Lies

by Aleatha Romig

  The faint thumping was still present.

  Whoever the fuck did this will die.

  “She didn’t do what you said, did she?” Patrick asked, pulling me away from my murderous thoughts.

  “Of course the fuck not. She got up. I think she went to the bathroom.”

  Patrick’s head shook. “How long was she out of sight?”

  “Not long. As soon as I noticed the empty stool, she was back.” I recalled seeing her across the room as she returned. “She was so fucking stunning standing in that doorway.” My lips momentarily curled upward. “Damn, she walked back into that room with all the poise and regality of the queen she was born to be. Chin held high in that one-of-a-kind dress. Every eye was on her. I was so fucking proud to say she was mine.”

  Patrick’s reflection met mine again. “How is she, boss?”

  “Still a pulse. I can barely feel her breath.” I laid my hand over her chest, not as I’d done before but to try to sense movement. “Her chest is moving. She’s breathing.” My eyes popped up to look outside, assessing our surroundings. “Damn, we need to hurry.”

  “Do you think we should go to a hospital?”

  “No. Whoever did this...that’s what they expect. I’m not letting someone else get a second chance at her.” I met his eyes again. “She ordered a drink.”

  “Fuck.” This time the sentiment was from Patrick.

  I nodded, my hand mindlessly resting on her chest, monitoring its up-and-down motion as the one from the door moved to her hair, as silky as her dress. “That’s when they did this,” I went on. “It had to be.” I tried to remember the contents of the glass in her hand. “I’m not sure how much she drank. She had it to her lips when I got to her.” My fists clenched and unclenched. “I want the name of the bartender, some young brunette whom I haven’t seen before.”

  “Reid will find out.”

  “Jamison in the elevator said there aren’t cameras anywhere. Club policy.”

  “Has that ever stopped Reid?”

  “Get him on speaker now. I want him working on this.”

  “Sparrow?” Patrick said, bringing my eyes to the rearview mirror. “She’s going to be okay. There’s too much life in that woman to snuff out.”

  “Fucking A.”

  “And,” he went on, “that World War III you mentioned, it’s on. Whoever did this is going to pay.”

  “Reid here...” His voice came from the car’s speakers. “It’s about fucking time I got your call. What the hell is happening? Why’s the good doctor on her way...?”

  Araneae

  The fade into consciousness happened slowly, like the melting of ice. The water was still present. It just changed form.

  I’d read that once in a book.

  The quote came back to me. No longer were the words a part of fiction or an unfathomable tale. I was now her, the heroine in my own unimaginable story.

  Wasn’t that what they said, that truth was stranger than fiction?

  The ice wasn’t melting fast enough, my clouded mind couldn’t process. Every limb—make that every muscle, nerve, cell—in my body had quadrupled in size. The weight was excessive. Even opening my eyes took too much effort.

  Something had happened but I couldn’t remember.

  Maybe I didn’t want the ice to melt or to remember. Maybe I needed more sleep.

  Time passed as dreams played like spliced pieces of film behind my closed eyes, fragments of incomplete scenes that didn’t make sense. Quentin Tarantino would be proud. Nothing was in sequence.

  I was surrounded by tall trees, such as in the wilderness of Colorado but with a different view, more trees than mountains. A chill settled over me as I walked along a lake’s shore, the sun on my cheeks and pebbles beneath my feet. And then I was back in Boulder as Louisa showed me a new Sinful Threads garment. The dress was stunning as I ran the spun silk through my fingers. “I’m a spider, you know?”

  Why did I say that? Why would I say that to her?

  “Kenni—”

  The way she looked at me alerted me that I’d spoken out of turn. I wasn’t supposed to tell her, to tell anyone.

  “I-I...” My stomach twisted with the shame that came with revealing a secret that wasn’t mine to reveal.

  Or was it?

  After all, if I was the spider, shouldn’t I be the one to tell?

