***
THE PAST…
I wake up with only one immediate certainty: I don’t know where I am. The next realization I have is bright light piercing my eyes. The next, a cellphone buzzing somewhere. I jolt upward and grip the blanket on top of me, scanning my surroundings and it turns out “here” is my Austin, Texas hotel room. The problem is that I don’t remember how I got here. I don’t remember anything. I also can’t think with the sun trying to burn a hole in my corneas.
It’s then that I realize that the cellphone I’d heard is buzzing again from my nightstand. I grab it and read a message from Terrance: Call me back!
I grimace and note the five missed calls, all from him, as well as about ten text messages he’s sent me, all with same tone as this one: Call me. We need to talk. Now. I glance at the clock. It’s seven a.m., when our plane is to leave at ten, and seven a.m. is too early to be in political puppet mode. I drop my cell on the bed, letting him believe I’m still asleep. If he and my father’s posse are flying out earlier this morning, they can leave without me. I need to figure out what is wrong with me before cameras are flashing in my direction simply because I’m my father’s daughter.
I start to get up and purse my lips, aware that I can’t actually just ignore the call, because I might not be a political puppet, but my father’s running for President. That’s a big deal. I dial Terrance’s number and it goes to his voice mail. I leave a message, and obligation met, I toss my phone and leave it on the bed to deal with several urgent issues.
Throwing off the blanket, I walk around the bed to the window on the opposite side of the mattress, yanking shut the curtains before sinking into a soft brown high-back chair. I’m trying to remember last night, but I’m blank. Really, completely blank, but I don’t feel sick. I’m not hung over. This is no different than when I woke in the park years ago. There is no excuse for what I’m experiencing which leads me to one place: I was drugged, a premise that in the years since my mother’s death, I’ve considered as fact. I was at a party. I ended up in a bedroom, almost having sex.
But this wasn’t a party. It was a bar and I was with only people I trusted.
I have a sick realization at this point. There’s only three common denominators between my two blackouts: Me, alcohol, and Danielle. And on both of the nights those blackouts occurred, Danielle thought I needed to relax. Danielle, who has been known to dabble in ecstasy no matter how many times I’ve beat her up about it.
Adrenaline and anger rush through me, and I walk to the bed and grab my phone, dialing Danielle, who doesn’t answer. I dial again. This time I receive an answer. “Officer Warner. Who am I speaking with?”
My heart sinks to my stomach, and at that moment Terrance returns my call. I panic and hang up on Officer Warner, grabbing the call from Terrance. “Why did a police officer just answer Danielle’s phone?” I demand, certain we now have some sort of drug scandal that I’m going to be dragged into, and my father with me.
“Holy fuck,” he growls. “Did you talk to the police?”
“No. I hung up, afraid we were dealing with a scandal and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“You called from your phone?”
“Yes. Of course. I need to call them back and now. What is going on?” My only comfort with that question is knowing that if it was too horrible, the police would have already called me back.
“Listen to me very carefully. You go to the parking garage now and don’t pack your things. It will be handled. The minute you’re there, waiting on me, you call me back. Do not answer your phone between now and then. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes. I’m not dressed. I—”
“Throw on sweats, and just leave. If you value your freedom, go now.” He hangs up.
My freedom? I’m right. This is about drugs. I don’t let myself process that fully. I look down to realize that I’m still wearing the blue dress of my step-mother’s design from the debate last night. I remember the dress but not why I’m still in it. Whatever the case, I can’t let the press see me in the same thing I wore last night. I run toward the closet, pull out a red dress I’d planned to wear last night, do a quick change, pull on knee high black boots, and then cover-up with a black blazer. Now dressed, I rush into the bathroom, look at the mess that I am, and quickly put on lip gloss and run a brush through my hair and not because I’m foolish and vain. Because I don’t need to be fodder for the press, my messy appearance food for a headline like “Monroe’s Daughter a Drug Addict.” Please don’t let that be the destiny already in store and I just don’t know it yet.
I stop at the hotel room door and inhale when there is a knock. “Damn it,” I murmur. I took too long. I’m going to have to face the police, knowing nothing.
Trapped and with a rush of adrenaline, I yank the door open to find a huge black man in a black blazer standing in front of me. “Come with me, now,” he orders.
“And you are?” I ask, not about to be a kidnap victim, considering my father inherited money from my wealthy novelist grandfather and made a small fortune. He’s rich. It’s been a centerpiece his political opponents use against him.
My visitor shoves a phone at me and I accept it, sticking it to my ear. “You should already be in the garage,” Terrance snaps. “Go now.” He hangs up again.
I can almost feel the blood run from my face, and I don’t reply. I shove the phone at the man. “Let’s go.”
He gives me a curt nod, backs up and points toward the exit door where yet another man in a suit, this one with dark hair and a scowl on his face, is waiting on us. I slide my purse onto my shoulder and hurry toward him, eagerly ducking into the stairwell. I don’t want to be caught on cameras and I really don’t want to talk to the police until I know what is happening. Which can’t involve me, or they’d have already called me back or come after me, but my God, what is happening to Danielle? If the police have her phone, she must have been arrested.
