I sit up abruptly in the bed. “Where? Are they all right?”
“They’re at my apartment, above the bookstore, for now. They’re shook up, but they’re unharmed,” Riley says. “Listen, how soon can you get here?”
I’m already shimmying into a pair of jeans. “Ten minutes.”
“Good,” Riley says. I’m about to hang up the phone when he adds, “And April?”
“What is it?”
“Make sure no one follows you.”
Gulp.
“You can count on me,” I promise. “I’ll see you soon.”
I yank on a fresh t-shirt and quickly gather my things, checking them twice before I leave: keys, cell phone, wallet, and a notepad and pen to take notes.
On second thought, better make that two, I think, and pluck another stationary pad off the desk before finally hurrying of the room. I don’t know how much the Benzes will be willing to talk, but I’m feeling optimistic. It’s too bad I hadn’t thought to bring an audio recorder with me for this trip back home.
But then again, you weren’t planning for any of this, I consider. Originally, back when I first returned to New Orleans, the job seemed simple: not-so-accidentally cross paths with Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne and make pleasant conversation, warming myself to them until they let their guard down. Nick the wallet out of Mr. Hawthorne’s back pocket, or maybe Mrs. Hawthorne’s purse—whoever was the easier mark. Bring the credit cards back to Miranda. Then make the score.
I think about this as I drive the few short blocks to Riley’s bookstore. I wonder: at what point, exactly, did this all get so complicated? When Liam slid his business card toward me during the country club’s Mardi Gras party? When Miranda declared that seducing Liam would be a more efficient way of reaching our goal?
Or was it later—when I learned the Benzes were victims too, or when I realized that, when it comes to Liam, there’s more than meets the eye? Is it possible, throughout all of this, to pinpoint a single moment when our plan began to unravel?
Eric and Kimberly are sitting on the edge of Riley’s couch when I arrive. They clutch tall glasses of water; the surface of the water in Kimberly’s glass is rippling gently—a result of the slight tremor in her hand.
“How’d you find them? Were they with your parents?” I whisper to Riley as we linger by the doorway.
Riley shakes his head. “My parents didn’t know where they were, and the Benzes weren’t answering their cell phones. But my parents made about a thousand calls, trying everyone they could think of who knows Eric or Kim. Eventually they got a lead.”
“So where were they?”
“In an empty apartment in Bywater. It belongs to one of Eric’s former colleagues from the plant. He has an extra apartment he rents out to tourists, and was willing to put them up for a few days,” Riley says. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “Smart idea, really. I had guessed they’d be with their daughter and her family, or with friends. But the apartment was better. Eric and Kim didn’t have to risk putting anyone they cared about in harm’s way.”
“So you decided to put yourself at risk, then, by bringing them to your house?” I ask faintly.
He seems surprisingly fearless for someone who’s essentially just drawn a bull’s eye onto his forehead.
“They’re only here to talk. And that was after a lot of convincing,” he says. He points to his watch. “They gave us an hour before they have to head back.”
“Right,” I say.
Without wasting another moment, I walk into the living room, with Riley hot on my heels. Eric and Kimberly look up fearfully when I approach them.
“I’m so sorry about what happened to your house,” I tell them earnestly. “I was in the neighborhood when it happened. I saw the flames.”
“Thank you,” Kimberly says hoarsely.
“Are you hurt? Did you go to the hospital?”
Eric shakes his head. “No need. We got out of there before the fire began,” he says in his gruff voice. He notices my curious look and explains, “We were in the backyard when we heard the footsteps inside the house. We realized someone had broken in, and from the racket he was making, he didn’t seem particularly concerned about getting caught.”
“Mr. Robinson,” Kimberly says, her small frame visibly shuddering as she says the name. “He told us that he would come back, and he finally did. And we knew what he would do to us—“
Her hand flies to her mouth, holding back a sob. Eric rubs her back, gazing at her with a consoling expression.
“So we ran. It was all we could do,” Eric says. He takes a nervous sip of his water.
I take a seat on the ottoman across from them. “Do you mind if I ask you,” I say slowly, “why Mr. Robinson came to you all those years ago?”
Their anxious eyes shift toward each other. Kimberly’s hand begins to shake more powerfully, slopping water over the rim of her glass. Eric takes it from her and sets it down onto the coffee table with a heavy clunk.
Riley, who is standing nearby, steps forward. He says, “You’re safe here, Eric. You can tell us.”
Eric’s eyes shift from Riley to me, and then back again, debating.
Finally, his posture deflates. “Oh, what the hell.”
“Eric!” Kimberly says, looking shocked.
“The worst has already happened, so why not?” Eric says to her resignedly. He turns back to me. “The Hawthornes sent him.”
Part of me feels like leaping out of my seat and hugging him with excitement. Finally, for the first time in my life—simple, incontrovertible truth of the Hawthornes’ criminal dealings. Someone’s finally said it out loud.
But I know that I can’t stop to celebrate. Not just yet. I need more than truth—I need proof.
“Why? Why did they send him?” I press.
“Insurance,” says Kimberly shakily. “To make sure we’d keep our silence.”
