A Perfect Lie

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Like Danielle would have, I think, back to the comparison.

  I’m on the street in sixty seconds, and since I know exactly where the hotel is, I don’t lose a step. I try to call Megan and end up leaving yet another message. “It’s Hailey. Please call me. Please.” I disconnect and will back every moment with Megan in the bathroom, but I don’t remember anything after the hug. I don’t know how we ended that encounter.

  In a few blocks, I’m at the apartment. I knock and a thin brunette girl in jeans and T-shirt opens the door. “Is Megan here?”

  “She left. Gone. Forever.”

  Gone.

  Forever.

  I really hate those words spoken together. “Where did she go?”

  “She said it was time for an adventure. And poof. She took one.”

  “Do you know how to reach her?”

  “If I did I wouldn’t tell you.”

  I reach into my purse and pull out a hundred-dollar bill. “Now do you know?”

  She takes the money. “No.” She shuts the door.

  I huff out a breath and give up, heading back toward the main sidewalk. This was a place she shared with friends and I hope she’s gone home to a good family, wherever that might be. I’m almost back to the hotel when my cellphone rings. I stop walking, yanking it from my purse, in hopes that it’s Megan. One glance at the caller ID tells me it’s Rudolf, and the timing, right after my Logan meeting, says this is trouble. I answer the line to hear, “The enemies of your friends are not your friends.”

  That twist on my father’s words can mean only one thing. I’m right. This is about Logan. “And that says what about you?”

  “Logan Casey has connections to your father’s enemies which makes him an enemy.”

  He’s just validated Logan as the right person to ask for help. “I know nothing about that man,” I say, and when I would snap back with more, I remind myself that I’m supposed to be supportive of my father. “He upset an employee at the coffee shop. I headed to her apartment to try to get her back to work.”

  “You were in that building a long time.”

  So much for that space Jake claimed to give me from my father’s pack of wolves. “I had to wait on him,” I say, without missing a beat, “and my days are not exactly filled with activities right now. If you’re calling me on this, how bad of a problem is he?”

  “He’s only a problem if you make him a problem.”

  “I’m not making anyone a problem,” I say. “I’m careful. He has no idea who I really am. He thinks I’m an artsy chick, just like you wanted.”

  “You’re being very agreeable,” he says, obviously suspicious, but he says it anyway. “This makes me suspicious.”

  “Because I like my artsy job at the coffee shop. I don’t want to leave right now and we both know my father doesn’t want me back either. We’re set up here. I don’t want to do this all over again.”

  “That’s right,” he says dryly. “You do like art.”

  “Which we both know is why my father chose to make my cover in the art industry,” I say. “I’m being taunted with what I want, what he doesn’t intend to let me have.”

  I imagine him giving me a three-second deadpan stare, and then he just says, “Stay away from Logan.”

  “He comes into the coffee shop. If I act like a total jerk that will get more attention than any of us need.”

  “We’re watching.”

  “I’m quite aware of that, Rudolf.”

  “Don’t forget.” He disconnects.

  Certain eyes are on me right now, I stick my phone back in my purse, despite a deep need to warn Logan of trouble. I start walking, knowing Rudolf will monitor anything I do right now. I don’t even want to go to my email and open Logan’s message to get his phone number. A warning is going to have to wait until tonight.

  I turn onto the sidewalk and this time when I start walking, I try to sense being followed but I don’t. I don’t and it’s frustrating because I am. My pace is steady and my walk to my rental, short. Once I arrive, there’s a box wrapped in brown paper sitting at the door, which I assume is Jake’s promise of a delivery. I kneel in front of it to find my fake name and address with no return label.

  I open the door, and enter the house, taking the small box with me. I lock up and head to the island, depositing my briefcase and purse on a stool before sitting the box on the counter. Opening it is like breaking into Fort Knox, but finally, I pull out a shiny box that I know is a gun safe. The lock code is taped to the top and I enter it to open the lid and stare down at my favored weapon: A Sig Sauer P238 Lady Barbara. You don’t just guess and produce my favored gun. It takes intimate knowledge of my personal shooting habits and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  There’s a card taped to the inner lid with my name on it. I yank it free and remove a plain white card that reads: This is me trusting you in a big way considering you pulled my own gun on me. Don’t shoot me, but I’m certain you’ll know who to shoot when the time is right.

  That’s when I realize the security system wasn’t armed when I entered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.”

  —Frida Kahlo

  THE PAST…

  I grab the gun with the ease of someone who knows it and knows it well, as I do, while moving inside the kitchen to ensure no one is at my back. I load the Sig Sauer and consider my next move. I could search the house, but what I know of the people that work for the government, and my father, is that they’re skilled in ways I am not. I also know that I’ve been warned I could be in danger, and those people might not be my friends. I grab my phone from my purse and dial Jake.

  He answers immediately. “You got the gift.”

  “Did you come in my house again?”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “The security system was off.”

  “And yet you entered the house,” he says tightly.

  “How do you know that?”

