Elastic Heart

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  I grimaced at the memories he was dredging up. I opened my mouth to argue and fight back, but nothing came out. The radio hosts had drained all my fight. I couldn’t battle anymore that day. I just wanted to sleep and be numb. The next day I had to continue Operation Make Morris Pay, which still didn’t have a good name. Right then I just needed a little TLC, which came in the form of either ice cream, alcohol, or weed.

  I shrugged. “You’re right.”

  “And let’s not forget the night I saved you—wait what?” Law quirked his head, as if he hadn’t heard me.

  “I said you’re right. I came on to you. I’m a whore. Can you go now?” My eyes settled on a nearly empty mason jar. I remembered the night Law had forced me to go to The Bell Jar. I’d thought him to be terrible. It would have been easier that way. Easier than this…whatever this was.

  Now my eyes burned with unshed tears. Maybe if I could muster them up he would leave. Tears tended to make people uncomfortable. I doubted I could really cry, though. The feeling like my eyes were on fire was a feeling I’d had since the rape. I would never cry, but I would always feel their scorching presence beneath my lids.

  “Nami that’s not what I was trying to say…” Law reached out to me as if trying to grasp something. I nearly laughed because it was so apropos. If only he knew that there was nothing to hold.

  “Please just go Law. I’ve had a long day”—long couple of months, more like—“and I need to sleep.”

  “I don’t want to leave you like this,” Law said, the determination in his voice like metal.

  “Fine,” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “Stay. It’s not like I have a say in my life.” A long, pregnant paused followed my words. I acted as if Law wasn’t even in my house and went about my business. I went into my room, changed into my pajamas, and charged my vaporizer. I grabbed a pint of ice cream while the vaporizer charged and turned on the TV. When the vape was charged, I took a long puff and waited for the weed to settle my thoughts.

  The telltale red color of Netflix burst across the screen. Just as I was about to get comfortable, Law said, “If you need anything, here’s my number.”

  I heard him write something down and then felt him set the paper on the arm of the couch. Then the front door opened and closed. When I was sure he wasn’t returning, I reached for the piece of paper; without glancing at the number, I ripped it apart and threw it in the trash.

  It smelled like damp soil and I could hear the drip drip drip of water. The tunnel disappeared into the inky black just a few steps in. Turning around, I looked back at the starry hillside from which I’d come. I was abandoning the full moon and gray hilly garden for unknown. For darkness. For most certain despair.

  I knew what was on the other side of the blackness and it wasn’t pleasant. Its name was Becca Riley and she was merciless. Taking a deep breath, I tried to assuage my fears. It was now or never, literally; I wouldn’t have another opportunity like this for a year. I pulled my phone out and turned on the flashlight, plunging into the void. With my phone on, the blackness transformed into a white and gray oblong.

  Folded up in my back pocket were the blueprints. I took them out, the sound of creasing paper echoing in the blackness. Shining the light on my makeshift map, I tried to get my bearings. It was a long walk from the hillside to Becca Riley’s home. If I followed the highlighted route, I would get there in about thirty minutes. There was supposed to be an old servant’s entrance in the cellar I could enter through. I prayed it was still there and not boarded up, or worse, cemented.

  I shoved the map back into my pocket and began my trek. The air inside the tunnel was stale, smelling of old dirt and mildew. The only sound was of my feet padding along the now decrepit stone. There were various theories about the tunnel systems in Utah; some of the more conspiring ones involved the Mormon church.

  Anyone who grew up in Utah, had lived a few years in Utah, or owned a television, knew of the Mormon church. A church leader founded Utah, thus Utah was pretty much home base for Mormonism. Growing up non-Mormon in Utah was…a unique experience.

  For the most part, I had no issue with Mormons. I grew up in Utah, so Mormons were my friends. Mormons were my schoolmates. My first kiss was with a Mormon. So, just like you’d forget about anyone’s religion when friendship became front and center, you’d forget a person is Mormon. You’d forget only for a little while, though, because the hard truth is that the majority of Mormons only associate with other Mormons.

