Twisted Lies

by C. B. Clark

  She grabbed his collar and held him close. “What is it, boy? What’s wrong?”

  He whimpered and licked her hand, straining to break free.

  A muttered curse sliced through his anxious whining, and she looked over his head.

  A man was sprawled in the middle of the path, a bicycle lying on the ground beside him.

  Releasing Otis, she hurried over to the injured cyclist. “Are you okay?”

  “I…I think so.” He sat up, undid the chin strap, and removed his bike helmet, revealing thick, dark curls cropped close to his head. Grimacing, he rubbed his right shoulder. “Is that your dog?”

  “My dog? Why would you—” Oh no. Her heart sank. “What happened? Did he cause your crash?” Dogs were supposed to be leashed and under the control of their owners. It was the park regulation. “I’m so sorry.” Was the man injured? Was he angry? Oh Lord. Would he sue? She slid a glance at his bike.

  The front wheel of the expensive-looking, high-end road bike was bent.

  She bit the skin on the inside of her cheek. How much would the wheel cost to repair?

  The cyclist rose to his feet and brushed clumps of grass and mud off his form-fitting, black spandex bike shorts. His broad shoulders and muscled forearms stretched the tight fabric of his black, long-sleeved shirt, revealing the dips and swells of well-toned muscles. His muscular, tanned calves, sprinkled with dark hair, extended beneath his shorts, and his feet were encased in red and black cycling shoes.

  She gulped and looked up…way up.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Mid-thirties, maybe? His rugged face was tanned as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. Thick black eyebrows arched over honey-brown eyes rimmed by long dark eyelashes. Instead of the anger she expected, he smiled. Tiny laugh lines bracketed his generous mouth. His white teeth gleamed.

  “Is this your dog?”

  She gulped. “I’m…I’m sorry. Did he run in front of you? Is that why you crashed?”

  Otis padded to the man, sat on his haunches, and lifted one monstrous paw and waved it in the air. He cocked his ears, put on his adorable puppy face, and whined piteously as if begging forgiveness.

  The man crouched and petted Otis’s velvety head.

  A sucker for attention, the dog flopped on his back and exposed his hairy stomach.

  The cyclist chuckled and scratched the dog’s belly.

  Otis wriggled ecstatically.

  “It’s not his fault.” The hunk looked up and met her gaze. “I was going too fast. I should have been paying more attention.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting this handsome fellow to chase a squirrel across the path in front of me. So, I guess we should blame the squirrel.” He patted Otis. “Isn’t that right, boy? It was that big, bad squirrel’s fault.”

  Otis’s tail beat a rhapsody.

  “I’m so sorry. I should have had him on a leash, but he loves to run, and…” Under the heated power of his golden eyes, she lost track of what she was saying.

  “Don’t worry. I’m fine.” He grimaced and jerked his thumb at his damaged bike. “Can’t say the same about my ride.”

  “I’ll…I’ll pay to have your bike fixed.” She fumbled for her purse and fished out her wallet. Removing several small bills, she held them out. Her face heated at the paltry amount. “This is all I have with me, but I can—”

  “Keep your money. The bike’s a rental. I paid extra for insurance, and that should cover the damage.” Rubbing his hip, he limped to his bike and crouched. His shorts tightened across a toned butt and muscular thighs.

  She swallowed, her mouth bone dry. “Are you sure?”

  “The wheel’s not bent too bad.” His grin widened. “The bike shop should be able to repair it.”

  Otis, his swishing tail raising a small dust cloud, sat at the cyclist’s feet, adoration shining in his expressive dark eyes.

  The man rubbed behind the dog’s ear. “What’s his name?”

  “Otis.”

  “Otis, huh?” He ruffled Otis’s hair under his chin. “How are you doing, Otis?”

  Otis’s entire back end wagged. More dust rose in the air.

  The intriguing stranger laughed, and a dimple popped out on his lean cheek. “He’s a handsome dude. What breed is he?”

  She shrugged, struggling to think under the power of that devastating indentation. “I…I don’t know. Heinz fifty-seven, I guess. I found him as a stray when he was a puppy. No one claimed him, so he moved in with me. That was two-and-a-half years ago. We’ve been roommates ever since.”