It’s right then that my phone starts to ring and I dig it from my purse to find Danielle’s number on my caller ID. “Don’t even think about answering that,” the brute behind me warns.
Of course not. Why would I want to answer a call from what is likely the police, who I already hung up on? I stick my phone inside my purse and take a right to the next level of stairs, as I reach for my memories that I’m going to need when I finally talk to the police, which is unavoidably happening. I immediately find myself grappling with random pieces of my father’s speech, which leads me to the moment he’d left me on a stage in front of a photographer, giving my step-mother’s dress exposure, which was no doubt her intent. The next thing I remember is the aquarium of a bar. The last thing I remember is taking a drink of that s’mores martini. And then here, now. This hell.
I exit to the parking garage and a black sedan is idling directly in front of me. A man opens the door and motions me inside. My heart thunders in my ears with the certainty that Terrance is inside and the hell that this morning represents is about to get even more hellish. I inhale and slide into the back seat, and find that I’m, in fact, alone, aside from a driver, of course. The door shuts me inside and my cellphone rings. I pull it from my phone to find Terrance’s number.
“Obviously you’re not in the car,” I say, as it begins to move. “I am. Now tell me what’s going on.”
“Listen carefully and do as I say. Call Danielle’s number. The police will answer. Tell them that you’re on a private plane about to taxi. Security forced you to give up your phone while you were trying to talk to him. Tell him you can call when you land. Ask him about Danielle. Be concerned.”
“I am concerned,” I snap. “Where is she?”
“You left her at the bar about ten. I’ve ensured you have witnesses.”
“Why do I need witnesses?”
“Say nothing else,” he says. “You know nothing else.”
&n
bsp; “They can check my flight details,” I say.
“It’ll check out,” he assures me.
“What’s going on?” I demand again.
“You know nothing else,” he says. “Keep it that way until you finish that call. The driver’s safe. Make the call. And remember. You’re the future first daughter. Own the conversation and be worthy of your role.” He hangs up.
I draw in a shaky breath, my fingers curling into my palm, and when my mind should be only on Danielle, I’m afraid for me, too. I’m selfishly afraid for me but the sooner I deal with my side of this, the sooner I can help Danielle get out of whatever trouble she is in. That’s what I have to tell myself to cope with the guilt that comes at me hard and fast. I dial Danielle.
“Ms. Monroe,” the same man, Officer Warner, greets me, his tone displeased.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m sorry I hung up earlier, but I was in airport security and it about killed me to disconnect. This is Hailey Anne Monroe. I’m Danielle’s best friend. Where is she? Is she okay?”
“We don’t know the answer to that question,” he says. “We were looking for you to tell us.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, confused at his tone that says “missing,” not “arrested.” “She was fine when I left the bar last night. Where is she now? What is happening?” I sound panicked because I feel panicked.
“You tell me,” he orders, and my heart is thundering in my ears again.
“I don’t know. I left her at a bar last night. A private club. I can’t even remember the name. The Aquarium, I think. Damn it. We’re about to lift off. We’re—” I disconnect, and my gaze meets the driver’s in the mirror.
“It was believable,” he assures me.
“Because I am worried about Danielle,” I snap, not liking this web of secrets and lies.
I dial Terrance. “Is it done?” he asks.
“Yes. It’s done. Now tell me what’s happening.”
“Did it go well?”
“The driver says it did.”
“Did it go well?”
“Yes,” I bite out. “I need to know—”
“I’ll explain everything on the plane. Turn your phone off. You’re in the air, remember?” He disconnects, and I grimace but do as ordered.
I lean forward and speak to the driver. “What do you know?”
“Nothing,” he says, and the fact that he looks like a blond, hard dictator of a soldier with sharp cheekbones, and giant hands and muscles, I’m fairly certain he’ll kill for me, but he won’t talk to me. This is the world I now live in and I assume with him in some version of “the know,” I’ll be seeing him again.
I sink back into the leather seat and try to remember anything and everything I can, but it’s all about the debate. I remember the bar. I remember drinking, but very little else. It’s all a fuzzy blank space, with random fluttering images finding a place into my mind’s eye. Giving up, I pull out my make-up bag that includes towelettes to remove the mess on my face, before I add a fresh layer. My lips are pink and glossy. My long dirty blonde hair is now braided.
It’s only a half hour later, when we reach a private airport with tight security, which I suspect is on my family’s behalf. Thankfully that means no press. The brute behind the wheel parks us in a space outside the fancy globe-style building, and then calls over his shoulder. “Wait on me.”
Wait for him. This is the luxury of perhaps being the future first daughter. I get to be a grown adult who is ordered around by people I don’t even know and expected to just submit. The door opens, and I step outside. He motions to the door. “Who are you?” I ask.
“Your new personal bodyguard.”
Great. My personal bodyguard. I’ll push back on that one later. “Do you have a name, new personal bodyguard?”
