Judgment (Deck of Lies, #4)

Deck of Lies

Book 4: Judgment

By Jade Varden

Cover art by Meagan Lampton

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Jade Varden 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Created and published in the United States of America

Prologue

Lights out!

The overhead bulb went dark a second after the words were barked out. The announcement was solely for my benefit; I was the only person living in this wing of the Silverwood courthouse. Once my eyes adjusted to the dimmed interior, I could still see the walls and features of my cell pretty clearly. Light seeped into the holding area from the wide, bright corridor beyond.

I sat up on my narrow cot, and the springs groaned audibly in protest as I shifted to reach beneath the thin, lumpy mattress. By the puny light, I carefully erased a single, short line on a folded piece of notebook paper. It was at the end of a long series of similar tick marks.

It was Saturday night, two days before another school year was scheduled to begin. I was removing my mark because another day had passed, the forty-ninth I’d spent inside this cell. I was counting down to the days of my trial, the day I would walk out my cell to face my judge and jury.

And my pretend family, the von Sheltons. I was going to stand trial for the murder of Laurel Riordan, but only because Carsyn von Shelton had killed her. I’d ended up in jail because I’d allowed the von Sheltons to manipulate me. I realized, the more I got to know them, they’d been manipulating my life from the very beginning.

Asher von Shelton, who pretended to be my father for appearances’ sake, was good at manipulation. It was his job to convince others to think what he wanted them to think, and he’d built an entire life around that skill. Asher had learned how to move people around like pieces on a chess board.

Maybe Asher had me right where he wanted me, but that wasn’t going to last for too much longer. I was erasing the days, night by night. I was getting ready for everything that was going to happen. I was no longer a pawn in Asher’s game.

I was the one in charge.

Chapter 1

Time to wake up!

The overhead bulbs flickered to life above, stinging at my eyes when I pushed them open. The metal bed groaned when I pulled myself to my feet so I could move to the sink. It had two settings: cold, and a little less cold, and never came out in streams but in spurts. I washed my face and brushed my teeth with my eyes pointed straight at the wall above the chipped, porcelain bowl. There was no mirror above the sink; I hadn’t seen myself in nearly two months. I’d taped a picture to the wall instead, cut from one of the books I’d purchased during my incarceration.

Every day of my life in the cell, I looked at Judgment. I had an abundance of time on my hands that summer while I was locked away, and I’d become interested in one of my mother’s old hobbies. Well, technically she wasn’t my mother – but she was the woman who raised me, and still felt like a mother to me even if I hadn’t seen her for months. I probably wouldn’t ever see her again.

I’d learned about Tarot cards from her, though I wasn’t all that interested at the time. But I was feeling nostalgic one day in July, and ordered myself a big, colorful book all about her old hobby.

The first page I opened it to was Judgment. In the Tarot deck, the card represents the Final Judgment, when mankind will answer to a higher authority. But the card resonated with me because soon, I would have to face my own judgment. A higher authority would sentence me, and possibly put me in jail for the rest of my natural days.

I would turn seventeen in January…so I had a whole lot of natural days left, in the normal scheme of things.

The card was a reminder of what was to come, but it was also something more. I’d already made some judgments of my own – and I’d decided that the von Sheltons were guilty. They were guilty of lying, of covering up, of hurting others to protect themselves, of clinging too tightly to their reputations.

I was going to be judge and jury both for the von Sheltons, and their day of judgment would come. I had very little to do but sit and think about it, and plan ahead to make sure of it.

I’d just finished washing up and running a hairbrush through my frizzy blonde curls when I heard the heavy metal door that led into the cell block clanging open.

…all the way down here? It feels like an oven in this part of the building.

She has to be isolated from the general population. It was Officer Wilson who answered, but I couldn’t place the first voice. By the way, I wanted to thank you, on behalf of all of us, for your generous contribution to last year’s fundraiser. The new addition to the building has been a big help.

Well, we do what we can. Of course we’ll contribute again this year.

