by Wolf, Alex
“It’s where he keeps his data.”
He glares long and hard at me. “No, it’s in an office suite off Rush Street.”
I shake my head. “Red herring. I looked into it. Trust me, it’s here.”
His eyes are cold, trying to get a read on me, then finally, he grins. “Well, all right then. Let’s get the tools.”
I shake my head. “I’m holding it.”
“Huh?”
I hold up my phone. “Two security systems. One on the house, and the encryption on the drive.”
“My intelligence told me his data isn’t networked.”
“It’s not. But his security system is. The wifi isn’t enabled on it, but it has a wifi chip on the unit. I can activate it remotely. Bug in the software.”
Dad pats me on the back, grinning, then his fingers dig into my shoulder. It doesn’t hurt physically, but the psychological damage is there. Every memory of him gripping me by the shoulder as a boy, grinding his teeth, telling me not to fuck this up, comes back to the center of my mind.
My gut twists. All the hurt, anger, depression, it all rises to the surface, every memory of why I hate him. It takes everything in me to keep my rage suppressed, even more importantly, my fear. It would terrify me when he looked at me, eight years old, running some kind of street scam or credit card play. All I wanted was a regular dad, but I didn’t have one. Why did this piece of shit have to reproduce? The world would’ve been better off without me in it.
Then the words come. The intimidation.
“You fuck me on this, and I will end you. I’ll expose everything.”
I shake my head, pushing away all my nightmares, and I smack his hand away from me. “Fuck you. You want to do this or not?”
He nods. “Yeah, let’s do it. We’ll get the drive and figure out the encryption later.”
I press a button on my phone, showing him the alarm is deactivated and open my door.
Before he can get out, I grip him by the forearm.
His eyes dart to my fingers, then back up.
“When this is over. We’re done.”
He scoffs. “Sure.”
“Our entire conversation was just recorded, and it’s backed up to the cloud so don’t do something stupid, like you usually do, and try to grab my phone, because it’ll just fuck this all up and ruin your opportunity. I’ll destroy the file in front of you later, and you can fuck off out of my life for good.” I do my best to show him I mean every word. Why wouldn’t I tell the truth? He knows I want him gone.
He finally grins. “All right then.”
“Good.” I take a step out of the car. “Then do what I say and don’t fuck this up.”
We head across the yard, slinking through the shadows.
“Just like the good ol’ days,” Dad whispers.
I don’t respond to him. Whatever.
In a few minutes, this will all be done, and I can pay for what I’ve done and start over. Only then can I get on with life, try to mend the bridges I’ve burned. It’ll take a long time, but I’ve mentally prepared for what I have to do. He can disappear for good this time. I’ve mapped all of it out, and all the preparations have been made.
We make our way up to the door.
Dad picks the lock. “Still got it.” He grins.
I roll my eyes where he can’t see.
He opens the door and goes in first.
It’s pitch-black.
I follow in behind him.
He goes to click on a flashlight, when the interior lights spark to life, illuminating the room.
Dad stiffens in place. I can’t see the look on his face, but I don’t have to. It’s utter surprise. Then, he just glares at the scene in the middle of the room.
Wells Covington is leaned back in a recliner with his fingers steepled, grinning from ear-to-ear. Three officers flank him, knees bent, ready to spring into action. Two come at us from the hallways on each side of us, cornering us in.
“You motherfucker—” Dad tries to turn and barrel through me, but I lock his arms from behind and force him to his knees.
“You deserve this, you piece of shit.”
He grimaces as I tighten my grip. I try to snap his damn arms as the five officers rush us, tackling both of us to the ground. We both hit, face first, smashed against the cold tile.
The officers don’t hold back. They rip at our arms and tighten the cuffs around us.
My mind is transported back to my youth. Watching Dad get arrested in front of me just like this when I was eighteen.
I remember it like it was yesterday. I sat there for a moment, from afar, watching, then I took off running, thinking he would want me to escape. I can still see his cold eyes, glaring right at me the way they are now, nothing but resentment in them—pure hatred.
“You fucked me again!” he whisper-screams through his teeth.
The officers drag us to our feet, and I spit right in his face. “Fuck you!”
“You’re not my son.”
“Never was. You’re not a father!”
“Shut the fuck up!” The officers drag us outside as a squad car pulls up the block, lights flashing, the blue and red strobes lighting up the trees like spotlights.
Wells Covington trails behind us, a satisfied smirk on his face.
When they shove me in the car, our eyes lock. I stare back at him, wondering what’s going to happen next, if he’ll keep his promise. Regardless if he does or not, it’s time to get on with life, put all this behind me, one day at a time.
I’m a criminal again.
Actually, I never stopped being one.
Mary Patrick
I strip off my clothes and get ready for bed. I don’t know how I’ll be able to sleep, but I have to try. I stare in my drawer at one of Rick’s Led Zeppelin tee shirts I took after spending the night with him. I felt bad, but he wouldn’t have minded. I haven’t had the heart to wash it yet.
I shouldn’t do it. I should burn it in the sink, but I pull it on over my head, and a tear rolls down my cheek when I smell it. It smells like him and I collapse into the bed, thinking of his touch, the way his cheek felt in my hand last night, knowing there’s nothing more I can really do.
