Finding Truth (The Searchers Book 3) Read online

  He paused to figure out what it was he was reading on Dad’s face, but gave up. This time, he’d take his words at face value. “You’re welcome.”

  Task completed, he fell into bed and for the first time in days, fell asleep without a care.

  17

  Matisse

  Matisse hadn’t realized it before, but there had been a cloud of stress hanging over his house; when he awoke the morning after talking to Dad, it was gone. Things were as normal as they’d ever been, and he focused on finishing out his last few weeks of high school and making plans for college. Boudreaus were Ole Miss true, and he’d be heading to Oxford in the fall. He hadn't even applied. Nicole made a call, and that was it. He was in.

  The summer, though, it was all his.

  Racing his bike, hanging with friends—it all stretched before him gloriously. Before he knew it, he was accepting his diploma in the bright sunshine. He sweated uncomfortably through the ceremony, hating the way everyone stared at him when his name was called.

  Tradition stated a graduation party be held the same day as the ceremony, and so family came from all over Mississippi and Louisiana with their cards stuffed full of money to offer their congratulations.

  He stood next to his parents. The photographer snapped photo after photo, and he forced himself to smile.

  “I’m so proud of you.” Nicole gave him a hug, and the scent of jasmine surrounded him. “I sometimes wondered if this would happen.”

  He studied her. “Why? I’m smart.”

  “You are.” She took a sip of wine and waved at a passing cousin. “But you weren’t people smart. For so long, I feared you’d never find a place to land, people you cared about or to care about you.”

  He rolled his eyes. One had nothing to do with the other as far as he was concerned. “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “You’re going to be.” Her fingers squeezed his arm as she considered his outfit. “You look nice today, Lord Byron.”

  The button-down shirt was a concession to her, chosen only because he knew she’d want to take pictures. He’d paired it with a velvet vest, which was stupid considering the heat, but he didn’t care. It fit him, and confused people.

  The doors to the country club opened, and he and his mother turned to watch a pair of well-dressed, youngish men head toward them. “Matisse Boudreau?”

  “Yes?” Were these cousins?

  “We’re Agents Adams and Koldys. We need you to come with us.”

  His mother moved in front of him. “My son is a minor. He’s not going anywhere with you.” Lifting the hand with her white wine, she got his dad’s attention who came over right away. Meanwhile, his stomach twisted and curled, and a sudden sweat broke out along his skin.

  I left no trail. There’s no way they know what I’ve done. Fuck. Did I leave a trail? How did they find me?

  “What’s going on?” Dad asked, voice deep and imposing. “This is a private party.”

  “Guillaume Boudreau?” Agent Adams asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We need you to come with us as well.”

  “Are you arresting us?” Dad’s face tightened, and he cut a glance at Nicole.

  The taller man, Agent Koldys, nodded. “Your son. We’re inviting you for questioning. And we would prefer not doing it in front of your family.”

  “Guy.” Nicole’s voice shook, and Matisse was afraid he was going to puke. He’d fucked up. Shit. What had he done? Everything was finished. He’d fucked up, and his dad was going down for his mess-up. I can’t let that happen.

  “Call the company lawyer and Rene. Matisse and I will go with them. We’ll be fine.” Dad reached for him, took his elbow and urged him forward. “Gentlemen.” He addressed the agents. “Lead the way. Thank you for your consideration.”

  Matisse struggled to process what was happening and concentrated on his dad’s grip on his elbow to keep him grounded when everything inside him wanted to fly apart in a panic. All sorts of ideas rushed through his mind—jerking his arm away and running out the door, jumping on his bike and screaming down the interstate.

  Every nerve ending in his body flared, and the touch of Dad on his skin hurt like a deep bruise or burn. His vision narrowed, his mother’s face blurring. The cousins and guests became hazy, impressions of colors instead of actual people. The blood rushed in his ears. The men could be reading him his rights, his father calming him, and he’d have no idea.

