Promises I Made Read Free

after I got back to LA. I needed every hour to come up with a plan.
    The train didn’t leave until 9:35 the next morning, so I got a room in a crappy motel near the station, then walked to a market to stock up on snacks and bottled water for the trip. I’d read online that the train had a dining car and a lounge, both of which offered food, but I wanted to minimize my exposure. I wasn’t worried about Cormac coming after me; he wouldn’t risk hunting me down for such a measly amount of money. But the Fairchild con had been big news in Southern California. Our pictures—old and new—hadbeen plastered all over the newspapers. I had spent hours poring over the articles in the motel room we’d lived in while Cormac was scamming for a new mark. And while I didn’t think I looked like Grace Fontaine anymore—like the person who’d been best friends with Selena Rodriguez, who’d fallen in love with Logan Fairchild—I wasn’t sure enough to bet my freedom on it. Not until I’d helped Parker.
    I stuffed my purchases into my backpack and then stopped at a diner, where I bought two grilled-cheese sandwiches and fries to go. It was weird to be out in public after months of being cooped up in Miranda’s house or walking the waterfront alone. Now everything seemed a little too bright, a little too loud. I had to push away the feeling that everyone was looking at me, that they all knew what I’d done to Logan and his family. That the police would show up any minute and take me away before I had time to go back for Parker. I was relieved to get back to my room, even with the dim lighting and the slight smell of mildew and dust.
    I used a proxy server to search online for recent news about Parker while I ate my dinner. A VPN would have been better—some of them didn’t keep logs—but I needed a credit card to access them. I made a mental note to pick up a prepaid card somewhere along the way.
    Nothing new had developed in Parker’s case since the last time I’d combed the internet for information about him. He was being held in Los Angeles County Jail. The judge had cited flight risk as a reason to refuse bail, and Parker had been assigned a public defender named Robin Mannheimand charged with three counts of felony fraud and one count of grand theft. I knew that the guard from Allied Security had died following a gunshot to his chest. The prosecutor had tried to pin it on Parker but couldn’t for lack of evidence, which made perfect sense given the blood on Cormac’s shirt the night we stole Warren’s gold. Cormac hadn’t admitted it, but I knew he’d been the one to shoot the guard. Parker was already on the run by then. Still, the state expected more charges against him pending their investigation. None of it was a surprise, but I had to fight against despair as I closed my computer. How was I supposed to help Parker? I couldn’t even visit him in jail without being taken into custody, and then we’d both be screwed. Because one thing I now knew for sure: Cormac and Renee weren’t going to lift a finger to help either of us.
    I spent a fitful night drifting in the ether between wakefulness and sleep. A sliver of light from the walkway outside sneaked in between the polyester curtains, and I could hear people talking as they passed by my room. At one point, two people stopped outside the door, throwing shadows under it, and I sat up in bed in a panic, listening as they engaged in murmured conversation. When they didn’t move on, I jumped out of bed, stuffing my feet into my shoes and grabbing my backpack and laptop, wondering how long it would be before whoever it was broke down the door and came in after me. I felt stupid when their voices faded away a few minutes later, but I wasn’t able to go back to sleep afterward. I turned on the TV instead and watchedreruns of Full House while the hours ticked by.
    I left the