You Can Trust Me, page 1
You Can Trust Me is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Wendy Heard
All rights reserved
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Bantam Books is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Heard, Wendy, author.
Title: You can trust me: a novel / Wendy Heard.
Description: New York: Bantam Dell, 2023.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022058260 (print) | LCCN 2022058261 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593599310 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593599327 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: California—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3608.E258 Y68 2023 (print) | LCC PS3608.E258 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20221209
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022058260
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022058261
Ebook ISBN 9780593599327
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Alexis Capitini, adapted for ebook
Cover design: The Book Designers
Cover images: Anastasiia Fedorova/Shutterstock (figures), Shutterstock (various collage elements)
ep_prh_6.1_143790370_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue: Summer
Chapter One: Summer
Chapter Two: Leo
Chapter Three: Summer
Chapter Four: Summer
Chapter Five: Summer
Chapter Six: Summer
Chapter Seven: Leo
Chapter Eight: Summer
Chapter Nine: Leo
Chapter Ten: Summer
Chapter Eleven: Summer
Chapter Twelve: Leo
Chapter Thirteen: Summer
Chapter Fourteen: Leo
Chapter Fifteen: Summer
Chapter Sixteen: Summer
Chapter Seventeen: Summer
Chapter Eighteen: Leo
Chapter Nineteen: Summer
Chapter Twenty: Summer
Chapter Twenty-one: Leo
Chapter Twenty-two: Summer
Chapter Twenty-three: Leo
Chapter Twenty-four: Summer
Chapter Twenty-five: Leo
Chapter Twenty-six: Summer
Chapter Twenty-seven: Leo
Chapter Twenty-eight: Summer
Chapter Twenty-nine: Leo
Chapter Thirty: Summer
Chapter Thirty-one: Leo
Chapter Thirty-two: Summer
Chapter Thirty-three: Summer
Chapter Thirty-four: Summer
Chapter Thirty-five: Summer
Chapter Thirty-six: Leo
Chapter Thirty-seven: Summer
Chapter Thirty-eight: Leo
Chapter Thirty-nine: Summer
Chapter Forty: Leo
Chapter Forty-one: Summer
Chapter Forty-two: Leo
Chapter Forty-three: Summer
Chapter Forty-four: Leo
Chapter Forty-five: Summer
Chapter Forty-six: Summer
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Wendy Heard
About the Author
_143790370_
I could not help it:
the restlessness was in my nature.
—CHARLOTTE BRONTË, JANE EYRE
PROLOGUE
SUMMER
SAN FRANCISCO
I learned to pick a pocket when I was about eight.
I was panhandling with my mother and two of her interchangeably bohemian friends at the Embarcadero in San Francisco. While they sat cross-legged beside a handprinted sign that read, “The light in me honors the light in you,” my job was to scope out the tourists and approach likely donors with a sad little wave. “I’m sorry, excuse me, I was just wondering if you could spare any change for my mother and me,” I’d say in a trembling, timid voice, like this was the first time I’d done this, like we were embarrassed to be reduced to panhandling.
I approached this one woman, a middle-aged white lady with her husband in tow, thinking she looked like someone’s grandma and would probably be a good mark. Adult me would warn kid me—this type of woman is not to be approached.
“I’m so sorry, but could you spare any change for my mom and me?” I asked, smiling sheepishly and presenting my collection tin.
She stopped walking and stared down at me, lips pinching together. “Where is your mother?”
Thinking she wanted proof that I wasn’t alone, I pointed back to where my mom was in Buddha pose by her namaste sign, eyes closed, lips curved upward in a faint smile. She was meditating, focusing on manifesting what we needed today, which was two hundred dollars. Her friends languished beside her, sharing a joint and calling out “Peace” to the passersby.
The fake grandma took me by the arm, marched me through the throngs of tourists, and presented me to my mother. “Excuse me. Is this your daughter?”
Her hazel eyes flew open and flicked between me and the lady holding my arm. “She is,” my mom replied, ever calm.
“How dare you have her begging for your drug money! What is wrong with you? I should call the police.”
I felt my stomach drop out of my gut and onto the floor. The police were our biggest fear. My mom’s friends exchanged a worried glance, but she just cocked her head and studied the woman.
“We’re truly sorry to have upset you,” my mom said. “She offered to help. I thought it was a nice gesture, and I felt badly discouraging it.” She could be like this: well spoken, reminding me that she’d gone to school, something she didn’t make me do. “The world is your school,” she always told me, but the world wasn’t going to teach me to read, so I stole books and learned from them on my own.
The woman glowered down at her. “She should be taken away from you. You can’t raise a child like this.”
