Sweet Little Lies

by Bianca Sloane

  Able to take it no more, Kelly gave a final flop on the bed before she sighed and decided to get up. It was six a.m., and soft morning light was already starting to filter into the room, illuminating its shortcomings all over again. She stood and walked over to the window. She peered down at Clark Street, watching the occasional pedestrian stroll down the street and intermittent taxis and cars whiz by. It almost felt normal to be standing in that window, the early morning hush of the city just below her. Closing her eyes, she started to cry again, only this time in silence. After a while, the tears stopped, and she began to pace the room, trying to collect her thoughts.

  She needed to call Shelia; she’d know a lawyer. As a crime novelist, Shelia was always coming into contact with and interviewing all types of people. Making bail wouldn’t be a problem—if they let her make it. She might be considered a flight risk since she’d already bolted from the scene of the crime. She’d explain that she had panicked and ran. Well, they might not believe that, but that would be her lawyer’s problem.

  Kelly sighed again. She wished she could rewind yesterday and start all over. She would have never picked up that knife. She’d have thrown the wine bottle at him instead. That would have scared him enough to make him leave and probably just nicked him at the most, not killed him.

  She looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was seven. Alright. She knew Shelia and her husband were usually up early on Sundays because they liked to go jogging together before going to brunch. She picked up Mark’s phone and, working from memory, dialed Shelia’s cell phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Shelia, it’s Kelly.”

  Her best friend’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “Kelly! What the hell happened? Where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you. I mean it’s better if I don’t tell you, but I need your help. I need a lawyer.”

  “Oh, my God, Kelly. Did you kill Mark?”

  She was silent for a moment before she answered. “Yes.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus.” Shelia paused. “What happened?”

  She took a deep breath. “I found out Mark was having an affair and so I packed up his things and when he got home, I told him to get out. He wouldn’t leave, we argued, I picked up a knife to scare him. I turned away, and he came over and, I heard him and I turned back around…and he walked into it…the next thing I knew…there was blood, everywhere. I called 911, but it was too late. And…I panicked and ran.” Kelly sobbed as she brokenly relayed her story to Shelia. She could hear Shelia let out a disbelieving sigh on the other end.

  “Oh, Kelly. Honey. It’s all over the news. The police are looking for you. You have to turn yourself in.”

  “I know, I know. That’s where you come in…I need a lawyer. Do you know anyone?”

  “Ah…yeah. Hang on.” Kelly could hear some static as Shelia moved through the house. “There was this guy I interviewed for my last book. Yeah…here it is. Gordon…Sam Gordon. He’s supposed to be one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the city, probably in the country.”

  “Okay…Sam Gordon it is.”

  “Alright, do you have a pen?”

  Kelly ran over to the nightstand and found a pad of paper and pen in the drawer. “Hit it.”

  “312-555-2686.” Shelia was silent again. “How’d you find out?”

  She pursed her lips, the tears welling up again. “He was screwing her in our bed. I found the condom.” She sniffed. “At least he had the decency to cover up, I guess. God.” She shook her head, half-laughing, half-crying. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Oh, man,” Shelia moaned. “Oh, Mark.”

  “Oh, it gets better. She called him last night.”

  “What?”

  Kelly sniffed again and resumed her pacing. “I had Mark’s phone by mistake. Anyway, she called him last night and left him a message. Shelia, the woman is ghetto. I mean straight out of the hood.”

  “Seriously? Mark?”

  “Right? Look, Shelia, I was mad at him, yeah, but I swear, I swear, not enough to murder him in cold blood. It…it was a horrible accident.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Okay, okay. I know. Call Sam. He’ll help you.”

  Kelly sighed. “I will.” She paused. “Shelia?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yeah…well, I know you’d do the same for me.”

  “I hope I never have to.”

  “Me neither. Please be careful.”

  “I will.”

  This Can’t Be Right…

  She had gotten up surprisingly early, considering how late she’d been out the night before. She let out a hearty yawn and went out her front door to retrieve the Sunday paper from the driveway. She’d asked the guy a million times to put it next to the door, but he never did.

