I almost give up, feeling a headache settle in, when there’s a ring at my door. I stay put, not sure if I want to speak with anyone right now. When the bell rings three more times, I decide to see who it is.
Through the peephole, I see Brad. Surprises just keep coming today. I open the door wide and invite him in.
“How did you find me?” I say when he’s standing in my living room in black jeans and white t-shirt and perfectly spiked black hair. His muscles bulge under the tight shirt and his teeth are so perfectly straight and white they look fake.
“Jax asked me to check on you,” he says, shrugging.
“Don’t tell me you were his one phone call,” I say with obvious bitterness coloring my voice.
“Not quite. I got to see him though. I went to the station with Donald Jameson. It’s a mess.”
I nod, not really wanting to know any details about Jaxson’s situation right now. Instead, I grab the iPad and shove it under Brad’s nose.
“What do you know about this?” I say as my finger scrolls through the photos of me from all stages of my life.
“Should I know something?” he says, shifting his weight from leg to leg.
“You tell me. This is your buddy’s iPad. Why would he have all those photos of me? How is that possible?”
“How did you get it?”
I give Brad a crooked grin. “I thought I was doing him a favor when I got it out of his place before the cops got their hands on it. On second thought, maybe he’d prefer it if they were the ones going through it.”
Brad clears his throat. For a moment, I think he’s going to come up with some lame-ass excuse but then he takes my hand in his, making my whole body wince.
“Jax has wanted you for a long time, Ella,” he says, “and that’s all I can say. He’ll have to tell you the rest himself. Just know that he’s on your side. No matter what ugly things the police think he might be involved in, you’re the one person he’d never hurt.”
“Brad, you better fucking tell me what’s going on.”
He leans in, bringing his gorgeous face down to my level to whisper in my ear. “You have the answers. Think, Ella, think. It’s all in there,” he says, tapping my head with his knuckles.
He heads for the door and I instinctively know that no matter how much I want to get answers from him, he’ll never comply. Only Jax can do that and he’s conveniently locked up.
I’m left staring at the iPad in my hands, wishing for some epiphany to hit me so I can find the answers inside my head like Brad suggested. It’s a nice theory that the solution could be that simple, but the truth is none of this makes any fucking sense at all. If I could scream, I would.
I’m done. I take my keys out and head for the garage. This whole town is making me sick to my stomach. It’s time to go back home.
SCANDAL
Part two
—one—
Jaxson
It’s hard to tell the time in here. I have no window, no watch, just this sickly, never-changing dim light. It could be late afternoon or I could be way off. The only certainty is that time can be a cruel bitch, fucking vomiting out its claustrophobia and paranoia like prison bile.
I know what the inside of a cell looks like. It might be the first time I’ve been arrested but it’s not the first time I’ve been imprisoned. It’s more than just a saying that the walls close in on you. The constant pacing of your feet when in isolation creates a desire to call out for a guard or a loved one or a rat—anything to make contact with something other than your failing mind.
What makes this time different is Ella. The sense that there is someone out there waiting, someone wonderful, creates an ache in my chest like I’ve never known before. I haven’t decided yet if this is a weakness or a strength.
I’ve been trained to stay calm but my gut tells me I’m in serious trouble. Real, not-going-away, shit-your-pants kind of trouble. Someone with the ability to fabricate evidence wants me in here. I must have made the wrong kind of enemy. It could even be my uncle who’s behind this. He likes to teach lessons. It’s unlikely that he would go this far.
The truth, I fear, is far uglier.
Footsteps approach. A guard stops in front of my cell. “Cole, your lawyer is here,” he says, unlocking the door. He steps inside to put handcuffs on my wrists. Again, not my first time with handcuffs. That road I have traveled for both pleasure and pain before.
The guard leads me to an interrogation room where Elaine Parker waits for me with a tall man in an expensive suit who must be my lawyer.
“Hello, Jaxson,” Elaine says, patting me on the shoulder before the guard unlocks the cuffs, pushing me down on a chair behind a table. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I say, “all things considered.”
“We’ll clear this up,” she says as the guard leaves the room.
Elaine eyes me silently for a second or two in a way that makes my stomach churn. Her expression tells me I’m in trouble in more ways than one.
I turn to the tall stranger in a suit who poses as my lawyer. Maybe he is, maybe he’s not. But he’s definitely a lot more than that.
“Let me have it,” I tell him, too tired and impatient to ask for his name or pretend I don’t know why he’s here. They can play their games on their own time. I’ve been locked up for hours and right now I need answers and I need them fast.
“Okay,” he says, taking his eyes off me to open his briefcase on the table. He extends his hand to me. “Eric Borland.”
The name means nothing to me. I shake his hand silently.
“Here’s the deal,” Borland says. “The police have evidence that places you at Madison Starr’s apartment on the night she was murdered.”
“That’s bullshit,” I say, banging my fist on the hard surface of the table, needing the pain to help me stay focused.
“No interruptions, Mr. Cole. You can air your grievances after I’m done.”
There is something in his eyes that gives me pause. A dark mix of cruelty and joy. Bad combination. There’s some fucked-up wiring behind those eyes. So I shut up and let him finish.
