"I-I'm so sorry.” There was the stuttering again. “Wrong number,” I managed, disconnecting the call before she could get another word in.
I folded my arms over my stomach, leaning forward. It did nothing to help the harsh churning, but thankfully, there were no tears this time. Maybe I was too numb for that, though.
Whoever had called me wanted me to have the number.
He’d wanted me to call him back, so I would know whom the number belonged to.
And, most importantly, he wanted me to know that it was from Emerson & Taylor—the fashion company. The company that, before his death fourteen years ago, had belonged to my father.
Part 1
Uncover
verb \ ən‘kəvər
Discover (something previously secret or unknown).
“I know well what I am fleeing from but not what I am in search of.”
-Michel de Montaigne
Chapter 1
"Are you sure you want to go through with this, Gemma?" my closest friend implored for the second time since she stomped into my new apartment a couple minutes ago. Seated right in front of me on the ottoman, Pen sifted her fingers through her mess of wavy brown hair before releasing it to fall around the brilliant peacock tattoos gracing her shoulders. "It's not too late to back down."
"This is something I need to do for myself."
Besides, she was wrong—it was too late. It had been ever since I received the call four months ago. "Everything you’ve been told about your story, your father's story, is a lie. It's up to you to uncover the truth."
Although I hadn't contacted Emerson & Taylor to search for him—because really, who would have believed me—my caller had gotten his wish. His words ignited something within me, a frenzied need for closure that I'd somehow shoved to the far corners of my mind. For days, weeks even, the memory of his gruff voice was a constant distraction, a weight on my body and mind. And though I'd promised myself long ago that I had put all things concerning my father behind me, I soon found that nothing could stop me from searching around in my history ... his history.
Not even Penelope Connelly—the woman who’d been my closest confidant for the last six years.
When I finally broke down and told her about the call from Emerson & Taylor, I hadn't planned to ask for help. My intentions were to go to Los Angeles to confront my stepmother on my own because I’d reached the point where I couldn’t even sleep without my caller’s words affecting me. But then Pen had reminded me of what happened the last time I attempted to contact my dad's third, and final, wife. I was sixteen at the time, my father had been dead for seven years, and I'd just lost my mom six months before. Maybe I'd hoped to find some semblance of normality with my stepmother—I was fragile and young and woefully ignorant—but I didn't get the chance to meet Margaret in person. Instead, she’d sent a lawyer to deal with me.
I could barely remember the attorney’s face, or his name, but what he’d said to me had stuck to me like glue.
"Your name is nowhere in your father's will, and Margaret has informed me that you and your mother have been aware of that since he passed away. You are more than welcome to contest the will, Ms. Emerson, but I'm going to warn you—you'll feel the crushing reality of all the legal fees before you can bat your pretty brown eyes. Now, Margaret is prepared to settle with you ... as long as you don't come back with your hand stretched out. You understand what I'm saying, don't you, sweetheart?"
Whenever I read an article about my stepmother, or saw her son on TV, that lawyer’s words oozed into my thoughts, and the night I told Pen about the call was no different. Like always, my best friend had immediately pulled me from that dark place.
"I think I have an idea." She had run her tongue over the tiny gap between her front teeth and leaned into me so nobody else in the crowded bar would hear. “But we’ll need to be ... creative.”
Her definition of creative turned out to be straightforward—she would step out of her “ethical zone” and get me directly into Emerson & Taylor. She would bypass their security system and add me as a new hire, taking care of everything from the background check to a squeaky-clean work history that didn't include phone sex and escorting under the pseudonym Alice. I’d be given a temporary identity with a single purpose.
Uncover, expose, and then get the hell out of there.
The moment I got the call from the company’s corporate headquarters offering me a job, I turned in my notice at the agency I’d been working at and set up my life in L.A. so quickly, my head was still reeling from the whirlwind apartment search and ensuing move.
I thought I was ready.
Except now, I got the impression Pen was having second thoughts. Why else would she have surprised me by showing up at my door first thing this morning? Las Vegas wasn’t exactly a hop and a skip away.
"Pen,” I spoke up, my voice barely audible, “I understand if you can't help me." She had already done so much for me I couldn't imagine asking for more. Scooting forward on the couch, I covered her fingers with mine and gave them a firm squeeze. "I know how angry Linc will be if he finds out you're hacking again."
At the mention of her older brother, she jerked out of my grip and narrowed her slate blue eyes. "Don't even go there, Gem. The only way he'll find out anything is if you tell him. And if you do, I'll hurt you." But she bit the corner of her lip teasingly. "Besides, I'm like Lisbeth Salander and Neal Caffrey mixed up in one big-boobed package. I'm not worried at all—at least not about myself."
My eyebrow jerked up in confusion. "Neal Caffrey and Lisbeth Salander?" I purposely ignored her concern for me. Combined with my own doubts, they were probably enough to do me in.
"They're—" Tilting her head to the side, she changed her direction and said, "You know what? They don't matter right now." She hooked her hand around my slim upper arm and drew us both to our full height, mine just a couple inches shy of her five-foot-six. It was a lame running joke between us that she was always two ahead of me—two months older, two cup sizes bigger, and two inches taller.
"What matters is that you need to get through E & T's security, then march your ass to HR and pick up your badge—"
Every muscle in my body tensed as she essentially gave me a rundown of the message I’d received from the human resources director. "You hacked my email," I groaned, palming the bridge of my nose for a few seconds. "Dammit, Pen, really?"
She stepped backwards, her thin silver bangles clanging together as she threw up her hands defensively. "Calm your tits, woman! I just logged into the Lizzie email. I mean, I set it up, remember?" At the shallow jerk of my head, she said, "Look, I'm just staying in the loop ... if you still want to go through with it, of course."
"I'm not backing down." Darting past her, I strode around the couch and across my open living room to the front door; my nude Michael Kors pumps a heavy drum on the laminate planks. Time was not on my side this morning, and arguing wouldn't help.
Pausing at the table in the foyer, I glanced up at the framed mirror hanging directly in front of me. I caught Pen's reflection—her arms crossed stubbornly over her chest and her Jolie-esque lips worked together in a frown—and I plastered on a self-assured smile.
"Whenever you ask me if I'm still going through with working at E & T to get closer to Margaret, you know I'm going to counter with this: I have to get into that company. I haven't gotten anything done since I received that call, and I won't accomplish much else until I get this out of my system."