Have you done everything you can do?
Should I be out on the streets, looking for him? It’s like I’ve given up. I don’t want to be resigned to saying I’ve done all I can. I’m willing to do more, but I don’t know what that looks like—doing more. What else is there?
The Bible has always been my sanctuary when I’m in a tough spot, unsure of what to do, but I’ve never faced anything like this. I’ve had a privileged life, never really facing any kind of ethical or moral decisions. I kept everything black and white, but now, I’m at a crossroads. Everything is so nuanced and the black and white has completely run together. My life is a giant gray mass, and I don’t know how to deal with it. There’s no way I can go to sleep, knowing he’s out there, knowing he might be in trouble.
I open the New Testament, just hoping and praying with everything in me I’ll land on the right passage. Something that gives me guidance, strength, because I’m breaking all over again, one hour after another. I’m decaying from the inside. I try to make out the words on the page, but my vision blurs from the tears. I heave and sob, unable to get this anger and hurt to leave my body. I just want it gone. I just want five minutes of clarity, of peace.
Why won’t God give that to me?
My tears roll from my cheeks and soak the pages, blotting some of the red words. It’s so bad, I finally slam the book shut and just fall to my knees on the floor.
I close my eyes and just pray, harder than I’ve ever prayed in my life. I pray for Rick’s safety, pray for help, pray for understanding. I make every promise there is to God, like desperate people do. I plead with Him to just give me a sign, anything. I literally beg Him, out loud. I run through all the list of classic questions and demands. “I’ve never asked You for anything. I try to do what You want me to do.
Just give me something, please! Can you please just give me something? Anything!”
Right at that moment, as I cry out, begging the Lord, my phone rings. There’s no way it can be a coincidence. My heart comes alive, knowing it’s God at work, and I fumble for the phone, my fingers trembling around it. I don’t recognize the number and I pray it’s anything helpful, Rick calling from an unknown number, the police just to tell me he’s safe, something comforting.
I answer the phone and croak out a breathless, “Hello?”
“Mary?”
My heart sinks when it’s not Rick, but I don’t lose hope. “Who-who is this?”
There’s a long silence that stretches into the night. “Wells Covington.”
My jaw clenches. All the anger and hurt returns. This wasn’t the sign from God I wanted. “What do you want? Is this about Rick?”
“I’m afraid so.”
My heart drops, fearing the worst, knowing nothing good can come from Covington. “Is-is he okay? Did something happen?”
“Yes, but he’s fine. At least, for now.”
Relief washes over me, but I need more information. He’s in trouble. I have to help him, do anything for him. Without thinking, I shout, “What happened?”
I close my eyes, bracing myself for whatever he can tell me. Over and over in my head I pray it’s something we can work through, pray it’s something that’ll pass, and it’s just bad in the moment, but we can get through it, together.
“Rick was just arrested with his father. They tried to break into a property of mine and steal proprietary trading information. I thought you should know, before you found out about it at the office tomorrow.”
My heart should sink, but it doesn’t. A spark of hope comes out of it, because as bad as that sounds, it could be so much worse. Plus, there’s a reason it happened, and I know it’s something we can work through. This is not the end of the world. “But Rick’s okay?”
He lets out a long sigh. “Mary, Rick—the Rick you know…” He pauses for a long time, drawing this out unnecessarily.
“Just say what you need to say. Stop dragging this out.”
“His real name is Dominic Romano.”
I half want to laugh at him. This is absurd. “Wait what? What are you talking about?”
“He’s a wanted felon from years ago. He changed his identity to elude the police. He’s not even allowed to have a PI license. It’s all a charade. He’s a con man. He was playing everyone the whole time, including you. I’m sorry, but I thought you should know.” He hangs up before I can respond.
And in that moment, my heart shatters into tiny little pieces. I don’t want to believe him, but I’ve been naïve my entire life, and a part of me knows he’s telling the truth whether I want to believe it or not.
Could Rick have faked his feelings for me? If he’s a professional con artist? Is there a possibility none of it was real?
* * *
After having myself a thirty-minute cry, I harden my resolve and pace back and forth in my apartment, still in Rick’s shirt, looking ridiculous but trying to make logical sense of all this. First, I attack the messenger. Can Wells Covington even be trusted? He’s so smarmy and secretive and self-serving. You have to be when you’re in his line of work. He may have made up the entire story.
It makes sense, though, some of it. The way Rick reads people, always seems one step ahead of everything, the way he pretended to be something he wasn’t. My mind segues to the next rationalization. Maybe it’s nuanced, maybe it’s true, but Rick turned things around. Maybe he was trying to do better. Maybe the other part of him was fake, but what we had was real. Besides, it was so over-the-top obvious what he was doing with me for months. A successful con man would’ve been way better at hiding his motives than Rick was.
I pause and grit my teeth. Nothing makes sense. Is his name really Dominic Romano? Does he look Italian? Not on the surface, but he did seem to always like to eat authentic Italian food. He has the features, but they’re not super pronounced. He doesn’t have an accent, but maybe he faked that, or maybe he really did just grow up here and it never affected the way he spoke.
