by Max Monroe
I felt like I was trapped underwater, a clog in my ears making everything in the room sound muddled and distorted. I could see the detective’s lips moving in front of me, but I couldn’t make out a goddamn word.
“Scott,” he said again, his voice gentle, if you can believe that. “Let’s just go down to the station and talk, okay? You’re not arrested at this point. We just can’t ignore this public of an allegation without looking into it.”
I nodded. Or, at least, I think I did.
But as I stepped forward to gather what I needed, Harlow’s raging voice finally broke through the haze.
“No! No, listen to me!”
I looked over the detective’s shoulder to see her standing just inside of my apartment, arguing with the two uniformed officers.
“You don’t understand, okay? My name is Harlow Paige. I’m his girlfriend, and yes, my name is on the article, but I didn’t write that. I’d never write that!”
“Ma’am, you need to calm down, okay?”
“I can’t calm down!”
Even though she was responsible for all of this, something inside my heart apparently hadn’t gotten the memo yet and sought to comfort her.
“Harlow, it’s okay. They’re just questioning me. Just calm down so you don’t get in trouble too.”
A single, beaded tear trailed down her cheek when I finished speaking, her chest rising and falling like she’d run a marathon.
“I didn’t write that, Scott,” she whispered, almost so quiet I couldn’t hear her. “I don’t know what happened, but I didn’t write that. I would never write that.”
I just shook my head, confused and frustrated and so fucking tired, more tired than I’d ever been in my life.
I didn’t have it in me to answer her, to address her directly again, and I didn’t have the time. Detective Santos had been patient with me up until now, but the strained lines of his face said he was done with this scene.
I could either come peacefully to the station with him now for questioning, or things would get uglier.
Walking calmly to the table at the side of my entryway, I reached for my keys and wallet, settled them into my pockets, and looked back to the detective. “I’m ready.”
I wasn’t sure what state of mind I’d reached that I was this calm, but everything just felt definite. Harlow, despite her obvious regret, had written something about me that, in the blink of an eye, changed the landscape of my life. I was going to lose my job, despite my innocence, because no matter what, the publicity from this shitstorm would never be wholly positive again.
And now, for the first time in my life, I was headed to the police station to be questioned for serious crimes. Even through rowdy dealings and a partying lifestyle, I’d never been here before. Internally, I laughed sardonically at the thought that settling down was what had actually gotten me into real trouble.
The officers held Harlow out of the way, and I did my best not to look her in the eyes. I was holding it together pretty well, but just one peek into her stormy green irises and I’d be done for.
“No,” she muttered, watching as I walked to my door with the detective and stepped through it. “No, no! This is all wrong! You can’t take him!”
I clenched my teeth as the throaty scream of her voice turned raw.
“Nooo! He didn’t do anything! He’s a good person,” she cried, and just like that, after all of my effort, I broke. The fabric of my shirt brushed my chin as I turned to look over my shoulder.
The two officers held her by the arms, mostly for her own protection, from what I could see. Her body slumped, and her head hung to the ground in torment.
The sight destroyed me.
Suddenly, almost as if she sensed me, her gaze lifted violently to mine and captured it. Her willing hostage, I watched as she lost control of every ounce of decorum she had left.
“Scott! Scott!” she yelled, the fresh glow of her normally tanned skin turning mottled red with the effort. I tried in vain to look away, but whether I liked it or not, she’d taken me captive—mind, soul, body. It was all apparently hers to command.
“I didn’t write that! I didn’t, I swear! Scott, you have to believe me! Scott!”
She was either the world’s best liar or…
My heart shattered. Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with another option. My problems were tangible. Her explanation wasn’t.
“Miss, you need to leave,” the officer said to me. “We have to lock up Mr. Shepard’s apartment.”
I looked up from my defeated spot on the floor, following the lines of his black shoes to his black pants to his badge until I met his neutral gaze and just stared at him or through him or at nothing at all. I wasn’t even sure.
My world focus had tunneled to misery. In the blink of an eye, I felt like my entire life had changed. I’d gone from on top of the world—in a loving and happy relationship with everything to look forward to—to the scary, darkened depths of hell.
And that was just me. Not Scott. No. He was in a worse place than hell. He’d been accused of some of the most horrendous things inside of an article with my fucking name on it, and subsequently, taken into custody for questioning. To an outsider, it looked like I’d accused my boyfriend of charges that spanned the gamut—some of the worst being sexual misconduct and insurance fraud.
What a fucking mess.
Everything had fallen apart, and the cruelest part of all was that I didn’t understand the why or the how. Why would someone do something like this to Scott? And more importantly, who would do something like this?
Whomever it was, I hated them. They’d ruined his career, his fucking life—under the guise of my name—and because of that, they’d ruined us. I’d tried to tell him that I hadn’t written that column, but the uncertainty in his eyes said more than his words could. He was torn, and from the looks of it, he didn’t know what or whom to believe—including me.