  “This is my second gift to you,” he replies. “A lesson. Know your surroundings a hell of a lot better than you do.”

  “Where are you?” I demand.

  “Nowhere close, and before you ask, I use a remote device to disarm your system. It’s worthless. That gun is not.”

  “And yet you know I entered the house.” It’s not a question.

  “I assumed you did based on our conversation.”

  My jaw clenches. “I don’t like this game, Jake.”

  “Better to learn your lessons from me than from someone else.”

  “About that,” I say, thinking of Rudolf. “What happened to the breather you were—”

  “Think before you speak,” he says. “Think.”

  In other words, my line is being monitored. Of course. I know it is.

  “Hang up now,” he says.

  I suck in air, angry at him, angry at everything and everyone right now, but I hang up on him. My phone rings again and I answer the line without even looking at the number. “Daughter.”

  God, not now. “Father,” I say, my grip on the cold steel in my hand tightening.

  “I hear you’ve been mingling with the enemy.”

  “I heard that, too,” I say. “And while I had no idea, now that I do, I’ll be careful. And as you’ve said, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  “Is he your friend or enemy?” he asks.

  “Is he your friend or enemy?”

  “I don’t know. His father is the polar opposite of me politically, but he doesn’t align well with his father. He could be turned, though he could be thinking the same of you.”

  “I’ve invested my entire life in supporting you politically, father. I’m not throwing that away for some man. I’m with Tobey anyway.”

  “He doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “He needs to suffer a little for sins that are between him and me, not you and me.
But we both know he wants the White House, and he aligns properly with that goal.”

  He’s silent two beats in which I know he’s calculating my risk. “Let’s talk about Logan.”

  “I’m listening,” I say, holding my breath.

  “Are you sure he doesn’t know who you are?”

  “If he does, he’s given me no indication that he does.”

  He’s quiet, thoughtful. “Get close to him. See if you can get him talking politics and party positioning. Do this and do this well, daughter.”

  Relief washes through me. Logan is, at least for now, safe. “If I do—”

  “Don’t negotiate. Not when I’m still cleaning up your mess.” He disconnects.

  I slip the phone into the pocket of my jeans, but I don’t put the gun down. I walk toward my art room, check for any intruders, and then because I really have no option but to move forward with, or without my weapon, I work my way through the rest of the house. I check every room and end in my bedroom, where an envelope rests on the center of the bed. I set my gun on the nightstand and pick it up. Inside I find nothing but a card that reads, The gun is registered in Danielle’s name. Poetic justice is in the works.

  Poetic Justice.

  My own words.

  My eyes go wide. Did I say them out loud? I must have, which means, he’s telling me that my efforts to search for listening, and perhaps video devices failed. I flip the card over and read: I handled it. That’s your breather. I’ll know if it’s a problem again.

  In other words, he put in his own listening and video devices and that’s how he knew I’d entered the house. For all I know everyone has been watching my every move, even when I undress. This is not what I want my life to be, and yet my father allows it. He creates it. Poetic justice, I repeat in my mind. Was he suggesting I kill my father? No. Of course, he wasn’t. But what was he suggesting then?

  I’m tired of all of these men. Lord help me, if I was back in Washington dealing with my step-mother, too. It’s really time I get a grip on all of them. I grab my gun, march downstairs, and enter my studio. The gun goes on a table next to me and I start painting with a purpose. When I’m done, I’ve created a gift for Rudolf. I’ve painted him sitting on my couch, on a barstool, on my bed. I then snap the photos and text them to him. He calls me of course. “What was that?”

  “You said I’m into my art. I am. What do you think?”

  He’s silent a moment. “That wasn’t about your art.”

  “No,” I say. “That was me telling you to stay out of this house when I’m not here, and as you know, the cameras are gone. Make sure they stay gone and if you recorded when I was naked—”

  “I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “This is the world of politics—”

  “I’m not that guy,” he says sharply.

  “You’re just the guy that does whatever my father wants.”

  “And you think that includes filming his daughter while she dresses?”

  “Look. I’m not the enemy. I have done nothing but support my father. I’m grieving over my friend, but I’m strong. I know this is go time, but what you’re doing—stalking me—is making me claustrophobic.”

  “We’re protecting everyone involved.”

  “I know you’re paid to look out for my father, but please, I beg of you, Rudolf. At least let the house be my sanctuary. I won’t paint those specific paintings you don’t want me to paint. I promise. They were just—my way of coping privately, with what I can’t ever allow to be seen publicly. That’s all. They were actually good. They were a calm private way for me to vent and be done with it.”

  He’s silent several beats. “The house,” he finally says. “Agreed but let’s talk about Jake.”

  “What about him?” I ask.

  “Are you fucking him?”

  “Yes,” I say, hoping this is confirmation there were no cameras in the bedroom. “Is that a problem?”

  “No. He’s with us. What about Logan?”

  “I thought you didn’t know Jake?” I challenge, remembering a prior conversation.

  “I do now. Back to Logan.”

  “I already told you, I barely know Logan.”