  When it comes to marriage, when it comes to friendship, when it comes to family, unless you’re a part of their faith, you’re not going to be a part of their life. Which is understandable. It’s easier that way. A lot of their religion has to be kept secret. It’s hard to be friends with someone when you can’t share secrets.

  It wasn’t as if Mormons were the first group of people to stick close to their kind. Assuredly, they wouldn’t be the last either. Their closeness and unyielding support of one another is usually something to be admired. In a world of many questions and lonely answers, they offer their truth: family, traditions, and values. Yet their strength is also their weakness; because Mormons are so close, they are also blindly trusting of one another.

  It was unfathomable to them that a man so high in the faith would disgrace himself, especially with someone like me, a non-believer: Mitch Morris had spent years cultivating his image and curating his friends. He had a beautiful blonde wife and a lovely family of five children. He was the epitome of Mormon life. I was the opposite. I was sin and debauchery because I drank on the weekends, smoked weed occasionally, and had casual sex.

  The Mormon Church owned the media. They owned the newspaper and the TV stations. They even owned a mall. The police went to church with Morris and Morris helped get the sheriff elected. You got used to this kind of thing, growing up in Utah. You forgot that the church literally owned everything. So when it happened to me, I wasn’t prepared.

  I never stood a chance.

  Holding up my phone to examine markings on the tunnel wall, I couldn’t help but remember every Mormon I’d been friends with. I remembered ditching school with those friends and looking for similar tunnels to explore. They’d told ghost stories and tales of old Mormons who’d built the tunnels to connect them to the temple. Back then they’d talked about their faith with skepticism. Now, they seemed lost to it.

  We’d lost touch after high school, when they started having babies and really getting into the faith. It had seemed so weird to me. In high school they’d been rebellious and carefree and had gone on crazy adventures with me. I often wondered what they thought of me now.

  I thought of them as changed. I thought of them as traitors to their previous selves, but perhaps they held the same view of me. More than likely, they shook their heads and wondered what had happened to the Nami DeGrace from high school.

  I turned a corner and pulled out my map again. If I was correct with my highlighting, this was the final stretch. Down this tunnel lay Becca Riley’s home. Fear and apprehension curled in my belly like frozen lead. I’d done the research, so I knew that today, Saturday in the middle of December, Riley was asleep upstairs in her bed. It was the one day Riley slept in.

  The night before she would take a sedative in combination with a benzo and sleep for a full fourteen hours. She sent her staff home and turned off her phone. Riley likened it to “recharging her batteries”. It was the only time in the year that she wasn’t working. It was pretty much the only time I could strike.

  I reached the end of the tunnel, my light slowly illuminating the walls around me until an outline of a door appeared. I placed my hand on the rough, damp feeling wood and held it there for a bit, trying to gain some courage. I knew it was now or never, but part of me wished I could hold on to never.

  Inside Riley’s house I quickly tiptoed out of the cellar and into the kitchen. From there it was a quick walk down the hallway to her office. I was lucky that the door was open, but my luck ended there. Her desk was lo
cked tight and all the files I needed were deep inside.

  I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for. I was hoping for something I could manipulate to make Morris look corrupt or—if I was really lucky—something I didn’t have to manipulate at all. Perhaps the files would be proof of Morris’s true character.

  I glanced hurriedly around the office, looking for anything I could use to break open the drawer, when my eyes landed on a pair of scissors. Sliding the scissors into the gap in the drawer, I bent them back until the lock snapped open. Quickly, I stuffed whatever files were inside into my backpack. As I moved to the next locked drawer, my phone went off. The loud ringing was cacophonous in the silent house.

  “Shit,” I said aloud, digging through my backpack to find my phone. I thought I’d put my phone on silent, but apparently not. I prayed Becca was drugged enough that the ringing didn’t wake her. As I pressed silent, the text that had sounded the alarm caught my eye.

