Page 91 of City of Liars

I sank onto the cushion, eyes widening as I took in the email from the genetic genealogist we’d hired to try to track down what had happened to the real Ella Carter. Well, technically Theo had hired them. Now that I was on the verge of being disinherited, I didn’t have money to spare.

“Holy cannoli,” I murmured, my fingers going to the sapphire pendant around my neck out of habit as I read the message. “He found her.”

“Yeah.” Theo’s voice was tight with excitement. “Or at least, he thinks he did. It was tough, with Ella being an only child and everything. But he didn’t get paid a small fucking fortune to give up.”

I scanned the email, my brows furrowing in puzzlement. Somehow, Ella Carter had made her way to a farm in Kansas, where she’d grown up as Mabel Beth Mullins. Apparently, her daughter Bonnie still lived there. The genealogist’s email was full of details about mitochondrial DNA, the rabbit holes he’d gone down, all the reasons he was certain. It was fascinating, from a scientific perspective, and I was sure Tessa would have a field day with it. But that wasn’t what kept snagging my attention.

A farm in Kansas. Kansas. Why did that ring a bell?

My fingers gripped Theo’s knee, tightening as I pictured the two of us in the Gramercy Park apartment, sorting through old records. Immunization papers. Tax forms. And…paperwork on a farm in Kansas, signed by my father and Uncle Jamison.

A terrible, awful suspicion began to take shape in my mind. I didn’t want to believe it. But what other explanation could there be?

“Liv? You okay?” Theo pried my fingers loose from his knee, dark eyebrows rising.

I shook my head as nausea swirled in my stomach. “Can you print that out for me? There’s something I have to do.”

An eerie sense of déjà vu consumed me as I drove down the winding streets of Forest Hills toward my parents’ house, to confront them once more. Weeks before, I’d gotten off a plane, drunk on Chardonnay and righteousness, and careened into their house unannounced to drop the bomb about what I’d really been up to. Now, here I was again. Except this time, I was stone-cold sober, Theo was with me, and the shoe was on the other foot.

I’d called Krista while Theo printed out the email, asking her to take a picture of the document about the farm and text it to me. She’d been mad all over again that I’d gone through her stuff, then bewildered as to why I’d want a picture of a random piece of paper. Even mad, though, she was my cousin, the closest thing to a sister either of us had. And when I asked, she delivered, no questions asked.

I didn’t share my theory with her, since right now, that was all it was. If and when my father confirmed it, though, that would be a different story.

I’d waited for her text with my heart pounding, thinking that surely I’d imagined it. Maybe the farm was in Nebraska, or Iowa, or somewhere else in the Midwest. But no. There it was—years ago, Dad and Jamison had paid off the mortgage of a farm in Kansas. A farm in the very small town where, according to the genealogist, Ella had ended up.

I couldn’t think of any scenario in which this portended something good.

The overhanging limbs of the live oaks dripped with holiday lights as I slowed to a stop beneath them, their festive aura at odds with the dread that bloomed inside me. Across the street, a newcomer to my parents’ neighborhood had bucked tradition and installed one of those laser projectors that beamed multicolored snowflakes onto their colonial’s facade. Theo cleared his throat, gesturing at it. “Wow. Tasteful. Your mom must be shitting bricks.”

My mother. God. Was she in on this, whatever this was? And if so, how could she live with herself?

I glanced at my parents’ house, with its custom-made wreath and red-ribboned garlands. Tiny lights festooned the magnolia outside my father’s study, and through the living room window, a Christmas tree glimmered. It looked gorgeous. Perfect. Except on the inside, all was rot.

Theo reached across the drink holder and took my hand, wincing at its clamminess. “Are you sure you want me here? I’ll probably just make things worse.”

At that, I gave a sarcastic laugh. “Worse? Come on. Also, no. They’re as much your family as mine, which makes it your business. Besides, you and I are a package deal, and the sooner they realize that, the better.”

His lips tilted in a smile—a real one, not the crooked smirk guaranteed to melt my underwear right off. He didn’t say anything, but then again, he didn’t have to. I knew how much it meant that I accepted him unconditionally, and demanded that everyone else in my life do the same. One day, he would believe it to his core; until then, I was happy to keep reminding him.

“Okay,” he said, squeezing my hand before dropping it. “If you’re sure.”

“A hundred percent. Come on, let’s go.” Girding myself, I stepped out of the car and together, Theo and I went up the walkway.

When my mother answered the door, her eyes widened with surprise—and relief. With a pang, I realized she thought I’d come to offer an olive branch. To apologize for causing so much tumult.

Oh, how wrong she was.

“Liv!” she said. “What are you doing here?” Her gaze slid sideways, to Theo, and her lips pursed in distaste. “With him?”

Oh, for the love. “Theo and I are together now. You know that. Now, can you please let us in? I have something important to discuss, and trust me, you want me far away from the neighbors when I do.”

For a moment, I thought she was going to refuse. But then she heaved a sigh and stood aside, letting us pass. I strode through the foyer, down the hallway, and toward my father’s study, Theo at my side and my mother trailing behind us. The door was closed, as usual. It was my dad’s sacrosanct retreat, his Richard Gilmore-level domain.

“What are you do—” my mother hissed as I turned the knob and pushed it open.

I inhaled, taking in the familiar scents of leather and cigar smoke. My father sat behind his desk, a tumbler of bourbon in one hand and a small, leather-bound book in the other. Charles Carter’s journal.

An expression that might’ve been guilt flashed in his eyes before he closed the book and put it down. “Olivia,” he said, lips tightening in disapproval. “And Mr. Dressler. To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”