THEY OFFICIALLY RULED Dru as “dead on scene.” Which meant that I’d held the last of his life, literally, in my hands. I sat in the emergency room bay staring at my palms, trying to piece together what I could have done differently. How I could have saved him.
It turned out Luna’s first bullet had definitely grazed my cheek. Another inch and I could’ve been the dead one. It wasn’t lost on me as I sat there numbly, letting the nurse bandage up my cheek, that had I just stood still at the pool house, Dru would have lived. I felt partly responsible for his death.
The nurse took me to X-ray, wrapped me up, gave me instructions, had me sign papers, whatever. I was mostly just remembering the way Dru’s hands felt as they slid down my waist that first day in Peyton’s apartment. How his skin smelled like expensive soap. How his hair was soft and feathery and lay perfectly across his forehead, always. How he’d said he liked me because I was brave, and that I didn’t really understand then that he’d tried to be brave for Peyton too late and felt responsible for what happened to her.
I remembered how boyish he’d looked as his father led him from the police station to the DREAMS car. How cowed. Defeated. I felt sorry for that boy. I didn’t blame that boy for what had happened with Peyton.
Had Dru not been a Hollis, he might have been a dream guy.
Which, of course, meant he would have had nothing to do with me.
I slept for a solid day after I got home. Now that Luna was locked up, I no longer had to worry about anyone getting into my house. I no longer had to be on high alert. When I woke up, I went downstairs and ate, then went right back upstairs and fell asleep again.
Dad came home at some point while I was sleeping, and I had a vague memory of him sitting on the side of my bed, brushing my hair back. Maybe I’d dreamed it, or maybe it was real, but I could have sworn he was crying. Later, he came up with some soup and made me take what seemed like a hundred pills. He didn’t ask questions. But for once I didn’t think it was because he didn’t care. For some reason, I had a feeling he wasn’t asking because he already knew.
I got up on that second day and started the shower, not remembering a word of instruction about what I was supposed to do about my wounds. I peeled away the bandage that the ER nurse had plastered over my cheek, sucking air in through gritted teeth from the pain. The wound was stiff, ugly, burnt-looking. My cheek puckered around it. I touched it gingerly, the pain shooting through my entire head. It was going to leave a hell of a scar. Wait until Gunner saw it. He would flip.
The shower stung, and the water ran red around my feet. I still had dirt caked under my fingernails and found a smear of blood across my chest. I scrubbed at my skin until it tingled. I got out looking flushed and clean. I rebandaged my cheek, not doing nearly as good a job as the nurse had, pulled my wet hair up into a loose ponytail, and headed downstairs with my chem book. It had been a hell of a few weeks, and now I was in real trouble with graduation. If I didn’t get my shit together soon, even Mrs. Lee would give up on me. I would study a little with lunch, and then I would head to the hospital, see if I could get Peyton to open her eyes again. I wanted to tell her that everything was over and it was safe for her to come out now.
No sooner did I get downstairs, though, than the doorbell rang. I was surprised by the jolt of fear that ran through me at the sound, but then I shook it off. It was going to take time to get over the feeling of being hunted.
I set my book on the bottom stair and opened the door. Detective Chris Martinez stood on the other side, scratching the back of his neck. He was in his casual clothes today. I leaned one hip against the door, giving him attitude, but I found that I didn’t quite feel the attitude as much as I used to. Chris Martinez was a pain in my ass, there were no two ways about it, but he’d also saved my ass, and I supposed I owed him at least the tiniest bit of friendliness.
But not too much.
That night, on the patio, I’d filled him in on everything I knew about the Hollises and their conspiracy to get rid of Peyton, so I couldn’t figure out why he would be at my house.
“Miss me already?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Can I come in?”
“Good. I didn’t miss you, either,” I said. But I shuffled away from the door, pulling it all the way open and gesturing for him to come inside.
