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Con: Maxwell made it through surgery but is back in ICU. Condition is critical. They’re calling in a neurosurgeon from Arizona.
Con: Call me.
The last one was sent at 4AM. Trying not to think about what I was doing at the time, I hit the call back button and steel myself for the worst possible news—that while I was busy deluding myself that none of this was happening, Brian Maxwell was dying.
Thankfully, Conner picks up on the third ring, saving me before I completely spiral. “He’s still alive,” he says without preamble. “There’s a brain bleed somewhere that the surgeon here hasn’t been able to find. The neurosurgeon from Arizona got here a few hours ago and is confident he’ll be able to find it. They’re prepping Maxwell for another surgery right now.”
Hearing him say it, I feel my shoulders slump with relief, the sudden loss of tension dropping my head on my neck. Staring at my bare feet, I sigh with relief. “What’s your opinion on this guy from Arizona?”
“He’s good—really good.”
“How good?” I feel my brows slam together when he says it. “Because if there’s someone better out there, then that’s who I want. I don’t care what it costs. I want—”
“There isn’t,” Con tells me, his tone definitive. “I looked over his track record—if anyone can find Maxwell’s leak and plug it, it’s this guy.”
“Okay.” I nod, lifting my head to look at my half-packed duffle, slumped in the corner. “What about everything else? Have you been able to locate any camera footage or a witness who can confirm the fact that I wasn’t the one driving?” Last he told me, the traffic cams at the crash site were down for routine maintenance and he was looking for security footage from surrounding businesses.
“The bank on the corner has an ATM that should give us a decent angle—I’ve subpoenaed the cam footage and am waiting for a judge to sign off on it. Since banks are under federal jurisdiction, it’s taking more time than I like.” He sounds annoyed when he says it. Like, even though he’s the one who insisted on doing things by the book, he thinks going through proper legal channels and following the law is a waste of time. “For now, I’m leaning heavily on the fact that none of the pics posted on socials from inside or around the club Lexi was partying at have you in them.” He knows as well as I do that isn’t saying much. I’m an expert at avoiding cameras.
“So, they can’t prove I was there but we can’t prove that I wasn’t.” Dropping my head again, I sigh. “What about people inside the club? Witnesses. If we can find someone—”
“I found several someones who are willing to sign sworn affidavits that you weren’t there that night—”
Conner tells me bluntly. “and the police found just as many who swear that you were. On top of that, they have red light cam footage from the intersection, outside the club. I’ve seen it—its grainy as fuck but Lexi is riding shotgun and there’s definitely a man behind the wheel of her car.” He pauses for a second like he’s not sure he wants to tell me the rest. Before I can tell him to just spit it out, he finishes it. “The visor is down so his face is obscured but he has tattoos on both of his hands.”
I look down at my own hands. I have a pocket watch on one and a compass on the other. The compass points due north and the face of the pocket watch reads 8:23. I had them done last summer, at the shop I apprentice in. They’re distinctive. I drew them myself. Not something you can just point to on a wall of pre-made tattoos and say that’s the one I want. “That’s good—they’ll be able to tell it’s not me then, right?”
“Grainy, remember? You can see tattoos but can’t make out what they are.” I can hear it in his voice—if he didn’t know me and believe that I’m telling the truth, he might think it was me behind the wheel of Lexi’s car that night too. “I’ve got someone working on cleaning it up. It’s taking more time than I’d like because I’m using a third-party lab to authenticate everything but as soon as it’s done, we’ll have all the proof we need to clear you. Just—”
“There’s something else. Something you’re not telling me.” I’m suddenly sure of it. “Whatever it is, I can handle it.”
On the other end of the phone I can hear a slight rasp like Con is dragging his hand over his face. “The cops have complete tunnel vision. They’re not looking at any other suspects—once they got a hold of that photo outside the club, they stopped looking at Lexi. As far as they’re concerned, you were the one behind the wheel that night. They’re saying your written statement isn’t enough. They’re pushing me to have you come in for questioning.”
Just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. “Maybe if I sit down and talk to them—tell them my side—they’ll realize that they’re looking at the wrong guy.”
“Maybe… or they’ll use it as a way to get you to come back to LA so they can take you into custody.” Con’s tone leaves very little doubt as to which scenario he thinks is most likely. “Just stay put—you’re not going anywhere near anyone with a badge until they issue an arrest warrant and they don’t have the evidence to get one.” When I don’t answer him right away, Con makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “Stay. Put. I’ve worked too fucking hard on this situation to have you popping up out of your hole and fucking everything up. I’m going to get you out of this just… stay put and let me work, okay?”
I look at my half-packed duffle and briefly consider telling him what I’ve decided. That I can’t stay put.
That for Kait’s sake, I have to leave.
But the moment passes.
“Okay.” I nod my head, feeling like a complete shit for lying to the only person I’ve ever been able to trust. “I’ll stay put.”
I end the call before I have to tell him any more lies.
FIFTY-FOUR
Kaitlyn
As soon as Abbey talked herself hoarse on everything she knew about Went from her collection of celebrity tabloids, she flopped back on her bed and stared at the ceiling.
No, not just Went.
Wentworth Hawthorne-Fiorella.
Sole heir to a multi-billion-dollar hotel empire and boyfriend of Lexi Chase, the daughter of some Hollywood B-list actress.