  The morning air was a bit nippy, and she shivered in her flimsy purple silk robe. It was supposed to be another beautiful day today. She bent down to pick up her newspaper and slid it out of its plastic sleeve as she shut the door behind her and began to walk back to her kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. She tossed the paper onto the kitchen table without looking at it and went to pull her favorite blue mug out of the cabinet. Yawning once more, she leisurely poured and mixed sugar and half and half in the cup until the coffee tasted exactly how she wanted it to. She smiled to herself and sighed, feeling content as she glided into her kitchen chair.

  And that’s when she saw it.

  Mark stared out at her from the front page, all twinkling white smile and caramel dimples. But this couldn’t be right…this said he was dead. She clutched the paper, rapidly turning the pages, the paper sticking to her moist fingertips. She almost passed it, she was going so fast, but there it was.

  Mark was dead.

  She scanned the story, her eyes filling up as the words on the page and what they meant seeped into her brain. The tears unleashed in jagged stops and starts as she began to rip the paper to shreds, the newsprint confetti littering her all-white kitchen.

  She knew that bitch was no good for him. She’d been telling him that forever and now…this. She wiped her hand across her nose, ignoring the snot spreading across her upper lip. She needed to hear his voice one more time. Damn it…things weren’t supposed to have gone like this. Still crying, she snatched up her phone from the kitchen table and hit the automatic dial for his number. She waited for the voicemail to connect. She wondered if he’d already been dead when she called him last night. Where was the phone now? She hoped the police or somebody didn’t answer it. She just wanted this last little sliver of him.

  Finally, the voicemail kicked in. She savored the sound of his voice on his outgoing message. She’d always loved his voice.

  Sam…

  Sam Gordon was always up before dawn even had a chance to crack. He was usually the first person at the East Bank Club, rotating his routine between an hour in the pool three times a week, with four days a week of weight training. This was, of course, sandwiched between golf and tennis in the summer and the occasional squash game in the winter. He was trim with a year-round tan, close-cropped silver hair, soft manicured hands, and the air of a man who knew more than you did but would only subtly let you know it—depending on how he felt at that particular moment. He wore his money and arrogance tastefully, though the same couldn’t be said for the never-ending string of blonde bimbos on his arm. He looked damn good for a man of fifty. Certainly better than his father had looked at his age. Or even at forty for that matter.

  He was toweling off when his cell phone rang. “Sam Gordon.”

  “This is Kelly Ross.”

  Sam stopped. “Ms. Ross—or do you go by Mrs. Monroe?”

  “Mrs. Monroe is fine.”

  He nodded. “I see. A lot of people want to talk to you. I assume that’s why you’re calling me.”

  “Shelia Stevens gave me your number. She said you’re supposed to be one of the best.”

  “Mrs. Stevens is wron
g. I am the best.”

  “I see.”

  “So what can I do for you, Mrs. Monroe?”

  “I need an attorney.”

  “Indeed you do, if the news reports are to be believed.”

  “Do you have time to talk this morning?”

  Sam patted his face with his towel and nodded. “We can meet at my office. Fifty-seven West Monroe, fifty-fourth floor—the night watchman will let you up. One hour.”

  “See you then.”

  The phone went dead in Sam’s ear.

  Well, this should be interesting. Sam turned off his phone and walked toward the locker room. He knew Mark Monroe. They’d wound up at a few functions together, knew some of the same people. The guy was a real mover and shaker, cutting a lot of high-profile deals for a lot of rich athletes. And the wife. Gorgeous. He’d never met her but had seen her picture plenty of times. He wondered what happened. Sam stepped into the shower and let the hot water wash over him.

  He couldn’t wait to find out.