Even though it hurt like a motherfucker, I couldn’t blame him. I mean, my name was on that column. I’d told him I was writing a column about him. And the column had even come from my goddamn email! It all looked really fucking bad, and everything pointed directly to me.
It looked like I’d ruined his life, and that I’d done it consciously and without any regard for him or his feelings. Like I’d put my joke of a career as a gossip columnist before him.
Fuck.
A quiet sob wracked my body and when visions of Scott being escorted out by the police filled my head, what should have been fresh tears dripping from my eyes came out as nothing. I’d cried more in the past two hours than I’d probably cried my whole life, and it showed. I’d literally run out of tears.
“Miss?” the officer addressed me again. “Is there anyone you can call to come get you?”
There was probably someone I could call, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone. I just wanted to go to bed and make this day disappear.
“Miss?” he urged again, and I shook my head.
“No. There’s no one,” I said and slowly got to my feet. “I’ll be fine. I’m leaving.”
“Are you sure?” he asked and I nodded.
With my head down and my shoulders sagging forward, I walked toward the elevator. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I needed to get the fuck out of Scott’s apartment or else the police were going to end up escorting me out, too.
Plus, I was probably the last person he wanted to see greeting him at the door when he got home.
If he even gets to come back home…
Fuck. What if they kept him in custody? What if he got charged for those false accusations?
Another sob wracked my body, and it took all of my strength to move on to the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. Once the doors shut, I let my head fall back against the wall with a quiet thud and sighed.
I had to focus on something else besides breaking down. Now was not the time to lose myself to my emotions. I owed at least that much
to Scott.
As the elevator doors opened, my eyes were assaulted with the flashes of cameras. Outside of the lobby doors of Scott’s apartment stood what felt like a hundred paparazzi snapping pictures and ready to pounce on anyone who left his building.
God, this was bad.
I took a deep breath, and with a hand covering my eyes, I walked outside and faced the media music. Immediately, voices called my name from every direction while the flash and click of cameras filled the air.
“Harlow! It’s Harlow Paige!”
“Harlow, over here!”
“Why did you write the article?”
“Did you fake your relationship with Scott?”
I wanted to engage. I wanted to respond. I wanted to tell every single one of these reporters to fuck off. But I knew enough about the media to understand that, although it was tempting as hell, this was not the time or place to issue a statement unless I wanted my words misconstrued and taken out of context.
The only right way to handle this situation was to keep my mouth shut, my head down, and get the fuck out of there.
But that still didn’t stop them from trying to bait me with questions that would strike a nerve.
“Are the accusations true?”
“Is Dr. Shepard a rapist?”
“Did he ever do anything sexually inappropriate with you?”
“Are you going to testify that he raped you?”
Holy fucking shit. Rape? Was this a goddamn joke?
Bile rose in my stomach, and I did my best to navigate through the mess of photographers and news reporters until I was able to hail a cab and slide inside to the safety of the back seat.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked once I shut the door, and I stared at him in the rearview mirror.
“Just… Just get me the hell out of here, please. Drive around until I can think straight.”
He nodded, and I sagged into the leather seat.
I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I had to come up with some kind of plan. It was times like these that I wished I had friends in high places.
You do…well, sorta… You have an ex in a high place…
Brent.
Fuck, was I really that desperate to go to him for help?
I scrubbed a hand down my face and hated that my gut response was, Yes, I am that desperate, but found myself directing the cabbie toward Brent’s office anyway. “City Hall, please,” I instructed.
“You got it.”
Fucking hell.
Thirty minutes later, I stood outside of Brent’s office, at the reception area, where Pam Lockhead—his assistant and the woman who apparently wouldn’t give me any other reaction but disdain—stared down at me with narrowed eyes.
I’d already had this argument for five minutes with the receptionist herself, but when I wouldn’t give up, she’d made a call to Pam.
“Can I help you?”
“I would like to see the mayor.”
She scoffed. “The mayor is a busy man. You have to actually schedule a meeting with him in advance.”
Apparently, her assignment was to handle me.
“Pam, right?” I asked, and she nodded.
“I used to be a good friend of his, and I just need to speak with him briefly. It’s a bit of an emergency.”
With her face pinched together like she’d eaten a lemon and her shoulders stiff and rigid, the woman all but bristled in irritation at my words. “Oh, I know you used to be friends, Harlow,” she retorted. “More than friends, actually.”
I furrowed my brow at her words. I honestly had no idea why that was even relevant to the situation. “All right, well…” I started and tried to find a new game plan that didn’t require access through this awful woman. “Could you at least let him know that I’m here and I would like to speak with him?”
“I could, but I’m not.”
“Uh…”
“Have a nice day,” she said and gestured for me to leave through the reception area exit doors, but I shook my head. I hadn’t come this far, given in so easily to this impulse, to give up now.