“The Hawthornes had us take care of a few transactions for them for a few years,” explains Eric. He sees the astonished look on my face and hastily adds, “But that was a long time ago. We don’t do it anymore.”
Transaction. There’s that word again. I’m reminded of all those mysterious, highly time-sensitive “transactions” that Liam was talking about. I lean forward, anxious to learn more.
“What do you mean?” I ask them. “What kind of transaction?”
Eric looks into the bottom of his glass. “It was just a bank transfer, at first. Two hundred thousand dollars. It was more than any amount of money we’d ever seen all at once. They gave us a piece of paper with an account number and told us to transfer it as soon as the funds cleared.”
“And they never told you what it was for? Or why it had to go through you?”
Eric shakes his head.
“All right,’ I say. “What about the other transactions?”
“Those were in person,” he says. “They’d have me drive out to some designated location in the middle of the night, either by the river or in some empty parking lot. Someone would be waiting for me with a briefcase when I got there. I’d have to hand the briefcase off to the Hawthornes the next day.”
By the river. I remember Liam saying something about midnight swimmers, then claiming it was a joke. I shiver.
Eric continues, “It was eerie business, meeting some person in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, accepting a suitcase with God knows what inside.”
“What I don’t understand,” Riley pipes up, “is how they forced you to do this in the first place. How come you didn’t go to the police? Did they threaten you?”
Eric’s brow knits in confusion. “Threaten? No, not at first. That came later.”
“Then why did you go through with it?”
“Because they paid us.”
I exchange a startled glance with Riley.
“You mean to say,” I begin slowly, “that you were employees of the Hawthornes?”
Eric nods.
“For a few years
, that’s right. When they decided they were done with us, they sent Mr. Robinson when it was over, to be sure we kept our mouths shut even after the paychecks stopped coming,” he says. “And then the Morrisons came along.”
I stare at him numbly. On some level, I understand what he’s just said. But it doesn’t register, not at first—with the exception of my right knee. It twitches violently in reaction to Eric’s words.
I lay a firm hand down on my knee and ask him, “What do you mean? What do you know about the Morrisons?”
“Ron and Darla, those were their names,” Kimberly murmurs. Her voice is sad and slow, lost in memory. “They were good friends of ours. Ron had a way with people, you know. Always chatting people up, laughing—he could make friends with anyone. And Darla—she was the sweetest person you’d ever meet. Always smiling. Before it started.”
“Before what started?” I say, scooting forward. My body is poised at the edge of the chair now, every muscle clenched.
Eric is the one who answers me.
“I thought you already knew. I thought that’s how you knew about Mr. Robinson,” he says, looking at me curiously. “Ron and Darla were working for the Hawthornes. They picked up where we left off.”
I feel like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. My body sways, and for a wild moment it feels like I’m about to fall off the ottoman. Because suddenly, my entire world is shifting into focus. And all at once, I remember where I’ve seen the black eagle insignia.
On the thrifted wooden desk in my parents’ bedroom.
My mom used to keep her mail there—bills, credit card offers, bank statements, and other things that were totally unappealing to my childhood self. But I had been entranced by the letters with the black eagles. There were dozens of them, stacked neatly on top of each other on the desk—every wide, glaring eye looking back at me. But despite my fascination, I never asked my parents about them. I knew they’d only tell me that it was “grown-up business.”
I can’t help but wonder now—would it have made a difference, if I had asked? Would I still be here, in this room with the Benzes under an invented identity? Would the world still have fallen apart so wholly and irrevocably?
Sensing my shock, Riley swoops in to carry on the interview.
“So what went wrong with the Morrisons? How’d they go from employees to supposed con artists?” he asks.
“They were never con artists. It was all a front,” Eric spits out. “The Hawthornes were close to getting caught and they needed someone to take the fall.”
“And they forced you to lie under oath for them,” Riley says. “To support their story.”
Kimberly nods. In a faint, trembling voice, she says, “Mr. Robinson can be very…convincing.”
“You can’t imagine how hard it was to get up on that stand,” Eric says. “To look into the eyes of your best friend and tell those lies. But what could we do? The Hawthornes threatened us. They threatened our daughter.”
Riley looks at them sympathetically. “Once you did what they said, did they leave you alone? Was it over?”
“More or less,” says Eric unsteadily. “We kept to ourselves after that. We stopped seeing our friends, stopped being active in the community. Kim and I thought that if we kept under the radar, they would leave us be.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “But Mr. Hawthorne still comes and checks up on us from time to time, to keep us good and scared. To make sure we’re keeping our silence.”
“Charles Hawthorne visits you personally?” Riley says, looking confused.
Eric shades his head. “No, not Charles. The younger one.”
I can feel my blood turn cold. A chill runs down my neck.
I draw in a sharp intake of breath, and everyone looks at me. When I speak, my voice is a whisper.
“You mean Liam.”
12
My legs stagger unsteadily beneath me as I lurch towards the front door of the apartment. Riley follows me to the doorway. His hand reaches out and catches me by the arm.
“April,” he whispers, keeping his voice low so the Benzes can’t hear. They’re still sitting on the couch, looking at me with expressions of deep curiosity.
