The Lie (Kings of Linwood Academy 2)

I tell Lincoln the news as soon as we get back in the car, and his expression hardens. He grabs my hand as he pulls out of the Fox Hill Correctional Center visitor parking lot, lacing our fingers together before bringing our joined hands to his lips.

Fire blazes up my arm from the brush of his mouth on my skin, and I let it burn away the worry and panic inside me for a moment.

God, I miss him.

He was right. There is no only between us. I’m not sure there ever has been.

I see him every day at school, but I miss having him sneak into my bedroom in the mansion late at night, miss tearing at his clothes as his lips consume me, miss wrapping myself in his spicy, addictive scent.

But I know when—if—I’m ever able to leave River’s house, I’ll miss the fuck out of him too.

It’s… weird, having this kind of connection with more than one guy. Not bad weird, just different.

Unexpected.

Something I’m still learning how to navigate.

The feelings I have for each of these four boys are growing, developing into something stronger than I was prepared for. I haven’t had to crash at the twins’ house yet—although with my track record, that day is coming—but the two of them have an almost supernatural ability to put me in a good mood. I find myself gravitating toward them, craving their presence. Craving Chase’s bright energy and Dax’s dry sense of humor.

Linc nips at the back of my hand with his teeth, and I swear I feel it everywhere in my body. I suck in a breath and shoot him a look, and his amber eyes smolder when he meets my gaze.

“The guys are all coming over to my place for the beginning of winter break. You too.”

I raise my brows. “Really?”

“Yeah. My parents will be in Colorado for the week after school lets out. It’s the perfect fucking time to go through my dad’s shit without worrying about him catching us.”

My heart jumps. Shit, that’s brilliant. That’s exactly what we need. We can finally poke around without worrying about getting caught.

There has to be something in that house that will tie Mr. Black to Iris.

“Okay, perfect.” I take in his profile as he watches the road, letting my gaze trail over his angular features and strong jawline. “Lincoln? Thank you.”

He nods grimly, lowering our hands to rest on my lap. A muscle in his jaw ripples, and I bite my lip. I hate this all on so many levels, but I especially hate that if our suspicions are right, Lincoln will essentially be losing his father.

When he drops me off at River’s house, he leans over the center console, palms the back of my head, and kisses me like he won’t see me on Monday—like he might never see me again. I kiss him back just as hard, and when we’re both breathless and flushed, I finally pull away and slip out of the car.

I feel better knowing we have a plan, a chance to do some serious digging soon. But it doesn’t stop worry from building up in my chest like a pile of rocks.

River meets me outside and brings me downstairs. His dad is home for once, sitting in the large living room off the main entrance reading the paper. He’s dressed in a full suit—I’ve never seen him in anything else—and his ash-brown hair is mixed with gray. Like Lincoln’s dad, he has the look of someone who was devastatingly handsome in his youth and has aged extremely well.

Mr. Bettencourt glances up as we pass by, his expression hard and disapproving. We both ignore him though—that’s what River almost always does, and I just follow his lead.

As soon as we reach his bedroom, I make a beeline for the suitcase I packed. I’ve been replaying my conversation with my mom over and over in my head since I left the prison, and I understand why she said what she did. But I can’t just let it go there.

If there’s even a slight chance that Judge Hollowell could help her, I’ve got to try.

River sits on the couch, watching me with curious eyes as I dig my mom’s cell out of my bag and enter her password. After tapping the screen to pull up her contacts, I scroll down to the H’s. She must’ve exchanged numbers with this guy if she went on a few dates with him.

Sure enough, after several other last names that start with H, his name flashes on the screen. Alexander Hollowell.

I pull my own phone out of my back pocket and type his number in there, then connect the call. It’s the weekend, so I’m guessing he’s not in his office, but I’m also guessing this is his personal cell number.

After a few rings, a pleasantly rough voice asks, “Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Hollowell. This is Harlow Thomas. I used to work for the Black family with my mom. Penelope.”

“Oh… yes, of course.”