  He knew he walked after the agents and got into the car, but he was removed from it all, an observer and not a participant.

  The next thing he knew, he was fingerprinted and photographed. The agent touched his shoulders—stand to the left, face the front. Mugshots. Holy fuck these are my mugshots. This is real.

  Blinking, he found himself waiting in a cold room, shivering as the sweat cooled on his body and the air conditioner blew directly down his neck. What was he supposed to do now?

  The chair hurt his body. It was metal and cold. He was being frozen from the outside in. Imagining frost forming along his skin and moving inward, slowing the blood in his veins, he wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth. I won’t fly apart.

  Dad was gone—taken to another room. The only words he’d spoken since arriving here at Bijoux Shores’ small police station were, “Don’t say anything. Wait for the lawyer.”

  Teeth chattering, he didn’t think he’d have any trouble keeping quiet. The ideas in his head were barely sentences; they were impressions of words: afraid, fucked, jail, over. His life was over if this was real.

  Rocking a little faster now, he liked the way his head bobbed back and forth. In the corner of the room a motion detector flashed. Every so often a little light, barely the size of a pin, flared. Red. Green. Red. Red. Green. He stood and walked to the corner to stare up at the light. Lost in the color and the flash of light, something inside him settled. Rolling from his heels to his toes, he kept his eyes on the light. Each time his mind screamed at a sensation—a shiver, the smell of cleaning agent—he watched the light.

  He stood there, watching and waiting. It could have been seconds or hours. Red. Green. Red. Red. Green.

  18

  Matisse

  “Matisse? Matisse.”

  Blinking, he glanced away from the light to study the person speaking to him. Familiar, but it took him long moments to match the face with a name.

  “I’m your lawyer, Bentley Rivard.”

  I need a lawyer.

  “Sit down. The agents will join us momentarily. I want you to do exactly what I say.”

  “What you say.”

  “Yes, Matisse. You’ll do exactly what I say. Say what I tell you to say.”

  “Say what you say,” he repeated. It was all he could do. The lawyer’s words sounded like they were underwater. It was taking him too long to process. He needed to be quicker. Ready. Bentley led him back to the chair, and he sat. “Too cold.” That was good, right? He was putting words together on his own now.

  Bentley patted his shoulder and indicated they should move to the other side of the table. Such an easy fix, and it never occurred to him. “It’s going to be fine, Matisse. This is a formality, and before you know it, you’ll be back home.”

  Nodding, he wrapped his arms around his chest, glad now for the vest and long-sleeved shirt. The door opened and the two agents entered, each holding folders.

  Guilty.

  They sat and opened the folders. From across the desk, he couldn’t read what was written on the papers. “You’ve hacked into a government office, Matisse. Disrupted a computer system, and degraded information to the point it is unrecoverable. You’re looking at a felony charge, and you turn eighteen in two weeks.”

  “Is that the charge?” Bentley asked.

  “Class D Felony,” Agent Adams answered. “Yes.”

  “Twenty years in prison, in Mississippi,” Agent Koldys added.

  He’d die before he went to prison. It wasn’t happening.

  “All righ
t then. I think we’re done. You’ve arrested him, booked him, and bail is posted. We’ll see you in court.”

  Bentley touched his shoulder, and he wordlessly stood to follow him.

  “Stay away from computers, Matisse,” Agent Adams said as a parting shot.

  Squeezing his shoulder in warning, Bentley urged him to the door and out into the hall. They emerged into the station where his father, someone who had to be another lawyer, and his mother waited. His father’s hair was mussed, like he’d been pulling at it. Tie undone, jacket rumpled, Dad hadn’t come out unscathed either.

  “Dad—”

  “Not here,” Nicole said and reached for his hand to pull him closer to her.

  All of them got into Bentley’s car and drove silently back home. Matisse watched the scenery. All the familiar sights were off, darker. Even the sunshine seemed ominous. How could everything go on like normal when he was going to prison?

