“We need details from her father’s case. Shouldn’t she have access to his file?” Jordan’s words spill out over one another and he keeps looking at me and nodding like somehow if we both nod enough then Mr. Masters will be forced to agree with us. He both sounds and looks panicked—perfect.
“As a minor she has no right to that file without signed parental consent. Does she have that?” Mr. Masters doesn’t even wait a beat before pouncing. He places the palms of his hands on the desk to either side of him. His stance is totally relaxed, his shrewd gaze anything but. Inclining his head only a few inches forward, he still manages to make Jordan swallow hard and look away when he asks softly, “And I don’t believe we’ve been introduced—not formally, anyway.”
“Jordan Vega, meet Benjamin Masters,” I say before Jordan can dig himself any deeper. “Jordan likes spending time at the mall, building race car tracks with his little brother, and getting in over his head while trying to help people he shouldn’t. Mr. Masters likes being sneaky, playing mind games, and can really be helpful if we give him a chance.”
Jordan blinks at me, then back at Mr. Masters, but this time he keeps his mouth shut.
Masters’s grin turns a little wolfish and he chuckles before extending his hand down to Jordan. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
As Jordan reluctantly shakes it, I decide it’s time to cut straight to the point. I stare directly at Mr. Masters. “I need your help. I have to find the truth before it’s too late. I know that what I do may not change a thing, but whatever happens, I need to find out for myself.”
He watches me for what feels like forever and I try not to blink. Finally, he nods. “Okay. But will you explain why someone who claims not to trust cops is out spending time with the son of Chief Vega?”
“He’s trying to help me,” I respond. When he sees me glance his way, Jordan gives me half a smile that I’m sure he means to be reassuring, but it only makes me feel guilty for even letting him get into this mess with me.
Mr. Masters straightens and walks around behind his desk, taking a seat. He begins moving papers off his desk and into different piles. One of the folders I see is clearly marked with the name DAVID BECKETT. I slide forward in my chair, wanting to see more. A big red sticker is stuck to the front of the file—it holds the perfect word to describe Daddy’s current situation: PRESSING.
Once his desk is relatively sorted, Masters leans forward. “I, of course, can’t let you take it, but what do you want to know?”
I reply with the first question that comes to mind. “What was Daddy like before he went to prison?”
“David was a different man back then…,” Mr. Masters starts.
I get an instant chill at what those words could mean, but shake it off as Mr. Masters continues. “He was relaxed, much happier.”
“Did you like working with him?”
“Yes.” He hesitates, then speaks carefully. “He was always a hard worker, very devoted to his clients.”
“Only telling me the good things won’t help me; you know that.” I raise one eyebrow. Jordan sits forward in his seat beside me, now engrossed in this question-and-answer session.
“No one’s perfect, Riley,” Mr. Masters responds, his voice softer now. “I assume you know about Hillary Vanderstaff? And how he always spent a bit more time with female clients and co-workers than men?”
“Hillary Vanderstaff?” I remember the name, but little else. “Isn’t she one of the victims?”
“Oh…” Mr. Masters’s face falls and he closes his eyes slowly. “Maybe this is something you should ask your parents about.”
“If my parents were willing to tell me, I’d already know.” I groan as I wait for him to go on.
“She was one of the victims—and a previous client of your father’s. She is how they tied him to the victims.”
A sudden flash of clarity hits me. “Right, she was the one they falsely accused him of having an affair with. Was she his client at the time of the murder?”
“No, he represented her in a case almost one year before.” Masters is very focused on his desk. He straightens Daddy’s file before looking up.
“A year? And that’s all the link they had?” My voice is incredulous. That tie-in is tenuous at best.
He sighs and his shoulders droop forward. It strikes me that for the first time since I’ve known him, Masters doesn’t seem to be putting on a show. “I don’t want to be the one to tell you this.”
My heart, my lungs, and my stomach all seem to lock up in response. I’m terrified of what he’s going to say next, and it must show in my face because I feel Jordan’s eyes on me.
In the silence I press my teeth together so hard that it hurts, afraid that I can’t trust myself to speak. Scared that if I open my mouth, my words may betray me by telling him the absolute truth that is burning in my soul—that maybe deep down I truly don’t want to know. If I open my mouth, I might beg him to please tell me another sweet lie instead of the bitter truth so that I can continue to live in oblivion.