“Don’t joke right now,” I say, and my tone is earnest. “Honestly. This is freaking me out and,” I eye his holstered gun again, before meeting his stare, “I might just pull your gun again if you continue to joke about this.”
“We both know you aren’t that foolish. And we both know you were scared when you woke up.” He softens his voice. “I get it now. Let’s go talk.” He stands up and helps me do the same. “Talks are best with coffee.”
“And donuts?” I joke.
“Cop joke. Good. You’re feeling better. You do keep coffee in this place, right?”
“Of course,” I manage, the topic of coffee and conversation, somehow feeling far more uncomfortable than me naked, straddling him and holding a gun on him and I have no idea why. “What normal person doesn’t have coffee in the house?” I add.
He laughs and that sound rings with normalcy that I’ve never attributed to Jake and for the first time since meeting him, I actually consider him human, not a badge. He laughs. He smiles. He drinks coffee. He’s human. Not that I trust him. I trust no one, but he’s now the man with the key to huge chunks of my life. His eyes are my eyes and I want everything I can get from him. That means I need to think before we talk. I need to try to process anything I’m missing. “Let me brush my teeth and put on real clothes.”
He studies me a moment, the probe of his eyes deep, which makes him a little less human and a little more agent. He’s trying to read me, trying to see things I might not want him to see, which I now know is why coffee and conversation make me nervous, but finally, he gives a nod. “I’ll be waiting on you downstairs.” Without further preamble, he turns and leaves.
I press my hands to the sink and will myself to remember how I got here to this moment but there is nothing. I have not one single memory of Jake before this morning. And allergic to alcohol? I can’t be allergic, can I? If I am, then that changes everything. It shifts the way I’ve viewed myself and others, and I’m not quite sure what to do with that. It doesn’t matter, I decide quickly. Or it does but not this very moment. What I do know, is my plan prior to that champagne remains. Jake knows things beyond last night that I don’t know, and I need to change that.
I shove off the counter and run into the closet, pulling on sweats and a T-shirt, as well as Keds. I wash my face, brush my teeth and hair, and ignore how crappy I look right now. I just need answers and my phone. After a quick search, I decide it, my purse, and my computer are all downstairs with Jake, who could look at any of them which wouldn’t be a problem, except that I don’t remember anything. Except for Logan: I know who you are. Which means I might be leaving Denver today.
I start for the door when my gaze catches on the envelope. I snatch it and the photo up, scanning more of the same types of photos. “Oh, Danielle,” I whisper. “Why him? You knew what he is.” But she was also needy and insecure, vulnerable in ways that allowed someone like my father to take advantage of her. I drop the envelope on the bed and head downstairs.
I find Jake in the kitchen, resting on the counter by the refrigerator, a cup of coffee in his hand. “How are you?” he asks, back to studying me, but there is what seems to be genuine concern etched in his tone, his eyes even, but I don’t believe it. I don’t believe anything anymore.
“I’m fine,” I say, walking to the pot, and starting a cup to brew for myself, while hyper-focusing on the stream of coffee. Jake doesn’t say anything, but I feel the heavy weight of his stare, concrete on my shoulders, crushing and intense. He wants me to look at him. I don’t.
My brew is complete, and I pour creamer in my cup, add Splenda, and then stir. When finally, I’ve turned to lean on the counter to his left, he breaks the silence. “You still don’t trust me,” he comments.
“I don’t trust anyone. That’s called politics.”
“We at the FBI call that the CIA but that aside, I gave you the photos.”
“And that proves what? Danielle was having an affair with my father. I know that. If you want something from me, you’re going to have to give me more in trade.”
“You said the same thing last night.”
“And you said what?” I challenge.
“You don’t remember, at all?”
“No,” I breathe out, admitting to him what I have to no one else, but then I made my memory loss rather obvious this morning. “No. I don’t.”
He sets his cup down and walks to me, taking mine from me as well, before his hands come down on the counter next to me. “I said, and I’ll say now, that I want you, thus the way we ended up naked again.”
“That’s it? That’s all that happened?”
He grunts and pushes off the counter, running his hand through his sandy brown hair and in that moment, he is once again human. “You’re killing me here,” he growls, frustration etched on his handsome face, but handsome doesn’t mean honest. “That’s all that happened?” he continues. “Not exactly a reaction a man wants a woman to have the morning after.”
“It’s obvious that we got naked,” I say. “I’m missing everything else. I need to know what else happened. Can’t you understand that?”
He gives me one of those probing stares of his again, his expression masterfully unreadable. “You were upset when you walked in the door and found me here,” he says. “You were not pleased that I entered without permission. You accused me of doing so on another occasion, and stealing your paintings of Danielle and your father, despite me handing you photos of the real deal.”
“Did you take them?”
He folds his arms in front of his broad chest. “As I told you last night, no. I did not take them, but your father wants this thing with Danielle to go away real bad, sweetheart. I’m not surprised he’s monitoring you.”
“By way of you?” I accuse.
“No,” he says. “Not me. Rudolf.”
“Who now knows you’re here,” I say.
