Tell Me No Lies

by A. V. Geiger

  “Hop in,” the driver had said by way of greeting. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Where’s Eric?” She’d clicked the door closed behind her as Clint maneuvered the SUV away from the curb. He’d held up one finger, signaling her to wait. Tessa had slipped her phone out of her pocket, but Clint had reached back a hand from the front seat, snapping his fingers to get her attention.

  “No phones. We’re in damage control mode. Give it to me.”

  He’d snapped again, and Tessa had handed the phone over. Some instinct warned her not to question. Clint wasn’t just a limo driver after all. He was security. Eric’s most trusted bodyguard. And Tessa could tell from his clipped tone that he meant business.

  She twisted her hands in her lap. She wished Clint would give her some clue what was going on. Where was Eric? Was Clint taking her to him? She looked into the front seat and met the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. His hands gripped the steering wheel, and his massive biceps flexed inside the sleeves of his black blazer. She could see the seams straining, threatening to burst under the pressure every time he turned the wheel.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but Clint cut her off with an infinitesimal shake of his head. He raised one finger to his lips. Not here, the gesture said. No talking. Radio silence.

  Tessa nodded, pressing her lips together. She needed to clear her head and do her relaxation exercises. She turned her attention back to the passing traffic as she counted the breaths inside her head.

  The car switched lanes again, and a freeway exit sign flashed overhead:

  EXIT 29

  MULHOLLAND DRIVE

  Tessa let the tension out of her lungs, visualizing it leave her body like a puff of steaming air. She knew that road sign. She’d been this way before. Her suspicions were confirmed as the car wound its way through the twists and turns of the Hollywood Hills, and they pulled into a gated driveway.

  Eric’s house.

  Eric must have DM’ed her from here and sent Clint to fetch her.

  Clint pulled the car into the covered carport. He got out and motioned for her to follow. Tessa scampered in his wake up the front walkway. The bodyguard stood inside the door, waiting for her to catch up. “This way,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t be nervous. Everything’s under control.”

  Tessa crept into the house and let the door swing shut behind her. She heard a muffled voice coming from upstairs somewhere. Was that Eric? He must be up there in the master suite—unless there were other rooms upstairs besides his bedroom. Tessa didn’t have the layout of the place committed to memory. She’d only spent a couple nights here this past week.

  She stood still for a moment and listened, but his voice was too faint to hear what he was saying.

  Was that really Eric? Was he talking to someone, or was he on the phone? His voice sounded funny.

  “Go ahead,” Clint said, pointing up the staircase.

  Tessa nodded. She could feel her adrenal glands kicking in—eliciting their predictable response. Her brain was practically screaming at her: Danger! Danger! Danger!

  But it wasn’t real, Tessa told herself. It wasn’t rational. It was a chemical in her brain. She pushed the feeling away.

  Eric had DM’ed. He was up there waiting for her. Everything would be OK once she was with him, once they had a chance to talk. With her boyfriend’s arms locked tight around her, the tide of panic would recede as swiftly as it had come.

  Upstairs.

  He was waiting.

  “Right,” Tessa whispered to herself. She reached for the bannister and took the steps two at a time.

  THE INTERROGATION

  (FRAGMENT 9)

  May 1, 2017, 3:24 p.m.

  Case #75932.394.1

  OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPTION OF POLICE INTERVIEW

  —START PAGE 5—

  THORN: What do you mean a license plate was not obtained? Where did they go? Where did he take her?

  INVESTIGATOR: Eric, I need you to take your seat.

  THORN: No! I’m out of here. I’m going to find Tessa.

  INVESTIGATOR: Our dispatcher has sent out an all-points bulletin. We have two police choppers in the area—

  THORN: Looking for a black Escalade? Do you know how many cars in LA fit that description?

  INVESTIGATOR: Sit down, Eric. The best way to help us find her is by answering my questions.

  THORN: What questions? It’s Blair. Blair Duncan! What else can I tell you?

  INVESTIGATOR: If Blair Duncan was behind this as you believe, do you have any idea where he may have taken her?