I was at the bars, now, and I could see the two figures that approached. The woman who walked next to Officer Wilson was dressed to kill in a Ralph Lauren suit in muted gray. She barely glanced at me before she looked to the much taller guard at her side. Open it up and then give us a few minutes, won’t you?

Ma’am, I don’t think– even as he protested, Officer Wilson pulled out his key ring, stretching it toward the locking mechanism on my cell.

I’m not going to try and sneak the child out of here in my purse, am I? Now go away and leave us alone. She waved him off, much the way I envisioned royalty waving away their various aides and servants.

She marched through the entrance to my cell the moment he wrenched it open, and glared at him while he slammed the door in place. I watched her as she watched him move back down the hall. She didn’t turn to me until the metal door resounded with his departure.

I waited for her to face me before I offered my greeting. Hello, Grandmother.

I recognized Martha von Shelton immediately, even if I’d never seen her before. Her ash blonde hair was much shorter than mine, falling away from her face in gentle waves, and her features carried the stamp of her years, but I knew I would look like her one day. We stood and stared at each other for several silent minutes that Sunday after she bulldozed her way into my cell, and too many thoughts and feelings crowded my brain as I counted all the little ways in which I resembled her.

I had her wide mouth and firm chin, her almond-shaped eyes and petite frame. I had none of her elegance. Martha von Shelton looked perfect from the tips of her Manolo Blahniks to tops of the Tiffany earrings that flashed on her earlobes. I couldn’t even see a stray thread or a speck of dust on her sharp suit. Meanwhile, I was standing there with a million flyaways dancing around my head, in an orange jumpsuit with my number stenciled across the back. That’s what I’d become over the summer: a number, a name on a file that wasn’t even mine.

Well, you don’t look like much. She finally broke the long silence around us, and her blue eyes moved from me to flit around the rest of the room. But I do like what you’ve done with the place.

I look like you, I pointed this out to her. And my mother.

The blue eyes returned, sweeping me up and down, and Martha von Shelton gave me a little nod. Yes, I know. Elizabeth never looked like much when she was a girl, either, but the men certainly adored her. Did you draw all of these? She waved one bejeweled hand around at the walls of my cell.

No. When she looked at me, one eyebrow quirked, I volunteered the rest. A friend of mine sends them to me.

Ahh. She’d been leaning close to the wall, examining one of the pictures, but now she stepped back. That’ll be River Scott, I suppose.

What do you know about River Scott?

I probably know more about him than his own mother, Martha answered carelessly. She paused at the sink to gaze at the picture of the card taped above it.

I was shocked by her sudden appearance in my cell, in my life. Martha von Shelton was responsible for my very existence. To get revenge against her cheating husband Brock, she’d started up an affair with the man who was married to the very woman that led Brock astray – or so I’d been told. From Martha’s affair with Lionel Riordan, my mother Elizabeth was born. I was the child Elizabeth had out of wedlock, born a few months too late for my biological father to step forward and claim me.

You see, he’d also impregnated another woman, and ended up marrying her instead. They had a tall, beautiful daughter together who didn’t have a single frizzy hair in her head.

I was scheduled to stand trial for her murder on the day that I would turn seventeen.

What are you doing here? I finally demanded, when Martha continued to gaze around at the walls.

You are my grandchild, she answered, as if this explained it. And I find I truly enjoy talking to people who cannot possibly run away.

I frowned. Is that a joke?

Martha von Shelton gave me a half-smile, lifting one corner of her mouth, and she reached to undo the buttons on her smart gray blazer. A white silk blouse was revealed as she slid it off her arms and carefully placed it at the foot of my cot. I don’t ever tell jokes. She perched on the side of the mattress, crossing her legs at the ankles. Did you kill the Riordan girl?

It doesn’t matter.

She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. Elizabeth told me about your visit, you know.

You talk to Elizabeth?

Now Martha looked at me like she was certain I was crazy. "She is my daughter. When I only stared back at her, she gave a little shrug of her shoulders. But she is confused, I know. The way she went on and on about you, I knew it was true that you’d been to see her. She even mentioned that you brought Sawyer with you."

