A Shameless Little Con

by Meli Raine

  “It’s decided, then. Jane will take the guest house by the pool. Marshall, downplay this and point the finger at the unstable fringe. Don’t make it political–nothing left wing or right wing. Just pump up the idea that internet culture and violence have reached a fevered point. Maybe get the news shows to broaden coverage to other unstable elements online. Dilute the message.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And watch poll numbers.”

  “Always.”

  “Jane, you can move your belongings into the guest house, and–”

  I hold up my phone and purse. “What belongings?”

  The senator looks shocked. “What do you mean?”

  “Everything I own was in my car.”

  That shuts everyone up for half a minute.

  “Everything?” Lindsay looks at me.

  “The rest is still seized as evidence, or if it’s free for me to take, no one knows where it is. So many agencies and committees have reviewed it...”

  “That’s not fair,” she replies, looking at her father, who doesn’t return the favor.

  “None of this is fair, Lindsay. Not one bit of it,” I whisper.

  Drew stares me down. I turn away and shut up.

  “All you own is what you’re wearing, your phone, and your purse?” the senator asks, his breath slow and steady, his gaze filled with concern.

  “Yes.”

  He nods his head. “Good.”

  “Good?” I squeak.

  “Not good that you’re left with no belongings, but good in that you’ll be easier to move from place to place.”

  Losing every item I own has now become a logistical benefit to the powers that be.

  I stand. I’m shaking so hard, I see strange dots in my vision. I have never fainted in my life. Not once. As I get to my feet, my hand brushes against a manila folder, pushing it off the edge of the table. It’s the lightest of touches but it does the trick.

  Sometimes that’s all it takes.

  One last tiny, insignificant act can tip the scales.

  “No,” I say, not sure what my no means. No, I can’t faint? No, I won’t be moved like a chess piece, an object in other people’s game?

  No, this isn’t happening?

  No.

  Just… no.

  “No, what?” Marshall asks.

  “No, I won’t continue to be moved from place to place. Do you realize I’ve been homeless for more than six months? I’ve lost everything–everything! My mother is dead. All her belongings are considered evidence. All my money and hers is considered government property now, and I know I’ll never get it. I have nothing. Nothing!” I shout, looking straight at the senator.

  I’ve tipped.

  My phone buzzes at that exact moment, the sensation so unexpected, I let out a high-pitched scream, all the stress centers in my brain being pushed at the same time, in unison, until I become nothing but a million live nerves. My body isn’t under my own control anymore, so it shakes and jerks, my throat tight and all awareness beginning to fade.

  I am not fainting.

  I am just disappearing.

  My brain stops linking me to the other people in the room. I don’t know how else to describe it. Their words are spoken. Their muscles stretch, their lungs draw air in and blow air out. They move in angles and lines, waves and particles, as we share the same air, the same planes of existence, the same layers of the room.

  But I am not quite there.

  “You can’t,” I gasp, pressing my palms into the oak conference table so hard because I want to leave a mark, to do something with so much pressure that it relieves some of what was inside me, “take away every part of my life and expect me to comply. You can’t expect me to do whatever you say just to preserve my life. If the only reason you’re protecting me is because you think I am a danger to you or someone else you care about, then,” I say, pointing to Silas’s firearm, “just take out the gun and shoot me. Now. You can do it, you know. You’re all powerful enough. Silas could kill me right here, right now, and you’d all make up some story about how unhinged I am. How I attacked the senator.”

  He recoils.

  “Even better!” I shout. “Marshall and Marcy and Victoria could spin it so that I attacked Lindsay. Yes–let’s go with that.” I whirl on her. “In a fit of rage, I turned unpredictable and your security team had to take defensive measures. What a great story. It fits so many narratives, doesn’t it?”

  “Jane, that’s not what we’re doing here,” the senator says, looking at Marshall with an expression that is clear: Fix this.

