Page 25 of City of Liars

I’d tried to explain that some things weren’t about them. That I needed to know where I’d come from, in order to better understand myself. But the suggestion that something was missing from the perfect life they’d provided for me, that I saw myself as someone other than a Carter-Brentwood, had proved both incomprehensible and infuriating. After my father grounded me, he’d stalked into his office with a tumbler of Lagavulin and slammed the door. My mother had gone straight to bed and hadn’t spoken to me for a week.

In the silence between us, a terrible suspicion had bloomed: They were the ones that saw me as different than a Carter-Brentwood, like a dandelion they were pretending was something other than a weed. If they dressed me the right way, sent me to Cotillion and sailing camp at the yacht club, taught me how to act at garden parties, then they could shape me into the daughter they deserved. They could imagine I hadn’t come from less-than origins, make me into a blank slate on which they wrote only Carter Carter Carter.

They hadn’t just written on me, though. They’d erased me. And I let them.

I never asked them about my bio parents again. Instead, I searched on my own, the day after my eighteenth birthday. But I was too late. They were both gone, him in a car wreck, her from an overdose. If my parents had said yes to my search, or if I’d been resourceful and determined enough to dig on my own, I could have found my bio mom before she died. Could have met her, talked to her.

Sitting on the piano bench in her living room, Theo was a stranger to my grandmother. But maybe, just maybe, he was also her great-nephew. Her blood.

Everything his family had been through, the grinding poverty and the depth of their emotional wounds…that could so easily have been my story. Maybe my bio mom hadn’t wanted to give me up. Maybe she’d been young and alone, and the loss of her baby—of me—had been what drove her to addiction. I would never know. But as I listened to Theo and my grandmother play, I felt the gap between the Carters and the Dresslers in my soul. And the problem was, I wasn’t sure on which side of the divide I belonged.

What if Theo was setting me up? He’d seemed so sincere, but had I let my attraction to him and my own abandonment issues cloud my judgment? At any moment, he could lift his fingers from the keys and proclaim his true identity. And then— God, what if my parents disinherited me? What would that mean for Chloe’s college fund? And what if my grandmother turned on me, too? Surely she wouldn’t. She loved me unconditionally, didn’t she? But still⁠—

Chloe tugged at my jeans, disrupting the dangerous trajectory of my thoughts. “He’s good,” she whispered, as respectfully as if we were at a concert hall. “Like, really good, Mom.”

“I know,” I whispered back as Theo’s mouth slanted upward in a grin. His hair fell forward and he tossed his head to keep it back, catching my eye. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed to be caught staring. Just like that night in the bar, he winked, then redirected his attention to the keys, turning the full force of his smile on my grandmother. She returned it, her still-graceful fingers executing an agile run of notes. He listened, head cocked. Then his hands came down, flashing over the keys with dazzling speed: a challenge asked and answered. It was like watching two people engage in witty banter, but through music rather than words.

The music galloped faster, reaching a crescendo that reminded me of the ocean crashing against the shore. Sweat gleamed on Theo’s cheekbones, the way it had when he’d pressed me back against my living room wall, and warmth curled in my belly. What was it about this man’s music? He ought to come with a freaking warning label.

At least he wasn’t singing. That would be the end of me.

He hit a final triumphant note and the song ended, fading into the silence of the room. My parents started clapping. Chloe put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, the way Gray had taught her, earning a disapproving glance from my mom. She didn’t say a word, but I could hear her as clearly as if she had: “Ladies do not wolf whistle, Chloe Marie!”

For an instant I could imagine how Theo must see us, with the grand colonial house, the hand-woven Aubusson rugs, the Steinway, the walls lined with original artwork that cost more than most people made in a year. Pained, I forced myself to let it go. He’d known who we were and come here anyhow.

Pushing the bench back, Theo stood. I held my breath, waiting to see if my worst nightmare was about to unfold, but he just gave a little bow. Grandma Ella dropped a curtsy, her eyes bright with excitement. Surely bringing him here was worth it, if it could make her look this happy. And if he could manage to keep his promise.

