As we’d hoped, the info Harlow had dug up was enough for the police to launch a massive investigation. Joseph Frydenberg was practically running a crime empire while moving about in California’s high circles and pretending to be an upstanding citizen. It appeared he had some legitimate businesses, but he’d also been at the helm of an operation responsible for multiple fight rings across the state, drug dealing, prostitution, all kinds of things.
He might have been able to get away with a slap on the wrist—he was, after all, filthy rich and not above buying his way out—but he’d embarrassed a lot of people in Devilbend who had invested in his business ventures. Not to mention the fact that he’d put so many people in danger, that his thugs had been responsible for the accident that nearly killed Luke and the other guys. The rich and famous of Devilbend were going to make sure he went away for a long time—they were going to ruin him, bury him. If he ever got out of jail, he’d never step foot in this town again, let alone do business.
Raine Clayton, the CEO of BestLyf, was denouncing him as vehemently as all the other people who had been at my parents’ Christmas party. She’d brushed off questions about his regular sizeable donations, and her PR machine was working in overdrive to squash any suspicion in that area. They’d put out only one statement, making it clear they had no involvement with Joseph Frydenberg past his being a member of the organization, like so many other prominent Americans, and that they’d been unaware of the illegal activity. The press was so preoccupied with all the other constant bombshells surrounding the case, no one hardly looked in BestLyf’s direction.
Turner was more pissed than any of us about that. “That is such a load of shit! Those people are evil incarnate and were so involved in this,” he’d raged a few days after everything came out. Every time a statement even mentioning BestLyf appeared in the press, he’d lose his shit and go on a tirade about what had happened to his mom and what he and his dad had discovered. He’d only calm down once Mena dragged him out of the room.
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Turner. I’d seen Raine and Joseph talking at our party that night, and she gave me weird vibes, but there was no way to prove BestLyf had done anything illegal. The sums Frydenberg had handed over were substantial, but there were no laws against making donations—and both sides claimed that was exactly what they were. The police were attempting to seize some of the money as proceeds of crime, but BestLyf’s legal team was wrapping that up in so much litigation it would probably be years before the government got their hands on it—if ever.
“You ready?” Hendrix squeezed my hand as he pushed a button, and all the car windows soundlessly slid up.
I’d let him see my apprehension when he’d picked me up, but I’d had the ride over to steel myself, and I wasn’t about to show vulnerability to any of these people.
With him by my side and my girls having my back, it didn’t feel so much like a mask anymore. I wasn’t hiding. I was just reserving the most private parts of myself—the real parts—for those closest to me.
“Ready.” I gave him a genuine smile.
We got out of the car together. Heads turned, whispers sounded, but we ignored it all and just joined our friends.
I gave the girls and Drew a kiss on the cheek each, and Mena started showing us photos of an elaborate makeup look she’d done over the weekend. She was so talented.
Next to us, Drew sat up a little straighter on the hood of his car and nodded to Hendrix. “Welcome back, man.”
Hendrix watched him for a beat, and I waited with bated breath. With everything going on, we hadn’t really had a chance to talk about Drew, but I knew that whatever my boyfriend decided, there would be no changing his mind.
The side of his mouth quirked, and he held out a fist. “Thanks, man. Good to be back.”
They fist-bumped, then did that sideways high five, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Amaya snorted. “Men.”
“I know, right?” I shook my head. It was that easy. No conversations necessary; they were just friends now. Drew asked how Hendrix was healing, Hendrix made out as if he was practically back to normal (lies), and just like that, they launched into a conversation about baseball.
Mena frowned at my sister, who kept glancing over my shoulder. “Why do you keep looking at the front gates?”
Harlow shrugged. “I’m waiting for Mom to pull up. I can hardly believe she let Donna out this morning.”
I laughed, but it ended on a groan. “She nearly didn’t. She made Hendrix come inside and promise to drive carefully and to text her if we needed anything. I’m so glad Dad had to go on his work trip. I think if they were both home, they would’ve insisted I take another week off.”
Mom and Dad had been . . . hovering. For the first time since I could remember, they were more worried about me than Harlow. Mom was worse than Dad, even coming in to check on me in the middle of the night as if I were a toddler. She’d startled me awake several times.
But they’d both been pissed, livid, when they first found out what we’d done—that we hadn’t told them the second we found out Will and Drew were involved in something illegal, that we got ourselves involved. I knew most of it came from a place of worry for us, so I did my best to remain calm, take the verbal lashing, and act appropriately contrite.
Once they’d calmed down, I did the mature thing and told them everything. I went through every detail of what we found out—glossing over Harlow’s potentially illegal methods of getting the information—why we chose not to tell anyone, how the night had played out. They were grudgingly happy Hendrix was willing to go to great lengths to protect me like that but still didn’t condone his reckless actions.
I left out my regular visits to Davey’s—figured my parents didn’t need to know how many guys I’d fucked—but I told them about how I’d been feeling suffocated, pressured, and overwhelmed and that I didn’t want to go to law school anymore.
With everything else that had happened, they were hardly even bothered.
“You do whatever you want, go to whatever school you choose, study arts for all I care.” Dad waved a dismissive hand, his hair a mess, an empty glass sitting on his desk. “We just want you to be happy and safe.”
“You’re not mad about all the work I’ve put in over the years going to waste? All the connections I’ve made and . . . and . . .”
“Honey.” Mom scooted closer to me on the couch, and Dad pushed off his desk and came to sit on my other side. “We’re not mad at all. We want you to be successful, but what that looks like is entirely up to you. Above all, we want you to be happy. And safe.”
I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. “I just want you to be proud of me, and I feel like I’m failing.”
“Donna.” Dad took my hand and made me look at him. “We are proud of you. So proud of you. No matter what.”
My tears spilled over.
“We love you so much, honey.” Mom wrapped me up in a hug.
That was pretty much the end of the conversation. The following week had been focused more on Hendrix’s recovery, police statements, and my parents constantly reassuring themselves I was safe and well. They’d been hovering over Harlow and me both, but I was definitely copping more of it after opening up about how I’d been struggling.