I consider this. There are so many possibilities here—reports of rats in the kitchen. Mold in the walls. I could suggest that they rushed some of the construction or failed fire code four times before passing. Just little things here and there that might undermine the general public’s opinion about the place. Get the rumor mills turning in a completely different direction.
Or if I were feeling especially wicked, a well-placed attack on Carolson could do some real damage.
I want to. Oh, God, I want to. It would feel so good, to bring this place down. But I’m supposed to be becoming a better person, not falling backwards into Hell.
Asher picks up on my hesitation.
“Think about it,” he says, pulling his fancy computer back in front of him. “I can probably get you some compensation, if the information’s particularly good.”
Good. Ha. He means juicy. Or sensational. The sort of information that would sell thousands of copies of Look! Magazine.
“I will,” I tell him, standing.
He’s already typing on his laptop again, but he lifts his head as I turn to go. “Oh, and Ms. Thomas?”
“Yes?”
He smiles. “I think I liked you better as a brunette.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
He knows. Holy crap, he knows.
It’s the only thing I can think about for the rest of the day. Asher knows the truth about my identity. And Asher isn’t just anyone—he’s a reporter. Someone who could take this public in an instant and make tons of money for it.
So why hasn’t he? If he wants dirt, then why doesn’t he just break that story? “Crazy Ex-Heiress Takes Menial Job at Former Mansion”—it’s sure to be a hit.
Does he think there’s a bigger story here at Huntington Manor? Is this just some sly attempt at blackmail to get me to do his dirty work for him? Or does he think there’s more to my story? He must know that I’m not going to spill the whole thing to him just because he’s recognized me. Maybe he’s hoping to make me nervous, make me crack—and be here to catch every moment of it live.
What the heck am I supposed to do?
He wants me to feed him some information. I could do that. I could tell him whatever he wants to hear, and maybe it will be enough to keep him off my back. Or maybe it won’t.
Or I could leave. Walk up to my room, pack up my things, and walk right out the door. No one would know where I’d gone. Mr. Haymore might implode, of course, but I hear people can get over that sort of thing. And Ward…
I’m supposed to meet Ward tonight. In the maze. To… My whole body flushes just thinking about it. I can’t just leave him waiting for me, can I? I don’t want to leave him waiting. I want to show him exactly how he makes me feel, exactly what he does to my body.
Besides, leaving Huntington Manor would be running away. And I promised myself that I was done with running away, didn’t I?
Asher made no indication that I had to make my decision immediately. He knows he has to be patient. That means I don’t have to make any rash choices.
I spend the rest of the afternoon doing research on my new little reporter friend on the computer. Apparently Asher used to work for Intown Voice, a small local publication, but his career exploded several months ago. Now he freelances for several heavy-hitting sites and magazines, including Look! Magazine, the one he’s representing this week.
It only takes me a quick search to find the article that catapulted him to bigger things, and surprise, surprise—it’s about my brother. My brother and his fiancée, to be more accurate. Apparently this shmuck invented a story about Calder paying off Lily with some painting to keep the secret of my family’s financial issues. It’s complete crap. I’ve seen my brother and Lily together, and even though I was more than a little distracted that night, it was pretty obvious they’re good for each other. And it’s pretty obvious from my brother’s emails that he’s head-over-heels in love with her.
To torture myself, I pull up my email. My brother sent me a new message only yesterday, and I open it up and read it. It’s the usual sort of message—giving me a brief overview of his work and life. Apparently he’s up for some big project at his office. And he and Lily are planning a road trip to the beach in two weeks.
I always feel a strange mix of emotions when I read his emails. Part of me—the good part, the part usually hiding away somewhere—is excited and happy to see how well he’s doing.
The darker side of me, however, isn’t so kind. His emails serve as a reminder that I made the wrong choices, took the wrong path toward healing—if you can call this healing at all. I’m lost. I don’t know where I am in my life or what I want. And I have no one who understands.
Except Ward, I think suddenly. Strange as it is, there’s something, some sliver of understanding between us, though I’m afraid to study it too closely in case it falls apart. He’s known pain and loss and anger, just as I have. He’s still healing, too. He might be the only person who knows what I’m going through.
But he doesn’t even know who you are, the other part of my brain reminds me. He doesn’t even know your real name. And what happens if he finds out? Only this morning, he said such horrible things about people like me…
What will he think, when he learns the truth? When he discovers that I’m Louisa Cunningham, former “rich fuck,” hypocritical philanthropist?
The truth is, I don’t know, and I’m deathly afraid finding out.
* * *
That night, I steal a bottle of Horseshoe Hollow, a chardonnay valued at $864 and hailing all the way from Montana. It’s a little trickier than usual, sneaking past the security guards—there are more of them, now that Huntington Manor has actual visitors—but their routes are easy enough to predict. I tuck the bottle under my arm and make my way out to the maze. I only have to dodge behind a bush once to escape a guard’s roaming flashlight beam.
Ward is already in our usual spot when I arrive. He’s up as soon as he sees me, grabbing me so enthusiastically that I almost drop the wine as he pulls me into a kiss. By the time we part, I’m dizzy. This is how it’s supposed to feel, isn’t it? This is how two bodies were meant to react to each other. I tell myself that it’s only my mind playing tricks on me, that I’m only looking for an excuse to keep losing myself in someone else. After all, everyone knows how misleading those giddy feelings can be in the early stages of things—whatever those things might become.