  One dark brow arched. “He’s your only roommate? No husband or boyfriend?”

  “No…ah…there’s no one else.” Butterflies danced in her belly. He was one fine-looking man. No doubt about that. No doubt at all.

  He stood and stepped closer, holding out his hand. “I’m Russ.”

  She stared at his hand. Long, tanned fingers, large knuckles, a sprinkling of dark hair. Her heart sped up a notch. No ring. There was a God. “My…my name’s Athena.”

  His callused palm and fingers tingled against her skin. A whiff of the light, lemony tang of his aftershave filled the air.

  His eyes were the color of rich, melting taffy. Sparks of gold ringed the outer irises. “Athena? You’re named after the ancient Greek goddess.” He grinned, and his dimple popped out. “The name suits you.”

  She swooned. She honestly swooned. “I…” Giving up trying to speak in coherent sentences, she contented herself with drinking in his every jaw-dropping, curl-your-toes inch.

  He waved his free hand at the surrounding forest. “This is my first time here. The park is sure pretty.” His gaze wasn’t on the trees and wildflowers. He was staring at her, his meaning obvious.

  His shameless flirting amped the heat searing her cheeks to a raging inferno. “You…you don’t live near here?”

  “No. I’m in town for business. I live in West Vancouver.” He shrugged, and his shirt tightened across his broad shoulders. “It’s such a beautiful day, and after being locked inside for meetings these past few days, I wanted some fresh air and exercise. The concierge at my hotel told me about this park. I rented a bike and—” He grinned boyishly. “—the rest is history.”

  She chuckled, actually laughed out loud. Amazing. A weight lifted off her shoulders. How long had it been since she’d laughed? “Beaton Park is pretty special.”

  The steel guitar twang of an old-time country-and-western song split the air as a cell phone rang.

  His cell phone, though for the life of her she couldn’t see where he kept it. His cycling clothes were so tight the bulge of even a small phone would be visible.

  Releasing her hand, he slid a cell phone out of a hidden pocket on his upper sleeve. He glanced at the screen, and his mouth tightened. “Sorry. I have to get this.” Turning away, he spoke into the phone. “What’s up? Tell me you found her.”

  A trill of unease tickled down her spine, and she eyed the attractive stranger. Was their meeting an accident? Or had he somehow arranged it? Was he connected with the letter she’d received? Even though she knew that was impossible—she hadn’t known she was going to be in the park that morning—her good mood vanished, replaced by her usual wariness.

  Grabbing Otis’s collar, she attached the leash and dragged his resisting body away from the all-too-handsome stranger. The sound of Russ’s deep, resonant voice faded as she and the dog hurried down the path.

  Chapter 3

  She unlocked the back door and stepped into the kitchen.

  Otis burst past her, scrambling across the slippery tiles to his water dish.

  The bite of alcohol fumes slapped her in the face. The pile of sodden paper towels lay on the floor, and tiny shards of glass sparkled in the sunshine streaming through the window. She heaved a heavy sigh. No magical cleaning fairy had made an appearance while she and Otis were out.

  Her cell phone rang, the plastic case vibrating across the countertop where she’d left it. Grabbing the phone, she studied the call d
isplay. Punching the Answer button, she raised the phone to her ear. “Aunt Clara, how are you?”

  “Hello, dear.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I just got back from Palm Springs. My flight arrived this afternoon, remember?”

  Guilt flooded Athena, and she smacked her hand on her forehead. She’d promised her aunt she’d pick her up at the airport, but in all the stress she’d forgotten. “Oh, Aunt Clara. I’m so sorry. I forgot.”

  “That’s okay, dear. I got a ride share. I know how busy you are.”

  Clara’s statement hung in the air.

  Athena grimaced. Her aunt was well aware Athena’s days were spent watching television cooking shows, surfing the Internet, walking Otis, and struggling with her sobriety. She’d had plenty of time to meet Clara at the airport, but no energy to defend her forgetfulness, so she kept silent.

