by Meli Raine
The website headlines aren’t innovative–or surprising–but no matter how thick my skin is about being made fun of and threatened on social media and in the press, it always gets to me.
This time it’s deeper. Worse. Alice is gone. I can’t hear her wisecracks about the news coverage. She’ll never shake her head and smirk at the Post or the Times headlines. Her body is at a funeral home while everyone here treats me with kid gloves. She was ninety-two and not feeling well last night.
Alice died of old age.
But not in the media spin. For them, it was me. I killed her.
Delia’s screams didn’t help, Duff rushing in to find the housekeeper on her knees, pointing at me, calling me names in a language I don’t know. He radioed quickly, Silas coming fast in a group of suited men who pulled me away from Alice’s bedside.
I cried in Silas’s arms until he had to let me go to strategize, give orders, make plans. Duff set me up in the main house, in a solarium decorated with fresh Southern charm. Flower-patterned fabric and bright whites predominate, white wicker ruling the decor. Lily would like this, I thought. It’s a cheerful room.
Not a place to mourn.
Then again, in my life, every place is for mourning. Grieving. Processing all that’s been taken away. Alice was my last rock-solid champion. I do have Silas, but it’s complicated. New. Exploratory and tentative.
Alice was just... Alice.
And now she’s not.
I look over at her studio. It is swarmed with local law enforcement vehicles and an ambulance, all the lights flashing, sirens off. As red and blue flicker and spin, I turn away. The memory of her cold hand in mine makes a fresh batch of tears rise soundlessly in my eyes, my throat, my heart.
She’s truly gone.
Like my mother.
My phone buzzes. It’s hundreds of notifications, all chattering away. But checking my texts, I see a few from Lindsay. I read them and cry some more.
Then one from Harry.
I am so sorry. I know she meant a lot to you. Now you need to come back to The Grove. Immediately. For your own safety.
I navigate to Notifications. I’d rather read about my own debasement than deal with the emotional fallout from my father’s text.
For the next ten minutes I steel myself and read headlines, tweets, Facebook musings, and more. I’m being painted as Alice’s killer.
This hurts more than Tara or Mandy’s deaths.
“Stop reading,” Silas says with a sigh, gently prying my cell phone out of my hand as he walks soundlessly into the room. He replaces the phone with a mug of fresh coffee. “Over-caffeinate yourself instead.”
“That’s not healthy, either.”
“But it’s better for the ego.”
“Truth.” We sip in companionate silence as I try yet again to weather an unexpected storm.
“There’s a limit, you know?” I finally say, controlling my emotions better than I thought I was capable of doing. “I can only take so much. At what point do people break to the point of no return?”
He watches me attentively, so focused that I suddenly feel self-conscious. Most people don’t actively listen to other people. Silas does.
At least, he does with me.
“I don’t know. I’ve never reached that point, so I can’t speak to it.”
“Have you ever come close?”
A shadow forms in his eyes. “Yes.”
“In... when you were deployed?”
“There, and here at home.”
“What made you not break? Because I’m pretty sure the only reason I haven’t snapped in half and bled to death is because of you and Alice.”
He shakes his head slowly, meeting my eyes over the edge of his coffee as he takes a sip. “I don’t know. If I knew, I’d tell people so they could use the information and insight to help people who do snap. But I have no idea.”
I sigh. “Right.”
“I’m being honest. I really don’t know.”
“I’m not doubting you. It’s more that I’m resigned to the fact that I’m never going to have some magic path to take to make sure I don’t shatter. Disintegrate until what makes me Jane is just gone.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“It’s really sweet that you think you can stop it.”
“I know I can.”
“How? Seriously, Silas–how? You don’t know what the qualities are inside you that kept you from breaking. How can you be so sure you can stop me from breaking, too?”
“I just know.”
“That’s... sweet.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I think you believe that.”
“Not an answer, Jane.”
“Actually, it is. It’s the truth.”
“There is always more than one truth.”
“Now you sound like my father.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Neither. It’s just,” I shake my head and snicker. “It’s truth. And the truth is that last night, I posed for Alice. Last night, she talked to me and gave me advice and support and cracked jokes and now she’s just gone. Gone.” I give him a pleading look. “I swear, Silas. I didn’t kill her.”
He recoils. “I know that. Jane. You don’t have to say it.”
“I feel like I do.”
“I don’t. I watched how you were with her. How much she loved you. You were like a daughter or a granddaughter to her. She found your essence and made you see it, too. She was more than a mentor to you. She loved you, Jane. You loved her. And I know you well enough to know you’d never, ever hurt her.”
“Yes.” I stare across the room, eyes fixed on a small bowl of rocks and seashells. Some part of me shifts from thoughts that can convert into words to a nonverbal place. The words float like clouds in my mind, blending and splitting, graceful but meaningless.
Silas is very good at sitting in companionate silence. Not many people can do it.
After a while, my mental drift gets the better of me. I stand and walk to the screen door, opening it. Silas follows, coffee in hand, and we stroll through the gardens. We walk on the stone path, the interplay of different kinds of rocks a form of art. Even Alice’s landscaping has an artist’s eye.