“I can get you out on bail with the assistance of your uncle.”
“And by that you mean his money or his connections?” Yeah, to hell with Borland’s personal story of darkness, I’ll interrupt the motherfucker all I want. I can flip the badass switch too, when needed.
“Both. Consider yourself lucky.”
“What’s the catch? Dear Uncle Lucius never does anything out of the goodness of his heart. There’s always a catch.” Why bother to explain? The dude either knows my uncle or he doesn’t.
Borland’s eyes glisten like fog lights on water. “Same old story. Do as I say. Don’t think twice. When you’re out, you go visit your uncle.”
“Easy as pie,” I say, incredulously.
“With cream and cherries,” Elaine says, trying to convince me.
“Listen, guy,” Borland says. “Do your part and you’ll be out Monday morning. Don’t complicate your extraction.”
Ex-military. He might as well wear his fatigues and boots. He picks up his briefcase. I don’t want to show Borland my relief, but my lungs feel like they can exhale for the first time since I was arrested. I’m not sure what I think about Lucius coming through for me. It’s better than the alternative.
“One last thing,” Borland says as he walks to the door. “That girl. You are not to see her again. What was her name? Miss Wade.”
“Ella Wade,” I whisper under my breath.
My throat runs dry. My vision warms and blurs. Anger swirls into a hurricane force that wells in my clenching right fist. I will burn down their fucking world and piss on the ashes. No one tells me who the fuck I can see or not see. No fucking one. Not Lucius. Not fucking God himself.
“Ella Wade?” I say again. “Yeah. Whatever. She served her purpose.”
Elaine puts a hand on my chest to stop me from going after my own lawyer as he knocks on the door
to be let out.
“Jax,” Elaine says when we’re alone. “I know you like the girl. Be careful. There are things in motion that won’t be stopped. Play your part.”
“I’m tired of having my life planned out by evil bastards.”
“Does that include me?”
I shake my head, not in the mood for her calculating games. Elaine Parker has been an ally for the most part but she can also be highly manipulative and ambiguous, saying one thing and meaning another, which makes her a perfect subordinate for Uncle Lucius.
“This is a mind game this time, not a game of courage and might,” she says as if reciting a magical chant. Clandestine sorcery bullshit.
“Lucius can take all his games and choke on them.”
“Jaxson,” she says, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. “It’s me you’re talking to. Let’s be honest for a moment.”
This life is pure exhaustion. “Did you have a moment in mind?”
She bends her face at me, some attempt at motherly concern. “All I am saying is run the probabilities through your mind before you make choices that could lead to harm.”
“Harm? That threat is not even veiled, EP,” I tell her.
“Don’t play that adolescent rebellion bullshit with me,” she says. “I’m here as a friend. There’s a reason your uncle struggles to trust you. Jax, if not for yourself, think of the girl. We need you to stay real regular on this. No hero ball. Understand? Let’s keep the collateral damage in a ring box this time. We need to play this neat. All cleaned up and whistling.”
Despite the concern on her face, there’s not much feeling in her eyes. Not much of anything. Emotion is a nostalgia she has long abandoned.
“Noted,” I say as cold as frozen beef.
“Well, then, it’s simple,” Elaine says, taking my face in her hands. “Let’s get you out of here for now, Jaxson. Take a breath and then show up at HQ. You need a table talk with Lucius. He’s been waiting on you for months. Most importantly, you have to let Miss Wade go. At least until the dust lands.”
Dust is what dead people are made of. I get it. Stand in line or nap in a hole. I’ve had better options. I have to give up something to gain something. This is Lucius math. Get it wrong and pay with your life. My uncle has all the charm of a hand grenade.
“Heard you the first time,” I say.
“And easy on Mister Borland. He’s the best attorney money can buy. One not slowed down by legalities. Leave this in our hands. Rest that big brain of yours.”
“Scary as hell, but you have left me no options,” I say. “Bang your drums and I’ll dance a nice little jig.” My words come out slowly and deliberately to hide the fact I feel like killing someone for real.
Elaine is not stupid—she senses my fevered disdain instantly. “Without laughter, what is a joke?” she says in a benevolent manner that pisses me off way more than anything else. “You knew this would happen. You knew you’d have to give her up sooner or later. You can’t play with civilians.”
She pats my cheek before the guard arrives to escort her out.
I feel a chill. Everything she said was true. I knew the end game. I always know. It’s like a curse. Lucius has his math and I have mine. And they’re related. Pun intended. I hate math. I love Ella. That’s a problem.
When I’m back behind bars and they lock the door, I wait for the footsteps to fade into the prison. My only answer is to pound my head against the cell wall until a little blood trickles down my nose.
Pain shoots through my temples, a brutal reminder that I’m still alive.
—two—
Ella
Sitting in the cozy space of my mother’s living room helps calm my uneven breathing. I’ve been verging on hyperventilation since I got in the car to drive to Santa Barbara. Being inside the familiar walls of the house where I spent most of my childhood works better than any anxiety medication.
“Here we are,” Mom says, appearing suddenly with two cups of herbal tea and sliced lemon cake on a tray. “Let’s eat out tonight, we need a break. You pick the place,” she says with a smile as she sets down the tray.