  “I wonder if you told all your secrets and now you have nothing left to say.” Frowning, I read Huck’s message once more before typing a reply.

  “You don’t know anything about me.” Before I could put my phone away, he responded.

  “I know. And you’re making it fucking hard to learn.” I shoved my phone in the sleeve of my backpack, resolved to deal with Huck later. When I looked up, Riley was in the doorway. My breath escaped me in a silent gasp.

  “Nami DeGrace?” Riley asked, shock marring her perfectly made up features. “Whatever are you doing here?” I stood up from her desk, folding my arms. I’d only met Riley a few times as an intern, and each time had been the exact same. She’d given me a brilliant megawatt smile and thanked me for my dutiful service. Then she’d returned her attention to her smartphone and walked off, barking orders.

  Becca Riley was a viper, probably more venomous than Morris. After all, she was the reason Morris was in office. I didn’t buy her surprise for a minute. Even though she was supposed to be resting, her face was still impeccably made up. Every bone was highlighted and contoured, her lips were sealed with red, and her lashes were long and much too luxurious to be real. She wore a satin nightgown and robe, like a fucking nineteen twenties movie star.

  “Cut the shit, Riley.” Quicker than I could blink, Riley’s face turned cold. She eyed me with contempt and loathing and advanced forward. Placing a pointed finger on her wooden desk, she trailed the edge around to face me. With one eyebrow raised and two lips puckered, she regarded me.

  “What game are you playing, DeGrace?” She smiled thinly through her question. I slammed the drawer shut just inches from her finger. She snapped her hand back. There was no pretense between us any more. She glowered at me and I returned her look with just as much gusto.

  “I’m not playing a game,” I seethed. “I’m going to prove your boss to be the twisted pervert he is and you as his accomplice and cheerleader.”

  Becca shook her hair out lazily. Sighing, she walked away from me and toward the window. I watched, my entire body posed for a fight, as she carefully pulled aside the drapes. Light poured in as Becca tied them up, taking long moments to carefully tie each knot. At last Becca turned to face me, her back leaning against the now exposed glass.

  “Are you—oh, I don’t know the proper nomenclature any more…” Riley waved a hand frivolously. “Are you off the wagon? Is that why you broke into my house—because make no mistake, that’s what has happened here—and attempted to steal my valuables? Are you high, DeGrace? Should I call the police, or the professionals? Or perhaps the media would like another attempt at your psyche before the psychiatrists have a go?”

  I placed both hands on the desk, refusing to relinquish my stare. “There’s proof of your depravity somewhere.”

  “Somewhere?” Becca laughed, the trill, tinkly sound at odds with her rancorous being. “I take that to mean you still haven’t found anything.”

  I nearly opened my mouth and spilled what I had found, just to wipe her stupid, smug grin away. I had proof. I had the rape kit the police refused to test. The police may have destroyed all other proof, like the clothes I was wearing and the pictures the hospital took, but they didn’t get the rape kit. The rape kit was stored at a separate facility that the police couldn’t touch.

  I held on to that rape kit as my only hope. I thought if I could get Morris arrested on some other charge, they might test his DNA and get a match for the rape kit. Or maybe if I looked long enough, I could find more proof of my rape. So far nothing was showing up, but vile Becca Riley didn’t need to know any of that.

  Instead I said, “You and Morris are like acid rain, Riley. You can’t help but burn whatever you touch. So yeah, there’s proof somewhere.”

  Riley kicked off the glass, smiling. “Go ahead and look some more. If you could find something, it would make this game we play a little more interesting. Fair warning, the police will be here in about five minutes.” Riley sauntered out of the office, her silver robe fluttering behind.

  Just seconds after she’d gone, sirens sounded in the distance. Cursing, I ran back to the servant’s hallway. I pounded down the stairs and into the basement, shoving open the cellar door that led to the tunnel system.

