A Shameless Little Con

by Meli Raine

  “You never had any of the alcohol they gave you?”

  “No.”

  “You realize how suspicious that looks?” He’s incredulous.

  “Of course I do. But it’s true–in fact, I came back and happened to find Lindsay because of my stomach problems. And thank God, too, because the doctors said if I hadn’t found her when I did, she might have–”

  “Died. I know.” He pauses. “Lindsay and Drew drank whatever they provided?”

  I nod.

  “Lindsay and I liked the same wine coolers. I don’t know how they spiked Drew’s drink, but they did.”

  “And the others? They didn’t drink the same stuff?”

  “No. They were all into wine. Liked to pretend they had palates as sophisticated as their parents’. You know.”

  “No, I don’t know. When I was nineteen, I was clearing out underground bunkers in Afghanistan and trying to save civilian kids from being blown up. Keggers weren’t my thing.”

  “This wasn’t exactly a kegger.”

  “Fine. A ‘winer’ works just as well,” he snaps, using finger quotes.

  “You don’t have to get caustic about it. We were just college students trying to have fun.” I snatch the phone back, my arm rubbing against his chest for a split second. He’s freshly showered and shaved, a few pieces of his brown hair wet at the tips. He smells like mint and soap, with a touch of spice added.

  I resist the urge to inhale deeply.

  He goes dead silent.

  Yes, I type in the chat field. Today, 2pm, Mickey’s.

  Mickey’s is the same place Lindsay and I went after coffee, just seven months ago. It’s where we ran into Mandy that same day, Drew forcing her away in a show of power that helped Lindsay to start trusting him again.

  My screen shows dots. She’s replying.

  Great. See you then. Come alone.

  I can’t, I type back. They won’t let me.

  Then come as alone as you can, she replies.

  She has no idea. Absolutely no idea what that means.

  K, I say, as if it matters. As if that single letter means anything more than the pleasantry of acknowledgment.

  “You’re really doing this?” Aggressive disapproval radiates from him.

  “You don’t have to ask.”

  “Of course I do. I’m going with you. I assume this means we need to postpone the plane to Texas?”

  “Yes. Alice won’t mind. And that’s why you don’t have to ask, Silas.” I turn to confront him head on, a fiery feeling burning through me. My chin goes up, my eyes narrowing, and damn him if he tries to stop me.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re along for the ride, right? Everywhere I go, you go. Well then, Mr. Tough Guy, we’re going to a bar at 2 pm today. I hope you like pool.”

  I walk away from him and dip into the first bathroom I see, shutting the door with shaking hands. My phone buzzes one more time.

  And don’t tell anyone I’m seeing you, Tara added, like a knife twist to the heart.

  She doesn’t want to be associated with me.

  And yet she’s taking a huge chance like this.

  Why? What could be so important? And why does she want to see me, of all people?

  After Drew and Silas rescued Lindsay and me from John, Stellan, and Blaine six months ago, the newspapers covered the events properly. Actual, operational facts were very clear: I delivered a phone to John, Stellan, and Blaine. Drew crashed through the wall between his apartment–where Lindsay and I were being held–and his neighbor’s apartment. We were all taken at gunpoint to the neighbor’s apartment. Drew’s rescue attempt came just as they were about to rape Lindsay and she was naked, traumatized, and bleeding.

  In the middle of everything, Lindsay even killed Stellan, in a famous video clip where she stabbed him in the penis with a knife, severing an artery.

  Those are the facts.

  You know what isn’t fact?

  The often-reported statement that I was part of John, Stellan, and Blaine’s team.

  That my mother and I colluded with Nolan Corning to bring down Senator Harwell Bosworth.

  That I was part of the whole scheme from the very beginning, going back to when I found Lindsay that night of the party five years ago.

  That I am Senator Harwell Bosworth’s illegitimate daughter.

  That I was jealous of Lindsay and did this out of revenge.

