Текст книги "Exposed"

Автор книги: Brighton Walsh

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Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

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For all the Evies out there—you’re not alone.

Chapter One

EVIE

After twenty-two years, I’d come to the realization that people only saw what you let them see. Or, more apt, what they wanted to see. Generally the pretty, skin-deep things that didn’t make them uncomfortable. They didn’t look for the messy, ugly parts … the dark, twisted secrets hidden away. The skeletons inevitably buried in everyone’s closets.

They definitely didn’t see the bones I had concealed in mine, buried under years of dirty secrets and lies and the hundreds of miles separating me from the truth.

That fact was a comfort on nights like these—nights where I felt like the biggest fraud. Because I knew all these people surrounding me with their fake smiles and their pretentious small talk weren’t really looking. Not at anything more than what I was wearing, how close Eric and I were standing, how many times I smiled, or how many glasses of wine I had.

At a fund-raiser for Kirkland & Caine, I smiled and laughed, engaged in meaningless small talk. On the arm of my fiancé, dressed in a sparkly dress that cost more than what my rent used to be, I did nothing more than pretend. Put on the pretense of a person I’d invented from the ground up. Not a person I ever was or ever would be, if I had the option.

Funny thing—options weren’t plentiful when you were in my shoes. Not when you were running from everything you’d ever known. Not when your life was in danger if you ever stopped.

Like always at events like this, Eric didn’t leave my side the entire night, letting my hand rest in the crook of his elbow as he led us from group to group, making the rounds and putting in face time. These kinds of things only came up a few times a year—this was only the third I’d ever had to attend—and even though they were relatively infrequent, they still made me uneasy. I couldn’t help my eyes from darting to all the corners of the rooms, checking for the exits, scrutinizing the attendees, the waitstaff, the bartenders. Looking for anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary. After all this time, I couldn’t imagine that the people who would give just about anything to see me found and caught would grab me in a public place. They wouldn’t make such a spectacle. They’d be quiet about it, maybe come for me at my house or while I was getting into my car in a secluded parking lot. Someplace the noise and commotion would go unnoticed.

They were professionals, after all.

Even knowing this, I was on edge. The whole night, I was twitchy and jumpy, waiting for something I knew wouldn’t come—not here. And I couldn’t even say it was because I felt something in my gut, a voice that told me something was off. Because that voice was never silent, forever by my side, forever whispering and reminding me of all the ways I’d screwed up, of all the ways I could screw up if I stepped even slightly out of line. If I didn’t preserve this façade to the utmost detail. Of the lives I could ruin if my truth ever came out.

If I was ever found.

Eric leaned down, his lips right by my ear, his hand resting on top of the one I had clutched to his elbow. The familiar, woodsy scent of him calmed me, and I reminded myself to relax. To breathe. His voice wasn’t much over a whisper, just loud enough for me to hear in the din. “Not much longer. You want another glass of wine?”

After a year together, ten months of which we’d been engaged, he’d nearly perfected being able to read me. Nearly.

A bright burst of light echoed from off to our right as a photographer snapped pictures of the crowd, and I flinched. It was the barest of movements, just my fingers tightening on Eric’s arm, but he didn’t wait for my response to his question before he flagged down one of the waitstaff and grabbed a glass of wine from the tray. He passed it to me with a smile pasted on his face. Had to keep up pretenses, because people were watching. Someone was always watching.

His voice was low, soothing, as he said, “We’ll head home soon. Fifteen more minutes.”

He’d always been considerate of how much time we had to spend at these events. He thought I had social anxiety disorder, that the reason I didn’t do well in crowds was because of that. I had a prescription for Prozac that I got filled every month. A tiny green-and-white capsule I flushed down the toilet every morning.

He had no idea the real reason I was twitchy, the real reason I hated doing anything in public, was because I wasn’t who I said I was. I wasn’t Genevieve Meyer, recent graduate of U of M with a degree in Journalism—the one tiny piece of my old life I’d allowed to seep through. Originally from Miami and the only child of deceased parents.

Everything he knew of my life now was a lie. Every facet of it a fabrication erected from my imagination. Every ounce of it created and built through more steps than I was aware of, even now. Even five years later.