It was actually the other way around. I went with Sawyer. He was trying to find out more information about Laurel.

She nodded. That figures. The von Shelton men are always interested when there’s a woman involved.

I crossed my arms over my chest and looked at her levelly. What do you want? You’ve had months to see me and speak to me, and this is the first trace I’ve seen of you. Why now?

We’ve been in Europe, she answered airily. My husband was trying to find new investors to make up for some of his past bad decisions. Martha swept a hand over her glossy waves. But we can talk more about that later. Right now, I want to learn more about my only grandchild. Come and sit with me. She stretched out one of her manicured hands, beseeching me to join her on the cot.

I took a step forward, but I didn’t uncross my arms. I wanted to look down at her hand. You paint your nails red.

Never any other color, she answered.

So I put my hand in hers, and stepped forward to take the seat she offered.

On my official birth certificate, it reads Chloe Martha von Shelton. She had given me my middle name, though I only used it for my first eighteen months in the world. Martha von Shelton had, even if it was in an indirect way, given me my life.

Before I threw it away at the trial, I figured I might as well listen to what she had to say.

Chapter 2

Sunday passed uneventfully after Martha von Shelton finally left my cell. We talked for hours. She didn’t leave until my lunch was delivered, and I spent the rest of the afternoon pacing around in the tiny little area that was mine. From where I was being housed in the courthouse, I could never hear the sounds made by other prisoners. They were clear across the building, in the new wing. The new wing had been built with money donated by the von Sheltons, of course. They surrounded me no matter where I went.

The school year officially started on Monday, but for the first time that I could remember I wasn’t packing up a backpack or worrying about my hair. I wasn’t agonizing over outfit choices or wondering what my new teachers would be like. I wasn’t even feeling any of the thrill that usually comes with starting the eleventh grade. I wouldn’t be taking the SATs or looking at college applications during the school year, with the rest of my classmates.

I was sitting on my cot at 7:50 that morning, staring at yet another stranger who had appeared on the other side of the bars.

This time, it was Office Morales who was rummaging through his key ring to open up my cell door. And this time, my visitor wasn’t a chic, well-dressed woman with diamonds glittering all over her perfectly painted hands.

She was perhaps twenty-five, with big brown eyes that made me think of puppy dogs and newborn deer, and rich brown hair with varying shades of dark gold woven through it. She wore a dark yellow blouse and a pencil-thin skirt in chocolate brown.

Her black heels didn’t match, and the terror written across her face couldn’t even be masked by the bold fuchsia lipstick she’d chosen to wear for reasons unknown. A tiny smile trembled around the corners of her lips as Morales opened the cell door, and I saw her take a deep breath before she tapped her way just inside the metal bars on her short, two-inch heels.

She visibly winced as the door slammed shut behind her. G-good morning. The smile quivered, and quivered, as she forced out the words. I’m Gwen Shannon. You can call me Gwen or Miss Shannon.

I know. I sat immobile on my thin mattress, arms crossed over my chest. My lawyer told me you were coming today.

Well, Miss Gwen Shannon gazed around my cell, and her smile was a little steadier now. I saw her glance over her shoulder, looking at that closed cell door, before she turned back to me. Shall we get started then?

I jerked my head to the left. They brought the table in for you. It was against the wall, opposite my little cot, two plastic chairs at either end.

Wonderful. Gwen Shannon took a deep breath before she moved to the table. I have all the text books you’ll need for the first semester. We’ll be following the Sloane Academy curriculum exactly, she told me. With her back facing me, Gwen’s voice was a little stronger. Once the topic shifted to school work, the line of her back became a little more confident, and her hands moved smoothly as she placed her bags on top of the scarred, plastic table.

It was the first day of school, the first day of my junior year. At the exact moment Gwen Shannon was pulling crisp new books out of her black bag, all my classmates were pouring into the majestic old building that, once upon a time, served as a private mansion for one of the richest families in California.