  What’s Done In The Dark…

  Kelly took a quick shower, not knowing when she would get another one. Before she’d gone to bed, she’d scrubbed her pink tank top free of any bloody splotches and hung it up in the shower to dry. She scrunched it now in her hands. It was still moist, but it would have to do. Before she’d gotten in the shower, she’d let the underwear she was wearing soak in the sink. She now stood in her bra with the motel blow dryer trying to get her panties from wet to at least semi-damp. When she was done, she quickly got dressed before brushing her teeth and running a wet washcloth over her face. She decided not to put on any make-up, instead digging a pot of lip-gloss out of her purse to shine her lips with. Hopefully, she would look unrecognizable to anyone she might see on the way to Sam Gordon’s.

  Sam Gordon would help her.

  She hoped.

  As she searched the bottom of her purse for a bobby pin to pull her hair back, Mark’s phone beeped at her. Voicemail. Shelia must have wanted to see if she’d called Sam. She punched the voicemail button and waited.

  It wasn’t Shelia.

  “Mark! Mark! I just saw the news! I wanted…oh God…I just wanted to hear your voice one last time. It was that high-yella heifah. I just know it. She found out about us and she killed you. I don’t know how I’m going to tell M.J.—”

  Kelly frowned and looked at the phone, a confused look on her face.

  “M.J.?” she asked aloud. The voicemail cut off so she redialed to hear the message again and the part she’d missed.

  “I won’t let her get away with this. I promise, baby, she won’t get away with this.”

  The message ended, and Kelly saved it, still confused. She chewed on her thumbnail. M.J.…

  Oh, God.

  M.J.

  M.J.

  Mark…Jr.

  That had to be it.

  Mark, Jr.

  They had a child together.

  Kelly gasped as the realization hit her.

  “Son of a bitch,” she whispered, her heart taking that now all-too-familiar sprint around the racetrack. How? How?! Kelly started to cry again. Every word Mark had ever…a child. A child. Kelly sat back down on the bed, hyperventilating again. She snatched up the phone, determined to call Miss Ghetto USA. She’d make her explain what was going on. Kelly went to the received calls when a thought occurred to her.

  Maybe there was some kind of clue in Mark’s office, something in his files or his email on his office computer that would tell her who this woman was and the extent of her connection to Mark. Kelly threw down the phone, her brain churning. She would have to go there and find out.

  She weighed the wisdom of this. His office wasn’t far from here. She should still have the entry pass for his building, so in theory, getting in wouldn’t be a problem. It was a Sunday, so if the police had decided to go to Mark’s office, the odds of getting ahold of Brad Banks, the managing partner, at this hour were slim; Mark had made a couple of comments lately that he was spending more time at his house in Lake Geneva on the weekends. If he was there, which she had no idea if he was, that was almost two hours away, and she knew no cops would get into that office without his say-so. Then again, the cops could have called him last night, and they could already be there searching for some clue to her whereabouts, and she could walk smack into them.

  She’d just have to take that chance.

  She scurried into the bathroom to collect her Walgreens items before finding her car keys and flinging the keycard for the room over her shoulder and onto the bed. Taking a deep breath, she undid the latch and peered out into the hallway. It was still early, and a Sunday, so the halls were empty. Quietly, Kelly closed the door behind her and darted to the stairwell, not wanting to wait for the elevator.

  She scampered down the stairs, the low heels of her sandals thundering in the cavernous space. Finally, she reached the bottom and clicked her car open with her remote. With one hand on the steering wheel, Kelly leaned over to check the glove compartment and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the access card for the building and entry pass for the garage sitting on top of the slender insurance folder. She sat back upright and looked around. No traffic, although the early morning sun was bright, blinding her. Kelly pulled her sunglasses down to cover her eyes and took a series of deep breaths to steady herself. She tried to concentrate on driving, but her mind kept drifting to the message girlfriend had left for Mark.

  “‘It was that high-yella heifah. I just know it’,” Kelly imitated the voice she’d heard. “Seriously?”