“Only because I let him know. I made friends with my badge, and then told him to back off, I got you a little space, but it won’t last.”
“Why? What do you really want from me, Jake?”
He presses his hands on the counter on either side of me again. “Nothing that you don’t want to give.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m not asking you for anything,” he assures me.
“But one day you will,” I assume, because that’s how this works.
He studies me a few beats. “One day I might.” He pushes off the counter. “For now, I gave you something. I gave you the gift of control. You and I have what your father doesn’t want anyone to have. Use it wisely, if at all. Wait for me if you can, but if you can’t, make sure he knows that you have a resource to send those shots to the press, if it becomes necessary.”
My breath lodges in my throat and I plant my hand, that I think might actually be shaking, on the counter behind me. “What aren’t you saying?”
“Your father will do anything to win this election, and I do mean anything. I think you know that.”
“Be direct,” I say. “Spell it out, Jake.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, now is it?”
My pulse thunders in my ears. “Are you saying he killed Danielle?” I demand, adrenaline surging through me to the point that I now know I’m shaking. “Did he kill her or rather have her killed?”
His hands settle on my shoulders, and the touch is not sexual at all. It’s grounding. It brings me down a notch, which is clearly his intent, but he doesn’t hold back. “I can’t prove that he ordered her murder, but the minute I headed that direction with my investigation, I was shut out.”
“And yet you covered for me, or so you say.”
“I made an effort to prevent you from becoming a fall guy,” he confirms. “If your father did this, he needs to own this, not you.”
Not me.
“You know I don’t remember that night,” I point out, needing to know everything. Needing to
know where this is headed.
“I know you called your father and confronted him about Danielle.”
“How? How do you know that?”
His lips set hard. “I know.”
“And yet the photos are supposed to mean something to me.”
“We both know those photos are trouble for your father,” he counters.
I’m back to the confirmation that I called my father. I stroked the fires. I made Danielle a problem for him. “Just to be clear,” I say, “You don’t believe the homeless man did it.” It’s not a question.
“No,” he says. “I do not.”
No, he does not.
“Which brings me back to you,” he says, and with those words, my throat starts to close off. This is where everything lands. He’s stripped me naked to play with my head. He’s baited me, reeled me in and I invited him here to do it. I’m a fool and this is where it all ends.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“You don't take a photograph. You make it.”
—Ansel Adams
THE PAST…
I become aware of Jake standing between me and the exit of the kitchen. I’m also acutely aware of the fact that I am far more naked with Jake than simply taking my clothes off. I have no idea what I did with him. What I said to him. What I confessed. “I thought we were talking about Danielle,” I say. “Not me.”
“You’re connected,” he says. “Right along with your father and I know for a fact that your father had a conversation with his Chief of Staff about the value of the sympathy vote. If he’s down in the polls, what will he do to get back on top? Think about it.”
Any relief I have at the realization that he’s not accusing me of something, fades with the blade of memory that transports me back to that balcony in Austin. To that moment when I’d rejected a dive to the ground out of worry I’d hand my father the sympathy vote. I wasn’t willing to give him that then or now.
“Have you thought about it, Hailey?” he asks, pulling me back to the moment. “I have and the minute I figured out where that leads, which is you, was the minute I was with you, not him.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says precisely, “until you give me a reason otherwise, I’m your friend but I’m not his.” He eyes his watch. “I didn’t know we’d have to repeat last night today. I have to go. I have a situation to handle but I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He starts to turn away.
“What’s your end game, Jake?” I demand, not ready to let him off that easily.
“Right now. Keeping you alive.”
“And later?”
“To be decided later. What’s your end game, Hailey?”
“Not my father’s.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “And what of the White House? Are you eager to get there?”
Aware that he could still be working for my father or working both sides, I tread cautiously, “I’m not of any value to you if I don’t, now am I?”
“A cautious reply, by someone who thinks I want that tit for tat you offered me. I don’t. It must suck to know that you’ll never have a relationship you trust until he’s done and over.” And with that, he heads for the door, but he’s only halfway there when he turns back to me. “I’m sending you something. Watch for it.” And with that, he walks to the door and exits.
I let out a heavy breath trying to digest what just happened when my phone buzzes with a message from my purse. I mentally tick through a list of who might text me: Not Danielle. She won’t ever text me again, and that twists me in knots. Tobey? Maybe. My father? No. Rudolf? Maybe. Probably something to do with Jake and that sets me into action, closing the steps between me and the island where my purse sets, to dig out my phone. I grab it, glancing at the message screen, surprised to find an unfamiliar local number. The message reads: Why’d you leave?
I inhale sharply, certain this is Logan, who I apparently gave my Washington number, which was foolish. It’s like saying: Yes, you’re right. I’m that girl you think I am. For all I know, I admitted my real identity. I’m still trying to deal with Jake and now this, a real problem considering I have no idea where his “I know who you are” declaration landed us last night. With Jake, the photos align him with me, at least for the moment. With Logan too much is unknown, and I can’t take unknowns right now. That’s a problem that has to end today but even as I consider Logan my biggest problem, I replay Jake’s words: Until you give me a reason otherwise, I’m your friend.