  “You might need medical attention,” Marshall says. “The firebomb obviously caused physical damage, but there could be head trauma.”

  “Oh, stop. STOP! You’re just finding more ways to control me. I’m not a thing! I can’t continue to live like this. It’s bad enough being shamed in public. But you’ve kept me on the run, hidden away, and for what purpose? I have no life. It’s been systematically stripped from me.”

  “Because of your own actions,” Drew reminds me.

  “Because someone has made it look like those were my actions!”

  “Not this again. The whole innocent act,” he replies.

  “It’s not an act! I would think that you, of all people, would understand what it’s like to be set up by forces beyond your control and unfairly accused of doing something you didn’t do, Drew!”

  Lindsay gasps, giving me an open look that makes me feel human again.

  “Don’t you dare compare yourself to me,” he says with contempt dripping from every pore.

  “You can’t stand the idea because it introduces doubt, doesn’t it? And when you have doubt, it might make you wrong. Quit taking everything at face value. You know what it’s like to be a victim of that,” I shoot back.

  Drew rears on me, his body an angry system designed to shut me down. He’s smart enough to know I have a point, but stubborn enough to decide that it doesn’t matter, because his one and only calling is to protect Lindsay.

  Who is watching me with a critical, evaluative expression.

  “Calm down,” the senator snaps. “Both of you.”

  “I am about as calm as you can get, sir,” Drew insists.

  “You’re inflaming her. And she has a point.”

  “Sir?” Drew’s incredulous look is matched by Silas’s.

  “There are people who believe Jane is innocent.”

  I wonder if he’s becoming one of them.

  Chapter 8

  While Drew and the senator argue, my phone buzzes again in my hand. I open the email app, ignoring the cracks in the screen. It must have gotten damaged in the blast, earlier.

  Silas is watching me instead of Drew, who is going toe to toe with Harry over the question of my innocence while Lindsay stands closer to Drew, her ever-stalwart shadow.

  I look at my phone screen, eyes blurring. It’s an email from a very, very welcome friend.

  My only friend, at this point.

  * * *

  Dear Jane,

  I know your email is heavily monitored, so I’ll just say this:

  Dear NSA, fuck you. Leave poor Jane alone.

  And Jane–come see me. I’ll provide you with companionship, a place out of the spotlight, and some good steaks and my special lemonade. Let us catch up. It has been too long.

  Yours,

  Alice

  * * *

  What a blast from the past. The near past, but still. Alice Mogrett was my oil painting professor in college. I needed an elective, something that didn’t involve math or coding, and her painting class fit into my schedule at the time. It wasn’t love of art that drove me into her studio. It was pure pragmatics.

  But fate has a funny way of being pragmatic, too.

  Alice had taught at Yates University, my alma mater, for more years than anyone remembered. She was famous, not for her art but for one very dramatic reason:

  She was the only daughter of a beloved vice president from
the 1950s.

  And she was the epitome of a character.

  “I know where I would like to go next,” I announce, emboldened by Alice’s words.

  “Do you, now?” Marshall’s tone makes my teeth ache.

  We’re interrupted by the senator and Drew’s voices, which are rising.

  “Come on, Har–Senator. You don’t think those crackpots are anything but attention seekers. If we investigated every anonymous tip from wackos, we’d never get the really dangerous ones.”

  “I think it has merit.”

  “We’ve determined it doesn’t.”

  “And have you never been wrong, Drew?”

  “I have, and I get the feeling I’m about to be, whether I like it or not.”

  “What makes you think you’re not wrong on this?”

  Drew pinches the bridge of his nose. “You really want me to investigate the person we presume to be Jane’s informant? An anonymous call telling us who is responsible for what’s happened to Lindsay, to you, to everyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus.”

  “If he can help us, throw him in the mix, too.”

  “Gentian,” Drew barks. “Go down the rabbit hole.”

  Silas looks like Drew just told him to have sex with a porcupine on live television. “What?”