  That I was the mastermind of it all.

  That I am Nolan Corning’s secret love child with my mother, a Russian spy.

  That I lure small children into sex trafficking, to be sent to an island in Thailand.

  I know that last one sounds like the craziest of all the theories, but it’s not. Every single one of those “reports” by the media is a lie.

  But lies sell newspapers. They increase ad rates. They bring in eyeballs.

  If the media discover I’m meeting Tara, they’ll eat it up. Covert videos will be shot. Men and women with long telephoto lenses will hide two blocks away, the right shot worth ten grand.

  Ten grand that a tech-savvy website owner can spin into six figures.

  We live in a world where truth is relative. Lies can be monetized. Truth? Not so much.

  All of this pours through my mind as I turn on the faucet for white noise and stare at my reflection in the mirror until I cease to exist. Seeing Tara isn’t about friendship. It’s not about appearances. It’s about getting one grain closer to the truth.

  I can’t get anyone to believe the truth.

  But collecting more of it keeps me from going insane.

  Gone is the Silas who comforted me yesterday. Gone is the guy who defended me. He’s back to being aloof, remote, and unfeeling. The perfect man in black. If you’re going to do the hard work of government, you need a thick skin. A tough shell.

  You need to give no damns.

  Or at least, never let anyone know which damns you do give.

  Silas knocks on the bathroom door, startling me.

  “Occupied,” I shout.

  “I assume this means you don’t want to schedule that meeting with Lindsay?”

  “I do.”

  “She’s not available until 2 pm today.”

  Damn it.

  “Ask her for a different time.”

  “I’m not your secretary.”

  “It would be so much easier if you were. What’s her number?”

  “I’m not giving that to you.”

  “Then what’s Drew’s number? I’ll text him.”

  “I’m definitely not giving you that number.”

  “Then how do I contact her?”

  Silas taps on his phone. “She’ll text you.”

  He walks out of the house, shaking his head. I let him go and don’t question anything.

  It’s 10:54 am, plenty of time before I see Tara. Why can’t Lindsay meet me sooner?

  My phone suddenly buzzes.

  Can I come see u now? I have an opening in my day.

  It’s Lindsay.

  Sure, I tap back. No amount of coffee will give me the energy I need, but too much will turn me into an anxious hummingbird. I pour a glass of water and wait.

  Five minutes later, Lindsay’s at the door.

  And she’s alone.

  Nervous, I open the door and greet her with a “hi” that she returns. Lindsay is the epitome of the popular girl, all long blonde hair with sun streaks and a face that looks like the sun when she smiles. If you didn’t know her history, you would think she was nothing but a beach chick, a spoiled rich girl, vacuous and freewheeling.

  She is anything but. Shadows move slowly in her eyes, trapped inside an echo chamber where they can only find their way out through time. Healing is only possible when you’re given space. Drew carves that space out for her, but time is a kind of space, too.

  And no one can make more time. If Drew could, he would, but even he has limits.

  “I asked Silas to stay outside,” she says pre-emptivel
y. I look toward the nearest window and sure enough, he’s there, like a sentry.

  “This whole ‘must keep eyes on the client’ rule is getting old.”

  “It must be bad if that’s your protocol,” she says with sympathy.

  “So far today, no one has tried to kill me. Came close yesterday with your mother, though.”

  “Ignore my mother.”

  “Hard to do that when she turns me into her punching bag.” We share a look that makes me relax.

  “Welcome to the club.” Her sarcasm is as thick as ever.

  “How do I unjoin?”

  “You avoid. My mom is a garden-variety narcissist. You can’t change them. Challenging a narcissist makes them double down. All you can do is avoid, ignore, and be so boring, they don’t want to poke you, Jane.”

  “I see you follow your own advice,” I say dryly.

  “Running off to Vegas and getting married was Drew’s idea. Not mine.”

  “It worked. She can’t control you.”