  THORN: No. I don’t know. I can’t believe this is happening again. Why would she get in a car with him?

  INVESTIGATOR: Is it possible that she got in the car with someone else?

  THORN: Who else? Who else would pretend to be me? I’m telling you, that’s what he did the last time! Blair hacked my second account, and she thought it was me.

  INVESTIGATOR: Hold on… [pause] Roger that. Eric, I’m getting word that a vehicle has been sighted at a private residence in Hollywood. They have reason to believe it’s the same car.

  THORN: Well, go get them!

  INVESTIGATOR: Our units are trying to gain access. I’ll update you as I hear further information. Eric, please sit down.

  THORN: I’m going. I want to be there!

  INVESTIGATOR: Please, try to remain calm. Let’s go over what we know.

  THORN: I’m telling you—

  INVESTIGATOR: We know Laura Regan is dead. We know she arrived in LA yesterday on a flight from Midland International Airport. We can only presume that she thought she was going to that hotel to meet Tessa.

  THORN: I don’t think you should assume… Wait. Wait, wait, wait. I just thought of something else.

  INVESTIGATOR: Go ahead.

  THORN: There was a DM. That means my @EricThorn account must have followed @Snowflake734 on Twitter!

  INVESTIGATOR: I’m not sure how that’s—

  THORN: Look! Right here. It’s the most recent account I followed. Don’t you see what that means?

  INVESTIGATOR: Tessa must have been logged in and followed the @Snowflake734 account herself.

  THORN: No way. She would’ve Snapchatted me. Not Twitter. Blair must’ve hacked @EricThorn too…

  INVESTIGATOR: Slow down, Eric.

  THORN: Listen, you wanted evidence of someone other than Tessa and me with access to my Twitter. Well, here it is!

  INVESTIGATOR: You think Blair Duncan hacked three different Twitter accounts now?

  THORN: What’s the third one?

  INVESTIGATOR: @MrsEricThorn.

  THORN: Oh, right.

  INVESTIGATOR: Eric, let’s talk about the MET account.

  THORN: Now? Why? Just focus on Tessa!

  INVESTIGATOR: Hear me out. Who else could have been using the MET account to leak material?

  THORN: I don’t know! I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t care right now about leaked photos. Tessa is out there somewhere with some total—

  INVESTIGATOR: I understand, but it seems to me the MET account is the key to this whole case, including Tessa’s whereabouts right now.

  THORN: How do you figure that?

  INVESTIGATOR: Whoever runs that account killed Dr. Regan and is attempting to frame Tessa Hart for the crime. It might have worked if you hadn’t noticed those direct messages.

  THORN: Wait. So you think whoever runs MET just kidnapped Tessa?

  INVESTIGATOR: That seems more likely than any other theory. Who else had behind-the-scenes access to you? Maybe someone on your support staff?

  THORN: There’s a ton of turnover. I don’t even know a lot of their names… [pause] Oh, wait a sec. Katrina!

  INVESTIGATOR: Go on.

  THORN: She’s head of wardrobe. She comes to all my gigs. And… [pause]

  INVESTIGATOR: Eric?

  THORN: She had my phone! Yesterday. I totally spaced. My phone was messing up my costume, so she took it.

  INVESTIGATOR
: How long did she have your phone in her possession?

  THORN: I don’t know. She said she’d leave it on my makeup chair. It was there when I finished shooting. I knew that was a bad idea!

  INVESTIGATOR: All right, Eric. Do you know where this Katrina…

  THORN: Katrina Cortez.

  INVESTIGATOR: Any idea where she might be right now? Is she supposed to be on set at your video shoot?

  THORN: No, she’s off today. Just makeup artists on set. We were scheduled to shoot the nude scene.

  INVESTIGATOR: I’ll have our officers see if they can locate her.

  THORN: Wow. Katrina. She always seemed a little bit…intense.

  INVESTIGATOR: Hold that thought. I’m getting word… [pause]

  THORN: About Tessa? Did they find her in that car?

  INVESTIGATOR: Right. I read you. Copy that. OK, thanks, Nancy.

  THORN: What’s happening?