  “Do it. I’m assigning you. You’re the most familiar with it.”

  “But that rumor is crazy. Impossible.”

  Drew gives Harry a look that says he agrees.

  “Regardless,” the senator declares, “I want it investigated. Because if it’s true, we need to be on top of it.”

  “If it’s true, sir, you’ll be in more trouble than anyone ever imagined,” Silas interjects.

  “What are you all talking about?” Lindsay asks, looking as perplexed as I feel.

  “Nothing,” Silas, Drew, and the senator say at the same time.

  “It’s confidential,” the senator adds.

  “You always say that when you just don’t want to tell me something,” Lindsay prods.

  “This time,” Drew responds, “it’s true. We’ve already said too much.”

  “You’re saying that someone has been feeding you information about me? About information that proves I’m innocent?” I ask.

  “Crackpots,” Drew mutters, but it’s clear he wants everyone to hear.

  “And you never investigated it?” I am agog.

  “We did. Thoroughly. With as much time and attention as it deserved.”

  “Which wasn’t much?” I accuse.

  “How many resources are we supposed to devote to the thousands of stupid tips we get? People call the senator’s office to report alien prostate probes, Jane. Those are about as credible as the tip Harry–the senator–is talking about.” Drew unbuttons his suit jacket and lifts his arms, stretching his shoulders. It’s a dominance approach, body language designed to claim space.

  It works.

  “Glad to be lumped in with prostates,” I mutter.

  Silas bites the inside of one cheek. Is he trying not to laugh? It feels too good to be true. The senator is making Drew investigate leads about my being innocent, and Silas is showing emotion toward me.

  It’s like Christmas and my birthday rolled up in one.

  “Do it,” Senator Bosworth orders.

  “We are,” Drew responds.

  “Let’s get Jane in the guest house–”

  “No, Senator,” I say quietly, politely, but firmly. “I would like to be taken somewhere else.”

  “Where?” He’s clearly surprised.

  “To Alice Mogrett’s ranch in Silverton, Texas.”

  Every set of eyebrows goes up.

  “Alice Mogrett?” Marshall asks. “The Alice Mogrett?”

  “The former vice president’s daughter?” the senator asks, folding his arms over his chest as he leans back, clearly intrigued.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “She was my art professor in college and has reached out to me. I have an invitation from her, personally, to come to her ranch and be her guest.”

  “She’s a fruit loop,” Marshall declares. “That woman has been part of every crazy scandal you can imagine since the 1950s. The rumors about her are still circulating among the Secret Service. I can’t believe she’s still alive. How old is she now? A hundred?”

  “Ninety-two,” I say, correcting him. “And she is my friend.” I lower my chin and look up at him, my face designed to imply that he’s being an offensive asshole.

  “Of course she is,” Marshall says, unaffected by my look. “You would, somehow, be allied with a woman who was the epitome of sex scandal back in her day.”

  “I’m hardly at the center of a sex scandal,” I protest.

  “Aren’t you? Look at what they did to Lindsay,” Marshall argues.

  Every woman in the room freezes.

  “What those bastards did to Lindsay wasn’t about sex, you idiot,” Drew speaks up. “It was about violence. Control. Domination.”

  “Shame,” I whisper.

  He does a double take. “Right.”

  “Alice Mogrett is a terrible move,” Marshall says, ignoring Drew’s acid tone.

  “It’s where we’re going,” I say, taking a deep breath to continue. I’ll need to dig in to get what I want.

  Silas stands and leaves the room. Great. So much for any thought that he might help me. Not that I held out much hope, but...

  “Sir, it’s best if she stays here,” Marshall turns to the senator to appeal to him. I’m reduced to “she” again. An object. I’m not even worthy of a direct comment.

