Chloe,

You know how it works better than I do. I wish I knew back then. I could have really done some damage.

Things are starting to fade for me, Chlo. I don't know if it's because I don't see you anymore, but things are becoming blurry around the edges. Like when you have a dream and try and remember it, but you're not quite sure it's correct.

Can you promise me you're doing well? I know it's early, but I also know how important getting into an Ivy League college is for you, I don't want you getting distracted with my damage.

Love you, crazy.

Monica

Saturday passed with a sluggish pace that left my skin crawling. I wasn't used to depending on people, especially when I couldn't trust them.

The gym distracted me for the morning, despite the fact that I was checking my phone every other minute. He'd said Sunday. What could he be doing between now and then? Probably finding a loophole in my leverage.

The documents were safely hidden, from both his access and anyone else's. When I'd found them, I'd been giddy with the idea that I'd actually discovered something big enough to cause damage. If I'd released them, it could cost his family millions of dollars.

Even though the feeling of power had me electrified, the idea of actually using it made me nervous. That was part of the reason why I'd decided it wasn't right to use it for the hit list. Especially for the one who was second to last. No, I'd have to find something else to use on him, probably something less detrimental.

For now, this was just enough to get him on my side.

I spent the afternoon refining my code and finishing homework. It didn't feel productive though, my mind was busy running around in paranoid circles. If William knew how much keeping me in the dark was making me squirm, maybe he'd leave me hanging forever.

I'd just rechecked the document's safe place on my computer for the hundredth time when my mom came knocking on the door to announce we were going for dinner, to my unenthusiastic agreement. She was already dolled up, cooing in excitement.

"Your father sounded really excited on the phone. After all the time he's had to spend on business lately, I was really surprised. He's made the reservations at Le Boudoir, did you know that's where he took me for our first anniversary?"

"That's great, Mom," I said, really trying to inject some happiness into my tone. My mother was great at being delusional, often pretending everything was fine when our family was falling apart. But, even so, I wasn't about to burst her bubble. Besides, if Dad really had gone to this effort then maybe tonight would almost be nice.

"You should go change. That computer will ruin your vision, you know."

I rolled my eyes, glad I was facing the opposite direction to her so I didn't have to paint a smile on my face.

The golden dress Mom had tried to convince me to wear to the party was still hanging on the back of my door, and I pulled it on just for her. Part of me was stupidly clinging on to the possibility of tonight working out. Her enthusiasm was a contagious, even if it didn't quite feel real.

I hadn't seen Dad all week, he usually left after I went to school and slept in until then, and then spent his evenings at the office. Some nights, I was convinced he didn't return home at all.

Mom drove us in the Mercedes Dad had brought her only months before. It was like he thought that gifts substituted affection. I guess it worked in my favor. I mean, I thought he was an ass anyway, so at least I was getting something out of it. But Mom on the other hand? It broke her, though she'd never show it.

"He did say he'd be a bit late," Mom said when we entered the extravagantly decorated restaurant. It screamed expensive meals, ones that probably consisted of a few leaves arranged decoratively on a plate.

Of course he'll be late, I thought silently. He probably has to say goodbye to the secretary he's been holed up with all week.

No, it probably wasn't his secretary. He wasn't that tacky. He wouldn't choose a working-class woman. Probably a bored housewife, or an exclusive exotic dancer. I shuddered at the thought.

We sat at the table which he'd booked. He'd done that at least, arranging a little table for three by the window. Mom went into overdrive pretty quickly, filling in the silence by demanding I tell her everything about the party.

"Cute boys?" she asked with wide eyes, flattening her manicured fingers over the leather-bound menu.

"Hardly," I said. I scrunched up my nose. "High school boys."

"Oh, the horror," Mom said sarcastically.

Really, it wasn't high school boys that were the problem. It was just the particular ones at Arlington that had turned me off of dating. This meant that I was one of the few girls in senior year who'd never had a boyfriend, let alone a first kiss.

"I was just like you at your age," she went on. "Very cynical, always giving my parents attitude."

"I don't give you attitude," I said pointedly.

Her amused smile let me know she wasn't offended. She had aged gracefully, partly due to a few surgeries and miracle creams. People said I was a mirror image of her in her youth, with warm brown eyes and chestnut hair. I thought she was beautiful, the corners of her mouth worn with smile lines from her wide grin that she used so often. But, her confidence had taken a nosedive when Dad had decided he preferred women under thirty.

Half an hour had passed, and the empty seat beside us remained unoccupied.

"It's probably traffic," Mom insisted. "I heard there's roadworks, which is odd for a Saturday don't you think? Perhaps there was a crash and they've had to close up the highway. Or his driver was late again, he really should fire that man..."

I tuned out her rambling to check my phone under the table. Dammit, Bishop.