Of course it does.
“It’s about to get worse,” Silas finally says. I appreciate the honesty. Being shined on or ignored is getting old.
“I know.”
“Alice is... was an institution. She was Mogrett’s daughter. This is going to get full-guns coverage by all the establishment media. You name it, they’ll have long-form articles and you’ll be at the center of those.”
“I know that’s supposed to be more intense, but they aren’t more than a few steps away from the click-bait websites with Photoshopped versions of me in memes that makes the rounds on Reddit and 4CHAN.”
“They’re better than that,” he argues. “And they have deeper pockets for investigative reporters to dig.”
“True on both counts. But the bottom line–how they position me, as a person–is surprisingly similar.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he adds grudgingly.
“Does that–does that change how you feel about me?”
“What? Why would it?”
“Because if we are going to be together, this is who I am. The version the press spins. I’m Jane Borokov, evil mastermind. Willing pawn. Scheming bitch. I’ll always be that Jane.”
“That is not who you are!”
“No. It’s not. But to millions–maybe billions–of people, it is. Perception is reality for most people, Silas. You know that. Are you prepared to spend–” I cut myself off before saying the rest of your life.
“I’m prepared to love you. The real you. The you Alice captured on canvas. The you who played Candyland for three hours with my orphaned niece, who didn’t know her mother had died. The you who loves fresh flowers and coffee and who is smarter than you show people. You, Jane. Not the facsimile that some h
eadline editor creates for clicks.”
“That’s easy to say, Silas. It’s easy to be the honorable guy who does the right thing. But you’re talking about,” I say, pausing. Say it, Jane. Say it.
“Talking about what?” he presses, watching and waiting.
The rest of your life.
Duff appears out of nowhere, face drawn down with a look of doom. “Gentian. We need you.”
Silas gives me a pained look. “We’ll talk later,” he says, turning away as he and Duff disappear around a corner.
Leaving me with the unspoken burden of expectation.
Chapter 19
My apartment is quickly becoming a flower shop.
When we walk through the door after leaving Alice’s ranch, the scent of fresh flowers fills the room.
“Oh, right. I forgot to mention that Lily had these delivered. Duff texted me while we were gone and asked for permission to bring them in.”
A surprisingly tasteful vase of pink peonies is sitting next to my dying unicorn display.
“Huh. No unicorns.”
Silas gives me a strange look. “Unicorn flowers?”
I point to the older vase. “Lily. She’s a hoot.”
“Sounds like she’s becoming a friend. That’s good. You need more.”
“Yes.”
“Just tell her never to be your driver again when you’re running away from me.”
“It wasn’t her fault.” I finger the card on the new flower arrangement. My name is on the front, and inside, a simple message.
If you need an ear, please call me. My deepest condolences. Lily
I close my eyes and inhale slowly. Silas is right.
I do need more friends.
Just then, my phone rings. The actual ringtone goes off.
I hold my phone up for Silas to read the display as it rings. “Hedding, Stuva & Bollinger?” I read. “Sounds like a law firm.”
Silas motions for me to take the call. “That’s a major firm in DC. Answer it.”
“You sure?”
He nods. I accept the call. Too late, though–I get dead air.
“I’m sure they’ll leave a voicemail,” I say, but Silas isn’t listening. He’s frowning, deeply.
At my phone.
“Why in hell would Hedding Stuva call you?”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m being sued? Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“No–they’d call Harry’s lawyers for something like that. All calls related to anything legal pertaining to you go through them. Hedding Stuva is a white-shoe, genteel DC firm for the ultra wealthy. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe Harry hired them?”
“I would have been told. Did they leave a message?” He peers at my screen.
I look at the blinking notification on my phone. “Yes.” He doesn’t have to ask. I navigate and hit Play Message.
“Hello, Ms. Borokov. This is Nathaniel Stuva from Hedding Stuva, a private law firm. We need to speak with you concerning one of our clients. Could you please return this call at your earliest convenience?” He gives a number.
Silas’s lips are parted, eyebrows up in a look of extraordinary astonishment. Leaning in toward the phone as if it will tell him some secret not yet disclosed, he says, “What the hell?”
“Why is this so troubling?” I ask, perplexed.
“Because the last time I had any interaction with people at Hedding Stuva was the El Brujo case.”
My turn to be perplexed. “El Brujo? You mean the drug dealer who died? The one who was a dean at Yates University and no one knew?”
“Yeah.”
“What did this law firm have to do with him?”
“Turns out he was laundering money through some offshore investments. Hedding Stuva handled some of the taxation paperwork. It was a big stink. They don’t deal with dirty money. Old money, slimy money, robber baron money–they’re fine with that. But not drug money and definitely not sex slave trafficking dollars.”
“Why would they call me?”
“That’s what I’m wondering.”
I pick up the phone. “I’ll call them and–”
“No,” he says quietly. “Don’t. Let me talk to Drew about this first. I can’t think of any good reason why Hedding Stuva would call you. This smells like a set-up.”