  “There’s nothing here!” I threw the last of the papers on the floor in exasperation. There wasn’t a single usable piece in anything I’d stolen from Riley’s. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Some of the records proved Morris was using public money for private things, but in the grand scheme of things, that was nothing. Considering the scandals most politicians had to face lately, it was barely even a blip. I was trying to prove that Morris was Satan, and even I was starting to doubt myself.

  So far I’d taken thousands of pictures of Morris and the only thing I’d caught was him meeting with his secretaries late at night. Sure, that was fishy, but it wasn’t evidence. If you had a devoted fan base like Morris did, it counted for nothing, especially considering the source: me. I was still the alcoholic whore who had tried to ruin Morris’s reputation.

  I needed concrete evidence that Morris was one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Without evidence, I was just another preacher screaming on a street corner. The more evidence I had, the better, but really all I needed was to get him indicted. Even if all I could do was get him on something stupid, like too many unpaid parking tickets, it was worth it. If his DNA was scanned into the police database there would be no hiding. He would match my rape kit and then his house of cards would come tumbling down.

  That had been my plan from the beginning, yet the further I continued, the more hopeless I felt. Morris was impregnable. He was like the fucking Pope in the Popemobile and I was just throwing candied almonds at his glass shield. Nothing I did touched him. He walked around with a smirk on his face while I wore a scarlet letter burned into my flesh.

  Grimacing, I shoved the bad thoughts down where they belonged and turned back to the pile of papers on the floor. The only thing of value that I’d swiped was Riley’s personal day planner. I probably only had a few days before she realized it was missing and switched all of her dates, making the thing useless. I flipped through the pages, writing down the important information.

  It would make tailing Morris a bit easier. Instead of following him all day, I could simply show up. I didn’t need to wait outside his house or office for hours in hopes of him making an appearance. I didn’t have to scan his website to see if he had any events. Instead I could just check the planner. So that was nice.

  As I was thinking over my new plan, a knock sounded at my door. I glanced warily up from the piles of papers strewn about my room. There was only one person besides the delivery man who knocked at my door: Law. I went to the door and yelled out, “What do you want?”

  “Let me in!”

  “Fat fucking chance of that.” Laughing, I turned and walked away from the door, but not before yelling, “Go away!” As I seated myself back on the floor, I heard the lock being picked. Terror seized me and I ran for my gun where i
t was nestled safely in the nightstand. I kicked Raskol lightly to wake him up, but he only raised his head before returning to his slumber.

  “Seriously, worst guard dog ever,” I muttered before raising my gun to the opening door.

  “Woah,” Law said, eyeing the cannon. “Is this how you greet all your friends?”

  “It’s how I greet people who break and enter my home,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “You’ve been avoiding me.” I shut my eyes at his answer and kept the lids pressed tight—anything to gain control over the way his voice affected me. “You never called. I was worried.” I opened my eyes, stunned to see how close Law had gotten. He was only a foot away from me now. That rich, heady scent that was utterly Law engulfed me. It drugged me.

  “Take the hint, Law,” I said, surprised at how breathy my voice was. There was a brief pause wherein neither of us said anything, but I swore I heard the air crackle, as if the mere tension between us lit the oxygen in the room on fire. On my exhale, Law bounded toward me and pushed me against the wall that separated the kitchen from my living room.

  I elbowed him in the stomach and he barely flinched. The only way I knew my blow landed was from his short, low grunt. Law grappled with my hands and the gun, pushing them between us so I couldn’t move. We were so close I could see the sweat on his brow.

  “It’s not smart to wrestle with guns, Law,” I said. I wasn’t looking at him when I spoke, my eyes trained on his bottom lip instead. I wanted to bite it.

  “I could see the safety was on,” Law replied. His voice was low, almost a rumble. I felt it all over. “You should probably make sure that’s off before threatening people.” I barely registered his reply. I couldn’t tell if the thick, hard thing pressing into my stomach was him or the gun. At that point I didn’t care. All I could focus on was the heady, spicy scent surrounding me and the feel of his hot skin keeping me pressed against the wall.