Are you interested in art? Her doe-brown eyes had drifted up the wall as she carefully stacked books in the center of the table. Gwen’s interest was pinned on a black-and-white sketch done in pencil. It was abstract, like all of River’s drawings, an amorphous conglomeration of curving lines. To me, it looked a little like gray vines climbing up the white page.

Not really.

Oh. Her shoulders sank a little, like she was deflating. Well. Gwen Shannon moved to one end of the table, positioning herself so she could face the cell door. Why don’t you have a seat, and we’ll get started?

I shuffled to the other chair and fell into it heavily, but not before I pulled it away from the table to put its back against the wall. I didn’t like putting my back to the bars either; I wanted to see what, if anything, was happening in the corridor outside my cell.

What’s your favorite subject? That little smile was back, just as trembly as before. She slowly lowered herself into her chair and pulled a thick, leather-bound notebook to her end of the table.

I don’t really have one.

Any particular subject you’d like to get out of the way first? She tried it again, and now the smile was only a mere flicker against her painted mouth.

Not really.

Hmm. She paged through the notebook a moment, turning her head down toward the table. I could see only the crown of her head, perfectly split into halves via a razor-sharp part. I thought maybe we could start with math and the sciences first. Then we’ll have lunch, and I’ll observe you during your recreation hour. It will count as your physical education credit. In the afternoon, we’ll cover English and History.

Fine. My deadpan answer was the death of Gwen Shannon’s smile. Even if she wasn’t so young, I would have known Miss Gwen Shannon wasn’t very experienced. I’d never seen a teacher so eager to please her student before.

Here’s your Algebra book. She pulled it out of the pile and shoved it toward me. Why don’t you open it up to page five, and we’ll get started?

I half-turned toward the end of the table and did as my new tutor instructed. I couldn’t attend school the regular way, so Asher von Shelton had brought school to me.

Such a lucky girl, that Chloe von Shelton.

***

We followed Gwen Shannon’s schedule precisely, fifty minutes for each class, warm Jell-O and cold turkey for lunch. The day ended with a brief English lesson, at the end of which she handed me my semester reading list. She wasn’t gone long before I heard the door at the end of the hall clanging open again.

You’ve got a visitor. Officer Morales was back, and didn’t bother looking up at me as he fiddled with his keys. Please take three steps back from the door and stand with your hands out and in front of you, legs shoulder-width apart.

I was already in position before he said the word visitor. I knew the drill by now, but the officers gave me the exact same spiel every single time. I guess maybe they had to do so. I was so anxious to get out of the cell, I didn’t even flinch when the cold manacles were slapped into place on my wrists.

It was agonizing to shuffle along next to Morales down the hall; I know I could have made the trek in half the time. Finally the door was opened, and I was led down another hallway until we came to a large, open room dotted with tables and chairs.

I couldn’t get to the far end of the room fast enough. He was standing in front of one of the windows, and with the afternoon sun behind him he was little more than a silhouette until I was right up next to the table.

As always, he waited for me to sit down before he claimed the seat opposite.

Nice pants, I quipped, by way of greeting him.

River Scott smiled, and the room was suddenly brighter. They’re the latest in fashionable wear for young snobs, he offered. River was wearing the stiffly-creased gray slacks and the white, collared shirt that was required for Sloane Academy males. Somewhere between the courthouse and school, he’d done away with the crimson jacket and matching pinstriped tie.

So how was it? I scooted to the edge of my seat.

River’s left shoulder lifted. It was school.

I nodded and scooted another fraction of an inch closer, propping my elbows up on the table. Yeah? My voice rose encouragingly on the question.

Another shrug. Yeah.

River! I realized that was all he was going to offer. "How was it? Did everyone stare at you? Were they terrible?"

He shifted and looked down at the top of the table, which apparently had become fascinating in the last fifteen seconds. I’m yesterday’s news. It’s no big deal.

A shock of cold traveled down the center of my spine. Because they’re talking about me now. Right?

The table continued to enthrall River, and he didn’t answer. I didn’t need an answer, anyway.

What are they saying? What happened?

It’s really nothing, Rain. You know how they are at Sloane.