In other words, until he digs around and finds out something that turns me into the hunted instead of my father. If he really wants my father. I need to help Jake get my father which serves me well. It saves me four to eight years of my life in the White House. As for law school, I might attend just to know I have my own money and power, but my art will be in the background. My art will be the future I’m trying to make my real tomorrow.
I stare down at the message again, and reject any mode of communication that can be printed off, copied, or recorded as a reply. If Logan wants to talk, we’ll do it in person, and on my terms. I glance at the time to find that it’s already ten in the morning, which means I’ve left Logan free with my real identity for far too long. I head toward the front door that I lock, setting the alarm before I rush up the stairs. I need to shower and think. I walk into the bedroom and stop at the sight of the unmade bed, where I slept with Jake; shaken by the complete blank I still am on how that happened. I can’t even fully gauge how much I trust, or don’t trust him. I am missing hours with him while I have maybe only forty-five minutes where I was coherent this morning. I shake off this thought. Right now, he’s gone, and Logan is here, as well as a potential problem. Well, one remnant of Jake still remains.
I walk around the bed, snatch up the envelope, ensure the photos are safely inside and debate where to hide them. Experts like Rudolf will look in every odd place in existence. I can’t leave the photos here. I need someplace else. I need to just keep them with me at all times but even that could be tricky. My purse isn’t locked up at the coffee shop. I walk into the bathroom and set the envelope and my phone on the counter. I’ll find a place for the photos and that place won’t be here. I check my messages again and I still have that one message: Why’d you leave? Obviously, Logan decided he’d move forward based on my reply or lack thereof. How he moves forward is a big issue though, and time sensitive.
I quickly strip, shower, and do all my normal girl stuff to my hair and makeup before I redress in black jeans and a black T-shirt and tennis shoes. If I end up at Logan’s office as planned, I’m not going to look like the future First Daughter, or anyone worth knowing. Of course, I may stand out this way too, but at least I don’t look important. All but ready to go, I pack up my purse, grab the envelope and head downstairs. Once in the kitchen, I pause at the island and power up my computer to look up Logan’s office number. I dial the receptionist. “Is Logan in?”
“Yes, ma’am. May I tell him who’s calling?”
“Actually, I have another call. I’ll call right back.” I disconnect and text the address to myself, while Logan has remained silent in the aftermath of his text and my non-text.
I’m about to shut my computer when my conversation with Jake comes back to me with his claim that I’m allergic to alcohol. I resist my next move, but I have to know. I type in “alcohol allergy” and pant out a breath when plenty of results pop up. I start reading and most of the links talk about allergies as in a physical illness; hives and so on. That is until I type in: I black out almost every time I drink. And there it is. A forum of people talking about this rare occurrence, and I begin reading posts that fit my exact reaction to drinking. Of course, there are those calling them foolish, and accusing them of drinking too much, but there are too many like me for me to dismiss this as nonsense.
I glance at the time in the corner of my screen. It’s nearly noon, and Logan could leave his office for lunch, if he hasn’t already. I shut my com
puter, but for a moment, I am paralyzed. Danielle didn’t drug me. Jake didn’t drug me. Guilt knifes through me. If Danielle drugged me, I had a reason for leaving her behind. She caused me to be out of my mind. I also had a reason for being angry with her, outside of the affair, which this realization doesn’t change. I still thought she drugged me. And Jake didn’t prove my father was behind the murder. He only validated my certainty that the homeless man did not.
“I didn’t kill her,” I hiss, packing up my briefcase with my computer and the envelope. Just like I wasn’t drugged, I think, but quickly reject the negativity of that thought. I’m done twisting guilt into anger in illogical ways; blaming Danielle and myself, when the guilt lies one place: My father.
Going forward, I’m going to protect myself and where that leads me. Do I make my father pay for his sins against my mother and my best friend? How can I not make him pay? I will make him pay, but before I can even decide what that means, I have to deal with Logan.
I head to the door, already thinking of ways I can use Logan against my father as I exit, lock up, and listen to the security system arm, with what I now know is a false sense of relief. It was on last night when Jake managed to enter the house before I got home. In other words, any time I arrive home someone could be waiting on me. Now I wish I’d kept Jake’s gun. I need a gun and I need a gun that won’t lead back to me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Trust.
Google that word and you’ll find the dictionary has a long list of possible definitions. Any word with that many definitions can’t be trusted. Just like the word, a person cannot be trusted. Think about it. Is there anyone in this life that knows everything about you? Everything. Someone that you can say knows your deepest, darkest thoughts we all have but want to deny?
If you say yes, you’re lying and you can’t be trusted.
I think this truth is why the show Dexter was such a big hit. We all have something hidden, and we know this means other people do as well. We know there could be a serial killer amongst us, in the mostly proverbial sense. Now I’m not saying trust doesn’t exist. I’m simply saying it requires insurance and Jake understood this, which is exactly why he gave me those photos. He gave me a gift, a tool that I could use to protect myself, and that is exactly what I did.
A Perfect Lie Page 23