by S. L. Scott
“Fuck that, King. Those are dying words. I’m not ready to die, are you?”
“No.” Turning toward him, I exhale. “But we don’t know what they want.”
“You,” he answers without hesitating. “They want you.”
“But they don’t take me. They take you.”
“They’re just going to take everyone else around you and make you watch.” There are only two people I care about. Cruise knows this already.
Him.
Sara Jane.
They know about Cruise, whoever they are. But do they know about Sara Jane? Do they have her already? My hands fist, and I hit the cinder blocks that surround me. I hadn’t even thought about them having Sara Jane. If they hurt her . . . touch one hair on her head—I look at the chains and throw my arms out in anger, the dirty metal slicing into my skin. She’s alive. I know she is. I would feel it if she wasn’t. I have to hold on to that, to her, in any way I can because she keeps me going.
Whoever is in that heaven above we so desperately want to reach, please, protect my Firefly.
Fuck.
Separately, we’re each taken from the room twice a day to use the toilet. Guess that wasn’t a feature they thought of having when they built what we call our cell. Weeks in, whatever it’s been, my body is revolting. Every time I leave, it’s more noticeable, but I refuse to look weak in front of them. I refuse to let them see they’re breaking me.
Led by a guy with a gun held to our heads, we walk down the corridor along the large silver pipes that buzz loudly. This is why screaming never worked. Wherever we are, wherever these pipes lead to, nothing will be heard above them. Once in the filthy bathroom, we’re given a few minutes of privacy. My mind drifts like it does in that casket of a room. I’ll die there. Or in that closet they love to torment me with, but I’ll die with her beauty filling my thoughts . . .
Her hair blows in the wind, her mouth a shade darker than the natural pink of her lips, her eyes watching me. It should have been the best day of her life. All her work has paid off, but my Firefly doesn’t even seem aware of the graduation festivities or the congratulations. Not the presents, or the hugs. Her eyes close with each person she embraces but when they open, they find me immediately, and a small smile appears.
My memories are better to visit than this disgusting toilet. I barely piss anymore much less the other. My body’s shutting down. The ache in my side is growing with each passing day. Walking with my arms at my side, the metal cuffs are still heavy even without the chains attached. I couldn’t successfully fight my way out, if I even had the strength to try. Instead of physical warfare, I go for mental. It’s the only chance I have, though this guy never answers me. “You going to fill me in on why I’m here?”
That question never receives a response, so I move to the next. “How much are you making? I can pay more.”
The offer is never accepted. I usually get a grumble from it though. Today, I’m not even rewarded with that. “Why’d you bring Cruise into this?” I say his name to the guy with the gun as often as I can. It will humanize him in ways I think this guy’s disconnected. If I can’t save myself, I’ll try my damnedest to save my best friend.
Thrown back in the cell with Cruise, I stumble when pushed. Landing on my hands and knees, and staring at the dirty concrete I’ve been forced to endure day in and day out, I vow right then, I will take these motherfuckers down even if it is done with my last breath.
The chains are attached to the shackles, and a gun is still held so close to my head I can feel the cold barrel. I feel the minutest movement. The ski mask is fitted down to the base of his throat, but when he looks up, that divot is exposed. With light from the sun sneaking in, I study the metal around my wrists and watch as he turns the gun on Cruise, tapping his head with that same barrel.
Cruise glances at me, and I nod just enough for him to know—do whatever it takes to protect yourself. I won’t forget him, but he needs to forget me. He needs to save himself. “You fucking fight.”
“I’ll fight till the end, but if I don’t return, I’ll see you in the afterlife.”
“Fuck that. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
He’s shoved to the ground just outside the door, and I hear a faint “Fuck you,” in true Cruise style once it’s shut.
Along with Firefly, he’s the strongest person I know. She’s never far from my mind, but I think about her more frequently, not in the memories, but because I know she’s next. Cruise has been here long enough to know their plan doesn’t work—whatever their plan is. They’ll move to the next tactic, and I don’t think the answers for the questions I ask will matter anymore.
It may be ironic that what got me into this mess was searching for answers. Now I have none where it concerns my mother’s death, and I’m certain I’ll be left with even more for mine.
31
Sara Jane
This office becomes my solace. Who knew I’d find more comfort among the dark walls that belonged to a monster than in the place my Alexander used to call home.
I’m lost without him and becoming angrier each passing day. I want to throw things, hack down the rose bushes, and burn this manor to the ground. I want to be rid of all the reminders this place represents. But Alexander will still be gone.
Without a word.
Without knowing what happened.
He just left.
Left the manor.
Left me behind.
“Is this how he felt with me gone?”
“No,” Jason replies easily, his heart not strung on a line with no beginning or end like mine.
My emotions are sails caught in the winds of change. I’m pulled to the left, and the breeze blows me right. Fuck the darkness. I’d rather have his damaged soul to comfort me at night, than feel the holes he’s left behind.
I look over my shoulder when he says, “He knew where you were. He knew how you were doing. He knew you were safe.”
“He was letting me find my own way. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do the same for him.”
“Because you don’t have the information he had at his fingertips.”