“Yeah. No. This isn’t going to work,” I denied, and she rolled her eyes.
“I think it’s time for you to leave. Or, if you’d like, I can have security escort you out.”
Jesus. This fucking woman. She was a witch, who I was pretty sure had breast implants, but that was neither here nor there. I didn’t have time to waste arguing with her. I needed to find a way into Brent’s office, and I needed to do it now.
Would it be considered assault if I tackled her to the ground before running inside of Brent’s office?
Did it really matter at this point?
I mean, my boyfriend had basically been accused of rape in a column that had my name on it. What else did I have to lose?
Nothing.
I stared at her and she stared back at me, and just before I started to rush toward her, Brent’s voice was behind me. “Harlow?”
Thank fucking God.
I honestly never thought I’d be happy for his presence, but I’d also never thought someone would write a fake, blasphemous, fucking terrible column about my boyfriend under my goddamn name and it would get posted.
I turned around and met his eyes. “I need your help,” I blurted out.
“I was just getting ready to escort Miss Paige out, Mr. Mayor,” Pam chimed in. “I told her that your schedule is too full today for an appointment, but that I would schedule her in for sometime next week.”
God, she was a piece of work. And a fucking liar.
“I need your help now,” I said, and he nodded.
“Okay.” He looked at Pam. “Reschedule my next meeting.”
“But…but…” she stuttered over her words.
“Clear it, Pam,” he demanded. Her face paled, but with no other choice, she nodded her acceptance and walked toward her desk.
He gestured me toward his office and shut the door behind us. “Take a seat,” he directed, shrugging out of his suit jacket before sitting down in the big leather chair behind his mahogany monstrosity of a desk.
“What can I help you with, LoLo?”
I fought the urge to cringe and focused on the task at hand. “It’s Dr. Shepard,” I started. “Someone wrote a column under my name, and it was posted this morning. Everything in it is false.”
Brent stared back at me without anything but neutral, curious eyes. “If you didn’t write it, how’d it get posted under your name?”
“I don’t have proof yet,” I answered honestly. “But I know someone hacked my email and sent the fake column to my editor.”
He quirked one perfectly shaped—and I strongly suspect, waxed—brow. “How bad is it?”
“You haven’t read it yet?”
He shook his head.
“It’s bad,” I said through the growing thickness in my throat. Jesus, just thinking about what that goddamn column had done made me feel like sobbing and vomiting simultaneously. “Career-ending kind of bad,” I added, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t hide the desperation in my voice.
Because, fuck. I was desperate. I felt completely helpless, and the most important person in my life had been destroyed by terrible words that were presented as mine.
“That doesn’t sound good.” He steepled his hands together on his desk. “Is there an IT team investigating it?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re on the right track then,” he responded and stroked his jaw with two perfectly manicured fingers. “I’m not sure what else I can do to help you right now, though. I mean, situations like these need to be investigated, and evidence needs to back up the contrary before any major strides can be achieved. You know how it is, Harlow.”
“You’re the fucking mayor, Brent,” I retorted. “I do know how it is, and I know that you can pull some strings to get this process streamlined and made high priority.”
“I don’t think that’s going to change anything
related to Scott, though,” he responded in a clear yet infuriatingly calm tone. “But I doubt the police will be able to keep him in custody right now without the right evidence to back up the accusations. They’ll just interrogate him for a bit and then release him.”
Wait…what? I didn’t tell him Scott is with the police…
My brow furrowed on its own accord. “How did you know that he was already in custody?”
“I’m the mayor, LoLo.” He chuckled, but there was something off about it and had the hairs on the back of my neck rising. “I know these kinds of things, especially when important members of the community are under investigation.”
“But you just acted like you didn’t know anything about the situation?”
“I said I hadn’t read the article,” he corrected. “But I did know that your boyfriend was in custody. Why do you think I cleared my next meeting? I had an idea of the situation. I knew it was urgent. I just wish there was more I could do to help you and Scott. You know that once the police start their investigation, my hands are tied.”
I stared at him for a long moment, taking in the relaxed posture of his shoulders, the neutral yet friendly expression etched on his face, and my gut instinct told me that there was more to this story than what he was letting on.
I had no idea what, but there was something. I mean, he’d acted like he knew nothing about it when I stepped into his office, but once he’d admitted knowing Scott was in custody, he backtracked, and all of sudden, he did know the situation.
The facts weren’t adding up. Nor did the kooky behavior his assistant Pam had shown when I requested to see him. She’d been overzealously defensive, and I hadn’t even told her why I was there.
“What’s going on, Brent?” I questioned.
“What do you mean?” he asked, and the soft and neutral tone of his voice, and far too relaxed language of his body, urged flashbacks of our past and our relationship to fill my mind.
I’d seen this version of him before. To anyone else, he looked calm and composed. But I’d witnessed him look exactly like this when his then best friend and campaign manager had been investigated, and eventually convicted, for money laundering.