Grift

By Lynette DeVries

Jade thought her act had everyone fooled.
She was dead wrong.

Word of mouth—and a talent for acting—has made Jade Fortuna the most sought-after medium in Venice Beach. Business is booming until she meets the one person who can see through her act—a boardwalk busker named Charlie, whose unique gift has earned him a following of his own.

Jade and Charlie have nothing in common—she peddles lies and he can’t help but see the truth—but neither of them can deny the attraction simmering between them. Then tragedy strikes, and Jade finds herself entangled in a web of lies she created.

Is Jade and everyone she wronged doomed to spend an eternity in limbo? Or will Charlie help her uncover the truth and find the courage to set everyone free?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynette DeVries
• Release date: Apr 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215687437

Lynette DeVries

Lynette DeVries spent countless childhood hours at her manual typewriter creating choose-your-own-adventure stories and mysteries inspired by the Nancy Drew series.After college, she began writing scripts for various shows on Americana Television Network, and later she wrote episodes of the nationally syndicated Could It Be a Miracle, hosted by Robert Culp. She also wrote for print news and magazines, radio and advertising, but her first love is fiction. Her published novels include The Geminae Duology (Book One: Synchronicity and Book Two: Salvation), OtherLife, The Scars That Remain, Bygones, Grift, and her newest release, Punchline.

Book preview

1

Michelle stood with her back against a brick wall, motionless.

She scanned her surroundings for clues about where in the world she was. She rolled her eyes skyward, a habit from another time. Technically, she’d left this world a decade ago, but if death had taught her anything, it was that there was no point getting caught up in the details.

Wherever she was now could pass for California—glaring overhead sun, palm trees lining the boardwalk, tanned arms and legs free of excessive clothing—yet it felt unfamiliar. This wasn’t the sleepy California farm town she’d called home during her thirteen years of life. This was someplace else entirely—a commotion of color and noise.

She hadn’t come here, exactly. She’d simply appeared.

A young man flew past her on a longboard, dreadlocks and patchouli trailing behind him.

Cripes! Even Michelle’s voice felt different here—flat and tinny—but she was amused by how quickly the word had come back to her. She and her best friend, Jane, had made it part of their vocabulary back in fourth grade, and the habit had followed them into middle school, part of a secret code that kept them tethered to a simpler time—and to each other.

Michelle hadn’t said the word, or even thought of it, since the day she died.

Those final moments still waited in a dark corner of Michelle’s memory, the details untouched by the past decade.

She had stepped off the school bus, oblivious to the scent of apple blossoms on the breeze, too distracted to appreciate the afternoon’s potential. She ducked her head, determined to hide the tears stinging her eyes, torn between fury and heartache.

It felt weird—taking the bus home without her best friend. At the last moment, Jane had chosen some lame audition over a sleepover with her. Friday evening sleepovers were sacred, a tradition that could only be sidelined by a holiday or sickness.

Michelle jammed her hand into the front pocket of her jeans and found the note written in metallic Sharpie, folded into a tight triangle for maximum privacy. She had read it three times on the bus ride home, a wad of watermelon Bubble Yum clenched between her teeth:

Shell, I’m sooooo sorry to break our amazing Friday night streak! Next weekend, okay? I swear on my entire nail polish collection!!!

Lylas, Jane.

LYLAS: Love you like a sister—ha!

Michelle would go home and smother her sorrows with a handful of Oreos, and then she would write Jane a harsh response on the stationery she reserved for special occasions. She doubted she would sign it LYLAS, because sisters didn’t blow off their best friends for a role in the spring play, not even the lead.

She was still composing the note in her mind as she crossed the town’s only main street, dimly aware that her cheeks were wet. It was useless; no matter how much she blinked, fresh tears welled up like reinforcements on some mission to humiliate her in public.

It came out of nowhere—a blur of metal and color rushing in faster than her mind could make sense of it. She barely had time to register the squeal of tires on pavement and the stink of burnt rubber—cripes!—but she didn’t see the old man behind the windshield, his mouth slack, his eyes glazed over.

She got a good look at him after.

He stood a distance from the scene, his shoulders slumped with regret. He glanced at the old woman waiting nearby, nodded reluctantly when she stretched her arms out.