“How do I get it? How do I find him?”
Jason sighs, redirecting his coffee-colored eyes over my shoulder. “I’ve tried.” When he stands, he looks back at me, and says, “You need to think about living again. There are worse ways to be stuck than with access to billions of dollars and a mansion.”
Legally, I probably have none of it, since we’re not officially married. “It came with a price.”
“A price you’ve paid, Sara Jane.”
“I’d rather have him.”
Disappointment flits across his face, but like always, he steadies his emotions. Indifference is quickly back in place. “If you don’t take control, April will.” He walks to the door. “You’re stronger. It’s time you prove it.”
The door closes behind him, and I sit down in the chair and spin slowly around in circles. Clues. Clues. Clues. I need answers or hints. Clues to where he went. Clues to why.
The book on the table catches my eye and I plant my feet, stopping the chair. I go to it and flip it open to the page where Alexander’s birth certificate is hidden.
The details remain, but what bothers me is the obvious mistake.
Father: Alexander Roman Kingwood II.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and call the only person who may be able to help me. It’s been a few weeks since we last spoke. I don’t know if she’ll take my call, but it’s worth a shot. “Shelly? I need your help.”
Forty-five minutes later, Shelly’s black jacket slides down her arms to reveal a black sweater dress fitted over gray tights and high-heeled knee boots. Her large Jackie O sunglasses are positioned on top of her head, holding her red hair back from her face. She’s not the same Shelly I’ve known more than half my life. Another variation in a life constructed of stages and transitions brings the more grownup version to my door.
I feel silly stan
ding before her in a coral maxi dress and bare feet. But life has changed us both, obviously in different directions because of our own experiences. My dress is deceiving, almost convincing me I haven’t struggled, that life has been umbrella drinks on the terrace, full of laughter and close friends.
Any onlooker wouldn’t know that underneath the breezy cotton I’m hiding a physical wound related to an emotional trauma. Or that I’ve been abandoned by the one person who vowed never to leave me. My casual walk from the foyer into the living room doesn’t hint at the disappointment I’ve been to my parents, who just want to help me. Their helping me means leaving Alexander. I refuse to do that. Never again.
We may look pulled together on the outside, but the loss of our friendship strikes me deeper than the flair of a coral dress will ever reveal.
She looks around the manor and asks, “What’s going on, Sara Jane?”
“So much,” I whisper. “We’ll talk when we’re alone.” My eyes slide to her as we weave through the living room to the office. When I close the door behind her, she flops onto the loveseat, exhaustion sewn into the lines of her face. She looks older than the last time I saw her. Sitting on a chair next to her, I say, “I miss you.”
“With all the stuff that’s happened, why?”
“I wish I could take on your pain, but it’s time for us to be the friends we once were. I’m truly sorry, Shelly. With all that I am, I’m sorry. I never would have involved you or Chad or anyone else other than Alexander. I never meant to. But I’m not going to throw away all these years of friendship, meaningful sisterhood, without fighting to save it first.”
Her sadness diminishes a little, relief relaxing her shoulders. “I don’t want to be angry at you anymore, Sara Jane. I don’t. It’s exhausting. I just . . .”
When her pause in thought extends, she drops her head to her hands. “I know. You miss him. I do too. Chad was an amazingly good person. He loved you so much.” Tears fill her eyes as I reach over and cover her hand with mine. “I love you too. I miss you, and I need you in my life.” Alexander told me never to beg, but in this instance, I think he’s wrong. I want Shelly back. “Please give me another chance. I really want to heal the pain we’ve caused each other.”
She’s on her feet and bending over, her arms around me before I have a chance to stand. “I’ve missed you too. I’m so sorry I said such hateful things and pushed you.”
I stand and hug her back. It feels good to be in her soft embrace again. My own tears threaten to match hers, but I have other stuff—Alexander—on my mind so the tears don’t fall. “Thank you.”
When we sit back down, she asks, “How can I help?”
My body feels lighter, as if having my friend and confidante, someone who is willing to carry my burdens with me, can help calm some of my anxiety. “You’re my family, like Alexander and Cruise. I’ve missed you so much.”
Shaking her head, I see the friend I’ve always had return, her regret ever-present on her face by the way her lips turn down at the corners. “Cruise? I didn’t know you were so close?”
I desperately want to tell her that Alexander and Cruise are missing, but I know I’ll break down if I start there. “I think we’ve come to understand each other better.”
“That’s good. So, what can I help with?”
“I need your help with this.” I pull out the certificate and point to the father’s name.
Looking it over, she nods. “Oh my God. That’s the same thing I found. I gave King Chad’s password. There was an email I thought he should see.”
King. She calls him King. Fascinating. “He knows?”
She swallows, hesitant to talk, but seems to convince herself because she says, “The day of our fight I’d been on the phone with him. He was adamant it was a mistake because it happened all the time.”
“I thought so too at first, but now . . . what if it’s not?” Her hazel eyes go wide. “What if Alexander the second is really King’s father? That would make Alexander the third his brother. Why would Alexander the third raise my Alexander as his son? Why would he do that to Madeline? Why would Madeline accept that?”