No, I wasn’t Genevieve Meyer, fiancée of Eric Caine, the up-and-coming lawyer and son of a former senior partner at the biggest law firm in Minneapolis and current Republican senator from Minnesota.

I hated yoga, though I took a class four times a week. I’d rather have a beer than drink wine, but I dutifully sipped my red. I’d be more comfortable cleaning my grandiose home than I was living in it.

But after this long, after five years—two hundred seventy-three weeks; one thousand, nine hundred and seventeen days—I’d gotten used to the lying, to the pretense of my new life.

So used to it, it was getting harder to tell what was the truth and what was a lie.

*   *   *

The light on the front porch shone in greeting when we pulled into our driveway nearly an hour later. It was a trek to get downtown, but this suburb was one of the best in the city, and Eric thought it would look better if we settled out here. Thought it would look better to everyone else watching one of the most eligible bachelors in the city go off the market.

He pulled into the garage, then came around and opened the car door for me, his hand on the small of my back as he led me into the house. It was clean—clean and sterile—Jane, our housekeeper, having been there earlier in the day. The house and furnishings weren’t at all what I would normally choose, but it was nice enough.

And it was something Eric took pride in, which was enough incentive for me to smile and keep my opinions to myself. My successful fiancé was eleven years older than me. Someone with whom, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have anything in common. But these weren’t normal circumstances, and despite our age difference, we meshed seamlessly.

After four years of keeping my head down, keeping to myself, holding myself apart from others—a self-sustaining island—I’d allowed him to wear me down. And that had been it. He’d asked me on a date and wouldn’t take no for an answer. When I’d relented, when I’d finally gone out on that first date with him, I’d found that I’d actually enjoyed myself. We’d had fun together. We’d clicked.

Two months later, we’d been engaged. The wedding was scheduled for June next year. Deposits had been put down on locations and vendors my future mother-in-law had selected. A dress I didn’t want or particularly like was on order at the bridal shop. Soon, it’d be time to look at invitations, or so I’d been told.

Eric hung up his keys on the peg next to the door and took off his coat, then came over to me, helping me out of mine. “Sorry we had to stay longer. You feeling okay?” His eyes were worried as he studied me, his hands running up and down the expanse of my bare arms.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I averted my eyes as I set my purse on the counter. “I just get nervous with so many people around.” That, at least, was the truth.

“I know.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Thank you for doing that for me.”

He always did that—thanked me for my part in his life. For putting on a smile and showing up with him to the important events. And they were important—I knew that. Not only to his father, but to him, too. Because eventually he wanted to follow that same path. Follow the steps his father took up the ladder at the law firm, then, when it was time, transition to politics, the same as his dad had.

And even though Eric thanked me, it should’ve been the other way around. I was a girl who’d come from nothing, and now I was living in a million-dollar home with a three-carat rock on my finger, engaged to be married to one of the most handsome and kindest men I’d ever met.

“You don’t have to thank me. Part of the job, right?” I tried to tease, inflecting a lilt to my voice as I held up my left hand with a smile, the diamond catching in the overhead light and sparkling just like in a jewelry commercial.

He didn’t return the grin like I’d hoped he would. “Yeah, well, my part of the job doesn’t cause me distress. Yours does.”

“It’s really not a big deal.” I squeezed his hand. “I promise.”

He stared at me, his eyes delving far enough into my soul that I knew he could tell I was lying. Still, he didn’t press. “Fortunately, we won’t have another one to attend until the Christmas party.”

I laughed, rolling my eyes. “Considering Christmas is less than two months away, that’s not so reassuring.”

He finally cracked a smile. “Okay, new tactic.” He spun me around, his hands on my shoulders as he guided me toward the steps and upstairs to the en suite bathroom. “Bath?”

I exhaled, my shoulders finally relaxed. “Yes, please.”

I escaped to the bedroom and into my walk-in closet, the space that was twice the size of my childhood bedroom. Off came the four-inch heels, then the conservative-yet-still-sexy dress. I unhooked the strand of pearls from around my neck, tucking them safely into the freestanding jewelry armoire in the corner. Then came the bracelet and the matching earrings.

