowed to bring my iPhone.”
    “An iPhone isn’t the only thing round here that plays music. Try the bottom drawer of the dresser in your room. Now, go back to bed, Stella.”
    She leaned out of bed and pushed the door closed in my face.
    My back went up, and I walked stiffly to my room. I cast an evil eye out the window, watching as Chet Falconer finished another row and swung the mower around. From this angle, I couldn’t see his face, but a small patch of sweat soaked through the front of his white T-shirt, and when he paused to wipe his cheek on his sleeve, the hem of his shirt hitched up, revealing a taut stomach. His arms were tan and muscular, and he tapped his thumb against the mower’s handlebar to keep time with whatever music he was listening to. He’d obviously started the morning with an entire pot of coffee. Since I couldn’t say the same, I just scowled at him. I was tempted to open the window and yell down something obscene, but between the earbuds and the mower, there was no way he’d hear.
    I sprawled facedown on the bed and folded the pillow tightly over my head. No luck. The lawnmower continued to whine through the windowpane like an angry insect. Taking Carmina’s advice, I jerked open the bottom drawer of the dresser and nearly choked on my laughter.
    A Sony Walkman, complete with AM/FM radio and cassette player. I blew dust off the surface, thinking I hadn’t traveled to Nebraska—I’d traveled into the previous century.
    Sorting through the cassette tapes littering the bottom of the drawer, I read the handwritten labels. Poison, Whitesnake, Van Halen, Metallica.
    Did Carmina have a son? Had this been his bedroom before he’d bolted—wisely—out of Thunder Basin?
    I chose Van Halen, because it was the only tape that didn’t need to be rewound. Hitting play, I snuggled under the sheet and turned up the volume until I could no longer hear the rumble of Chet Falconer’s lawn mower.
    *  *  *
    I wandered down to the kitchen at ten. I followed the smell of bacon and eggs to find my way. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had bacon and eggs. Disneyland, probably, when I was seven, with Mickey Mouse–shaped pancakes. The idea of eating a meal at a table set with real dishes, let alone having someone cook for me, was unfathomable. My go-to breakfast was a skinny latte and whole-grain oatmeal from Starbucks. I ate in my car, on the way to school.
    As I entered the kitchen, I found the table cleared and the food gone. Through the screen door leading to the backyard, I could see Carmina on her knees in the vegetable garden, pulling weeds. Judging by the large pile beside her, she’d been out there a while.
    “I think I missed breakfast,” I said, crossing the yard to her.
    “Think so,” she said without looking up.
    “Did you save any for me?”
    “Last I checked, bacon and eggs don’t taste good cold.”
    “Okay, I get it. You snooze, you lose,” I said with a shrug. If she thought she was going to make a point by starving me, she was pretty inexperienced at parenthood. I could do just fine on a mug of coffee. Wouldn’t be the first time. “When’s lunch?”
    “After we drive you around to fill out summer job applications.”
    “I don’t want a job.”
    “School’s out, so most of the good jobs have been snatched up, but we’ll find you something,” she went on.
    “I don’t want a job,” I repeated more firmly. I’d never had a job. My family wasn’t old money—we didn’t live in a country estate on the Main Line, and I didn’t dress effortlessly like Jackie O.—but we weren’t living paycheck to paycheck, either. My mom had been a debutante in Knoxville, and while she’d burned through what could be called her dowry, it was important to her to keep up