  Kelly had been dealing with that high-yellow crap her whole life. Kelly, her sister, Stacy, and her mother, Candice, were light-skinned, their father only a few shades darker. Her chocolate-skinned cousins who lived down south had tortured her and Stacy because of their so-called “good hair,” lighter skin, and hazel eyes, by throwing rocks at them, pushing them down, and calling them “Nightlight.” Growing up in Evanston, her hue hadn’t really been an issue; no one really cared what your skin color was; as long as you were cool, no one bothered you. However, when she started modeling, the insults ignited once more. There was so much backstabbing in that world anyway, but some of the duskier girls made snide comments because she was perceived as getting better bookings because of her skin color.

  Fuck ‘em. Who had a multimillion-dollar cosmetics company and who was doing two-bit catalogs because they couldn’t get off the blow and no respectable house wanted them wearing its clothes? She couldn’t help but laugh wearily at the irony of this thought. She might not have that company for too much longer, and her fate would be worse than modeling polyester pants for third-rate catalogs.

  Kelly circled the block around Mark’s Loop office building a few times. The Loop, seat of Chicago’s financial district, bustling during the week, predictably dead on the weekends, especially this far from State Street, likely wouldn’t pose too many problems for her little mission. Satisfied the cops weren’t crawling the area looking for her and that she was over her first hurdle, she pulled up to the parking garage of Mark’s office, waved the pass in front of the sensor, and waited for the arm of the gate to come up. She proceeded to the fifth level, parked near the door leading to the elevator, and leaned over to open the glove compartment to retrieve the access card. Once again, the sound of her heels echoed as she hurried toward the door of the building. She flashed the card in front of the lock, and the green light came on indicating success. The bank of elevators for the main lobby of the building was immediately to her right, and she waved the card again. The front desk guard in the lobby merely smiled at her and said a soft hello before going back to his book. Kelly offered a terse smile in response, knowing he was used to seeing the odd building tenant come in and out of the parking garage elevator at all times on the weekend.

  Hurdle number two.

  The doors for the elevator slid open, and she got in, pushing button thirty-five for Mark’s floor. Finally, it reached its destination, and she stepped out.<
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  It was dark and eerily quiet. She padded down the carpeted hall toward Mark’s office, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds. She wouldn’t have been surprised if some bleary-eyed lawyer popped out of his office, having spent Saturday night curled up on his couch after working all day. Portia’s desk was right outside Mark’s office, and Kelly stopped to peek over the half partition where she sat. Tidy to the point of nausea. She even had a cover for her computer keyboard. Kelly shook her head. Portia was so strange. She was only twenty-seven but looked and acted like she was fifty. Her jet-black hair was always pulled away from her brown face and tucked into a scrunchie, revealing a forehead littered with black acne scars. She wore horn-rimmed coke bottle glasses that were about three sizes too big for her face and ill-fitting synthetic suits Kelly was sure she’d gotten from some bargain bin back at some discount shop specializing in clothes from 1982. She knew Portia lived alone somewhere up north. West Rogers Park? That was it. Mark said she spent a lot of time with her parents who lived in Skokie. Maybe if she spent less time with her parents, she wouldn’t be so weird.

  Kelly swung around towards Mark’s office. His door was closed, and hoping it wasn’t locked, she slowly turned the knob and opened it. It wasn’t quite the corner office but pretty close. The spacious office was decorated in a minimalist style with a huge glass desk, coffee table, and a couch. Mark had been profiled in numerous magazines and newspapers, but he only displayed two news stories on his wall. One was an article Sports Illustrated had done on him as someone athletes should know. The other was when Cosmopolitan had named her one of its Fun Fearless Females due to the phenomenal success of Runway. The magazine had praised her for bringing supermodel savvy to the masses with innovative skin care products and make-up. Mark had come home with fifty issues and a bottle of champagne, bursting with pride over her success. He had Portia frame the article before he hung it up in his office.

  Kelly sat down now at Mark’s desk, remembering the last time she’d been there two weeks ago. As usual, he was working late, and she’d come by with a trench coat and a smile, something she often did when she was missing him. She ran her hand across the edge of the desk, her mind flashing back to him hoisting her up as he flung the coat across the room and they’d had a quickie.