Finally, I pulled my robe from the hook next to the door leading into the bedroom and slipped it on, then headed into the bathroom. The lights were off, a couple of my favorite candles lit, and the oversized tub was already filled to the top, mountains of bubbles heaped over the water. I shrugged out of the robe, letting it pool at my feet, and breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped into the claw-foot basin, closing my eyes as I sank into the hot water.

The door was still open partially, and I could hear Eric moving around. He raised his voice so I could hear him clearly. “I’m sorry I have to leave tomorrow, Gen. You know I hate doing that after a night out.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes, running my hand through the bubbles covering the entire surface of the water as I settled my head against the high back of the tub. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“You could still come with, you know.” His voice was softer now, closer, and I cracked open an eye to see him at the door, his shoulder propped up on the doorjamb as he studied me. “I can get a last-minute ticket. Two weeks in London? Not a bad vacation. I’ll have to work, but you can go sightseeing, visit the Natural History Museum … go shopping.”

I snorted at his suggestion. “You know I hate shopping.”

He rolled his eyes and turned around, raising his voice again as he went about getting packed for his trip. “I know. I just mean there’s lots to do there. You won’t be stuck in the hotel room the whole time if you don’t want to be. Though the hotel room is actually a very nice suite and not a bad place to be stuck. Just think about it, okay? We can buy you a ticket tomorrow morning at the airport, if you want.”

I hummed in acknowledgment and he let it rest, finishing up what he needed to do. And even though I pretended to be contemplating actually going, I wasn’t. I couldn’t.

The thought of going to London filled me with equal amounts of excitement and dread. I would love to visit, to see all the other things the world had to offer. To go all the places Eric went while visiting different branches of Kirkland & Caine. I could picture myself in New York and L.A., in Paris … I could picture myself there, though I’d never go.

Because if I went, that’d mean leaving my safe little cocoon. And the thought of doing that filled me with terror so real I could almost feel it clutching my throat. Even though my identification was top-of-the-line, the best money could buy—Aaron had assured me of that—I still worried about what would happen if I went through customs. If I had trained eyes scrutinizing everything I handed over.

But it wasn’t only that.

It was also opening up the possibility of being seen in so many different locations. I didn’t know if I’d been lucky these past five years, here in Minneapolis. Hiding in plain sight. I didn’t know if it’d been other forces at work—if Aaron and Ghost had kept everyone from looking for me, using their pull within the ranks of the crew to divert attentions elsewhere.

All I knew was I didn’t want to chance it. I didn’t want to jeopardize everything I’d worked for. I didn’t want to risk everything I’d lied for.

And above all else, I didn’t want to ever go back.

Chapter Two

ONE WEEK LATER

RILEY

Early November in Chicago meant it got dark way too fucking early for my liking, all the shadows making me jumpy. That was part of this business, though, always checking over my shoulder. Since I was fourteen, even before I was really part of the crew, I’d been taught to be diligent, constantly aware of my surroundings. My brother, Gage, had made sure of that. Made sure I could look out for myself. I didn’t think I had anything to worry about here, a few blocks from my apartment. This far off the beaten path, the streets were usually barren, even on a Friday night, and tonight was no different, with only a couple homeless guys huddled in an alley across the street.

Flexing my left hand, I felt the dull, residual pain from the job I’d just come from. A corrupt businessman—weren’t they all?—who’d gotten a little greedy, skimming from Max. You didn’t steal from Max Cavett, and any idiot who thought it was a good idea to steal from the leader of the entire fucking crew deserved every bit of what I was ordered to carry out.

The idiot who’d stolen from Max had actually had the nerve to try and deny his involvement. When I’d confronted him, when he’d been trapped with no way out, he denied it, even though I set the proof right in front of his face. When he hadn’t budged, hadn’t admitted his deeds, my fists had to come into play.

