The Tower (Deck of Lies #2)

By Jade Varden

A Tower of Lies...

Someone is trying to make me look guilty. I never thought my mission to prove my own innocence would lead me to more family secrets. I thought I had already discovered the truth about myself. But every answer raises more questions, and everything I think I know is about to change...again.

I have to find the truth, no matter how much it hurts -- before I get charged with murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jade Varden
• Release date: Apr 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476215921

Jade Varden

Jade Varden is a teller of tales from Louisville, Kentucky. The Deck of Lies series is the first in several young adult series and stand-alone novels Jade will publish in 2012 and 2013.

Book preview

Deck of Lies

Book 2: The Tower

By Jade Varden

Cover art by Meagan Lampton

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Jade Varden 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Created and published in the United States of America

Prologue

WHO KILLED LAUREL RIORDAN?

The headline filled up most of my laptop screen. Like every day since the one when Laurel’s body had been discovered, today the Journal-Observer website was filled with pictures and stories about her. Laurel’s face stared back at me in full color underneath the headline that appeared across the middle of the homepage. The Riordans were one of the most well-known families in our small community of Silverwood, California. Laurel’s father was a lawyer, her mother a former runway model. Their only daughter was popular, pretty, smart -- destined to make her parents proud by doing something big with her life.

Until she was strangled to death and dumped in the Zuma canyons. The press were reporting on every gritty detail, updating their web pages as soon as new data became available. New stories might appear within hours or minutes of each other.

It’s why I had to check it every day. I wasn’t interested in reading about how long she’d been out there before she was found (five days and four nights) or what had been used to do the deed (a leather strap that still hadn’t been recovered). I was waiting for them to name a suspect.

Another suspect, anyway. I scrolled down the main article, stopping when I saw the second picture. I knew it would be there. A pair of familiar cobalt eyes stared back at me rebelliously as I bent toward the screen to read the text.

River Scott, 16, has been arrested in connection with Riordan’s homicide. Scott was questioned by police after investigators discovered text messages sent to the victim signed by him. River Scott has a history of mental illness stemming from the death of his father, journalist Lyle Scott.

I scanned the entire article, but it was mostly a re-telling of all the information they’d been writing about for days. I was about to shut the laptop when a flash on the screen caught my eye.

EXCLUSVE! KILLER’S TEXTS TO LAUREL RIORDAN

A new story had just been posted. I clinked the link to access the article immediately. I’ve never been a fan of the macabre (I don’t even like Stephen King books), and I barely knew Laurel while she was alive. We met just a few times, even though my locker at school was right next to hers. But I knew River.

And River was no killer. As soon as I saw a transcript of the text messages that had proved so damning in the case against him, I knew I was right. I didn’t even bother closing my laptop before I grabbed my purse and went racing to my car.

I had to get to the police station and tell them they’d made a mistake. The text messages proved it.

Chapter 1

I’d like to speak to the lead investigator on the Riordan homicide. I said it just like someone on CSI.

The female officer on the other side of the counter gave me a long once-over, her brown eyes taking in my three-inch heels, red and white floral minidress and the white Dior sunglasses I had pushed to the top of my head, where they were nearly lost amid my blonde curls. He’s very busy right now would you like to leave a message and I’ll make sure he receives it. Her words came out in a flat monotone, with no separation between thoughts. She almost sounded bored. Without waiting for my response, she plucked a blue pen out of plastic cup and held it poised above a pink notepad.

I can prove those text messages weren’t written by River Scott, I told her.

The brown eyes flew up to meet my gaze. Is that so? She was only marginally more interested, and the pen was still hovering above the pink memo pages.

My locker is right next to Laurel’s. We go to the same school.

’Zat so? The officer was staring down at the notepad again. Why don’t you start with your name.

I sighed. I still hadn’t really come up with a good way to answer this question. I’m Chloe Rain von Shelton.

The female officer dropped the pen and told me to walk through the door to my right.

I guess my mother, Violet, was right after all when she said the von Shelton name would open doors for me.

***

You the missing baby? It was the first question the detective asked when he walked into the room.

I was staring down at my iPhone, waiting for him to appear. It had taken him less than five minutes to meet me in the small waiting room. The clock was about to strike ten that Wednesday morning as I sat staring at him, a fortyish man with graying black hair in a rumpled brown suit. Spring Break was already half over, and I’d spend most of it obsessing about the murder of someone I didn’t know and the arrest of another person I would never understand.

River Scott was one of the only friends I’d made at my new school, and everything the papers said about him was true -- well, almost everything. He had been in mental institutions, through countless hours of therapy with analysts and specialists, he was close-mouthed and anti-social at school…but none of that made him a killer. Finally, I had something I could take to the police that might help prove he wasn’t.

Everyone, from the press to my own boyfriend, seemed to accept the fact that River had simply gone crazy and killed Laurel Riordan, the shining star of Sloane Academy. Lacking any evidence, and with little information provided by the police, the gossip columnists were speculating wildly. Most assumed that Laurel and River were romantically involved, somehow. But I knew that wasn’t true, either.