At the same time, we turn to each other and say, “April.”
“She’s brought this guy around a few times.”
“Who?”
“Her nephew. Apparently, Alexander’s cousin, April’s sister’s son. He’s come around almost every day since—”
“Since when?”
My eyes meet hers, and I see the same person who always stood by my side. Take away the lies they told to protect me, and this is my best friend. “Since right before he disappeared.”
“Who disappeared?”
“Alexander . . . and then Cruise.”
“What?” She gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”
Her arms fly around my neck again. “I’m so sorry.”
“I think they’ve been taken.”
“Have you called the police?”
“I can’t.”
She’s not a dumb girl. Her expression settles into resolve. “Yeah, that’s opening up a can of worms better left closed.”
“This is why I need your help, Shelly.”
“I’m here. What can I do?”
“Can you do what Chad did? I need a background check on Garvey Penner. Let’s start there.”
April’s name has become synonymous with hate to me. I avoid calling her by her name or any name at all because every time I do, Bitch comes out instead. But I realize she plays a bigger role in this mystery we’re trying to unfold. She’s a key player who has gone undetected, until now. And as for her nephew, the jury is still out on him. I don’t trust him, but I’m not positive he’s all bad either, so while Shelly begins research on my laptop, I flip through the rest of the papers, trying to find something else to back the certificate.
April’s security grows each day. She feels she deserves to be here. Are the years of drug abuse talking or is it a misplaced narcissism? She was discarded by the Kingwoods. Is she deluded to think the rejection has been reversed? The woman confuses me, but I hate that her malevolence is present in the air of the manor.
Now I need her.
My stomach acid inches higher up my throat until it burns my tongue. I knock once and step back from April’s bedroom door. When she doesn’t answer, I knock again.
There’s no response. I don’t hear any movement from the other side. I wonder where she went.
Just as I start back for my room the door swings open, and she spits, “What do you want?”
“I didn’t know you were home.”
“Then why would you knock?”
Trying to turn this around into a positive exchange, I smile. “I was hoping you were here. Maybe we can have tea or a cocktail together on the terrace?”
A flicker of an emotion I haven’t seen since the night Alexander III killed himself flashes by—kindness. It flickers back, and I’m left with the hate I’ve grown accustomed to. “I’ll take a glass of wine. White with two ice cubes.”
“I can make that,” I say cheerfully. I lose a part of my soul in the process, but I must make my enemy my friend to get what I need: more information. “I’ll bring it out for us.”
“Fine.”
The wine is easy enough to find in the fridge. I’m not much of a drinker, but if it relaxes her, I’ll have a drink. With two goblets in one hand and the bottle in the other, I make my way to the table on the terrace. She looks as uncomfortable as I feel. We take several sips each before I lean forward and say, “We’ve taken a turn in the wrong direction. I’d like to correct that and tell you we are on the same side.”
“There are sides?” Playing dumb, her smile doesn’t even reach her eyes.
“There don’t have to be. Alexander is missing. He’s your son. Aren’t you worried?”
“Boys will be boys. I may be his mother, but he’s a full-grown man. If h
e needs time alone to find himself, I’ll respect that decision.”
“I don’t think he and Cruise are gallivanting around the country on their motorcycles—”
A bored sigh overtakes my words and the bottom of her glass lands on the table so hard I’m surprised the crystal doesn’t shatter. “Sara Jane, I have been nice, but your overbearing worries are what drove the poor man away. I have no doubt I’ll see my son again. As for you seeing him, that’s your problem, and one you’ll soon discover is not a problem for him, since he left without a word. Shoo, fly. Go away.”
Fly?
Firefly . . .
The image of Madeline’s stationery pops into my head.
“ . . . Since he left you . . .”
“Have you talked to him?”
Her chin darts into the air in strong opposition of my question. “No.”
“So you don’t know where he is?”
“I didn’t say that.”
April’s cloudy blue eyes leer in my direction when I cover my mouth. Grabbing the cut crystal goblet, I gulp down the shock that my suspicions were wrong. I swallow again, taking Cruise’s concerns with the crisp wine. I’m not good at these games people play—the ones that destroy another human without regard. You’d think with what I’ve been through, I’d know how to, but it seems the ante is always upped when I’m not looking.
“I . . . I’m not sure what to say to that.” I seek the gentler side of her I once saw, and the bond that we as women should have. Hell, I search her eyes for the motherly side of her personality, but it’s not empathy I find. It’s a hollow, inexplicable hate that she easily replicates at someone else’s expense.
“There’s not much to say.” Then she reveals that softer side. I hear it in her tone and see it in her tapping fingers. “It’s time for you to stop playing make-believe games. He’s gone. He left you.”
The breeze is slight, and her hair blows away from her face, exposing a long neck with more than wrinkles co-mingling. Pinprick scars litter the side, reminding me of the life she once had and the one that was taken from her. But I know who I’m dealing with. She’s shown her true colors. Somehow, despite years of drug abuse, she’s capable of cruel behavior toward someone who has never harmed her. Maybe that’s her natural instinct. A life of desperation can easily drag someone down a path of hatred.