He raised a hand to Michelle, a wordless apology, and she waved back. He’d been unconscious at the moment his car struck her, his life already claimed by a massive heart attack, but he looked sorry just the same.

A long-forgotten feeling—grief, Michelle supposed—faded like a bad aftertaste.

She left the safety of the brick wall to join the throng crowding the boardwalk. She scanned the signs on storefronts she passed: Heavenly Henna, Salty’s Surf Shop, Beach Brews—the best espresso in Venice Beach.

Venice Beach? Michelle froze mid-stride, heedless of the pedestrians swarming on both sides of her. Why here—and why now?

Michelle had spent her short life in Oak Glen, just west of San Bernardino. She and her young peers had considered Venice a backdrop for skater movies—a two-hour drive that felt as unreachable as the moon. She had fantasized about visiting here for spring break with Jane someday, but the closest she’d come was Disneyland with her parents and whiny little brother.

She spotted a young man across the street, but it was a moment before she realized he was responsible for the soundtrack to this unexpected boardwalk visit. He sat on a concrete bench in the shade of a palm tree, strumming a guitar.

Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but Michelle could tell by his rigid posture and the set of his jaw that he’d seen her, too. She crossed the street slowly, and the man stopped mid-song. He lowered his guitar and reached for the battered case at his feet.

By the time she reached his bench, he was already on his feet. Listen, kid, I’d love to chat, but it’s already been a day.

Wait. Michelle held her hands out. "I’m not sure what I’m doing here—but I think maybe you can tell me?"

The man sighed and pointed down the street. Let me save us both some trouble, kid. The person you’re looking for is three blocks that way. Neon sign, incense, the whole bit. You’re not the only one, though, so be prepared to wait in line.

Michelle blinked at him, dumbstruck. But—

I know, I know. The man raked his fingers through his hair and sighed again. You won’t be able to move on until everything is made right. I’ve heard it a million times. So how about we skip the middleman and go straight to the source?

A realization struck Michelle—like a camera lens finding its focus—and she gasped. "Is that why I’m here? She shook her head with wonder. I mean, it isn’t exactly spring break, but we always said we’d do Venice Beach together."

The man shrugged. Do what you need to do, kid—just leave me out of it, okay?

Michelle watched him as he retreated, his movements slow but steady. She stood there a moment, infused by a strange, buzzing calm. It had taken a while for her purpose to catch up with her, but she finally knew what she was doing here.

She thought about the old woman with the outstretched arms at the scene of the accident that had claimed her life.

She remembered her own spirit escort into the next realm—Scout, who had trotted into view, tail wagging with the enthusiasm normally reserved for after-school greetings. Michelle had been young when they’d put Scout down, but she’d recognized the high-pitched bark and understood the message behind his golden retriever grin: let’s play!

She wondered if Jane would be as willing to follow her when the time came.

Michelle was a few days early—she knew that as well as she now understood her mission—but that was okay. She thought it might be nice to hang out, see how the locals lived. Without a physical shell, she might not be able to fully absorb the boardwalk experience—its carnival tastes and smells—but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she had nothing but time.

2

Jade stood at the window of her shop, warmed by the afternoon light blazing through the grime-streaked glass.

The sun had just begun its descent over the ocean, but she reached out and touched the sign—one side OPEN, the other side CLOSED. She weighed her options.

Shadows danced on the pavement, a row of stripes cast by the spindly palms lining the street, their fronds bobbing like bouffant hairdos. A distant, thumping bass beat matched the rhythm of her heart.

The temptation to join the sea of bodies on the boardwalk tugged at her. She usually worked until dark, when the tourists who came to ogle the street performers and take selfies with mural backdrops retreated to their hotels.

After nightfall, once the gulls returned to their roosts and the sightseers thinned out, a different crowd reclaimed the boardwalk: aging TV extras, retired stunt doubles, sun-leathered skate legends trading their concrete thrones for a bench near Muscle Beach.

Jade was a local, technically, but she still felt like an imposter.

She’d felt that way since the eighth grade, the year she lost her best friend to a tragic accident. That same year she learned how to eat alone in the cafeteria, how to smile when well-meaning teachers paired her up with other misfits. She became a pro at faking emotions.

By the time she entered Oak Glen High School, Jade had mastered the art of dealing in gossip, a skill she used to climb the social ranks. She auditioned for every female lead and presided over the drama club, where her talent for pretending was considered