Page 4 of Wanting Wentworth

“Yes.” I nod again. “As soon as I saw him, I called 911. Because Lexi was obviously okay, I left her where she was and tried to help him.”

“What time was that?”

I stare at the space between my feet for a minute, trying to calculate the hours. “3:36AM.” I’d just gotten into bed when she called me. Irritated, and relieved that I was no longer obligated to answer her calls, I answered anyway because I was hoping she’d called to fight and I really wanted to hammer the we’re through Lexi point home. “The call to 911 is logged on my cellphone—so is the call I took from her at 3:18.”

“To be clear, you and Lexi Chase did not partake in any illegal substances while you were together, Saturday morning or afternoon?”

“No.” I state it plainly. “I don’t do that shit.”

“Were you aware of Lexi Chase’s drug use?”

I hesitate before I answer. “I knew that she had a history of drug use—not that she was currently using.” When I met Lexi six months ago, she was fresh out of rehab. Obviously, it didn’t stick. “If I’d have known I would’ve tried to talk her back into rehab. Look, Con...” I give my face another heavy-handed scrub. “I wasn’t there—I swear I wasn’t—and I had no idea she was high on anything until the cops got there. As soon as I saw that man, I called 911 and did my best to help him until the ambulance got there. I even let the cops do a blood draw at the scene to prove I’m clean. All I did was try to help.”

“I believe you.” Conner sighs. “But Lexi is claiming that you were driving the car at the time of the accident.”

I don’t ask him how he knows that. Mainly because it probably involves an illegal, back-door hack into the LAPD’s very secure server. “That’s ridiculous. The airbag—”

“You’re six-foot- five, Went,” Con says like he’s telling me I have a terminal illness. “You’d have been so far back from the wheel that if the airbag went off in your face, it would’ve barely grazed you.”

I stare at my feet, mouth open while I try to figure it all out. “Her face—”

“Both airbags were deployed,” he tells me. “She’s claiming that you hit the bus bench and then, when you realized there’d been a person sleeping on it, put her in the drivers’ seat. Whose car did you take to the Farmer’s Market?”

“We met there.” I can hear alarm bells ringing in my head. “Afterward, I left my car there and rode with her to the restaurant because parking downtown is almost impossible. Afterward, we swung back by and picked up my car before we headed to my place.”

“Who drove to lunch?”

“Me.” Which means my fingerprints are all over Lexi’s steering wheel. “My car was at the scene,” I remind him, suddenly desperate. “If I’d been driving her car, how—”

“As dumb luck would have it, the bench Lexi hit is two blocks from the market you met at. The story she’s selling has the two of you driving back from the club and picking it up on the way home.” Con is quiet for a moment before he tells me the rest. “She’s also claiming that the drugs they found in her possession belong to you.”

I close my eyes and let out a long, slow breath.

Jesus Christ.

“Listen to me,” Con says in a low tone. “Her story is plausible but it’s also complete bullshit. I can prove she’s lying—all I need is a little time and for you to keep your head down and away from the press while I work.” That’s the other thing about Con. He doesn’t give a shit about you until he gives a shit about you. Once you’re in, you’re in for life. He’ll do anything for you.

Anything.

“This is LA, Con—” I remind him on a flat, humorless chuckle. “And I am a fucking Hawthorne. There’s no such thing as staying out of the press—not when they smell blood in the water.”

“Yeah—that’s why you’re going to have to get the hell out of there,” he tells me. “You need to go somewhere no one can find you—the last place anyone would look for you—while I sort this out.”

“You want me to leave?” I lift my head so fast my neck twinges. “I can’t just leave. That man’s in a coma. I—”

“The nurse you paid off to keep you updated on his condition has been instructed to relay all updates through me.” Again, I don’t even try to figure out how he knows about it. In the three years I’ve known Conner Gilroy, I learned that not knowing how is always better. “Brian Maxwell is stable,” Conner assures me. “If anything changes, I’ll let you know. Right now, I need you to call someone you trust—who isn’t me—and ask them to help you disappear.”

“What about the police?” I have somewhere I can go. Someone I can call but I won’t if that means dumping my bullshit on his doorstep.

“You haven’t been officially charged with anything and from what I can tell from the police reports, no one read you your rights. No one asked you to surrender your passport—you’re free to go wherever you want,” Conner says. “The earliest flight I could get myself on doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I’ll write up an official statement from what you’ve told me and deal with anything the police throw your way as it comes.” When I don’t answer him, he sighs. “Went... I’m telling you this as your lawyer and your friend—get out of there while you still can and let me work. It’s LA—things will go a lot smoother if we can avoid the media circus.”

His implication is clear—my status as bystander could be upgraded to suspect at any moment. If and when that happens, the tabloid frenzy that will ensue will be crippling. The only way to mitigate the fallout is for me to disappear.

“Okay...” I finally give in with a sigh. “I’ll shoot you a text when I get where I’m going.” Standing slowly, I start to move toward my closet. “Thanks, man—I owe you.”

“Yeah, you do.” I can practically hear the shit eating grin on his face. “I’m thinking free tattoos for the rest of my life is a fair trade for saving yours.”

Before I can agree, Con ends the call and leaves me to pack.

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