  Because he was.

  He was as guilty as sin.

  “I did it by myself,” he blurted out. “No one else. I did it all on my own.”

  It wasn’t the truth, but it was close to the truth.

  “Quiet, Matisse,” Bentley ground out. “We’ll talk alone.”

  The glare of passing headlights caught his attention, and he stared out the window, only to jump when his mother squeezed his hand. Had she even let go or had she held on all this time? He returned the pressure and rested his head against the back of the seat. He couldn’t see his way out of this.

  Genevieve waited for them on the stoop, but bounced up when the car stopped. Like a puppy, she tumbled down the steps. Impatient, she crossed her arms, dropped them, and crossed them again. As soon as the door opened, she threw herself at Dad then Matisse a moment later. He caught her and held her. Strangely, he needed the hug as much as she did.

  “Are you okay?” she asked and pushed away. “What happened?”

  “Let’s go inside,” Nicole said. “We’ll talk more there.”

  The group of them shuffled inside, the picture of dejection and stress. Except for the lawyers. They’d be working off their retainer now, that was for sure.

  By tacit agreement, they all went into the dining room to sit in their customary places and stare at each other.

  Bentley spoke first, clearing his throat before beginning. “Matisse has been charged with hacking into the U.S. Patent Office and degrading information that cannot be recovered.”

  “What is he accused of degrading?” Nicole asked, focusing a glower on Dad before she gave her attention back to Bentley.

  “Not sure.” Bentley answered. “There’s a hole where a patent is supposed to be, but no sign of the patent or any clue of what it might have been. They are willing to downgrade the charges if Matisse tells them what he took.”

  A hole? In his mind, Matisse pictured the movie Indiana Jones. He’d taken the ancient golden artifact without replacing it with a bag of sand and thereby triggered the booby traps.

  Idiot. Most systems wouldn’t register missing information if what was taken was small enough. In this case, it was like he’d stolen a sheet of paper from a notebook. No one should ever have seen the paper was missing. He’d underestimated their system, and they’d caught him.

  What do I do?

  “So Matisse tells them what he took, and we hope we can make the rest of the charges so minimal we can move on with our lives.” Nicole brushed one hand against the other to signify it was over.

  “It may not be that easy,” Bentley replied.

  “Well, make it that easy,” was her short response. Matisse could tell, it wasn’t what she meant to say. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath to start again. “Thank you both for your help, but my family needs to discuss these things. It’s been a long day. We’ll speak again in the morning.”

  So decisive. He envied his mom's confidence when everything seemed to be falling apart. Unconsciously, he edged closer to her. As if tuned into him, she wrapped an arm around his waist.

  Generally, he didn’t like it when people touched him, but right now he needed it. Her strength flowed into him and comforted him. She kept her arm there, prompting him to walk with her to the door and thank the departing lawyers before she turned to him and then to his father. “Genevieve,” she said to his sister. “Go upstairs for a bit, love. I need to talk to your father and Tisse.”

  “Is everything going to be okay?” Genevieve’s voice trembled and caught on the last word.

  Embarrassed and ashamed, he stared at the floor, but listened hard for Nicole’s answer.

  “Of course. Now run upstairs.”

  Even his father seemed to shuffle his feet, and Matisse wondered just how much he’d told her. Did she know what he’d asked Matisse to do?

  The office door clicked shut, and Nicole stepped away from him.

  “Now.” Despite her calm demeanor, Matisse sensed an undercurrent of anger. “Both of you owe me an explanation. Let’s start with you, Guy.”

  Matisse sidestepped Nicole, moving a little closer to his father. They were in this together.

  “What do you want to know, Nicole?” Dad asked tiredly and turned his back on him to get a drink from the sideboard. He swallowed the whole thing and poured another finger full.

  “How about what’s going on? Why would they arrest Matisse? Why did they take you in for questioning?”