I’m still too high-strung to have a meaningful dinner conversation and there’s no chance fine dining will chase away the ghosts of the past few days. It's best to just blurt out what I need. Maybe then I can focus on being a daughter to my mother who has just gone through a terrible loss.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as I pick up my cup of tea, “can I look at some old photo albums? The ones from my teen years?”
“Of course, honey. You don’t have to ask, you know where they are.”
She’s right, it’s a silly question. I’ve never asked permission to look at family photos before but a guilty conscience can play tricks on you. My mother thinks I’m here because of our shared grief over what happened to Madison when in reality my priority is to search for answers to the great mystery of why my pictures are on Jax’s iPad. That’s how mixed up I am right now.
As soon as I’m done with the tea, I excuse myself and take the photo albums out on the porch while my mother does the dishes. My hands shake a little as they get busy turning pages until I reach some of the images I have seen in Jax’s photo folder. I observe the photos closely, comparing them against the images on the iPad, trying to discover a connection.
I page through album after album, looking for any kind of clue that would lead to some form of recognition until I begin to lose hope. I honestly don’t know what I was hoping to find in the first place. These images are identical whether in an album or on someone’s iPad.
Then my eyes fix on a single photo—one that’s not on the iPad. I’m about seven or eight, standing next to a boy I can barely remember. He’s skinny with thick, ugly glasses on his small face. We’re both squinting against the hot sun of a summer afternoon at the beach.
Memories flow back in bits and pieces. I remember now the ten-year-old boy who once helped me get down from a tree when I froze up—probably the cause of my mild fear of heights. Then I remember him cleaning the blood from my knees after a bike spill when my mother was at the store and I wasn’t supposed to be out of the house.
One by one, glimpses of that distant summer return to me. The boy’s mother was the wife of a man who worked with my father. I remember rumors in the neighborhood that the boy’s father had run off and never returned. I asked my father about it and said he was travelling for business.
I could not tell you what business that would be as my father shared almost no details about his work. Not that I remember. My father’s secrets led to a lot of fighting with my mother. I tuned them out. I didn’t care. I loved my father and was grateful whenever he was home.
The boy and his mother visited our house a few times that summer and I hung out with him, taking him down to the ocean to collect shells and letting him ride my bike once or twice. He was shy and clumsy and often bullied at school for that and for being small for his age, not to mention those horrible glasses he had to view the world through.
My hands get sweaty as I turn the album pages faster and faster until I find a clearer picture of him, his face close up. I stare at his boyish features for a good minute, scrutinizing every detail and feature—the shape of the nose, lips and eyebrows and how it all fit together. My heartbeat accelerates as the truth comes slowly at first and then like head-on collision.
His face takes on a new power. It’s as if the boy looking at the camera knew I would be looking at him someday from the future. It would be almost eerie if not for the absolutely astonishing beauty I can see in his face now. Even after all the years and the extraordinary changes that turned the boy into a man, I can see Jaxson Cole staring at me, knowingly.
“What the fuck?” I whisper softly to myself.
His name was Jack Caleb, the boy with the glasses. We spent a few days together playing in the neighborhood while our parents hung out in the house having their grown-up conversations.
“It feels nice out here,” my mother says, sta
rtling me. “It’s finally starting to cool down.”
My pulse quickens as I contemplate asking her to confirm my suspicions. Right now I can’t be entirely sure I’m not making this shit up. Could my tired, anxious mind be playing tricks on me?
“Do you remember this boy?” I say, pointing at the album.
She takes the album as she sits beside me. “Ah, yes, little Jack. Poor thing. You were so nice to him, Ella. He hung on your every word. Nobody else was nice to him. He was an odd kid. I don’t think he had many friends.”
An iciness penetrates my bones. I was nice to him when nobody else was. Could that be it? Could that be the only reason for his interest?
“Did he and his mother visit us?” I say, doing my best to compose myself.
“Yes, they did. They stayed with us for a week or so until the accident and then we had to rush Jack to the hospital. They went home straight after that.”
They stayed with us. That part is very hazy in my head but I was barely eight. Children remember what they want to remember. “The accident?” I ask as glimpses of a visit to the hospital trip through my head.
“Yes, he was riding your bike when he had a nasty fall. A sharp-tipped branch cut right through his side. Poor, poor little guy.”
The truth hits me once and for all, unhurried, like a wounded bird that I have to keep close to my chest. Jaxson had that remote look on his face when I asked about the scar on his side. I thought it was because he wanted to avoid a conversation, but now I’m beginning to see he was probably wondering if it would trigger any memories in me, if I would finally open my eyes to see who was sitting right in front of me.
“How did it happen?” I mumble. “How did he fall?”
“I’m not sure how it happened, honey. He was riding the bike by himself. I think you two had a little fight. Our neighbor, Mr. Jones, found him bleeding and trying to walk back home. We took him to the hospital. They stitched him up and put him on antibiotics and pain meds. You wanted to visit him at the hospital. He was so happy to see you. He was over the moon. I’ll never forget his little face brightening up despite all his pains.”
Scandal: The Complete Series Page 9