After another hour I was beginning to grow tired of Mom's excuses. I sighed, giving her the most sympathetic look I could muster. "We should just order dinner."

Mom gave me a weary look. I'd cut her off from her discussion about repaving the driveway, and I expected her to scold me. But instead, her smile wavered and her gaze averted from mine and towards her menu. "Yes... maybe we should."

We were half way through our tiny serves of French food when Mom's phone chimed. I raised an eyebrow, waiting to hear whatever excuse Richard Whittaker had come up with this time.

"He can't get away from work. He's... he's actually leaving for an urgent trip to Seattle."

Of course.

I wanted to ask why he couldn't have just left tomorrow, or why he couldn't have just pretended we were a family for once. But I knew Mom knew the answer as well as I did: he just didn't care. Once again, he'd probably hidden his wedding ring and rushed off to some woman who was purely interested in his money.

To him, affairs came before family. As long as he showered us with materialistic affection, all was right in the Whittaker household.

I stayed silent, mainly because I knew nothing I said would be helpful to the woman in front of me. The woman who'd spent hours doing her makeup and getting excited for what had appeared to be a special evening with her family, only to be let down again by her piece-of-shit husband.

"Come on, Mom," I said after a few moments of silence. Her face had fallen and she had resorted to moving her champagne flute around in circles with her fingers. "Let's get some ice cream, go home, and watch Sex and the City."

She nodded, and I took her hand in mine as we left the restaurant, the bill paid on her credit card.

I was peeling the top off of a tub of yogurt when my phone chimed Sunday evening.

After a day filled with anxiety that William would never contact me, I had started to give up hope by seven-o'clock. Mom was out on a girl's evening, and I was trying to come up with a dinner that had at least some nutritional value, and wouldn't make me fat.

Give me your address, I'll pick you up in an hour to talk.

It was either him, or an anonymous stalker, so I decided to test my luck and responded. I was in my favorite yoga pants, loved for their comfort rather than their flattery, with an old gym shirt thrown over the top. It hardly screamed rich and popular, but then again William already knew I was an impostor.

Nerves quickly overcame me, and my mind immediately jumped to concocting some kind of fall back plan in case he decided to back out. Or worse, expose me.

I wasn't the least bit surprised when he pulled up in a Lamborghini, but the contrast it gave to my scruffy attire was a little off putting. He may not have been the one I was trying to convince, but I still needed to have my game face on. I haphazardly dusted powder over my face and mascara across my lashes, only taking a minute before I ran down the stairs and out of the door.

Casting a look over my shoulder at my neighbor's houses, hoping none of them would slip a word to my mother, I discreetly slid into the passenger seat, briefly taking the time to admire the luxurious interior. When I'd composed my breathing, I looked to my side. I was greeted with the beautiful face of William Bishop.

"Evening, Whittaker," he said stiffly as he drove off of the curb.

"Where are we going?" I asked, dumping the pleasantries.

"Nowhere anyone will see us," he said, his eyes a haunting dark shade as they flickered to his rear-view mirror.

Something had changed. When I'd confronted him, he'd been pissed and easily triggered into angry outbursts. It'd made sense, I mean, I'd thrown my card in straight away, completely on the offensive. Tonight he was calmer. Much more smug.

We took a few turns before reaching a reserve a few blocks from my house. He pulled into the empty parking lot and killed the engine.

"Is this where you take people to kill them and dump their bodies?" I asked as he opened his door. The reserve was dead quiet, the trees swaying mutely in the midnight breeze. I followed him out of the car.

He chuckled. "Not quite. If I was going to kill someone I would take them further than here."

"Reassuring," I muttered. I wrapped my hands around my elbows to fight off the chill that was scattering goosebumps across my skin. "So have you come up with a plan?"

"I've done a lot of research these past few days," he said, leaning against a wooden post. He was wearing a black coat which looked much more weather appropriate than my thin shirt. Black was a good color for him, broadening his shoulders and enhancing his cheekbones.

"Like?" I pressed.

"Like working out why a teenage girl would blackmail me. Not for cash, or family secrets, but for high school popularity. It seems a little simple of a bargain for someone carrying that much leverage." His voice was deep and slow, as if drawing out my paranoia for as long as possible.

"Are you saying I should ask for more?" I asked in a bid to lighten the serious expression on his face. It didn't work though, his calculated frown didn't budge.

"I'm saying that there's more to it."

"There always is, isn't there?" My mouth was spewing smart ass comments, but my mind was racing almost as fast as my heart.

"That's right."

I pressed my lips together before I could panic. Something about the way his eyes scrutinized my every reaction had me desperate to lighten the growing tension. Things weren't working out. Somehow he had found out that I was hiding more than I'd let on.

His eyes twinkled in the light of the moon, and I swear the smallest smirk etched into the side of his lips. "It all made sense when I found out you were best friends with Monica Pennington."