A Matter of Truth (Fate Series 3) Read online

  by

  Heather Lyons

  * * * *

  Amazon Edition

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  A Matter of Truth

  Copyright © 2013 by Heather Lyons

  http://www.heatherlyons.net

  Cerulean Books

  First Edition

  Cover design by Carly Stevens

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my mom,

  who taught to me to read

  and to love books at such a young age,

  this one is for you.

  I lift my hand up, shading my eyes as I peer at the loud and heavy surf crashing onto the pristine white shoreline. Overhead, gulls scream in a painfully bright blue sky, but even they are nearly drowned out by the ocean’s anger. “You can’t be serious about going out there today.”

  An inscrutable smile spreads across Jonah’s lips as he pulls up the rest of his dark wetsuit. He reaches for the zipper, but I step around him so I can slowly tug the tab upward. “I think a storm is coming in,” I tell him, trailing my other hand up the metal path.

  When his head tilts back to survey the cloudless sky, black hair brushes against my fingers; a delicious shiver shakes my spine. I lean forward, my arms going around his chest, so I can press my face against his neck. His arms crisscross to wrap around mine, and we stand like this, watching the waves continue their furious pounding of the shore for long minutes of hushed unease. All too soon, he pulls away so he can pick up his surfboard.

  Anxiety spreads throughout my belly; I reach out and trace the length of his arm, aching to chase my fears away. “Promise me you’ll be careful?”

  His cerulean eyes are so sad when he studies me, a mute accusation that asks me why I don’t trust him enough.

  I do, though. Probably more than I trust any other person in the entire universe.

  His free hand cups the back of my head, drawing me in close. I savor how my heart slams around in my chest when our lips meet, how my world tilts when his tongue touches mine. I let myself drown in this kiss, and in him.

  I love this man, I think to myself.

  It’s over too soon; he’s off into those wild, terrifying waters. I trail him to the exact line where water fades to sand, holding my breath as he duck dives under the blackening foam of a monstrous wave. I count in my head to ten, then twenty . . . I get to fifty, one hundred, but Jonah has yet to surface. I scan the horizon for his profile, but no one else is out amongst these waves today. And then I scream his name until it becomes a second heartbeat, yet my voice is alone on this beach.

  In desperation, I tear away the waves until all that lies before me is a dripping, sloped shelf riddled with gasping sea life. Jonah is nowhere to be seen.

  I race into the dying coastline, bare feet shredding against sunken rocks and broken shells, but I can’t find him anywhere. Hours are spent searching, but there’s nothing, no one. Just a silent, dead former ocean I’ve created in my panic.

  I’ve lost him.

  In my agony, I let the world around me explode.

  Dammit, I missed the bus.

  As I hurry down the nearly empty street, I attempt to shake the lingering aftereffects of yet another nightmare that pulled me so far under I only awoke when a neighbor pounded against our shared wall, shouting for me to turn off my alarm clock. It wasn’t the first time this has happened, and I doubt it’ll be the last. Nowadays, my dreams are never kind to me, and along with all-too frequent blackouts, they wreak havoc upon my work schedule.

  I’m an hour late for my shift at the Moose on the Loose, and although the owner loves me like I’m his kid sister and won’t fire me (let alone write me up), I hate abusing his generosity. Being late to work is something I’m not okay with. Most days, I’m painfully early; routine, even that of a job, proves to be a healing balm. I allow myself to sink into the lull of going through the motions of working in a diner, perfecting them until I feel comfortable in my skin.

  Elusive as those moments are, and as brief as they can be, I chase after them with everything in me.

  Waiting for me outside the Moose, coatless despite the bitter weather and holding a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, is a welcome sight. Or, maybe not, since Will’s glaring at me with the equivalent of an unwelcome I told you so.

  I kiss my hand and pat my butt.

  “Why you are so insistent on taking the bus instead of letting me drive you to work continues to boggle my mind,” he tells me, his sexy Glaswegian accent diluted by a mere five years in Alaska. And then, in an awful facsimile of an American accent, a good octave above mine, “What kind of girl am I if I can’t get to work on my own, Will?” He tsks-tsks. “I have an answer for you—a tardy one.”

  I brush past him, wrenching the door to the diner open. “Smart-assery is not your most attractive quality.”

  He laughs, and even though laughing is not something I can easily do anymore, I adore listening to his. It’s like somebody bottled up happiness, and it’s hooked up inside him, so whenever he wants, he can just let some loose to infect the people around him. “I beg to differ. In any case, as you’ve missed most of your shift already, we decided to best utilize your talents at the bowling alley rather than servicing patrons.”

  Even though I know he’s kidding, I still wince. “I’m an hour late. I hardly call that missing most my shift.”

