Wicked Liars (Windsor Academy 1)

He clears his throat. “According to her tax records, she listed that same Hidden Hills address on her returns for three years straight. The next year, and every year thereafter, she used an address in south Los Angeles.”

What the fuck?

“She lived there for three years?”

I wasn’t expecting that. That would mean Jasmine lived in that mansion during the first few years of her life. Peyton and Madeline would’ve also been there at that point. Madeline had to have known Jazz was Charles’s kid. There’s no way that woman would’ve permitted a maid to live there with a kid in tow. Knowing that, she’s also aware of her husband’s proclivity toward fucking teenagers. It makes me wonder what other information she’s privy to.

“Yep,” John confirms. “Slightly over. And here’s the kicker: an affidavit of paternity was filed shortly before Rivera’s death. Callahan had his name added to the girl’s birth certificate.”

Why the hell would he do that? Now I’m really fucking confused.

I pull into my garage and shift into park. “Do you know the cause of death?”

“Gunshot wound. Police are calling it a stray bullet from a drive-by. She was shot in the head while waiting at a bus stop one morning. Pronounced dead at the scene.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “Fuck.”

This conversation is triggering something in the back of my head, but I can’t put my finger on it.

My head jerks up when it hits me. “John, I gotta go. I want a tail on Madeline Callahan.”

“Am I supposed to be looking for anything in particular?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know yet. I just want to know what she’s up to. Who she’s spending time with. Get back to me if you find something suspicious.”

“Will do.”

I end the call and rush through the property until I get to the pool house. I head into my closet and pull down some boxes from the top shelf. My dad’s second wife, bitch that she was, wanted no trace of Jennifer Davenport in the house. My dad would’ve been fine tossing everything into the garbage. Thankfully, my sister turned on the waterworks and begged him to let us sort through everything. Tough task for a pair of nine-year-olds, but that’s my dickheaded father for you.

We donated most of our mom’s belongings but Ainsley kept all of the jewelry and the photo albums went into these boxes, which I’ve kept in my closet. Every once in a while, I’ll go through them, usually around the anniversary of her death when I’m feeling her loss even harder. I sit on the floor, flipping through one album after another until I get to the right age range. After a good thirty minutes, I finally find the picture I was thinking of.

My mom is standing next to another woman who I now know is Mahalia Rivera. Jazz has a framed picture with her mom and sister on the desk in her bedroom. I had this weird déjà vu moment when I first saw it as I was snooping around, but I assumed it was simply because Jazz resembles her mother so much. In the photo I have, there are also three children. Me, Ainsley, and a little girl who has to be Jasmine. I once asked my dad who the other woman was and he simply said, “A friend of your mother’s.”

Holy fuck.

My sister and I used to play with Jazz. Is that why I feel so drawn to her? Because somehow, even though we were so young, my subconscious somehow remembers her? Right when I thought I had this situation with my father and Charles Callahan figured out, another wrench gets thrown into the mix.

Could this shit get any more convoluted?

CHAPTER TWENTY

JAZZ

I can’t stop thinking about my outing with Belle and Kingston yesterday. I smile fondly as I pick up the picture on my desk. Belle, our mom, and I are high above the ocean sitting in one of the cabs of the Pacific Park Ferris wheel. Every year on my birthday, we would spend the day on the Santa Monica Pier. It was our thing for as long as I can remember. We didn’t have much—hardly anything, really—but she’d work overtime just to get enough cash for a few unlimited ride bracelets followed by churros and ice cream.

God, I miss her.

What is Kingston up to? You can’t threaten somebody one minute then do the nicest thing possible for them the next. And what about all that information he divulged regarding his arrangement with Peyton? I know he’s trying to keep me from snooping around whatever our fathers are up to, but this seems a bit extreme. I know he has some sort of motive—

I’ll just have to keep my guard up until I figure out what that is.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door right before Ms. Williams says, “Miss Jasmine, your presence is required in the dining room in exactly ten minutes.”

What the hell? I usually don’t eat breakfast before school—maybe a quick apple if anything. Ms. Williams knows that. Plus, since I’ve been here, I haven’t seen anyone eating breakfast in the dining room on a school day.

I open my door. “Why?”

Ms. Williams frowns. “It’s not my place to question Mr. Callahan. All I know is that he has requested both yours and Peyton’s presence at breakfast this morning.”