I am. I suppressed a soft sigh as I answered. I’d recently been in the papers, myself, when I found out I’d been kidnapped as an infant and was returned to my natural parents. Like Laurel Riordan’s mother and father, my parents were prominent (read: very rich) members of our California community. My headlines had barely faded when Laurel’s began, and I still didn’t feel like a real part of my new family. I still didn’t really know who I was.

And you claim to be a friend of the suspect?

I am his friend, I answered. And I can prove he didn’t write those text messages to Laurel. I held up my iPhone.

The detective -- he still hadn’t introduced himself, but I recognized him as Lieutenant Edwards from his picture on the Journal-Observer website -- seated himself in the chair next to mine. Well, let’s see it.

I punched the necessary buttons into my phone, scrolled down, and held it up so he could look at the display.

It’s an email from River Scott.

Look at the way it’s signed, I urged.

RVR. His eyes moved from the screen to settle on mine. And?

And… I turned the display toward me, punched more buttons, and pointed it outward again. Look at this one.

Miss von Shelton…

"Look, I have emails, texts, even a handwritten note from River Scott and they’re all signed the exact same way: RVR. The text messages published in the Journal showed his name all spelled out," I explained.

Lieutenant Edwards looked at me for a moment. I saw him draw a deep breath. I understand that because of your acquaintance with the suspect that--

You can’t tell me you think it’s nothing, I cried. Suspects rarely change their MO.

Edwards looked taken aback by the comment. He stood up, pushing back the chair as he did so. You interested in law enforcement, Miss von Shelton?

I looked some stuff up online, I snapped. "I read in the Journal that you traced the texts to a prepaid cell phone that was found to be in River’s possession. But couldn’t anyone write those texts and then plant the phone on River?"

He cocked his salt-and-pepper head to one side, staring at me with a narrow-eyed expression. Someone close to him might try it.

That’s just it, I tried again. Anyone close to River would know how he signs his name, right?

I can assure you, Miss von Shelton, the Silverwood Police Department is thoroughly investigating this case from all angles. We are scrutinizing all the evidence, and frankly we would have more time to do our jobs if we didn’t have to answer to every member of the public who claims to have a viable lead on the case.

Clearly, that was my cue to leave. I stood. Then I apologize for wasting your time. I moved to walk around him.

He held up his arm to block my path. As long as you’re here, I think we should get a copy of your communications with the suspect. I’ll send in one of my officers.

I was tempted to tell him what he and his officer could do with my text messages, but I only nodded and re-claimed my seat instead.

An hour later, I was driving down Ventura in the red BMW Roadster I’d taken out of the huge von Shelton garage. My iPhone snapped right into the center console, and I had my favorite band playing through the speakers. But even Bowling for Soup’s funny, upbeat music couldn’t lift my spirits, and really I didn’t even know why I was driving toward the Zuma canyons.

Seeing the place where Laurel’s body had been found certainly wasn’t going to help me solve the crime. It hadn’t done anything for the police, not if they were seriously considering River Scott to be a suspect.

I didn’t want the canyons to be beautiful, but they were. All I could see were silvery shrubs, glossy green leaves, the stark loveliness of the colorful rocks. I didn’t see anything ugly or ominous, nothing to indicate that a horrible crime had been committed here. The park was filled with crisscrossing streams and trails that led through the dense vegetation. I even caught a glimpse of a rabbit bounding away as I walked toward the area that had been named in the papers.

The police and the press seemed to believe that River had lured Laurel here with his text messages, a theory that might make sense if they were really seeing each other -- but they weren’t. Laurel was interested in someone else at the time, and that’s exactly what I’d planned to tell the police when I left the mansion that morning. It wasn’t just the way River signed his texts and emails -- it was my certainty that Laurel wouldn’t have agreed to meet him anywhere, anyway. She was planning to meet someone else: the boy I thought would become my boyfriend.

That was before he turned out to be my brother.

But I didn’t tell Edwards. Maybe it was because the detective seemed so condescending. Maybe it was because I didn’t think he would take my opinion seriously. But deep down, I knew it was because I couldn’t bear to drag him into all this.

Sawyer, the boyfriend-brother, was an absolute wreck after Laurel’s murder. He had yet to return to Princeton; he hadn’t even been present at our nightly family dinners. Sawyer had been locked in his room all week long, ever since Laurel’s funeral. He couldn’t even talk to his own family, much less the police.

Maybe I thought that visiting the scene of the crime would help me find another answer, perhaps discover something else I could take to the police. Of course, it was a silly idea.

I couldn’t get close to the scene, anyway. Police barricades had been erected in a huge circle around the spot where Laurel was discovered, and when I ventured toward one a uniformed officer suddenly appeared, as if out of nowhere, to sternly warn me that I was approaching an investigation site. I backed out of there quickly and returned to my car.

Owen had called me several times by now, and I knew I couldn’t keep avoiding him. I planned to text him when I got back to the von Shelton mansion, but as luck would have it I didn’t have to.

He was already waiting for me when I pulled into the driveway.

Chapter 2

You standing me up? Owen always had a ready smile, even when a trace of anger made his green eyes look dark and narrow.