  Inside the diner, Paul—the owner-slash-dishwasher of the Moose—is leaning against the counter, flipping through a motocross magazine. He looks up when the bell o
ver the door sings. “There’s our girl.” I’m gifted with one of his earnest smiles. “You had us worried. Everything okay?”

  I wonder what he’d think of me if I were to ever answer that question honestly.

  I glance around the diner—it’s a ghost town. Not a single customer is to be seen. I’m taken aback, as I’ve never witnessed the Moose so empty. “I am so sorry, Paul. My alarm clock sucks. I’ll buy a new one tomorrow. I promise this won’t be a problem again.”

  Acting like my missing an hour of work is nothing of consequence, he comes over and hugs me. Paul Neakok gives the best bear hugs, ones that can nourish even a soul like mine, especially when everything in me feels like it’s being sucked down into a black hole.

  Like today. Like every day nowadays. Four months’ worth of black hole days.

  “I believe you. Don’t worry about it, Zoe-girl. Did I ever tell you how I was late to my sister’s wedding? By something like forty minutes. Worse yet, I had the rings with me. I thought my aaga was going to skin me alive, but—maybe it was all the pre-celebration champagne, she just laughed. Mothers, right?” His grin spreads all the way to his nearly black eyes. “If I can get away with that, you can get away with oversleeping a little.”

  See? Way too generous. “But—”

  “Ginny was loads happy you were late.” Will stuffs wrapped straws into an old-fashioned glass dispenser. “She’s itching to buy a new phone, so she could use the extra cash.”

  It’s not like I’m exactly hurting for money myself right now, but the money I’ve got hidden in my room back at the boarding house is coated in guilt and hard to keep using.

  I guess theft can do that to a girl.

  I sigh and unwrap my scarf, only to have Will reach over and press his hand against mine. “No need. Like I said. Bowling. Us. Now.”

  Paul flips his baseball cap backwards and rubs his closely cropped beard. “We sent Gin ahead to pick up Frieda so they can get us a lane at the alley.”

  I suck at bowling. SUCK. Which is why they probably love playing with me—I’m the guaranteed loser. “Not to be a whiner or anything, but I kind of need the tips, guys.” And pride. I’d love to keep what’s left of my pride tonight, thank you very much.

  Paul opens the cash register and takes out several twenties. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

  I refuse to take them. “Paul. C’mon.”

  “Who’re you expecting to get tips from?” Will steps in front of me, straightening my scarf. “Ghosts? Zo, the diner is closed, lest you haven’t noticed.”

  I sigh. The Moose on the Loose Diner actually does pretty well on most days. Tonight is clearly dead, yes, but Paul certainly isn’t hurting. But I like earning my money, so even though he hands the bills off to Will, who slips them into his pocket to pawn off on me later, I resolve to work overtime on my next shift and not clock in for it.

  While Paul is locking up, Will shoves a cup of java into my hands, already prepared the way I like it. A small smile breaks free before I sip the warm brew; the motion feels foreign, but good.

  I wish I could smile more often. Real smiles are so hard to come about anymore; I’d give my left foot to be able to feel pleasure without it being extraordinary or alcohol-induced. But if I’m going to smile, it’s usually because Will coaxes one out of me.

  “This is good,” I tell him.

  He’s affronted. “Of course it is. I made it.”

  It’s a moment in which I want to laugh. Really laugh. Because that’s so Will: egotistical, generous, and hot-hot-hot all rolled into one. Instead, I smile a bit more, relishing the sensations these small muscle movements incur.

  “I know I probably say it too much, but you should smile more often, Zoe.” One of his fingers touches the corner of my mouth, but before I can say anything, he pulls it away and shows me excess foam from my latte. “Because, you’re lovely when you do.”

  Not because he’s telling me I’m beautiful or anything, but I love this guy. Seriously, flat-out adore him. Fate has nothing to do with me and Will, and I like it that way. Even still, I can’t dismiss the guilty twinge that plucks through me whenever he calls me Zoe. But then, Will Dane doesn’t know me by any other name than Zoe White, which is the worst alias ever. Four months ago, when I fled everything I knew and who I was, it wasn’t like my brain was firing on all cylinders. I have a slew of paperwork I created for myself with various pseudonyms, but when it came time to fill out the job application for the Moose, I ended up using the one that sounds too much like my real name. I was terrified that if I chose one of the others, I might never get used to acknowledging people when they spoke to me. Zoe White seemed doable after nearly twenty years of being Chloe Lilywhite.

  “I’m working on it,” I say, despite knowing it’ll take a miracle for what he wants to happen.

  A miracle or giving up. Due to heavy stakes, and more importantly, the well being of those I love most in all the worlds, I’d rather attempt a miracle.