I had to close my eyes when he did look up at me. I couldn’t stand what I saw there. Yes, I knew how they are at Sloane. They were the children of the fabulously wealthy, with every privilege at their fingertips. When I crashed their ranks, by virtue of a brand-new scholarship opportunity that covered the hefty tuition, I wasn’t exactly accepted with open arms. I arrived at Sloane as Rain Ramey, the daughter of a plumber and former schoolteacher. Even when I became Chloe von Shelton, youngest daughter to one of the elite families around Silverwood, the students of Sloane didn’t exactly rush forward to welcome me into their midst. Thanks to Carsyn, and my friendship with River, I became infamous at the school. Now that I was in jail, ready to stand trial for the murder of Laurel Riordan, I could imagine exactly what they were saying about me. River didn’t really need to tell me any more.

And what’s she been saying?

He knew who she was. River didn’t answer until I opened my eyes again, and at least the expression of pity had been burned away by a flash of anger. You don’t want to know.

No, I really do. My voice was hard when I answered. When River’s temper burned, mine immediately caught flame also.

She’s just saying how… But he couldn’t keep up the pretense. His hands, which were resting lightly on the top of the table, curled into fists. How her family was kind enough to take you in and give you everything, and she had to live under the same roof with a murderer all through the summer. She was even running around telling people that you attacked her last July.

That part’s true, anyway, I muttered.

What? River’s shocked voice rang out in the otherwise empty room.

I glanced to the doorway, where Morales was standing woodenly and staring at the wall. Keep your voice down, I reminded him. Carsyn’s the one who got violent first. That is her MO, after all.

His dark eyes narrowed. When did this happen? Was that the day I came over and you were bleeding?

River, can we just focus here? We were talking about school, remember?

He was scowling darkly, his black eyebrows scrunched together at the bridge of his nose. There’s nothing more to tell, really. Casyn’s playing the victim, and everyone’s eating it up. Owen Harper’s walking around with Libby Tate. And that’s about it.

You didn’t see Fallon? I ventured cautiously. Fallon was sort of my best friend, but our relationship was complicated by the fact that she used to be Laurel’s best friend.

One of those maddening shrugs answered my question. Yeah, I saw her at lunch.

Lunch? Now I was the one who was talking too loudly. I saw Morales shift and look toward us. You two ate together in the courtyard? I almost added our courtyard, but bit the words off in my mouth.

She was already there when I got out there, he answered.

So you, like, ate lunch with Fallon and David Johns? I was incredulous. I couldn’t even picture it.

No he wasn’t there. They broke up over the summer.

Over…the…summer. The words slowed down in the air between us, pulling River’s voice out long and flat. They rolled over me like some sort of sonic wave. I actually drifted backward as they hit me slowly, until my back was pressed up against the chair. Oh.

River and Fallon all alone eating lunch in the courtyard. They were out there because of me, because I’d sort of accidentally shared the secret courtyard with Fallon. Now I was picturing them out there, sitting in the sun-dappled shade together. Fallon, who once had a crush on River. Now that she knew he wasn’t Laurel’s killer, there was no reason her old crush wouldn’t come back again.

They would surely be dating before the week was out, while I sat in my concrete cell inside a fluorescent orange jumpsuit. I tried to force my lips into a smile. What did you guys talk about? Or were you just staring longingly into each other’s eyes.

Nothing much. Shrug. She said to tell you she watched some movie you recommended last week, and she really liked it.

Oh yeah? Is that all she said about it? Didn’t she mention which movie it was? What exactly did she say? I wasn’t looking at him. My stomach was churning and bubbling. I couldn’t help but picture Fallon giggling with him, the way she’d giggled and flirted with David Johns.

"What she exactly said was something like, ‘tell Rain I watched The Big Sleep last week, and I liked it so much I’m going to watch it again.’ Something like that. I think she was just making conversation. Fallon and I don’t really have much to talk about."

I nodded. Yeah that’s cool. I didn’t know what else to say. Cold turkey and warm Jell-O were staging a battle in my stomach, no doubt competing to see which one could swim back up my throat the fastest. "Did you