He stepped into the foyer, looking uncertain and awkward. I could see him glance around, taking in photos and knickknacks and the stuff that made my life mine. Having him openly ogle our stuff made me uncomfortable. I shut the door and stood there, my arms crossed over my chest.
“So, you just here to make sure I’m not doing anything illegal? Or do you need me to solve another case for you?”
“Actually,” he said, “can I get a glass of water?”
I rolled my eyes. “You want me to make you lunch, too, Your Highness?” But I brushed past him and down the hallway toward the kitchen. He followed me and seated himself at the breakfast bar, even though I didn’t ask him to. I poured him a glass of water and placed it on the counter in front of him. “Comfy now?”
But he didn’t look comfy. He looked pretty miserable, actually. He stared at the counter, pink circles breaking out on his cheeks. “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said.
I felt the energy drain from my head all the way down to my toes. “What now?” I asked.
His eyes finally lifted to meet mine. I could see his misery in them. “Peyton died this morning,” he said.
I pulled out a bar stool and sank onto it, feeling dizzy. “But she opened her eyes,” I said in disbelief. “She smiled at me.”
He nodded. “The nurse said she’d been doing some of that, but it was all—”
“Involuntary,” I finished. “I know. She told me that, too. But I was there. I saw it. It didn’t look involuntary. It looked like . . .” I felt my eyes well up and blinked them hard, refusing to cry in front of him again. “I was going to visit her today.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I had an answer for you. She’d just suffered too much damage to her brain. Here. The water was for you,” he said, sliding the glass toward me.
I touched the sides of the glass but didn’t drink it. I didn’t want water. I wanted Peyton to wake up. I wanted more than photos. I wanted there to be a reason to have gone through this whole thing. I wanted a payoff, damn it.
“So does this mean the Hollises will all be charged with murder now instead of just assault?” I asked, their name coming out bitterly.
He stroked his top lip and down his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know,” he said. “They left the house before we got there that night, which is pretty miraculous, given the amount of blood on the kitchen floor. Yet it seems Bill and Vanessa Hollis got on an airplane yesterday morning.”
“To?”
“Dubai. No extradition laws. And it would appear that they took a healthy amount of money with them.”
“So they just get away with it? With everything?”
He turned his palms up. “For now, yes. But believe me, Bill Hollis is not the kind of guy who can walk away from Hollywood forever. He will come back. We will get them eventually.”
“What about Luna?”
“Well, she also had a ticket to Dubai, scheduled to join them the next day.”
“Sounds pretty planned out. Where was Dru’s ticket?” I finally picked up the glass and sipped the water, just to give myself something to do.
“He didn’t have one.”
“Interesting,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. But the truth was, knowing that Dru wasn’t planning on running brought his innocence home to me. Again, my heart squeezed at the thought of him dying to save me. The feeling made me seethe. I hated being sentimental. Sentimentality was for ignorant people. I knew better.
“So what about Luna, then?” I repeated.
He shrugged. “It’s going to depend on what the prosecutor thinks he can do. Right now, he can only get her on the accident in the backyard of Hollis Mansion.”
I slammed the water glass back onto the counter. “Accident? It was no fucking accident!”
“She didn’t mean to kill Dru.”
I almost laughed. “No, you’re right. She only meant to kill me.”
“But she didn’t,” he said simply. “She’s claiming self-defense. We’re still rounding up facts. Right now we can definitely nail her for assault and battery, and I’m fairly certain we can get her for attempted murder. But she is a minor.”
“And what about what she did to Peyton?” I asked.
“We don’t have any real evidence,” he said. “We can’t find Rigo or a murder weapon or anything that wouldn’t be considered circumstantial. Without evidence, it’s all just your word against hers, because the only other two people involved . . .”
“Are dead,” I finished for him. He nodded. I stood up suddenly, knocking my bar stool over. “It’s not fair! They killed her. They can’t just . . . walk away.”