Then, I remember that time in the park, right after our first kiss and the Italian rolled off his tongue like silk.
My lungs deflate a little when I think about it, my brain knowing the truth, but my heart unable to accept it. Things start to make more sense. I just can’t imagine him as a Dominic. He’s always just been Rick, plain old Rick, the pervert, misogynistic guy who fell for me, and changed. Was that part of the con? Do people change that easily, the way they do in movies and books? Why would he con me, though? I don’t have anything he would want or need. There’s no motive there. It’s the main point I keep circling back to.
Dominic is definitely a way sexier name, and Rick definitely doesn’t look plain, like a Rick. It would be more suitable for us. Sexy Dominic, the Italian playboy and plain Mary.
I glance at myself in the mirror and know I have to do something. This isn’t totaling up. The column isn’t footing correctly. There’s a missing piece somewhere, or several pieces. I should be able to put this puzzle together, but I can’t. Finally, I throw on some clothes.
It’s after midnight, but I don’t care. I’ll go to any length to get answers, right now. I will get the truth.
Mary Patrick
I pull up outside Wells Covington’s mansion outside of town. I’ve only been here once before, when the guys all had a golf day and Rick invited me along to hang out with everyone before Decker and Tate’s wedding. I didn’t think anything of it, didn’t have anything to do, and it got him to quit pestering me while I was working on a Friday.
I jam the button on the intercom outside the huge gate with a gaudy golden “WC” right in the middle of it. It looks ridiculous, like how Wayne Manor would look. I half expect there to be a bat cave underneath, though, knowing Wells, it’s probably some kind of sex dungeon. It’s no secret he frequents all kinds of BDSM establishments, that he’s into stuff like that.
A startled voice comes over the speaker. It’s a British accent and they sound like I just woke them up.
“May I help you?”
“I need to see Mr. Covington immediately.” I holler the words back at the speaker.
“I’m afraid he’s indisposed at the moment. Who may I ask is—”
“Tell him it’s Mary Patrick from The Hunter Group, and I know he’s awake because he called me an hour ago, and he needs to open this gate, now.” Oh boy. So I’m going through with this. Okay then.
“Hold please.” He doesn’t raise or lower his voice. It just cuts off.
I wait a few moments, wondering what I’m doing. This is sure to get me fired. Wells Covington is one of our biggest clients. He owns one of the largest hedge funds in the world. He does millions of dollars’ worth of billable hours with the firm. No matter what the circumstances, that’s what the Collins brothers really care about, even if Decker does have some strange obsession with watching everything he does, and wants to know every detail about him. If I singlehandedly lose him as a client, I’m definitely done. There will be no questions asked.
I sit and wait for the voice to return when an electric motor whirs to life and the gate slowly eases open.
I swear it’s like driving into Jurassic Park, all ominous. The driveway snakes around, and it’s so much more eerie in the dark, weaving around the trees. Finally, I pull up to a roundabout and park my car in front of the mansion. It’s lit up with floodlights all around, and it looks just as gaudy at night as it does during the day.
The architects nailed the design. It looks just like a Wells Covington mansion should look.
The butler guy opens the front door as I get out of the car, as if he rushed to get himself ready and presentable.
I feel so bad, when I walk up the steps, I say, “Sorry for interrupting your evening.”
“Quite all right, ma’am. He’s right this way.”
Now, I feel even wo
rse that he’s being nice and not yelling at me. “Did I wake you up?”
“No, ma’am. Mr. Covington rarely sleeps.”
The meaning is right there. Mr. Covington doesn’t sleep, which means the help isn’t allowed to either.
He leads me into a living room, and Wells Covington doesn’t look nearly as cordial as his butler. He’s standing in the middle of the room, pacing around, like he has a million better things to be worried about than some crazy lady barging into his gigantic estate.
I have to set the tone on this, or he’ll try to bully me. I know how these guys operate. I square my shoulders as I enter the room, head up, chin high, and march right at him.
His eyes widen for a second, but there’s a hint of amusement in them too.
“The hell is the meaning of this?”
I ignore his question and square off about three feet away. I have to look up because he’s taller than I thought, probably six two at least, maybe six three. “Where’s Rick? What happened?” I do everything I can to show him with my face and my tone that there’s no getting out of this.
He smirks. “Was I not clear on the phone?”
I point a finger at him, and the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Just stop with the bullshit. It’s not cute. There’s more, and I’m not leaving here until I have the damn truth.” I don’t even know who I am right now. I never curse, demand things from people. I’m never this—assertive. It feels kind of good, and I straighten my back a little more and glare at him.
His eyes widen a little. “Well, the little Bible thumper has a mouth on her after all.”
This is a deflection, trying to shift the discussion, and I won’t have it. “Give me the truth. You know more than what you told me.”
He smirks and takes a seat in a plush chair that looks more expensive than my entire apartment. “Does your boss know you’re here? Threatening one of his biggest clients?”
I take a step and plant my feet in front of him. “I’m giving you one more opportunity to come clean. Look in my eyes and tell me I’m bluffing.”