  Good question. Why would they interrogate his father? Except it wasn’t a far jump from stealing a patent to his father’s company. He resisted slapping his forehead.

  “Why don’t you ask Matisse that question?” His father's words sent him reeling, as if his anger was a physical blow.

  Nicole held Dad’s glare a moment before peering at Matisse then striding to his father. With one perfectly manicured hand, she took the glass from him and swallowed the alcohol.

  “Guillaume Boudreau, I don’t know what you’ve done, or what you asked my boy to do, but I promise you this: if he goes to prison because of you, I will make you wish you’d never been born. Comprendre?”

  Nervously, he watched the battle his parents appeared to be fighting. He’d had no intention of letting his father go to jail for his mess up, but it seemed his father didn’t care what happened. Not only that, his father had lied, and deflected the attention from himself to Matisse.

  In a flash, Matisse understood Dad was more than willing to let him take the fall. In disbelief, he stared at his parent, trying to make sense of his attitude. Sure, he’d made a mistake, but the FBI was threatening prison. Was Dad going to let them cart him off to Oakdale in cuffs and lock him away for twenty years?

  “You’re not going to prison. I won’t let it happen.” Nicole’s voice was steady, and in her, at least, he had an advocate.

  “Mom,” he said, ready to tell her everything, but she held up a hand.

  “Don’t tell me,” she said. “When this is all over, then you can tell me everything, but I think I know what’s going on.” She gave him a sad smile. “I’ll take care of it, Tisse. Now go to bed. Try to get some sleep. The lawyers will be here in the morning.”

  He let her hug him and nudge him toward the door. It closed, and her whisper, harsh and angry, filtered to him. “Guillaume, you son of a bitch.”

  “Nicole—”

  Rather than listen to his father lie and pin the entire thing on him, Matisse took the stairs two at a time and ran into his bedroom. He threw himself on the bed and pressed his hand against his pounding heart.

  At least Nicole knew Dad had a part in this. For some reason, it was enough to ease his dread, at least for tonight, and let him drift off to sleep.

  19

  Matisse

  The knock on his door awakened Matisse, and with it came a rush of the previous day’s events. Nicole poked her head inside, and seeing he was awake, slid through and closed the door. “Bentley will be here in an hour. Breakfast is ready.”

  He rubbed his eyes and jammed the heels of his hands against them. “Okay.
”

  “Get some sleep?”

  Maybe? He raked his hands through his hair. “I think so.”

  With two fingers, she caught a strand of his hair and flicked it away from his eyes. “Don’t hide behind your hair. You’re too handsome for that.” Like she had when he was a child, she drew her finger down the bridge of his nose and bopped it gently.

  “Is Dad here?”

  Smile dimming, she shook her head. “No. He went to meet his lawyer at the office. FBI was there, asking to see some stuff.” Like he had a moment ago, she shrugged. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, “For what?” But he stifled the urge. The less he knew about his father’s problems, the better. It was those problems that put him in this position to begin with. Instead he asked, “Is Genevieve here?”

  Canting her head, Nicole regarded him silently for a moment. “No. I sent her to Memere’s. She doesn’t need to stress about this either, and Mem has the pool, so she’ll be happy.”

  He nodded absently. “That’s good.”

  “Tisse.” Squeezing his hand, Nicole got his attention. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but I do know you. And I know you did what you thought you had to. You may be thoughtless at times, but you have a good heart.”

  Her words were nearly too much for him, and the most he could do was nod. With a pat on his knee, she stood. “I have coffee waiting. Hurry up.”

  She left him, and he went through the motions of getting ready. He arrived in the kitchen with a wet head, scraping his hands through his hair to secure it in a ponytail at his neck. As soon as he sat, his mother placed a mug of coffee in front of him along with a beignet. “Eat.”

  Tracking Nicole’s progress, he studied her for signs of stress or anger. Quieter than she normally was, but not abnormally so, she sipped her own coffee and stared out the window. “Mom—” he started to say when the doorbell rang.