by Huss, JA
“Right, I knew that.” I smile at him. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Mr. Flynn, we’ve been noticing some discrepancies in your statement to the Denver police and we’d like you to come down to the station and take a polygraph. Do you think you could oblige us with that?”
Aaaaannnd… game starts now.
I widen my smile. “Oh, absolutely. I’d be more than happy to.” I grab my leather jacket from a hook near the door and wave him out of the studio. “I’ll meet you down there.”
“Actually, my partner dropped me off, so if I could catch a ride with you, that’d be great.”
“No problem. What’d he do, go grab some donuts?”
Abelli laughs but the tension lines on his face tell me it’s forced. “No, he just needed to get back to the station and set up the machine.”
“Just messing with ya, dude. I know you’re not really donut eaters.”
He shuts up after that and I just unlock the doors to my truck and we both slide in. The drive down to the station only takes a few minutes since it’s mid-morning and traffic is light, but it feels like an eternity as we sit and listen to the radio. What the fuck could this be about? It can’t be Jon. I had nothing to do with any of the hacking. And Rook would’ve called me if they had Ford in custody, even if Spencer wouldn’t. No, it’s not about Jon. I didn’t even really have to lie when I gave my statement. The only thing not true was the text message. And even so, it was present and legit by the time the cops checked the phone.
No, this isn’t about that asshole, but beyond that I have no other info. But I will. Because they’re fishing for answers with this polygraph, which means they have to tip their hand with the questions they ask.
Well, bring it on. Because as Spencer said last summer when he was painting Rook, everyone has one God-given gift.
And mine is lying.
Actually, it’s acting, but what’s the difference, really? My time in India was not wasted with trips to the Taj Mahal with the tourists because there was another American artist in the hotel with us and this guy was filming a documentary about poor kids. Kinda like Slumdog Millionaire except it was supposed to be real. But no one wanted to talk to this guy or let their kids be manipulated into revealing how horrible their lives were, so he hired me to be his star poor kid even though I was an American living in a five-star hotel.
Turns out the guy was quite the liar himself and he set the whole thing up to be believable.
Let’s just say it was an elaborate plot with parents being robbed and killed on vacation and me running for my life from the Mumbai underworld after witnessing it. He did get caught faking the documentary but he played it off like it was sort of a Blair Witch thing, right? And this is when I discovered I was a fucking natural liar. Actor. Same thing.
I saw the movie a few years later—he won some independent film award for it, even. I would cry and look desperate and beg people for money on the streets, and I told a story that had Elise uncontrollably sobbing, that’s how fucking sad I made it.
But that guy never did out me. That was one of the terms in the contract Elise signed. No one would know it was me and I got a stage name. I got five thousand dollars for lying while we were in India. Which was a lot of fucking money to Elise and me at the time.
Then the modeling gigs started coming in and they wanted me to act but not speak. So I learned to talk with my body and facial expressions.
And this is how my gift works in a nutshell. You wrap your mind around a scenario, you believe that scenario with all your heart, and then you just react—body and mind together. It’s not hard at all, not really.
I never did any acting in the States because by the time we settled back down and I was in an actual school full time I was too cool for that theater shit. There is no record of Ronin Flynn ever being an actor. And if there’s no record of it, it never happened.
So polygraphs? No problem. This asshole has no idea what’s coming.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Rook
“Done yet?”
“You just fucking asked me that twenty minutes ago, Ford. No, I’m not done. I’m not quick at this shit like you are, OK? Just let me think it over.” I drum my fingertips on the coffee table and try and come up with three reasons.
“Rook, the application must be in by Friday or you’ll have to wait another semester to get into Boulder.”
Maybe I don’t want to go to Boulder, did that ever occur to him?
But I don’t say that out loud because he’s just trying to help me. Instead I chew on my thumbnail as I try and think of how to start. It’s an application essay. I’m just a few weeks into community college writing, so yeah, I’m not that good at this shit yet. I’ve barely mastered the topic sentence. Ford eyeballs me as he drinks a beer in the kitchen. “It’s a little early to start drinking, don’t you think?”
“You drive me to drink, Rook. What’s the hold-up? They want to know why you want to go to school. Surely you can handle that?”
I sneer at him and take my attention back to my laptop. The problem is I might be lazy. Now that I have all this money I don’t have the same drive to push myself in this area. Would I be a waste of space at this school? I’m pretty sure there are people a lot more deserving than me who could use a shot at this education that I’m not fully appreciating.
The cushion sinks as Ford sits next to me. “What’s going on?” he asks softly. “You’re not interested?”
I lean back and sigh. “I’m just not sure, Ford. This school stuff is not easy.”
“I’m not following. You thought it would be easier or it’s harder than you expected?”
“Both, I guess. I’m not super smart like you guys, but I’m not stupid, right?” He puts an arm around me and I almost have a heart attack. “What are you doing?”
His eyebrows go up. “Comforting you. Am I doing it wrong?”
A laugh bursts out and I just shake my head. “No, this is correct, I guess.”
“Do you want to quit school, Rook?”