  INVESTIGATOR: I’m sorry, Eric.

  THORN: What do you mean? What did they say?

  INVESTIGATOR: They searched the car and the premises. They didn’t find anything suspicious.

  THORN: But what about Tessa? Was she there?

  INVESTIGATOR: No, they had the wrong car. They’re fanning out now to cover a wider search area.

  THORN: You mean you know nothing. You guys have absolutely no idea who she’s with or where she is.

  18

  FALSE EVIDENCE

  Tessa rounded the corner into Eric’s bedroom, and she froze. It wasn’t Eric’s face that greeted her.

  “OK, gotta go… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The words were spoken into a cell phone held by a pair of hands clad in blue latex gloves. They were the same kind her mother had used for the blood draw in Tessa’s dream yesterday. Maybe that was why she felt like she’d stepped into a nightmare. She’d already been hovering on the brink of panic, and the sight of those gloves sent her heart rate skyrocketing.

  The questions whirled through her mind in time with her rushing pulse. Why gloves? Why now? Why here?

  “You?” she asked. “What are you doing here?” Her voice sounded far away, like it hadn’t come from her own throat. Try as she might, Tessa couldn’t tear her eyes away from those gloves. The latex stretched and gathered as they moved. “Where’s Eric?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I thought he was here. He DM’ed me.”

  “No he didn’t.”

  “Well, somebody DM’ed me from—”

  The left glove gestured abruptly, cutting her off in midsentence.

  “That wasn’t Eric?” Tessa stammered. “That was you? B-but how do you even know about that username?”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  Tessa’s eyes dropped to the floor, and her forehead crinkled. What were those? Her mom hadn’t worn those in her dream, although Tessa had seen them once or twice at the hospital where her mother worked. The surgical nurses wore them in the operating rooms—those light-blue, puffy booties that went over their shoes. What were those doing here?

  The booties whooshed across the bedroom carpeting, nearly silent. Tessa followed in their wake.

  “You two really floor me sometimes. How do I know? I see everything, Tessa. I’ve been watching from the beginning. Every single word.”

  Tessa stutter-stepped. She wrapped her arms around herself as a tremor swept through her frame. She didn’t like this conversation. She should leave. She needed to find Eric…or at least find Clint. Had he left? Or was he still downstairs?

  Tessa didn’t dare attempt the staircase. The curtain of panic enveloped her, and she didn’t trust herself to navigate the house. She was moving through a thick, black fog, blind to her surroundings—and through it all, the only things she could see were those pale-blue hands and feet.

  The feet swished to the far side of the room. The hands picked up a remote control that rested on the bedside table. The dark fog swirled and eddied around her as the window blinds shuddered closed, casting the bedroom deeper into shadow.

  “Hit the light switch, would you?”

  Tessa didn’t move. Were those gloves really there, or was she hallucinating? “Why are you wearing those?” she asked.

  “Fingerprints.” The remote control thudded back down onto the nightstand. “Listen, sweet pea. I’d love to stand around and chat, but we don’t have time. Are you gonna help me out here or not?”

  Sweet pea? Did she hear that right? Eric hadn’t called her by that nickname in ages. He’d mainly used it over DM, before she knew he was Eric Thorn… Back when the mystery boy on the other end of the messages was named Taylor, with the handle @EricThornSucks.

  No one else knew about that name. Not unless…

  “Sweet pea,” the voice repeated, laughing through the words. “Bunny slippers…rabbit’s feet… You two crack me up sometimes. Don’t look so surprised, Tessa! You know there’s no such thing as cybersecurity.”

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  “Relax. I’m here to help.” A rubber-covered index finger pointed again toward the light switch. This time Tessa obeyed. She turned and flicked the switch, half listening to the voice that spoke behind her. “We need to get a few things cleaned up before the cops search the place. Which side of the bed do you sleep on when you’re here?”

  Tessa ducked her chin. She stared at the feet, and then back up at the rubber gloves. The hands were close enough to touch her. Blue latex rested on her shoulder, and Tessa registered surprise at the heaviness of the hand inside.