  “Alice Mogrett, huh?” the senator says with a nostalgic smile on his face. He shakes his head slowly. “I remember when Rupert Mogrett was appointed to the Supreme Court. Shocked everyone. Right after he and Paulton timed out of office. Paulton was able to appoint him in his final months in the presidency and Mogrett resigned as VP, then became a justice. Served for twelve more years.”

  “And meanwhile, his daughter made headlines,” Marshall says tightly. “Didn’t she found a commune in the late 1950s, for God’s sake?” He acts as if communes are equivalent to ISIS terrorism compounds.

  “She was part of the naked protest movement of the 1960s,” Victoria adds, reading from her phone. “On the vanguard of the second-wave women’s feminism movement.”

  “See?” Marshall declares. “Bad PR for us.”

  Silas returns, not sitting, standing at the doorway. He says nothing.

  “If you’ve been invited, I think it’s worth considering,” the senator says. Lindsay suddenly breaks away from Drew and leaves the room, walking past Silas, who just nods.

  “Harry,” Marshall addresses him in a low voice. “This is a really inconvenient time for–”

  “Security’s already set up,” Silas announces, deliberately interrupting Marshall in what can only be considered a challenge. “I’ve notified the Secret Service at her ranch that we’re escalating.”

  “You? You did that without orders?” Marshall barks.

  “Nothing’s set in stone. I’m making sure we’re prepared in case the senator makes a decision to send Jane there,” Silas smoothly answers.

  “I have made a decision to go there, so...” I stand and move toward the door, walking past Silas, who turns smoothly to follow me as Marshall calls out for me to return. I ignore him.

  I am so done.

  Until Lindsay appears, staring me down.

  Chapter 9

  “Here.” She thrusts a small soft bag into my hands. It’s silklike, with a zipper and two small handles, designed with a geometric pattern that is heavy on earth tones.

  “What’s this?”

  “Some old clothes of mine. I was setting them aside to donate, and you said you have no clothes other than what you’re wearing.” She eyes me up and down. “We were always the same size growing up, and you look like you’ve dropped weight, but so have I.”

  “Stress,” I say reflexively. She didn’t ask for
an explanation, but I give her one.

  “Yeah. Being in the spotlight when you don’t want the attention is the best diet ever, isn’t it?”

  “Why?” I blurt out.

  “Why… what?”

  “Why are you being nice to me?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t push it.”

  “I’m not. I’m really not.” Tears fill my eyes.

  “It’s a change of clothing, Jane, not a new car. You’re not Dobby being set free by a sock.”

  “It’s not what you’re giving me. It’s the kindness,” I explain, wiping the corners of my eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Drew thinks you really did it. All of it,” she says sharply. “That finding me tied up and… well, that back then, you ‘found’ me because it was all part of the plan. A performance. That you were in on it from the beginning.”

  “Does he really?”

  She nods. “He does.”

  “And do you?”

  “I want to.”

  “You want to believe I’m guilty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if Drew’s wrong, then we’ve been as bad to you as all those assholes were to us.”

  “No. Never that bad.”

  “But bad.”

  “I didn’t do it, Lindsay. I swear. And I’m so, so sorry for what you went through, both times.”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Your mom delivered me into their hands. Right here, at my childhood home. She tainted this place. It used to be a sanctuary. Now it’s just another prison, like everywhere else that touches my dad.”

  I go silent. I don’t know what to say about my mother.

  It’s so complicated, and I wish I could ask her why she did what she did, but I can’t.

  Because she’s dead.

  The look on Lindsay’s face makes it clear this conversation is stirring up old emotions, her fists tight at her sides, her eyes glistening, throat tight.

  “I don’t know why my mother did what she did,” I try to explain. “If she were alive, then I could–”

  “If your mother were alive, she would just be a liability. At least she spared taxpayers the expense of letting her rot in jail,” Monica interjects, one manicured hand going on Lindsay’s shoulder. She gives her daughter an expression of deep concern, leaning in. “Is Anya–I mean Jane–bothering you?”