“I know,” Detective Martinez said, standing up and coming around the counter. He put his hands on my shoulders. “But I’m determined to see this through, Nikki. I won’t stop until I have evidence on all the Hollises and I find Arrigo Basile. You have my word on that. It would help the process tremendously if you have some real evidence you can show me. Something that will let me know how you solved this.”
“The escort service? The one I handed to you at the hotel?” I asked, knowing what he was going to say before he even spoke a word.
He shrugged. “Entire office cleared out by the time we got an address. Nothing but pink carpet, a few bits of paper, and an empty filing cabinet. I do have this for you, though. It’s a copy. I had to keep the original. And I could probably get into huge trouble if anyone found out I gave you a copy. It was in Peyton’s bedroom. Taped to the bottom of a box colored like a rainbow.” He handed me an envelope.
Of course. The bottom of the box. I’d forgotten to look there. Or been interrupted by Luna was more like it.
I opened the envelope and pulled out a photocopied letter.
Nikki,
I’m putting a ton of faith in your synesthesia right now, but if I’m right about what you can do, you’re reading this letter.
So basically this is one of those if-you’re-reading-this-I’m-probably-dead letters. I’ve known you were my sister for a while now. I even watched you a little at your house, at school, stole your records from the guidance office, that kind of thing, trying to decide how, and when, to tell you. But I started discovering other things, too. Things about my family. I was afraid of putting you in danger. I finally decided I would write this letter and leave you clues, and would only bring you into this if things had gone really wrong and my life was on the line. So you’d think I’d be really scared writing this letter, but I’m kind of not. I’ve been scared for a long time. Scared of where my life was going, thanks to the people who raised me. Scared of who, or what, I will become. Writing this letter is actually a relief.
Everything about the Hollis family is a lie. We are not who the world thinks we are. We have secrets, Nikki, and they’re bad. And when I say “we” I actually mean we. Including you, Nikki. Maybe you’ve figured this part out already, but if you haven’t, I’ll tell you now. Your mother, Carrie, was my mother, too. I know this because I’ve followed a very long trail of deceit. But I’ve included in this letter a lock of my hair, just in case you want to have it tested for DNA to be sure. I don’t need to see a DNA test. I already know.
It all started when a woman named Brandi Courteur came to one of Viral Fanfare’s shows in Long Beach. I can’t tell you anything more about Brandi because it will be very dangerous to her if this letter should fall into the wrong hands. I know that sounds very mysterious, but if you’re reading this, you obviously can do mysterious. Let me just say that what Brandi told me after that show changed my whole life. My entire life was a lie. Fake. A show. Everything started to make so much more sense. And I learned things about my father, about Vanessa, that could ruin them.
Find Brandi, Nikki. When you do, you will understand everything.
Also, take care of Dru. I’ve told him about his own mother, but he’s still in denial. He’s still trying to please dear old Daddy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s good on the inside. I know this because we’ve lived the same lie.
Peyton
I folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope, not even realizing that I was crying until I was wiping the tears.
“You ever heard of this Brandi person?” Chris Martinez asked.
“No. Nothing.”
“Do you have anything else that will help this case? Anything at all?”
I shook my head sadly. The only real evidence I’d ever had was a recording of Peyton blackmailing her brother, and Martinez had taken it out of my car the night Dru got shot. “It was mostly hunch,” I said.
Martinez stood there for another long moment, eyeing me skeptically. Finally, he let go. “I just wanted to let you know about Peyton,” he said. He walked toward the door, but halfway through the entryway he stopped, his shoulders slumped, his hands on his hips. He stared at the floor for a moment, and then turned back to me. “Listen,” he said. He cleared his throat, definitely uncomfortable. “You asked what was in my past.”
His eyes flicked up to mine, and I nodded.
“I didn’t grow up in a house like this.” He gestured around him. “It was just my mom and three kids.” He cleared his throat again, looked back at the floor. “When I was fifteen, my older brother, Javi, got mixed up in a gang. Really bad people. I knew he was in it, and I knew he’d gotten into some bad shit, but I didn’t tell my mom or anything.”