“Am I a failure if I do?”
“Yes,” he says with zero emotion.
I laugh again. “Fuck, Ford. What the hell? I thought you were comforting me!”
“Do you want me to tell you the truth or lie?”
“Lie!”
“I’m sorry, I’m the honest one, remember? You are smart but you have almost no education. You should be embarrassed by that.”
“What the fuck? That’s enough comforting, thanks.” I finagle my way out from his embrace and try to get up but he grabs me and pushes me back on the couch. “I’ll do it in my room. Let me go.”
“No, we’re writing this essay and you’re turning in the application. You have brains, you have money, you have people supporting you. A few weeks ago your dream was to go to film school so I’ve pointed you in that direction and you’re staying on that trajectory and seeing it through until you have a damn good reason why the dream has changed. If you get in, then you can decide if you want to go or not. But you don’t get to give up before you try just because it’s hard. That’s unacceptable. You have thirty minutes to write this essay or I’ll ground you.” And then he winks. “And if I was Ronin I’d spank the shit out of you and make it hurt for being such a brat.”
I scoot over to the other side of the couch and kick him with my socked foot. “You’re dumb.”
“You’re juvenile. Now give me the three main reasons you wanted to go to school.”
“If it was that easy—”
“Just the top three, Rook. It’s not brain surgery. Off the top of your head, right now.”
“Money.”
“OK, you don’t really need that anymore. What else?”
“A cool job.”
“You have that as well. Or you could if you wanted, but you decided to take a boring one. You have options, should you ever want a cool job again, though, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So give me an internal reason.
Something you can’t have, something you will feel. Like pride. Will education make you feel proud?”
“Sure.”
“What other internal things?”
“Well, respect, I guess.”
“Respect from whom?”
“I’m not sure. Me? I think I am capable of more than I’ve been doing with my life, so getting a college degree would make me feel like I’m fulfilling my potential. Does that make sense?”
He smiles and puts his arm around me and this time I lean in. “Yes, that’s a great reason. You should write that down and tell the admissions people all the reasons why you believe you have potential and what it means for you to live up to it.”
“You’re sneaky.”
“I’ve been known to sneak a time or two.”
I turn to my computer as Ford gets back up to grab another beer and heads out to the shop. I still, still, have no idea what Ford does here as far as work goes. It’s like he’s only here to be my friend or something.
Hmmmm…
Those sneaky fucks.
I stay and finish up the stupid college admissions application while Ford covers for me on the phones, and picturing this is so freaking funny to me that I have to get out there and actually witness it myself before I go to tutoring. I pull the door open and immediately Ford puts a hand up, like he’s shushing me. Whatever. I stand patiently while he chats on the phone about this person’s custom order and upcoming meeting with Spencer.
Then I sigh.
Then yawn.
“Can I help you?” Ford asks as he hangs up the phone.
“I think you’re trying to replace me, actually. Since when are you polite?”
“Rook, I am nothing if not professional.”
“Yeah, you’re about as professional as Ronin is honest.”
Ford’s whole face turns white. “What did you say?”
“It was a joke, I caught him in a lie last weekend right after he fed me that same line, only it was about him being honest.” Ford just stares at me for a second, then relief washes over his face. “What. The. Fuck?”
“How’s your tutor? Is it time to go?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, glancing up at the clock. “I do have to go or I’ll be late.” I think avoiding talking to Ford about anything to do with that tutor is a good idea right about now, so I give him a wave and skip out.
I think about what Gage will say to me tonight all the way over to the college and when I finally get there and park, he’s waiting for me outside again. “Wanna go to the student lounge and study instead of the math center?”
“OK.” I could care less where he checks my work, as long as it gets checked and I can turn it in before midnight, because that’s the deadline for this set of problems. We walk across campus to the building that contains the bookstore and the only café-type place on the small campus, order our drinks, and then find a table near the back where there are only a few other students studying. I hand my paper over to Gage and busy myself watching people as I wait.
He works on it for a little bit, then hands it back with all the wrong answers circled in red and a short note about where I went wrong.
I’m not stupid at math, I just get mixed up at what I’m supposed to do at each step. I forget how, but once Gage points it out to me, it makes sense again. So I guess if I just tried a little harder to memorize the steps I might do better. Gage busies himself grabbing some paperwork from his backpack while I work and then I hand it back.
He checks it again. “Yeah, that’s good. Now just enter it into the computer and you’re all set.”
I do and then tick the little box that says I promise I didn’t cheat, and press enter.
“Done! And we’re early, it’s only seven forty-five.” I reach down to get my backpack so I can shove my shit inside and leave, but Gage slides some papers across the table at me. “What’s this?”
“Printouts of your friends, Rook. I hope you thought about what I said last week. They’re dangerous.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Gage, I think I know them better than you. They are the farthest thing from dangerous I’ve ever seen in my life. Maybe you’ve just been really sheltered or something?” I flutter my eyelashes a little to play it down and make him back off.
“Uh-huh.” He pushes the papers towards me with one finger. “Just read them, OK? Read them and then I’ll never say another thing about it. Deal?”