Riley moves forward, closing the distance between us. He speaks quietly into my ear. “You’re not going to do anything rash now, are you?”
“No, I just—“ I sense myself beginning to stammer, and I pause and take a breath. I try again: “This is all just too much to process right now. My parents. Liam. I need to go somewhere. Get my thoughts together.”
“You want me to come with you?” He’s already reaching for his coat.
I bring up a hand to stop him. “Thanks, but I think I should be on my own for a little while.”
His hand falls to my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“I know you’ll figure it out,” he says, giving me an encouraging smile. “If you need me, just give me a call.”
I nod. “Thank you. For everything.”
I walk into the narrow hallway, down the twisting stairs, and out onto the street. The air today is soft. A warm, gentle breeze combs through the tree branches, making their shadows tremble on the pavement.
Up until now, I was absolutely certain that Liam was different from his parents. I had looked into his eyes and thought I saw a kindness in them. I had staked my plans on it. Risked my vengeance on it.
But was I wrong? Has he been manipulating me? Have I been the fool all along?
I can’t help but feel a sense of betrayal at the thought. It’s like a cold, angry pinch at the back of my throat, choking me. It’s almost too much to bear.
I want an explanation. I want to see him, face-to-face, and ask him about all those long hours he spends in the “office.” I want to ask him about all those secret phone calls.
More than anything, in this moment, I need the truth.
My hand reaches for my purse, rummaging frantically through the loose change and tubes of lip gloss. When my fingers finally curl around my phone, I yank it upwards and eagerly turn on the screen. I’m hoping to see a message from Liam waiting for me. Some instruction about our next meeting.
What I find, however, is a blank screen. No messages. Nothing.
I bite my lip. Could I send him a message? I’ve never been the one to initiate contact, but if there’s ever going to be a first time, it’s now.
I begin to type out a message asking to meet him, but then quickly delete it. It’s too direct. I try out a few other messages, but reject them for being too angry, or too flirty.
What I finally settle on is this: At this rate, a girl’s never going to get trained.
As soon as I hit send, it’s like someone has punched a “slow motion” button. I wait for his response, counting out the seconds with agonizing effort. I’ve never been so desperate to receive a text message.
And then, finally, the phone lights up.
Patience is a virtue, you know, he replies.
I can almost hear the smirk in his words. And while that used to enthrall me, now it only makes me feel annoyed. I glower at the screen.
Maybe that’s one more thing you’ll have to teach me, I type out.
Always so eager, aren’t you? he texts back. Fine—I’ll teach you some patience. Ten o’clock tonight, my house. Thomas will let you upstairs. You will take off your clothes and get on your hands and knees, facing away from the door. You will wait for me there.
How long? I ask.
For as long as it pleases me.
At precisely 9:55 that evening, I find myself at Liam’s doorstep. Adrenaline pumps through my body. Every single one of my nerves is popping, like little fireworks going off across the surface of my skin.
Here we go, I think, taking a deep breath. I push the doorbell.
A moment later, the door swings open. Thomas is standing on the other side; he gives me a polite smile of recognition.
“Ms. Moore,” Thomas says affably, stepping aside to let me pass. “Mr. Hawthorne is expecting you.”
/> My shoes make echoing tap-tap-taps across the floor as I head toward the staircase. But when my hand meets the railing, I pause.
A voice is speaking faintly from somewhere in the house. I tilt my ear toward the sound. It seems to be coming from the first floor—the dining room, maybe? I had assumed that Liam would still be in the office when I arrived, with the intention of making me wait upstairs during his commute home. But apparently he’s already here.
“Can I help you with anything, Ms. Moore?” Thomas’s voice breaks through the silence of the foyer, making me jump.
“No, thank you,” I say breathlessly.
He nods, then begins to stride toward the sound of Liam’s voice. Probably to inform him that I’ve arrived.
Right. Time to get a move on.
I hurry up the stairs and down the hallway, making my way to the familiar door. When my fingers wrap around the knob, I half-expect it to remain firmly in place—but the door is unlocked, and the knob twists easily.
My eyes take a few moments to adjust to the dimness of the room. I close the door carefully behind me. In the hush of the room, I can hear the quiet thump, thump sound of my pounding heart.
I take a few tentative paces into the room. My hand curves behind me and finds the zipper of my dress. I pull it down. The dress falls to the floor in a heap around my feet; my bra follows shortly after. I nudge them away with the tips of my toes.
My eyes sweep across the room, as if somehow there’s any difference in where I choose to kneel. It’s all the same cold, hard floor. So I begin to lower myself to the ground, right where I’m standing, right in the middle of the room. I press my palms against the floor.
And I begin to wait.
My ears are pricked for any sound that might possibly echo up through the floor below. And there is something—an ambling murmur, too low and distorted to understand.
I close my eyes and try to concentrate on the sound of his voice. Is Liam speaking to someone else in the house? Or is he on the phone?
And more importantly—who?
The voice fades to silence, and I am left with only my swarming thoughts to occupy me. My mind shifts back to Eric and Kimberly, sitting on Riley’s couch and grasping their water glasses as if clutching on to dear life.
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