“You don’t have to—”
He held up his hand to stop me. “He killed some punk named Leon. He told me. Shot him in the chest over some stupid grudge. But I still didn’t say anything to anyone. I kept my mouth shut because I thought that was what you did. I thought I was going to follow in his footsteps, you know? I was going to join his gang, too, and I had to prove myself. So I said nothing.”
I tried to imagine Chris Martinez, with his blazing yellow badge, in a gang, selling drugs, stealing cars, killing people. I couldn’t do it.
“Two weeks later, Leon’s boys went after Javi and shot up his car.” He ducked his head, scuffed one shoe on the tile, and then looked up again. His jaw was square and tense. “Only it wasn’t Javi in the car. It was our sister. Ada.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t know. . . .”
He closed his eyes. “But I did know. And now Javi is in prison and Ada is dead and it’s just my mom in that house. And she lives with that pain every day. And so do I. You asked why I was so busy following you? Because I swore to myself I would never stand by and let someone get hurt again. Not if I could stop it. Especially if it’s someone I care about.”
We stood there awkwardly for a beat. I didn’t know what to say. Putrid brown puddled around our feet, and I squeezed my eyes shut to make it go away.
Finally, he turned. “Anyway, I owed you that. I should go.”
“Wait,” I said, and he stopped. I went to the kitchen desk, found a scrap of paper and a pen, and jotted down an address. I handed him the paper. “In the trees behind the Dumpsters, you’ll find her car. It’ll have my fingerprints in it, just so you know.”
He held the scrap of paper up for a few seconds, then folded it and tucked it into his pocket. The address was no longer coming at me in blacktop black and gray. The fear was gone.
“Thank you,” he said.
My fingerprints weren’t the only part of me Chris Martinez would find in that car. He would also find my stolen school records, filled with the counselor’s details about my synesthesia.
It would take Martinez a while to understand what he was looking at, but he was a pretty good detective. He would eventually get it.
If we were going to finish this out, he was going to have to get it.
But I felt confident that he would. That we would. That eventually Vanessa and Luna and Bill would have to own up to what they did. To the prostitution and the drugs and the murder. I owed that much to Peyton. And to Dru. They died for their family secrets. For our family secrets. It was up to me to expose them.
I followed Chris Martinez to the front door and watched him get into his car. The license plate glowed bright yellow at me. Just as it had from day one. I had a feeling Chris Martinez was nothing if not reliable. But there was something else there, as well. When I remembered sparring with him, or sitting with him on the Hollises’ pool deck, I thought of violet things—flowers, grapes, purple crayons. I pressed my eyes shut, tight, and reopened them. The color was gone. But it had been there. I had seen it.
I stood by the door, leaning my temple against the door frame, as he pulled out of the driveway. My cheek throbbed. I thought about the night that Dru died. How I’d sat against the lawn chair, sobbing. Everything I’d known about my life had been a lie. I wasn’t sure who my parents were, who I was. The confusion was overwhelming. And while, with Luna being handcuffed and hauled away, it looked like this was all over, in reality, it had only just begun. There were still so many questions I needed to ask. Starting with my dad. He would try to evade—that was his style—but Chris Martinez wasn’t the only one determined not to give up until there were answers. I wouldn’t give up until I knew who I was, who Mom was. I couldn’t give up.
I shut the front door and then, instead of going back to the kitchen to study, snatched my chem book off the stair where I’d left it, and took it back upstairs. I grabbed my tae kwon do duffel off my bedroom floor and stepped into some shoes.
I threw on my jacket, which smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, and remembered seeing Peyton for the first time in the hospital bed. Even in all that crimson, with her chopped hair, with her battered head and arms, she still looked beautiful.
I could see her. Her soft skin, her small nose, her long eyelashes. Her tattoo, a black-and-gray rainbow with words underneath.
Live in Color.
I walked out the front door, shouldering my duffel and digging out my car keys at the same time.
I intend to, Peyton. I intend to.