  “How are you doing?” A note of concern crept into Clara’s usually cheerful voice. Her mother’s sister was Athena’s only surviving relative. Athena, as a young, grieving orphan, had moved in with her aunt after the tragedy that changed her life.

  Those first months living with Clara had been a nightmare—for both of them. Athena was a traumatized twelve-year-old, reeling from the shock of her parents’ sudden, mysterious disappearance. Clara was a single woman with no commitments, and she liked to travel. Her carefree lifestyle ended when Athena was thrust upon her doorstep, but she’d welcomed her niece with loving arms and showed remarkable compassion for the emotionally bruised and battered girl.

  Athena would never forget those dark months. Inconsolable and immersed in her unimaginable loss, she’d lived in a world colored in shades of gray and black. Clara’s boundless patience and unconditional love broke through the walls surrounding Athena and helped her heal. Realizing her aunt was speaking, she shoved the painful memories away and forced herself to listen.

  “Palm Springs is beautiful. You’d love it…everything’s so green and lush. It’s hard to believe I was in the middle of a desert.”

  “Did you manage to get in much golfing?” Even though she suffered from arthritis, the elderly woman was an avid golfer and spent most of her days on the golf links.

  Clara chuckled.

  Athena closed her eyes and let the familiar, warm sound wash over her like a comforting blanket.

  “I was out every day. I’m finally getting a handle on my backswing.” Clara cleared her throat. “But I didn’t call to talk about my adventures. What about you, dear? How’s everything?”

  Athena made a face. Even though Clara hadn’t said the exact words, everything was about one, single thing—her drinking. “Fine. Just fine.” The blatant fib tasted bitter in her mouth.

  Clara clucked sympathetically. “Hang in there. You’re doing your best. You’ll get this under control, and before you know it, you’ll be back at Schuster & Corbin.”

  Her throat thickened at her aunt’s unfailing confidence. She had Athena’s back even if her faith in her niece wasn’t warranted, especially not today.

  “What’s wrong, dear? Something’s bothering you, I can tell.” Clara’s concern radiated down the line.

  Athena rubbed the back of her neck. Her first inclination was to lie again, but Clara was her biggest supporter on this difficult journey to sobriety. She deserved the truth. “I…I had a drink today.”

  A heavy silence, sparked with faint static, filled Athena’s ear. She visualized Clara’s mouth set in a disapproving line.

  “Oh, my dear. What happened? You were doing so well.”

  “It was just one drink. I—” She stopped. Who was she kidding? If the bottle of vodka hadn’t smashed on the floor, her one drink would have turned into a second, and then another, and another until the bottle was empty. “I’m sorry. I know I promised you I’d quit, but…” Again, her voice trailed off. “A…a letter came in the mail today.” She licked her dry lips.

  “What sort of letter?”

  Athena’s throat worked, and she struggled to swallow. “A registered letter, addressed to Margaret Anne O’Flynn.”

  Clara gasped.

  “It’s from a Vancouver lawyer.” Athena inhaled a shaky breath. “Has…has anyone contacted you recently?”

  “No, dear. No one at all. I would have told you.” A pregnant pause, and then Clara asked the million-dollar question, “How did they find you?”

  “I don’t know, but they did. After all this time, they tracked me down.” Tears stung her eyes.

  Another long silence. The fridge motor hummed, a car’s engine rumbled, the tires swishing on the pavement in front of the house. Somewhere down the block, a dog yapped.

  “What…what did this lawyer want?” Clara’s voice was rough, as if tears coated her throat.

  “I don’t know. The letter didn’t specify.” Athena tapped her fingers on the countertop. The staccato beat was strident in the silent kitchen, but her nerves were strung tight, and she couldn’t stop. “The lawyer wants to meet with Margaret O’Flynn regarding an important personal matter. Apparently, it’s urgent.”

  “Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry. I know you didn’t want this.” Clara’s voice broke, and she sniffled. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I understand how you must feel, but have you considered this meeting could involve information about your parents? Maybe this lawyer knows something about what happened.”

  Athena stopped tapping and squeezed her hand into a tight fist. “Or maybe it’s a ruse to lure me into the open. Maybe the nightmare’s starting all over again.”