  “Doesn’t stop her from trying.” Lindsay twists the end of a ribbon on her blouse. “I was only half kidding about blood tests proving she’s not my mom. I think it would be a relief.”

  “She loves you, Lindsay.” A pang of longing for my own mom threatens to swallow me up. “She wouldn’t fight so hard for you if she didn’t.”

  “You think so? I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m just a tool for her to use to get attention.”

  I give her a sympathetic smile. I don’t know what to say to that.

  We shrug in unison.

  “Look. I know I’m supposed to hate you.” Her lip quivers. “And when you showed up at Drew’s apartment when John and Blaine were holding me hostage, I was so happy–and then so betrayed.”

  “I swear, Lindsay–I swear I wasn’t in on it with them! Never!” Tears fill my eyes and throat, salt tinging my words. “I swear.”

  “I want to believe you. I really do. I saw how you reacted when Blaine tried to–when he was on me on Drew’s bed–before Drew busted through the wall and saved me.”

  “I wanted to stop them, but they–”

  She holds up one hand. “I know. I’ve had six months to think about it. And I think they’re all wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “I believe you, Jane.”

  I reach down and pinch the soft skin at my inner elbow. Ouch.

  She’s real.

  And she’s serious.

  “You do? Why?”

  “I was there. I saw how they tied you up, too. That wasn’t some fake performance you gave. It was real.”

  “I can’t believe you believe me,” I say. “Because no one else does.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Drew doesn’t. Your mother definitely doesn’t.”

  “She’s biased.”

  “And Drew?”

  “Drew’s still angry that John and Blaine were ever able to get their hands on me. You know. Guys. When your husband protects people for a living and can’t protect you, it really fucks with his head. Drew sees villains everywhere. You’re caught in the giant net. He’s fundamentally logical and will let the evidence sway him.”

  “Evidence?”

  “The implant check came back. You’re clean.”

  “I know.” But I’m relieved to know that my body proved me right.

  And that no one planted fake evidence on me.

  “I know you know, but now they can’t use that alleged evidence against you.”

  “Do you really think evidence matters?” I ask her, flabbergasted. “It’s all about perception. No one really looks at evidence. Spin it however you want to make your case–it’s spin that matters. Not proof.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow what?”

  “You used to be so quiet. Even-keeled. Middle-of-the-road Jane. I’ve never seen you so cynical.”

  “Try being the social media whipping girl for half a year and see how that feels while you cling to your optimism,” I reply, unable–no, unwilling–to keep the bitterness out of my tone.

  “I do know what it’s like.” She moves her head to and fro, then adds, “To be fair, I was drugged into oblivion by the staff at the Island, so I don’t remember it.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Those four years were anything but lucky.”

  I hope I don’t have to go through three and a half more years of this to be able to understand.

  “You’re right,” I concede. “It’s not a suffering contest.”

  “No. It’s not.” Her brow relaxes. “And I still have my mom and dad. You don’t.”

  “No. I’m an orphan.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “I haven’t seen anyone spin the coverage like that yet. ‘Crazy Russian Spy Orphan Takes Down White House Contender.’” I pretend I’m reading a headline.

  She just shakes her head. “I know I had plenty of headlines like that.”

  “You’re Russian, too?”

  We politely laugh.

  “Listen,” she starts. “We really need to talk. You were my informer. While I was on the Island.”

  “Yeah, I was. And when we met for the first time in the coffee shop, right after you came home, I wanted to tell you. But I’m not the only one.”

  “Huh?”

  “There was a man who gave me the information to give to you. I could never tell you because if I did, he’d know. I’m sure our conversations were monitored.”

  “I thought the whole point of the darknet was not to be monitored!”

  “These deep state guys can do anything with tech.”

  She blinks rapidly, digesting that. “Okay... so you were just feeding me bullshit from some guy?”

  “Not some guy. And not bullshit. You know what we talked about.”