“Whatever. I already saw them, though. I looked it all up online.”
“This stuff isn’t online, Rook. So just read it.”
I pick up the stack of papers and read the first headline. It’s not a newspaper. It’s an FBI report. “What the fuck is this?”
“Just read it.”
It looks like your basic FBI wanted poster you’d see on TV, except it doesn’t say ‘wanted,’ it says ‘person of interest.’ And that phrase conjures up only one image since the 9/11 attacks. Terrorists. I look up at Gage and raise an eyebrow.
He pans his hands out in an innocent shrug. “Just read it.”
I continue. It’s all about Ronin. Height—so very, very tall. I snicker to myself. Weight—buffed the fuck out. Eye color—electrifying. Age—young. He’s only nineteen in this dossier. “Well, these are his general stats which I am already very familiar with. And his picture just makes me want to kiss the photo.” I look up with a smirk.
“You’re laughing now, but wait.”
I glare over at Gage and toss the paper back to him. “I’m just not interested. I don’t care what he did in the past or why the FBI thinks he’s important. It’s over. He’s a good guy. I love him. I’m thinking having his blue-eyed babies might be a good idea in about ten years.”
“Ronin Sean Flynn, age nineteen—”
“I said I’m not interested. Besides, that was years ago if he was just nineteen.”
“—picked up for human trafficking, cocaine distribution, grand larceny—”
My heart about beats out of my chest at the first charge. Human trafficking? “No! That’s not him. He didn’t do that stuff.” This is some kind of joke, for the show or something? I look around wildly.
“Rook, I swear to God, OK? The fucking FBI handed me these papers not two hours ago, they wanted me to tell you so you don’t get caught up in this, they would like you to talk to them—”
I grab my bag and bolt out the door, leaving Gage there with his stack of bullshit papers that might be ripping apart my whole world right now. I look around. Are they watching me? I stop in front of my truck, scanning the dark parking lot.
Nothing. No one out here at all.
I get in and take a few deep breaths. This is not my Ronin. Whatever those papers said, it’s a lie. He’s not involved in that kind of stuff, I know it. No man as gentle as him could possibly be involved in that stuff. I pull out of the parking lot, trying my best not to speed so I don’t get pulled over, and head east towards College Ave.
Shit. Who the fuck can I ask about this?
Why don’t I have any friends?
I chew on my cheek as I think. I have Elise, Spencer, Ford, Antoine, Ronin. That’s it. My whole fucking circle of friends could possibly be involved.
Except one, maybe.
Veronica.
I know for a fact that Spencer is a commitment-phobe, so even if some of this stuff with them is true—and I’m not even thinking it is yet, but even if it was—I don’t think Veronica would be involved. Spencer refuses to even call her his girlfriend.
I turn left on College and head up towards downtown to her tattoo shop. It’s Monday night so the place might not even be open. But it’s all I have right now.
Veronica, the girl who endured the agonizing pain of a bullet-induced scrape across her hip, called my ex an ass-faced bastard, and probably saved me from being dragged back to my own personal hell in Chicago, is as good as I’ve got as far as second opinions go.
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Ronin
So this is how it works.
L
isten to the question, breathe. Stop. Blink. Breathe. Recite the question back to myself so that I understand every word. Answer yes or no.
That’s it.
Of course, they’re trying to make you fuck up. They ask the question a few different ways. They give you throwaway questions—which, depending on the question, may be a good time to just outright lie. Like if they ask Is your name Ronin Flynn? And you’re me? I say yes, of course, because everyone knows that’s my name. But if they ask Have you ever stolen anything? That’s a dummy question because it’s an absolute—everyone has stolen something at one time or another, even if it was by accident or whatever. It’s throwaway. So to that one I lie immediately and say no, but the needle stays calm, indicating I’m being truthful.
And then I sit back and smile.
Because I just did two things. I set up their machine to record that kind of response as truth and I lied to their faces but it didn’t record and they know it.
A good operator will know what to do with that. They’ll set me up in a pattern of repeated questions, phrased with slight variations, so that I will unconsciously lie. But I’m telling you, this is my God-given gift. Spencer paints naked girls, Ford is some evil version of Einstein, sans the bad hair and with the slight insanity issues, and I’m the sweet-talking bullshit liar.
That’s just how it is.
I can be whatever people want me to be. You want me to be guilty? I can play that part just as well as innocent. In fact, sometimes I do play guilty when I’m being questioned. That really fucking throws them off.
And none of what I’m doing is special, not really. I’m just observant, calculating, and I spent just as much time learning to turn off my emotions as I did turning them on.
“Is your name Ronin Flynn?”
I’m all hooked up to the computer now, sitting in this slightly over-warm room that will at some point in the middle of questioning turn slightly too cold, and I’m ready.
“Yes.”
“Do you live at the Chaput Studios Building in LoDo?”
“Yes.” That’s a lie, but I say it with confidence and the machine agrees with me. Our building is technically in Five Points, not Lower Downtown, but like I said, dummy questions.