“Rudolf,” he says.
“Like the reindeer?”
He gives me a blank stare.
“People don’t make that joke to you often, do they?”
“They used to,” he replies dryly. “Then I got big.”
Great. I have a bodyguard who is big with a small-man complex, named after a Christmas reindeer. There is political folly somewhere in that. I head toward the front door, and there is a whirlwind of activity that leads me straight to the rear of the building and a private jet. With Rudolf on my heels, I climb the steps and enter the plane.
Rudolf claims a seat right inside the door. I walk forward to spy Terrance sitting in a seat in the back of the plane just past a lounge area. He motions me forward and with my heart in my throat, I quickly close the space between us. He indicates the seat directly in front of him. “Buckle up. We’re lifting off quickly.”
I follow yet another command and do as he’s ordered. I’ve barely secured myself when the plane starts to move, the roar of engines leaving me no room for questions. I am forced to wait until we’re in the air and leveled off to speak. Finally, I unclip my belt and lean forward. “What is happening?”
He motions to a small table in the lounge area and stands up, still holding my answers hostage. I follow him to discover we have four men who resemble Rudolf on board: big, burly, and watchful of the front of the cabin.
I slide into the U-shaped booth across from the man I consider to be my uncle, my hands in my lap under the shiny wooden surface. “Is Danielle missing?” I demand.
“Her shoe and a substantial amount of blood were found in the alleyway behind the bar you two were at.”
CHAPTER SIX
Am I capable of murder?
That’s inevitably the question I would ask myself over and over after that night in the bar. Right after I got over the denial that I could be a suspect in my best friend’s murder. Those moments on that plane sitting with Terrance, and right after I’d found out about Danielle’s bloody shoe, I wasn’t over the denial. And denial is what drove every question and action I took after that point. Denial that Danielle was dead. Denial that I could really be blamed. Denial that there might be a reason.
***
THE PAST…
I stare at Terrance, not quite able to comprehend what he’s just told me. “Danielle wasn’t arrested?”
“Why would you think she was arrested?”
“I just thought—she might be in trouble.”
He leans close and grabs my hand. “If you don’t remember anything, why would you ask that question?”
His fingers dig into my arm and I yank against his grip, only to have him hold on tighter. “Answer,” he orders.
“The police answered her phone,” I snap. “My first thought wasn’t that she was dead.” She can’t be dead, I think, before tugging against his grip again. “Let go of me.”
Almost as if he’s spitting me, he pierces me with a hard light-blue stare for several beats before he complies. “I’ve spent the better part of the night ensuring you do not become a suspect in her murder.”
“Murder?!” I swallow had and try to catch my breath. “You think she was murdered?” I stand up and tower over him. “You think—”
“Sit back down and act composed, the way a—”
“Future First Daughter acts?” I challenge, pressing my hands on the table and leaning toward him. “Is she dead? Is Danielle dead?”
“Sit down,” he bites out. “Now.”
“No, because as the future First Daughter, my best friend might be dead. And a First Daughter cares. I care.”
“Sit the fuck down. Now.”
It’s not like standing, or shaking him, which is what I want to do right now, would get me answers. I sit down. “Is she dead?”
“There is no body, but they are treating it as if it’s murder. Or an abduction, but thus far there is no ransom request.”
“It was supposed to be me, and I left, so they took her,” I say. “That has to be it. That’s why I have Rudolf.”
“It’s certainly a consideration,” he confirms.
“Maybe they thought
she was me. She had on the same color dress. Maybe when they found out it wasn’t—”
“They’d still ask for money. She’s close to you. She’s your friend.”
“Who might be dead or being raped or beaten right now, as we speak.”
“Tell me what you know,” he says as if I haven’t spoken.
“That’s just it. I don’t remember. I don’t know how I got back to my room. I think I was drugged. That’s the truth.”
“That reads like a lie meant to cover-up murder.”
My reaction is instant, fierce, angry. I lean forward, and hiss a whispered, “You think I murdered Danielle?!”
“My job is not to judge you. Frankly, I don’t care if you’re innocent or guilty. I care about how this impacts your father becoming President, which means we’re going to make this go away. Now, tell me what you will tell no one else, so I know what I’m dealing with.”
“I told you. I didn’t kill her.”
“Actually, you didn’t. You asked if I thought you did.” I open my mouth to curse him before I hit him, but he holds up a hand. “Tell me what you remember.”
“Nothing. I blacked out. I have vague memories after drinking a martini. The last one is leaving the bar.”
“While fighting with Danielle.”
“Tobey told you.” Of course he told Terrance. The man is his father.
“Yes,” he says. “He did, but he won’t be telling the police. He doesn’t want to be connected to murder either. He left with you and dropped you at the hotel early. Danielle refused to leave.”
“Surely there are witnesses that will say otherwise?”
“Tobey says that’s exactly what happened.”
“Where is he now?”
“At the police station, answering questions and setting the groundwork for you to back him up.”
A Perfect Lie Page 4