“Thank you for the pleasure, Mrs. Carter-Brentwood.” Tension strung his voice as he said her name, and I hoped it was only perceptible to me. I slid a glance at my mother, and was relieved to see a genuine smile on her face, not the fake one she used to disguise scorn or condescension. My clenched jaw loosened just a little. Maybe we could actually pull this off.

“The pleasure was mine,” my grandmother said, squeezing his fingers. “You’re every bit as talented as my granddaughter said you were. And please, call me Ella.”

Theo edged out from behind the piano bench as my father came up to him. At sixty-five, my dad had a full head of graying hair and a fit, trim build that belied the years he’d spent behind a desk, expanding the portfolio of investments my great-great-grandfather had built. Along with my Uncle Jamison, who was something of a ne’er-do-well, he’d inherited the business and had made it his life’s work. When he wasn’t overseeing Carter Industries, he could be found on the tennis court, beating far younger opponents into incredulous submission.

“Russ Carter-Brentwood,” he said in his take-no-prisoners baritone, looking Theo over. I held my breath, but all he said was, “Nicely done. My mother’s the music aficionado, but even a guy with a tin ear like me can appreciate a good tune when I hear one.”

Theo gazed down at my father’s extended hand, his face expressionless. My mouth was suddenly so dry, my throat clicked when I swallowed. What if Theo spat at my dad, or…or punched him in the face? Oh, God, what had I been thinking, bringing him here?

Stop catastrophizing, Liv, I lectured myself, as if I were one of my own clients. It had absolutely zero effect. I watched, frozen, as Theo squared his shoulders, lifted his chin…

…and shook my father’s hand. “Theo Penn,” he said, the last name rolling off his tongue like he’d said it a hundred times. “And thanks. Your mother makes me sound good.”

I exhaled with such force, it ruffled the lace curtains framing the window next to me. My mom shot me an inquiring look as she came up beside my dad, an apron tied around her waist and her cheeks still flushed from the heat of the oven.

“It’s nice to meet you, Theo. I’m Kate, Russ’s wife. Please forgive my appearance,” she said, smiling up at him. “Your duet with Ella was so alluring, I stepped away from the kitchen to listen.”

The ghost of a grin lifted the corner of Theo’s mouth. I couldn’t tell if, like most men, he’d been taken in by her charm, or if he thought her over-the-top manners were proof of my family’s hoity-toity attitude. Or maybe, he was preparing to tell her what he thought of her…of all of us. Maybe he was waiting for everyone to let down their guard before going in for the kill.

We sat down at the table, Theo across from me. I picked at my food, terrified that any moment, this would all go to hell. That everything he’d said about being unable to stop thinking about me was a lie, buttering me up so I’d let the wolf in the door.

I took tiny bites of my bagel, waiting for the guillotine to fall, but somehow, it didn’t. My father talked about his work as an investor and Theo didn’t leap from the table and accuse him of dealing in blood money. My mother chided Chloe about her table manners and my daughter didn’t fling her napkin down and stomp from the room in a snit. Theo answered every question my family put to him, talking easily about his work as a bar owner and musician, not giving any incriminating information away.

He didn’t cast me any inappropriate looks. Didn’t so much as brush my hand when he reached for the salt. In short, he behaved as he’d promised he would: like a new acquaintance and talented musician who was pleased to join us for brunch. I was so relieved, I felt dizzy.

“Thank God that’s over,” I whispered as I walked him to his car an hour later, after he’d shaken my father’s hand and my mother and grandmother had given him an honest-to-God hug. They liked him, which was more than I could say about most of the men I’d brought home.

Then again, I hadn’t brought him home, not in that sense. I’d snuck him into their midst like some freaking Trojan horse. And he hadn’t betrayed my trust.

“No kidding,” he said, letting out a breath. “That was rough.”