Chapters (43)
“I tried. Peyton had my school file, and I left it in her car for you. But you didn’t read it like you were supposed to. And then there was the accident and you couldn’t remember anything, and it just felt like a bad time.” We locked eyes. “I’ve never told anyone except my dad and doctors. I’ve never trusted anyone to understand.”
“Peyton was your sister. That woman in the trailer told us. I do remember that. But . . . help me out here, Nikki. What aren’t you telling me?”
My lips felt dry. I licked them twice. I hated feeling vulnerable, and this had me feeling like I might as well be standing nude in the middle of the casino. At the same time, it felt exciting. To finally let someone in—something I’d battled my entire life.
“We’re not just here to find Luna’s getaway driver. I mean, we are. But the reason we came here is because my mom worked at the studio we’re going to tomorrow. She knew him. She worked for Vanessa. She had Bill’s baby. And . . . and my dad is lying to me. He says he never met any of them. But I’ve seen pictures. I’ve read articles. He knew them all, too. They were like a big, happy family. Celebrating some movie they were going to make together. And then it never happened. The movie went away. My mom ended up dead. And my dad was a suspect. And I’m pretty sure he . . . no. I know he lied to the cops.”
“The file you had me pull,” he said. “And you want to prove that he didn’t do it.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but no answer would come. I wasn’t sure, actually. Was I out here to prove that my dad didn’t do it? Or was I out to prove that he did?
18
I DIDN’T FINISH dinner. I was too revved up. Too emotional. Chris kept staring at me, like he couldn’t process what I had just told him. The waiter had arrived, asking if everything was okay with the food. Chris picked up his fork and began prodding at it guiltily, but I scooted away from the table and asked for a box.
“I’m not feeling well,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Nikki,” Chris called after me, but I didn’t turn back. I couldn’t. I didn’t do vulnerable, and while it didn’t feel as bad as I’d expected it to, it felt too intense to call it good, either. It mostly felt like my whole life was at risk of blowing up now. Which was funny when I thought about it—my life had a habit of blowing up on a regular basis, and I was somehow surprised about it every single time.