  “I do. Now I wonder how much of it was fake.”

  “None of it. That’s what’s so scary, now that I know.”

  “Now that you know what?”

  “That he’s out there. Watching. Paying attention. I thought he was a good guy. On our side. But now...”

  “What changed?”

  “Me. I don’t assume anything any more.”

  “Even about me?”

  “Even about you, Lindsay.”

  As I say the words, she nods slowly. “That’s fair. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t trust anyone, either.”

  “I want to, though. I really do. But I can’t.”

  “Are you sure you and Drew aren’t twins? Because he said those exact words last night.”

  I look down. “Pretty sure.” The less I say, the better.

  She smiles, looking sad. “We’ve both been through it, haven’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I saw you in Drew’s apartment–what those guys were doing to us–I...” She chokes up. “I can’t talk about it now, but we need to.”

  “Later, sure.” I reach for her hand and squeeze it. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For treating me like I’m human.”

  “Everyone deserves that.”

  “Except for Blaine, Stellan, and John.”

  “True.”

  My phone buzzes. It’s Tara.

  Can you do noon? Change of plans.

  Is the bar open at noon? I ask, surprised.

  Do alcoholics drink at noon? Yes, it’s open, she replies.

  I look up at Lindsay.

  “Uh, I have an appointment that just got moved to noon.” Some part of me feels guilty for not telling her it’s Tara. I should.

  But we have a tenuous truce here. I don’t want to blow it.

  “Understood. You have a busy life.”

  “I have a stupid life. I spend all my time trying to avoid being caught by people who hate my guts. It’s really putting a cramp in my Etsy Slow Living hobby.”

  “Since when do you like Etsy?”

  “Since it became the only place on the internet where people don’t hunt me down to denigrate me.”

&n
bsp; “Yay Etsy.”

  “Exactly. Do you know how soothing it is to order earrings made from recycled belly button lint?”

  “I can only imagine.”

  We laugh.

  She leaves and I stand there, wondering why the lie of omission about Tara hurts so much more than my other lies.

  I text Silas the new time. I get back a single letter.

  K.

  K is quickly becoming the whatever of the late 2010s.

  The short drive to Mickey’s takes place like a finger snap, a blink, a skip. It’s a fast ride and as we climb out of the SUV a block away, to make our entrance look as normal as possible, I wonder what I’m walking into. Will I be dragged into some new controversy? Is this a set-up, an ambush, a publicity stunt designed to make Tara money or to give her some strange notoriety?

  Why would Tara text me about getting together after months of ignoring me?

  I must be of some use to her.

  If this is a set-up, Silas will mitigate it.

  For the first time, I’m grateful I have a security detail when I go out into the world. Oh, how everything changes when your car has been firebombed.

  Bars are funny places at the noon hour. I should know. They’re great for hiding in plain sight. If I wear no makeup, baggy clothes, and a baseball cap, I can sit in a booth and alternate between alcoholic drinks and plain iced tea, munching appetizers and pretending I’m normal again. Filled with people time forgot, it’s unreal how creepy bars are at this time of day.

  Alcoholics don’t ask a lot of questions. It’s refreshing.

  I generally don’t hang out in bars until later in the day, but I really shouldn’t be surprised to find people drinking already. Yet I am.

  Tara turns and looks at the sound of the door opening. She gives me a sad smile, but freezes when she sees Silas next to me. He scans the room and seems to stand down, eyes on Tara.

  Whatever he’s worried is here, isn’t.

  But what if Tara brings a different kind of danger?

  “You brought a bodyguard?” She’s upset, accusatory, and she takes one step backwards, toward the door.

  “I didn’t have a choice, Tara. If you don’t like it, I can’t help it. They make me.”

  “They?”

  I shrug. “Who knows who ‘they’ are anymore?” I give her a raw look, hoping she’ll understand and not panic. “You know? If anyone understands, it’s you.”

  Bingo.

  I said the right thing.