Panicked and angry, I wrenched my arm out of her grip. In the twisting motion, I noticed the twenty-dollar bill sticking partway out of the back pocket of her khaki pants, folded into a store receipt.
My mother stood, the soft cotton of her long skirt billowing around her ankles. She was a lovely woman, her honey-colored hair wavy to her waist, her light tank top silky around her loose breasts. “May I pray for you?” she asked. “We’re going through a hard time, but it seems like you may be going through something as well.”
The woman’s face was shocked, hurt, and then something totally unexpected—tears sprang to her eyes and her face flushed bright red.
“You may not,” she hissed. She turned her back and stormed off.
With no adults looking, my hand snaked over, pinched the twenty, and as she walked away, it slipped out of her pocket and into my hand.
And so I learned my first lesson about pickpocketing: The target must be distracted, and the friction of the item leaving their pocket must blend in with the friction they feel from movement. Pickpocketing requires empathy, knowing how it feels to be in someone’s body, even the micro things like how their pants fit around the hips, how their purse slings across the chest.
My mom didn’t notice. She was sitting back down, arranging her skirt.
I palmed the twenty. I could hide it, buy things with it, save it for the inevitable rainy day when our van broke down in the middle of nowhere and my mom decided to suddenly realize that the universe does not in fact provide things like mechanics.
I shoved it deep into my pocket. It was mine.
CHAPTER ONE
SUMMER
LOS ANGELES
TUESDAY, JUNE 6
The line for this abominable Hollywood nightclub is ten miles long. Twentysomethings crowd together, passing vape pens back and forth as bouncers survey the queue and beckon the prettiest people to the front. Good. For my purposes, the bigger the crowd and the more exclusive the venue, the better.
I bypass the line and give the bouncer a pretty smile. He looks me up and down and unclips the red velvet rope. It’s not just my ass that’s getting me inside; the last time I was here, I slipped him a Benjamin. Sometimes you have to spend money to make money. “Have a nice time,” he says.
“Thanks.” I stroll through the darkened hallway, pay the cover charge, and present my ID to a woman behind a little glass window. Music thumps from within like a heartbeat.
My phone buzzes in my purse while my wrist is getting stamped. It’s Leo. Going in. Wish me luck! The words are followed by a money bag emoji and a photo of the stairwell leading to the rooftop hotel bar we cased out together. She’s downtown tonight, a handful of traffic-clogged mil
I reply, You got this. I think she’s nervous. I’ve tried reassuring her; we all have unlucky streaks. She’ll feel better when she has cash in hand, a feeling I relate to on a soul-deep level. Money is security. Money is doctor appointments, gas in the tank, food—and we’re running low.
I take my ID back—I’m moonlighting as someone named Claire tonight—and stow it in my bra. My car key is a hard little lump beside the license. I never keep my key in my purse. You can’t tell what might happen to the things you’re carrying.
I pull the nightclub door open. Warm, steamy air blasts into my face along with an assault of “Smack That” by Akon. I cringe, remembering the theme tonight is early aughts. The club smells like booze, cologne, and sweat. I stroll through the room, getting oriented. On the left are bottle service tables, a series of booths partitioned off with velvet ropes. Ahead is the double-sided bar with bartenders working frantically, arms flashing. Cocktail waitresses dart back and forth, graceful little hummingbirds sipping from flowers.
On the right is the packed dance floor, a bearded DJ presiding over it like a cult leader. My eyes follow the walls out of habit, locating the restrooms and the door that leads to the back room and service exit. I bypass dancers and tuck myself into a corner to take stock. The crowd is mostly early twenties and stupid rich, which is of course why I chose this club. I was tipped off by some UCLA students, and I can see in a single glance that tonight will be worth my time.
A smile creeps across my face. I didn’t realize how much I’ve been worrying about our little dry spell until now. All my energy had been used to reassure Leo.
I take fifteen minutes to select my people. It helps to nickname them—an old memory trick a veteran salesman taught me—so I work up a mental list that includes Yacht Chad (spiky blond hair, expensive boat shoes, drunk); Tennis Chad (looks like Yacht Chad but with brown hair); Fitness Amber, who’s trying to twerk while drinking her weight in Long Islands; and Med Student Jen, who’s going to be really bummed when she realizes she lost her ID but who looks enough like me to be my younger sister.
I move to a corner near the bar and stroll back and forth until I catch one of the cocktail waitresses logging in to the point-of-sale terminal. Heidi, employee number 120801. Perfect.
The DJ pivots to “Milkshake” with a vengeance. The crowd cheers drunkenly, and the college girls turn around so the boys can grind up on their L.A.-toned butts.