Of course not. I shut off the engine and pulled the key out of the ignition. By the time I grabbed my Gucci Soho handbag, he had the car door open. I should have known repeatedly hitting the ignore button on my phone was a bad idea. If I was five minutes late, Owen called. If I missed a call, Owen sent a text -- then called again. I planted a quick kiss on his lips the minute I pulled myself upright from the car seat. I was driving.

You can use your iPhone hands-free, he reminded me for maybe the fourth time.

I hate the speaker phone. Ditto on the number of reminders on this topic. I understood where Owen was coming from, really I did. The girl he’d dated before me was always missing dates, ignoring his calls, blowing him off…but I wasn’t her. I’m sorry I’m late.

I was afraid you’d forgotten.

Nope. Just late. I pulled my large handbag onto my shoulder after tossing the keys inside, and reached for his hand.

Well, Owen was warming up now. His smile looked a little looser, his green eyes a little brighter as he fell into step beside me. I’ve got everything all set up.

Great. I’m starving. That much was true, anyway. I would have never been late to the date, but for following that wild notion to go out to the canyons. Even then, I might have called Owen to tell him I was going to run late for our picnic lunch, but didn’t. I didn’t know how I would explain myself, what reason I could give for driving out there.

So where were you?

I went to the police station. Owen and I walked, hand-in-hand, down the manicured paths that crisscrossed the grounds of the von Shelton estate. When I said I wanted to stay close to home during our Spring Break, perhaps get to know my new family a little better, he had mistaken me entirely. Instead of going to the beach with his friends or hanging out in the city, he had been coming to the estate every day. Monday, it was a movie marathon in the mansion’s theater room: the entire Godfather trilogy. Tuesday, it was swimming in the large, Olympic-sized pool. Today, it was a picnic lunch by the lake near the back of the property.

His hand tightened on mine -- too much so. When I cried out, he quickly released my fingers and mumbled an apology. You surprised me. Why were you at the police station?

Because I don’t think River did it. You know that. I wanted to show them something that I thought could help.

Owen was staring straight ahead, and his customary smile had disappeared. When I turned my head to look at him, I saw his jaw clenching and unclenching. And did it?

No, I admitted after a beat. At least, I don’t think it did.

Of course it didn’t, Owen answered. They’re never going to drop River Scott as a suspect until they’ve got someone else just as good. Come on, he tossed aside the dark conversation. Let me show you what I have for us at the lake.

It was all smiles from Owen for the rest of the afternoon, and for his sake I tried to play along. If he noticed that my smiles were forced or my laugh was a little too brittle, he didn’t say anything. Owen liked to skip right over all the unpleasant parts of life. He even found a way to be cheerful on the day of Laurel’s funeral. It wasn’t really disrespectful; Owen just didn’t know how to be any other way.

Usually, I enjoyed his positive energy. Owen was outgoing; I wasn’t. Owen was energetic; I tended to operate on a low speed. He was always full of stories and knew how to make others smile; I was more of a listener than a talker. What I lacked, Owen had. Most times, that seemed to work out pretty well. I was always doing things with Owen I wouldn’t have thought of doing on my own. But when it came to the issue of Laurel’s murder…well, the less we said between us the better.

Instinctively, I knew it wouldn’t be the first thing that we passionately disagreed about. We were so dissimilar, we couldn’t help but have different points of view. But the picnic lunch was enjoyable, and where music failed he succeeded. By the time he drove away in his silver Corvette, I was smiling, too.

***

But I was back at my laptop as the dinner hour approached inside the von Shelton home. I was born inside the palatial mansion, but the suite of rooms designed for me would stay empty some fourteen years before I would return. The suite the von Sheltons had reserved for their youngest daughter, Chloe von Shelton, was covered in pink -- walls, floors, furniture, accents. If it had been designed for Rain Ramey, everything would be red. Rain was the girl I became after I was kidnapped, right out of the von Shelton mansion, by my surrogate mother and her husband. I knew them, most of my life, as mom and dad.

Despite the size and grandeur of the von Shelton mansion, all the fancy designer clothes in my closet and the expensive sports car, I still missed them. I missed our old house on Sutton Street, even my old car that was more rust than red paint. I never felt alone in that modest, two-story house; I felt alone practically all of the time inside the massive von Shelton mansion.

And nothing but the Journal-Observer to keep me company. Several new articles had cropped up while I was busy during the day. Most of them focused on the possibilities of a romantic connection between River and Laurel. Several Sloane students had come forward to offer quotes, most anonymously. Only a few had names attached to them, but none that I recognized as being friends of Laurel or River’s. As far as I knew, River didn’t have any friends at Sloane Academy.

Not that I knew much about him. I was learning more from the articles than I had learned in weeks of attending Sloane -- none of it useful, of course. Most of it was gossip, only some of it backed up with facts and all of it was stuff that most everyone else had already heard. The death of River’s father was re-told in exquisite detail, and I learned for the first time what had happened to him…and what had happened to River. By all accounts, River was devastated when his father died.

He had every right to be. River