  “But your father told you to get close to him. Logan doesn’t strike me as a man to share. Keep that in mind.” He disconnects.

  Oh my God. Did the man just tell me that my father wouldn’t want him to film me naked, however, he’s just fine with me sleeping with Logan for information? I grab the gun, if only I could claim that poetic justice, but my mother would not approve, and I’m not going to jail for my father.

  I walk back into the kitchen, and place my gun in my purse, closing the safe and placing it under the kitchen sink. That’s when I realize with much guilt, that I haven’t heard from Megan nor have I thought about her. I dial her number and it goes directly to voicemail again. I text her: I’m worried about you. Can you please tell me you’re okay?

  Her reply is instant: Why did you have to leave?

  I’m really sorry, I type. I didn’t realize how much you needed to talk.

  You knew, is her answer.

  I didn’t, I reply quickly. “Let’s talk now. Can you call me?

  No. Never again.

  I don’t give up and our exchange turns lightning fast.

  Me: Where are you?

  Her: Why does that even matter anymore? I’m not there. I can’t be there.

  Me: Did you go home?

  Her: Yes.

  Me: To your mother?

  Her: How did you know that?

  Me: I assumed you’d go to family.

  Her: I was in love with him

  Me: I was afraid you’d say that.

  Her: You can’t even begin to understand. There is more to the relationship than you know. I can’t talk about this. I’m going to get upset. I need to go.

  Me: Please just keep talking to me.

  I wait and there is no reply. Nothing. I type: Hello. Megan? Hello?

  I wait.

  Still nothing.

  I sigh. Maybe I’m making this worse by talking to her. I glance at the clock realizing I need to get to the coffee shop. It’s later than I thought and I have a class to teach. I hurry upstairs, braid my hair, darken my makeup and as I feel a little extra obvious today, I pull on a baseball cap. A few minutes later, I’ve locked up, secured the house the best I can, of course, and head out with my briefcase, my purse, and the gun nestled inside.

  My walk is short, and I do indeed try to be more aware of my surroundings, but I still sense nothing and no one watching me. Good thing I’m well versed with a gun. I won’t know I’m in trouble until someone is on top of me. For now though, I think I’m safe. Everyone is working everyone, with me in the center and right this minute, that makes me necessary.

  I enter the coffee shop to find Michelle behind the bar, and she looks like walking death. I hurry across the room, waving at several people before I stop in front of her. “What are you doing here? You clearly don’t feel well.”

  “Megan quitting put us in a bind. I have to be here.”

  “Do you have any emergency number for her? Can I try to contact her?”

  “She never gave me any and the one number I had is disconnected. I have two new people starting tomorrow. I just need to get past today.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Teach class,” she says. “You do enough.” She reaches under the counter and hands me a bag. “Cookies and something that was left for you from a delivery driver.”

  “Thanks.”

  I grab the bag and head toward the art room, where I place my briefcase under the cabinet, but I keep my purse. Tonight, it, with my trusty Sig Sauer inside, goes across my chest to rest at my hip. My phone goes inside my pocket, just in case Megan calls. I sit down in a chair in the corner, out of the view of the main coffee shop, open the package to find something wrapped in brown paper, which makes me think of Jake, bu
t it’s not from Jake. Inside is a fully charged phone. The note attached reads:

  Call me. My number is in the favorites.

  —L

  I tap Logan’s name. He answers on the first ring. “Any trouble?”

  “Nothing I didn’t handle but they know I visited your office.”

  “And?”

  “They want me to get close to you and figure out your agenda.”

  “That’s interesting,” he laughs. “That makes life easier. In light of that information, are you going to be at the coffee shop tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll walk you home from class.”

  He disconnects and with my gun in my purse, I decide to stick the extra phone in my briefcase under the cabinet. I’ve just hidden it away when my phone buzzes with a text message. I yank it from my pocket and read a message from Megan: You aren’t as stupid as you’re pretending to be. I suck in air, a chill racing down my spine. These words are familiar. They’re my father’s words. It’s a coincidence, of course, but it shakes me that Megan used that exact phrase. I don’t even know why she would say such a thing. She doesn’t know me. I’m trying to decide how to reply when a group of about fifteen people swarms the room. It’s a good fifteen minutes before I settle the group, that turns out to be a birthday party, into their places, and I pull my phone back out again and stare at the message, reading it again: You aren’t as stupid as you’re pretending to be.

  I have a sudden flashback to six months ago at a fundraising event. Danielle and I were working the crowd when a billionaire political mastermind had cornered me about my father’s positions on offshore drilling. I knew the answer he wanted. The man hated environmental dangers. I knew the answer to give him. No to offshore drilling, but I didn’t want him to support my father. I didn’t want to go to the White House. And so, I’d said yes to offshore drilling.

  “No,” my father says, joining us, his hand settling on my back, his fingers digging into my flesh. “She loves to freak people out by stating the opposite of what’s expected with a completely straight face. No to offshore drilling. Isn’t that right, honey?”