I slip along the perimeter of the club and let myself into the ladies’ room. Inside, someone is vomiting in the handicapped stall. I lock myself into the smaller stall and pull off my black dress. Underneath, I’m wearing a crop top with a deep V-neck and a pair of butt-cheek-baring booty shorts. Two bras have my cleavage welling up to an almost comic degree. It’s overkill; my chest is big enough. I can hear Leo’s voice in my head, teasing me about it. But the more my boobs bust out of my shirt, the less anyone will look at my face. Speaking of which, I slide on a pair of nonprescription glasses, which will be another thing people notice instead of my features.
I pull my long hair into a tight bun to hide its length, which is distinctive—it falls thick and wavy to my waist. Anyone remembering me from tonight will recall four things: big butt, big boobs, glasses, brown hair in a bun.
I tie a small black apron around my hips and tuck a server’s black folio into the front pocket. Finished with my look, I stuff my dress into my purse, which I hide among the toilet paper rolls under the sink, and freshen my lipstick in the mirror while the girl in the handicapped stall enters a fresh round of puking.
“You all right in there?” I call.
She gurgles something that sounds like “Go away,” then coughs. Okay then.
I exit the bathroom and am back on the dance floor. We’re onto Eminem now. Man, it’s packed in here. There must be a thousand people in this confined space. This is going to be an amazing haul, I can feel it. I let the anticipation flood my bones, and I find myself bouncing on the balls of my feet. A lifetime of this and it still gives me the same rush it ever did.
I have a rule: thirty minutes from this moment. In and out. It’s enough time to get a good haul without being a fixture long enough to be memorable. I spot Heidi the cocktail waitress on the far side of the bar, looking harangued. She loads a bunch of drinks onto her tray and hurries off into the crowd.
It’s time.
Smile.
I show some teeth, stick my chest out, and enter the crowd. A pair of guys hollers at me within three seconds. I snap my smile onto them, and they tell me they want two Sex on the Beaches. One of them tries to dance with me, and I laugh like it’s hilarious. He gets too close, an arm around me, and starts dry humping me in the most ungainly way imaginable. I slide a hand behind him, remove his wallet with two quick fingers, flip it open with a thumb, pull the cash out, and slide it back into his pocket. The whole gesture takes three seconds. It’s my trademark.
“Do you really want to order those drinks?” I’m yelling up at him, making sure my boobs are bouncing hypnotically. “Or are you just being funny?”
His words are slurred. “If I’m funny, will you go home with me? I wanna see you naked.”
“A tempting offer.” I slide the cash into my folio. It’s just a few bills, but every night has to start somewhere. “Gotta get back to work, though. Have fun tonight! Be safe!” I slip away and continue toward the POS at the side of the bar. While the bartender’s back is turned and Heidi is taking orders on the other side of the club, I type in 120801 and click on the mixed drinks screen. I know this software well. This is not my first rodeo.
I order some rounds of shots. While the bartender makes them, I navigate through the crowd, taking drink orders I don’t have to write down and searching for my Chads, my Amber, my Jen. Yacht Chad is making out with an unfortunate brunette against a wall, and I help myself to the stack of cash he’s been flaunting, returning his money clip with a few twenties still inside. He’ll think he just overspent.
While the DJ revisits the magic of “Smack That”—I’m never listening to this song again—I wait for Heidi and the bartender to be distracted, grab a tray, and load up the shots I ordered. I take them through the crowd, selling them, collecting tips and cash from wallets one-handed. I’m better with my tray than Heidi is. I should do this professionally, I joke to myself.
Med Student Jen is in the corner trying to have an actual conversation with a woman who’s way too drunk to track anything she says. Poor Jen. I strike up a friendly, screamed-above-the-music conversation. We make fun of the song, roll our eyes about the stupid guys here, and I gift them two Cokes I “happen” to have on my tray. Jen is relieved to be drinking something nonalcoholic, and her conversation partner is too drunk to tell if it’s Coke or battery acid. During all this, I get my hand into Jen’s purse, remove her wallet, hide it behind my back while I get out the license, and then replace it in her purse with her none the wiser. The ID is the most valuable thing I’ll get tonight. I’ve been needing a new one badly. Sorry sorry sorry, I think to Jen as I walk away. It won’t cost her anything but a trip to the DMV, but I still feel bad. The Robin Hood thing is only fun when you’re stealing from rich assholes, not when you’re stealing from a nice college student.
Oh, well. I needed an ID, and now I have one. I didn’t create the world. I just live in it.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m almost ready to wrap. Tennis Chad’s wallet is a great find and includes an American Express black card, and I get no less than seven credit cards from Fitness Amber. This is why it’s important to study people before getting started; you can’t always size someone up with a single glance. You have to watch them move through a crowd, analyze their wardrobe, their mannerisms.