I know better than to argue. Frankly, I don’t want to argue. This is so out of the realm of normal. Not the odd call from a law firm I don’t know.
Silas’s reaction.
“We need to bring Paulson in on this,” he says as if talking to himself.
“Mark Paulson?” A chill runs through me as I say his name. “Why?”
“He was a major part of bringing El Brujo down. And now you’re being contacted by a law firm that was part of a drug and sex slave dealer’s empire. He knows more about the whole web than anyone else. I want him in on this.”
“Do we have to?”
Silas seems taken aback. “You have something against Mark?”
“It’s not fair, but yes. I do.”
“What is it? Why?”
“He’s the reason my mom handed Lindsay over to those guys, on the helipad.”
“Mark had nothing to do with it,” Silas says calmly, but he’s defensive. I wonder how close they are. “John Gainsborough pretended to be Mark. You know that.”
“I know. But emotionally, I don’t know. Some part of me on the inside still thinks of him as the reason my mother is dead.”
“That’s one hell of a leap.”
“I never said it was rational.”
“Fair enough. He’s crucial. Mark has a mind that rivals Drew’s for this kind of work. His training is so complex. And with his experience with El Brujo kidnapping his fiancée and–”
“Wait. What? Say that last part again?”
“Mark’s fiancée, Carrie, was kidnapped by El Brujo’s men. She was snooping around and found a way station for sex slaves they smuggled into the U.S. from Mexico. She also found her friend down there.”
Memories of everything from my time at Yates spill over, making it hard for me to speak coherently. “Carrie Myerson is Mark Paulson’s girlfriend?”
“You know Carrie?”
“I know of her. You can’t go to Yates or be an alum and not know what Dean Landau did. That he was El Brujo.” I let out a small gasp and realize I’m barely breathing. “Mark Paulson’s fiancée is her?”
“Yes.”
“Then being set up as the fall guy for kidnapping Lindsay is twice as bad. I heard the rumors at Yates about how they really killed El Brujo. How he cut off arms and legs of women he kidnapped.” I shiver.
“That’s why the call from Hedding Stuva is troubling,” Silas declares. “I’m bringing Paulson into this.”
“Okay. I understand. Not that you need my permission.”
His eyebrows rise with amusement.
“Glad to have your blessing.”
I look around the apartment. Nothing’s changed other than the new flowers. The dead ones need to be thrown away and I’m starving. Dispatching the decaying blossoms into the trash, I wash my hands and turn to the task of making something we can eat.
Only to confront an empty fridge.
My phone buzzes. I look.
I freeze.
ENTER TO WIN! Halloween SWEEPSTAKES! TEXT 21334 to UNICORN for a chance.
That’s not a spam text from a candy company.
That’s a message from my informant.
Silas settles in on my couch, reading from a folder Duff handed him earlier. He has his personal and work phones on the seat next to him, face tight with concentration.
Tell him, my conscience begs. Tell him.
But another voice, that seductive, sabotaging inner voice, says something quite different.
It says one word.
No.
I turn away, giving Silas my back, and pretend to make coffee.
Meanwhile, I text 21334 to UNICORN.
The reply is a riddle.
It must be. We had no choice all those years. Who knows how long my electronic life has been under surveillance? My knees turn to wet nerves as I realize I’ve likely been monitored my entire life.
Being Harry’s daughter has made it so.
I stare at the screen and hold my breath as I read the reply.
All witch hunts have a warlock.
Chapter 20
“Jane?”
I scream, jumping in the air just enough to lose my grip on the phone. It falls onto the kitchen floor.
Silas is in the doorway in a flash, folder clenched in one hand. “What’s wrong?”
“You scared me.”
“I did? Why?” Bending down, he retrieves my phone and looks at the screen. His face takes on an astonished expression.
Oh, no.
“Your screen. It spidered. But it still works.” Tracing the thin cracks, he reads the message. “Joining sweepstakes?”
“You know. Stupid thing. I got free chocolate a long time ago and they keep sending me these stupid messages,” I babble.
“Yeah. I know. We’ve seen them in the reports on you. You enter a lot of contests. Ever win any?”
I scramble to find the right lie.
Silas’s phone saves me. It rings.
“That’s my personal phone. It must be Mom.” He places my broken phone on the counter, screen down, and rushes to the couch.
As I hear him talking to her about Kelly and some legal paperwork, I let myself reel. All witch hunts have a warlock. What does that mean? Cryptic, sure. But all the past messages I received this way were more elaborate. Designed to evade being discovered, yes.
Impossible to decipher? No.
“Hey,” Silas says suddenly, back in the tiny kitchen and smiling. “I’m starving. That piece of chicken on the plane was a close cousin to rubber. Your cupboards are bare. My fridge has nothing but beer, maple syrup, and old lettuce. Let’s go out to lunch.”
“In public?”
“Duff scouted out a solid restaurant. Besides, it’s on the way to The Grove.”
“The Grove?”
“You know you have to face your father, Jane.”
“I know, but–so soon?”
“After lunch. Dealing with his campaign’s reaction to Alice’s death will be much easier on a full stomach.”