Chapter 1
My mother was the female swindler everyone called a master of the honey trap.
She conned men from eighteen all the way up to eighty.
When I was nine, she ditched her lovesick eighteen-year-old boyfriend and latched onto a famous businessman.
A month later, she died in that businessman's house.
With no one to look after me, I picked up her tricks.
I forged a love letter in her handwriting.
Then I found her eighteen-year-old ex-boyfriend and said, "My mom said you were the only one she ever loved.
"She left you a letter before she died.
"She said she wanted you to take care of me, as the only thing she left behind."
It was late in the evening, and the market was dimly lit.
Brett Moody brought his knife down and cleaned the last fish before closing up.
He looked up, his eyes cold and distant, flecked with blood as he stared at me.
The dirty water, mixed with fish blood, silently trickled toward my feet.
A heap of fish guts piled up in front of the stall, the air reeking of fish.
I took a step back.
I forced myself not to crouch down and wipe the stains off the tips of my white shoes.
'So filthy,' I thought, disgusted.
When I looked up again, with tears shimmering in my eyes, I gripped the hem of my shirt and forced myself to look pitiful as I said, "If you don't want to, I'll go."
Brett stared at me across the filthy stall, silent for a long moment.
His gaze fell to the letter in my hand.
After a long pause, he set the knife back on the cutting board.
He took off his gloves, revealing hands that were blue from the cold.
He lowered his eyes.
He replied in a flat voice, "I'm broke. I can't take care of you."
Of course, I knew he was broke.
But my mom had told me he had a rich dad.
Even in Oakwood, his dad was one of the top businessmen.
He might have a whole other family now, but he was still Brett's real father.
Maybe, one day, Brett would get a share of that money.
I wiped my eyes, pretending to brush away tears that weren't really there.
With a shaky voice, I said, "Alright, I understand.
"Mom's house was taken, so I'll find somewhere else to go."
I turned to leave.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught his hands going still.
I'd barely taken two steps when he suddenly called out.
"How old are you? Where are you going to stay?" he asked.
He raised his voice, probably worried I wouldn't hear him.
There was a kind of exhaustion in his tone that no eighteen-year-old should have.
At that moment, it hit me.
Mom was right. He was a total sucker for love and a bleeding heart.
I stopped in my tracks.
Right on cue, he spoke up again.
He said, "You sure about this?
"If you come with me, you won't have an easy life."
I smirked to myself, feeling pretty pleased.
No wonder he was the easiest catch for my mom back then.
It took him a while to pack up the stall.
I pretended to step forward to help, but he shot me a cold look.
He said, "Stay over there.
"The knife's sharp. Don't touch it."
I immediately pulled my hand back.
I stood off to the side, making sure none of the dirty water splashed on me.
He glanced at me from the side, his eyes lowered, and for a moment, there was a hint of pity in them.
He probably thought I was scared.
I played along, ducking my head and clutching my clothes, pretending to shiver.
The wind was blowing hard.
The sun had gone down, and it was getting cold fast.
He figured I must be freezing.
He stared at me for a while, then sighed and took off his jacket, giving it to me.
On the way back, he was clutching the letter I'd given him the whole time.
He kept reading those few lines again and again.
It was all just something I made up.
My mom never really went to school. She only made me teach her how to write when she felt like it.
Copying her handwriting was a breeze for me.
I threw in a few lines about feeling guilty and sorry.
I wrote that life was hard; she had to deal with rich guys to get by, and in the end, she had no choice but to fool him.
But when she was dying, she realized he was the only one she had ever truly loved.
He was the only genuinely kind person she'd ever met.
So she wanted to leave her daughter to him, as her only legacy.
If he couldn't accept her, she said he could just send the kid to an orphanage.
Such phony words.
I actually used a different name for each letter and sent a copy to every single one of the dozens of men my mom had dated.
Honestly, all of them had it way better than Brett ever did at eighteen.
They actually had money to their name.
They didn't have to count on some dad who probably wouldn't even give them the time of day.
Too bad there weren't enough fools in this world.
Brett was the last guy I tried to scam.
But he was the first one who took the letter.
I watched Brett clutch the letter, his fingers trembling in the cold wind.
After a long moment, his eyes grew red, and Brett said, "It's a shame. She was only thirty."
I scoffed, thinking, 'Seriously, what's there to be sorry about?
'Even if she hadn't died, she'd just be off with some new rich guy. She'd never give you a second look.'
I followed him home.
The neighborhood was a total dump.
Trash was scattered everywhere at the entrance, and there wasn't a single streetlight in sight.
One'd be hard-pressed to find another place in Riverdale this run-down.
Honestly, it was just as much of a dump as the place my mom and I used to call home.
If his rich dad had ever bothered to toss him even a dime, he wouldn't be living like this.
I was already starting to regret it.
When I was begging all those rich exes of my mom's, I really should've played the pity card even harder.
We went upstairs and opened the door.
The place was so dark and shabby; something suddenly got hurled out at us.
Right after, a woman's raspy, screeching voice rang out.
She yelled, "What time do you call this? You finally decided to show up?
"Did you ditch me here on purpose, just waiting for me to starve?"
The hallway was pitch black.
Brett, afraid I'd fall, had me walk ahead of him.