It was always better for everyone all around if swings didn’t start getting thrown. It was always better, though it rarely happened like that. And, to be honest, I liked it that way. I didn’t mind the physical aspect of the job, had never minded that. I was good at keeping people in line, at using my fists to remind assholes what they needed reminders of when words just wouldn’t get the job done. It also helped that I was able to get all this pent-up aggression out, and all the better that it was done while whaling on the kind of men who’d taken everything from me.

The kind of men who’d taken her from me.

It was early—not even ten o’clock—and I thought briefly about going out for a bit. Hitting the bar down the street, maybe get hooked up with some company for the night and push away the memories that always came knocking when I was working a job. But before I could make a decision on whether I wanted to head straight home or go somewhere else for a while, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, seeing Gage’s name on the screen.

Pressing Accept, I kept walking toward my apartment building as I answered. “Hey, man. What’s going on?”

“Ry.”

The tone of his voice stopped me dead in my tracks, halting me in the middle of the cracked sidewalk. It was the same tone he’d used for years while running jobs with the crew. The same tone he’d used when he needed people to listen. It was the tone that said shit was about to get real. “What is it? Is it Madison?”

“No. No, we’re fine. But I need you to listen to me, very carefully, okay? Listen to me and do exactly what I tell you to.”

I blew out a breath, my shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“You need to go see Aaron.”

My brow furrowed. It wasn’t unusual for me to see Aaron, to get information I’d need for a job, so it didn’t seem that odd. Didn’t seem worthy of the urgent tone of voice he was using. At least not until he said, “Do you remember the place?”

He was referring to the location we’d set forever ago, one we would use only if the situation called for complete secrecy. We’d never written it down, had never spoken of it again after we’d settled on it—we’d never needed to. And because of that, I knew this wasn’t a simple job.

I lifted my eyes, raking the street for anything out of place, anything out of the ordinary, because with those simple words from Gage, my tension was cranked up to a thousand.

Some serious shit was about to go down. Or was already happening—I didn’t know which.

Clearing my throat, I said, “Yeah.”

“Good. Aaron’s there waiting for you with a bag. Everything you’ll need is in it.”

“Okay, but—”

“I need you to go there immediately. Don’t fuck around wasting time.”

“Gage—”

“Immediately, Ry. Reset your phone, clear it out, and don’t use it again.” Then the line went dead, and I was left wondering just what the hell was going on.

*   *   *

I met Aaron at the shady dive bar Gage and I had settled on back before I’d even really been a part of the crew. Back when he’d just been getting started in it. It felt like a lifetime ago. Even back then, he’d been prepared for the worst.

Glancing around, I took stock of everyone in the place, ignoring the thinly veiled looks sent my way from some of the female patrons. After a quick pass, I finally noticed Aaron in the back corner, sipping a beer while he pretended to watch a couple tough-looking girls across the room. I knew, though, that he was doing exactly what I’d been doing—always calculating, always studying the surroundings.

I walked over to him, pulled out a chair, and took a seat. “Hey.”

“Hey, Kid.”

I rolled my eyes at the nickname that would, apparently, follow me to my fucking grave. “You know I’m twenty-three now, right? Not a fourteen-year-old trailing after my big brother…”

“Yeah, well, shit sticks with you.” He shrugged as he cracked a small smile and took a pull from his beer, his eyes taking in everything in the place. He looked relaxed, leaning back in his chair, his body language giving off a laid-back vibe, but I knew better. He was on alert, ready for anything. Just like I was.

“Do you have what I need?” I asked. I knew better than to say much more than that. Knew better than to name Gage—even using his crew name of Ghost—as the person who’d sent me. Anyone could be listening. Anyone could be watching.

He tipped his head toward the empty chair between us, and in my peripheral vision I could make out the outline of a black backpack partially hidden under the table. He didn’t say anything about the bag or the exchange, didn’t need to. His eyes spoke volumes.

Aaron lifted his beer to his mouth again, tipping it all the way back and swallowing the rest of it before setting down the bottle on the gouged wood table. “Getting late. I better jet.” He held me in place with his gaze, telling me without words that I needed to stay put for a while to avoid being seen leaving together. “See you later, Kid.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder, then walked out the way I’d just come.