  “You have a tough decision to make. If you ignore the letter, you’ll always wonder. Or—”

  “I know.” Athena heaved a sigh. “I…I should meet with this lawyer and find out what she wants. I mean, what could it hurt? Right?” Her laugh was brittle.

  “Promise me one thing.” Clara cleared her throat. “Promise you won’t have another drink. No matter what this lawyer wants, or what you decide to do about the request, promise me you’ll stay sober.”

  Even though the hunger for a drink and the sweet oblivion alcohol promised raged through her like a wildfire, Athena promised. And she meant every word. She wouldn’t drink, not anymore. Not today, and God willing, not tomorrow.

  “I’m so proud of you, dear. Your parents would be too.”

  Tears filmed her eyes. “Thanks, Aunt Clara.” She ended the connection and tossed the cell phone on the counter. Her aunt’s unfailing confidence in Athena’s ability to stop drinking was misplaced but gratifying. Someone believed in her.

  Tearing off more paper towels, she squatted and mopped up the spilled liquor. She dumped the sodden paper towels into the garbage can and strode to the closet and retrieved a broom. Sweeping the broken glass into a dustpan, she discarded the mess into the garbage. Washing her hands in the sink, she dried them on a towel. Her chores completed for the day, she wandered into the living room. Clara was right. Athena had a decision to make—ignore the letter or meet with the lawyer and find out what the hell she wanted.

  Otis was stretched out on his bed in the corner by the gas fireplace. He opened his liquid brown eyes as she passed, and his tail thumped the floor in greeting. In another second, his eyelids drooped closed again, and a loud snore rumbled.

  Her gaze fell on the envelope lying under the coffee table, and a chill rattled through her. What was she afraid of? She wasn’t a frightened, traumatized child. The past couldn’t harm her. Not anymore. Inhaling a deep breath, she picked up the envelope and tugged the letter free. Sinking onto the couch, she smoothed the paper on her lap.

  The letter was typed on official letterhead paper from a Jennifer Smythe at Smythe & Sons, Attorneys at Law, situated at 365 Palmer Avenue in the heart of downtown Vancouver. She scanned the salutation.

  Dear Margaret Anne O’Flynn.

  She flinched at the long-unused name. Twenty-three years had passed since anyone had called her Maggie O’Flynn. After her parents disappeared
without a trace from Shelter Island, the press’s relentless fascination with the tragic story had elevated a horrendous time into pure torture.

  Reporters had camped on Clara’s front lawn, their cameras pointed at every window. They dug through the trash, called the house phone at all hours of the day and night begging for interviews, and followed Athena and her aunt everywhere, blasting them with questions they couldn’t answer.

  Going to school was impossible, so Clara had homeschooled her. Isolated and stuck inside, the months after the tragedy were the most frightening and loneliest of Athena’s life. The constant spotlight added to her heartbreak.

  When the media attention became too much, Clara sold her house. They packed up their belongings and moved across the country, staying in one city after another for a month or so before moving on and ending up in Calgary where no one recognized Athena as that “poor, pitiful child whose parents deserted her.”

  The person she was then, Margaret Anne O’Flynn, needed the space to rest, and even, maybe, to be forgotten. A few months later, Clara helped Maggie change her name. Maggie enjoyed the Greek mythology stories her father had read to her before bed. Her favorite goddess amidst the pantheon of Greek deities was Athena, the goddess of wisdom, courage, and warfare.

  She loved the strong and powerful name. Athena symbolized everything she wasn’t, everything she hoped one day she’d become. And so, she’d shed her old name like a second skin. Maggie O’Flynn disappeared, and Athena Reynolds was born. Years later, she made the name change legal.

  But now this Vancouver lawyer had tracked her down and wished to speak with her as soon as possible on an extremely important and time-sensitive matter. The letter ended with a plea for Athena to call and arrange a meeting as soon as possible. The paper crackled as she crumpled it in her fist.

  How had the lawyer tracked her down? The question rang through her aching brain in an endless refrain. Few people who knew her as Athena Reynolds were aware of her birth name. After she’d changed her name, and with the many moves around the country, the media lost track of her whereabouts. Neither she, nor Clara, had been contacted by a reporter in years.