  He loops an arm around my shoulders and walks me out to where his truck is parked in the back; Paul stays behind to finish locking up, saying he’ll meet us in twenty. I fiddle with the heat once we’re on the road, turning it up full blast. “Do we have to go bowling tonight?”

  There’s that laughter of his again. I pray I can get a contact high from it. “If we don’t, Frieda will concoct some kind of story about how we ran off to get married.”

  My heart constricts painfully, but I manage to keep my face calm. “Why does she have such a hard time accepting our friendship?”

  He reaches over and pats my knee. “Because she’s Frieda.”

  Another moment I wish I could laugh. A tiny exhale escapes me, which is the closest I’ve gotten in awhile; I revel in the simplicity of this release. Leaning back into the heated leather seats of his truck, I stare at the sign Will taped on the dashboard a couple of weeks ago as a joke, when Ginny kept complaining she never got to ride shotgun anymore. Zoe’s spot. Not for sale.

  He flips through the radio stations until he finds a country song he likes. “Stay over tonight?”

  Relief fills me up. It’s exactly what I hoped he’d ask, even though I’ve been the one stubborn about moving in already. “OK.”

  His lopsided grin flashes at me as he sings along to the song playing. I join in, and the urge to laugh has never been so strong in months. We sound ridiculous—neither of us are naturally talented singers. But together? We take awful to a whole new level, and it’s glorious.

  Will is my drug of choice nowadays. I’m utterly addicted.

  Ginny has pitchers of soda and beer already waiting for us, plus a stack of plastic cups. She’s also got enough chili cheese fries to feed a small army. “Zooooeee!” I’m tackled into a hug. “Tonight’s the night! I just know it!”

  Poor, hopeful yet deluded girl. Ginny Swanson is the eternal optimist of this group, ever smiling, ever bubbly, kind of ditzy, yet in possession of the biggest heart I’ve ever come across. I can’t help but always feel grateful for meeting her; had I not, I never would’ve gotten the job I did. Having this job, meeting these people, is what saves me every single day from throwing the towel in.

  I sit down and shuck my shoes off. “Gin, the day I get a strike is the day I win the lottery.”

  “Could happen.” Paul reaches across me to grab a cheese covered fry. He somehow miraculously beat us to the bowling alley. “You just have to play.”

  Frieda Carthage slaps at my hands the moment I grab one of my rental shoes. “Put that gross thing down.” She smiles, her lips blood red against pale skin, a perfect cross between her namesake and a vampire. “We got you a gift, girlfriend.”

  Ginny bounces up and down, clapping her hands. Maybe I did win the lottery after all.

  Will slides into the plastic seat next to me, slinging an arm around the back of my chair as Frieda pulls a box out from underneath the scoring table.

  “For you,” she says. It’s wrapped in newsprint, tied with twine, but rather than lookin
g shoddy, it comes across as retro and kitschy. It’s a true talent of hers. “From all of us.”

  I take my time unwrapping it, which elicits a number of groans and laughs from my friends. Inside is a pair of my very own bowling shoes: lavender with bright turquoise stripes. On the backs, in glittery rhinestones, are matching Zs, no doubt products of Frieda’s latest arts and crafts stage to bedazzle nearly everything she owns.

  Like I said, kitsch.

  For the first time in months, a smile overtakes me. A big one. A big, fat, genuine smile that almost hurts, it’s so wide.

  “I told you she’d like the Zs,” Frieda says to Paul. They used to date and now . . . well, I’m not sure what they are now. Ginny claims they’re friends with benefits, but I don’t like to pry. Whatever they are or aren’t, they’re still close and love to bait each other as often as they can.

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” he says, but he’s smiling, too. We all are. Finally, I’m smiling right along with my friends, and I’m not faking it.

  As Will drives me to his house that night, I finger the raised letters on the back of my new shoes. A small sound of disgust precedes, “Paul’s right, you know. Those things are bloody hideous.” He shakes his head in exasperation.

  I clutch one to my chest. “Hush. I love them.” And I do. Not because they’re pretty—which, admittedly, had I picked out my own, these would not have been the ones, but because they’re symbolic of my life right now. My friends chose to get me bowling shoes because they like having me around. Not because they have to have me around, or because Fate made them, or because they’ve got some skewed perception that I’m somebody important, but because they want me around. And that makes these shoes more precious to me than gold.

  His cell phone rings, a special tone that alerts the both of us to just who is calling. I chew my bottom lip, sneaking a look his way. His focus remains on the road. Eventually, the phone goes quiet. He turns the volume up on the radio; a sad country song fills the cab, which is fitting for the rest of the drive back to his house.