  Tessa closed her eyes. The room was spinning. She needed to breathe, but she’d forgotten how to make her lungs operate. “Should I have gloves on too?”

  “Nah, everybody knows about you and Eric. The police will expect to find your fingerprints all over the place.”

  The booties padded across the bedroom carpeting again, back toward the center of the room.

  Fingerprints, Tessa thought. Why were they cleaning up fingerprints? None of it made sense.

  Tessa inhaled as deeply as she could, grateful for the influx of oxygen. She knew she was having a panic episode. That was why her senses weren’t working properly, why her thoughts came slow and distorted, like they’d been filtered through molasses. Molasses up to her neck, too deep to escape, even with all her breathing tricks and mindfulness techniques.

  She needed to take her meds.

  But she couldn’t…for some reason. Some reason she couldn’t quite remember…

  “This side?” A bedside drawer slid open, empty inside. “You don’t keep anything here? Toiletries or anything?”

  Tessa shook her head.

  The feet moved again, padding through a doorway to the oversize master bath. “What about in here? Toothbrush? Makeup?”

  Tessa followed. It was brighter in the bathroom. She could see a little more. She stood on the bath mat in the middle of the room and looked up, meeting that familiar pair of eyes in the mirror above the sink. Narrowed eyes. Grim mouth. Then the reflection disappeared as the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet swung open.

  I do keep something here, Tessa thought. She could have cried with relief. Her last few precious doses of Ativan. They were there. In that cabinet. In the little pill bottle she’d left behind the last time she was here. Thank God.

  Tessa opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted before she could get a word out. She turned her head at the sound of footsteps creeping up the stairs behind her.

  • • •

  Eric stood in the windowless police interrogation room, pacing back and forth beneath the flickering fluorescent lights. The lead detective sat on the other side of the table, but Eric had long since abandoned his own molded plastic chair. He couldn’t sit still. Not now. Not while Tessa was still out there somewhere.

  With Blair?

  Or with Katrina?

  Eric glanced toward the policeman, hunched over the interrogation table. Detective Tyrone Stevens spoke in low tones into a beige multiline phone that lo
oked at least thirty years out of date. He had his face lowered, and Eric stared at the top of his clean-shaven head, glistening in the harsh light. At least he seemed to know what he was doing. The middle-aged black man projected an air of calm authority in his crisp, white dress shirt and blue tie.

  The other one, his partner, had left the room earlier and hadn’t returned.

  Had they found something? Eric wished the detective would put the phone on speaker mode. Eric needed to know…something. Anything. He couldn’t take the tension that made his fists clench and unclench. A part of him wanted to bolt for the door and head out on his own, but he fought the impulse. He’d be useless to Tessa out there. He didn’t have the slightest clue where Katrina would have taken her—or why.

  And if Blair was the one who’d taken her, then it might already be too late…

  Eric’s knees gave way. He clattered back down into his chair, resting his head against his fists. His cell phone lay facedown on the interrogation table in its sleek metal case, and Eric picked it up.

  It seemed better than doing nothing. If Tessa had her phone, maybe she would try to get word to him. He opened Twitter, but his face fell. No little blue flag. No new DMs. Not even an outgoing tweet from his account in the past twenty-four hours.

  Eric drummed his fingers on the table. His mind kept darting from one thought to the next. He was still reeling from the theory that he and Detective Stevens had worked out.

  Katrina? Running the MET account? Catfishing him and everybody in his fandom, all this time… It made sense in a weird way. He always had the feeling that Katrina got off on torturing him. Maybe when she grew tired of needling him with sewing implements, she turned to tweets and leaked images instead.

  Could that be true?

  Eric pulled up the account on his screen.

  MET @MrsEricThorn

  FOLLOWING FOLLOWERS

  78 1.1M

  His eyes skimmed down the recent activity. MET tweeted all day long, every single day. How could Katrina keep up that pace? She’d have to be on her phone constantly. Not to mention the tone. If this wasn’t the work of a teenage fangirl, then it was a pitch-perfect imitation. Look at the last thing she’d tweeted yesterday.