The next thirty minutes were the longest of my life. I ordered a beer, then sat and waited, rebuffing the couple girls who came by my table and tried to get me to take them home. I barely glanced at them. I couldn’t think about anything but what the hell was going on. I watched the clueless people milling about, all the while my mind churning at a hundred miles per hour, conjuring up all the different reasons why Gage would’ve had to put a plan like this in place.

At the end of those thirty minutes, after I’d finished my beer, I grabbed the backpack and slung it over my shoulder, casually walking out the front door and into the night.

*   *   *

When I got to my place, I flipped the dead bolt behind me, then made a quick sweep through my apartment, checking to ensure I was alone. After pulling all the blinds, I sat down at the table, black backpack in front of me. With steady hands, I unzipped the bag, methodically pulling out all the contents. Inside was a small laptop, a prepaid cell phone, and a pouch with a wad of cash I didn’t bother counting, but by the size of it I guessed there was several thousand dollars there.

Before I could dig for a note or open the computer to search for some information, the phone rang, piercing the silence of the room. I snatched it up, seeing that the number was blocked—not a surprise—but I answered immediately.

“Yeah.”

“Boot up the computer.” It was Gage’s voice, hard as steel, and I did as he said without hesitation.

It didn’t take long before it came to life, a login screen popping up and prompting me for information. “Password?”

Gage’s voice echoed in my ear, and I typed in the random letters, numbers, and symbols he gave me, then waited until the desktop was displayed. The background was empty, save for one lone folder, labeled simply E.

“Open it,” he said.

I did as he instructed, double clicking on the icon and inputting the new password he recited when the computer asked for one. Once the password was confirmed, a dozen other files popped up, each labeled as cryptically as the folder had been.

“I’m in. Which file?”

“Open the one labeled STN.”

Once again inputting the password he gave me when prompted, I waited and watched as what looked like a newspaper article came up on the screen. I read the headline—“Kirkland & Caine Throw Another Successful Fund-Raiser for the Children’s Hospital”—and rubbed my fingers against my forehead.

“What am I supposed to be looking at here? All I see is an article about a fund-raiser.”

“Scroll down to the pictures.”

There were only three shots in the article—the first and largest a photo of the entire event, round tables filled with hundreds of rich people all decked out in tuxedos and fancy dresses, their attention focused on a stage where a man spoke behind a podium. The next was a shot of two men, both in their late sixties, if I had to guess, smiling as they chatted with a group of people. I darted my eyes to the caption below it: “Senator Caine, former senior partner at Kirkland & Caine, makes an appearance at the annual fund-raiser.”

“Gage, man, what am I supposed to be—”

And then I got to the third picture. In it, dozens of people milled about in the background, though the picture focused on just two people. The caption to this image read: “Eric Caine, son of Senator Martin Caine, with his fiancée, Genevieve Meyer.”

The man in the photo was probably in his early thirties, his head bent toward the woman on his arm. My eyes roved over the color picture, noticing how much younger she was than him, maybe a decade or more. In a long, formal dress, she stood at his side, her hand in the crook of his arm. Her most distinguishing feature was her hair—a bright fiery red that fell in waves nearly to her waist.

But her hair wasn’t all I was looking at.

After five years, I’d gotten used to glimpses. Seeing things in people I wouldn’t normally. Catching a peek of someone somewhere who reminded me of a girl I’d lost a long time ago. And I would’ve chalked this up to a coincidence, too, because of that history and the way coming from jobs always brought her memories to the forefront of my mind. Would’ve chalked it up to a coincidence the way the shape of this woman’s lips were identical to that of someone else … how her nose sloped in the same way, how her eyes were the same shade. And while those were all pieces of a puzzle, they didn’t add up. Because the girl I’d once known had had short hair, and it’d been every color of the rainbow when I’d known her—every color but red.

I would’ve looked away, figuring it was yet another false sighting in a string of too many to count. I would’ve looked away if it wasn’t for the small beauty mark on her left cheek, the one that I knew would disappear into the dimple that only came out when she truly smiled.

The one I hadn’t seen in five years. Not since the day she’d disappeared.

Not since the day she’d died.