The Lie (Kings of Linwood Academy 2)

I scrub my hands down my face, shaking my head as I push away from the door. I don’t have time to get caught up in wondering what the fuck Lincoln and the rest of the guys were doing with Savannah. I’ve got what feels like a mountain of homework to catch up on, and although it’s not as good as finding the man in black, it’s one thing I know I can do for my mom—one bit of stress I can try to relieve her of.

That thought is a damn good motivator, and I spend the rest of the afternoon holed up in my room poring over books and writing papers. I sneak over to Mom’s apartment around seven to grab some dinner—I’ll need to get to the store soon, since the supplies in her kitchen are dwindling—and then hit the books again until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.

I shove the stack of textbooks to the floor, turn off the lamp, and crawl under the covers, pulling them up tight around my chin. Just as I’m starting to doze off, a light knock sounds at the door, and my eyelids fly open. My body goes rigid under the blankets, and I hold absolutely still, feeling my heart kick against my ribs.

The knock comes again—three soft raps against the wood.

But I don’t answer.

And a few moments later, whoever it is goes away.

Mr. Osterhaut told Lincoln’s dad pretty much the same thing he told me about the zero tolerance policy for altercations on school grounds, even if—or maybe especially if—they have to do with Iris’s death and my mom’s arrest.

I sure as fuck hope Savannah got the same lecture, since she’s far from an innocent bystander here. But regardless, I go out of my way to avoid her on Friday, not wanting to risk getting in trouble again. Between dodging her and avoiding the four kings, I feel like I spend most of the day ducking into corners or down random hallways.

When school lets out, I head for the bus stop at a fast clip. A quick glan

ce over my shoulder as I reach the edge of campus reveals Lincoln and River stepping out through the front doors of Linwood.

River’s head snaps toward me like some sixth sense told him exactly where I’d be, and even though we’re too far apart to really see each other’s eyes, I can feel our gazes connect anyway.

I drag my focus away, picking up my pace even more. When I hop on the bus this time, I take the one headed in the direction of Fox Hill Correctional Center. I didn’t visit Mom yesterday, and I’m not letting another day go by without seeing her. I’ll have to spend the rest of the evening doing more homework catch-up, but I’d rather be late on a few assignments than skip seeing her.

The routine of getting checked in at the prison is starting to feel familiar, just like all the routines Mom and I developed when I was going through my cancer treatments. Sometimes I can’t believe how adaptable humans are, how quickly what should seem insane can start to feel normal. It can be both a good thing and a bad thing, I think.

Mom’s dressed in garish orange like always, and when I walk in today, she looks more tired than she did last time I saw her. It’s going on a week since she was arrested, and the thought of how much longer she might have to be here makes me feel queasy.

I sit down across from her and pick up the phone from its cradle. “Hey, Mom. How’re you doing?”

“Good. Good.” She smiles and nods, but this time it’s all fake.

“What happened?”

“Oh.” The smile drips off her face, and she chews her lip for a second, like she’s wondering if she should tell me.

“Mom. What happened?”

“I spoke with my lawyer this morning. Leda Koffman. She said…” Confusion and hopelessness flit across her face, and I lean closer, staring at her as she continues. “She told me the police found traces of Iris’s DNA on the front grill of my car. So—so that really helps their case.”

She says that last part matter-of-factly, as if she’s talking about some other murder investigation and some other woman who’s been wrongly implicated.

I shake my head, trying to process her words and deny them at the same time. “What does that mean? I mean, it doesn’t prove anything, does it? You didn’t do it, so how can they make it seem like you did?”

“I don’t know, kiddo.” She smiles softly, and even though this one is genuine, it breaks my heart anyway. Because there’s something that looks like resignation in it. “It doesn’t prove anything. But it gives them something solid and tangible to present in court. We’ll get to present our evidence too, and hopefully Leda can put together a strong case. I just… I don’t know.”

My stomach churns, unhappy about the pizza I ate in the cafeteria several hours ago, as I stare at my mom through the glass. Her brown eyes are dim, and she shakes her head, huffing a humorless laugh.

“I guess I should just hope Alexander is the judge assigned to the trial.”

“What?”

“Oh. Judge Hollowell,” she clarifies. “He’s the one I went out with a couple of times. Although I guess maybe he’d have to recuse himself because of that? I don’t know if having gone on a few dates qualifies as having some kind of previous relationship or not.” She sighs, reaching up to brush an escaped tendril of hair behind her ear. “We never really had a spark, but I like to think he’d believe I’m not a murderer.”

“You went out with Judge Hollowell?”

I scrunch up my nose. I remember the guy from a couple of Mr. and Mrs. Black’s cocktail parties. He was good-looking, in an older, George Clooney kind of way, but I wouldn’t have pegged him for Mom’s type at all. He seems a little too posh and polished for her, not to mention a little handsy. Although I got felt up by so many men at those parties, he’s in a giant fucking club.

My mom purses her lips, humor glinting in her eyes, and for a moment she looks more like her old self.