  Her expression morphed as my pulse kicked up its pace. The swooshing of blood was background music growing faster and louder as the repetitive beat reverberated through me. Instead of my pulse, it morphed into tribal drums broadcasting a signal, a warning of impending danger.

  I had to get out of there. I couldn’t explain my statement, and Louisa would want it. She was my best friend. I trusted her with my life, and yet I hadn’t. There was someone else, someone I wasn’t supposed to defy, someone who would be upset.

  I ran down the hallway, beyond Winnie’s desk. She called out to me, calling out the name Kennedy. I didn’t answer as I hurried out onto the street.

  The door swung open, but the scene was wrong. I turned back to the entrance of our office building. Sinful Threads was etched into the glass. Our office was there, but I was no longer in Boulder.

  My head bowed, bringing into view a sidewalk where my feet were planted, wearing ridiculously tall shoes. I didn’t own expensive shoes like those. Why was I wearing them? My gaze inched upward. My legs were covered in silk stockings, and farther up, I was wearing the black dress—the one I’d just been holding.

  The plunging neckline wasn’t what I usually wore, but I had...I had...

  A memory of a red dress was there, but before I could reach for it, it flew away with the wings of a sparrow.

  A sparrow?

  Why not simply a bird?

  I couldn’t make sense of my own thoughts.

  I lifted my chin, taking in my new surroundings. The breeze between the tall buildings, its scent a combination of Lake Michigan and exhaust fumes, blew my long hair. Like a sticky web, the tresses encircled me, binding me as I turned a complete circle. Not once, not twice, the world blurred as my speed increased.

  The buildings beyond me came closer, closing in on me as I spun.

  Perspiration prickled my skin, drawing the expensive silk closer to my body as I turned faster and faster.

  No longer was I Kennedy but now a small dancer trapped in a little girl’s musical jewelry box.

  Suddenly, the music stopped. A strong hand grasped my arm as my feet fought to maintain their balance. “Ah!” I gasped as the man came into view. With my free hand I reached up, covering my mouth with the tips of my fingers to stop the scream I wanted to release.

  My hand dropped. I couldn’t shout or even talk. Words were unable to form as his eyes bore into me. With the growing pressure on my arm, I was held captive, unable to back away or go forward.

  Hell, I couldn’t move at all.

  I gasped for breath as the dark stare accelerated my already-too-fast heartbeat. Second by second, I stood still, the expensive shoes cemented to the sidewalk, paralyzed in his sight.

  “Kenni, this isn’t real.” My own voice rang in my ears. Though I’d made the proclamation myself, the name I’d spoken was no longer mine.

  “Araneae...”

  The deep tenor rumbled like thunder.

  And then everything was gone.

  I was gone.

  My feet were no longer on the ground.

  I was flying...no, floating in a cloud of nothingness.

  The fog had returned, surrounding and supporting me as I became aware of the bed below me covered with the softest sheets I’d ever known, as if Sinful Threads had broadened our merchandise line, now creating sheets. The cover over me was warm. It was my arm that was once again bound.

  I blinked to see what I could only feel as annoying beeps came into range.

  My left arm was secured to something, restricting its ability to move, not allowing it to bend.

  The light within the room assaulted my eyes
as I strained to focus.

  My heart rate accelerated as I made sense of what I’d been feeling. In my arm, held in place by some kind of tape, was a needle.

  Fuck!

  A wave of panic washed over me.

  There was a needle in my arm.

  I jumped away, yet my arm followed. “What the hell?” I squeaked more than said as I clawed at the sticky tape, my fingernails digging at my own skin.

  An unfamiliar woman wearing unbecoming green scrubs came rushing toward me. “Ms. McCrie, please don’t do that. You’ll remove the IV or worse, break the needle.”

  “IV?” My gaze moved from my reddened arm to her face. Her clothes indicated she was a nurse or doctor. Not much older than I, she had beautiful skin a warm shade of brown, and her dark eyes were filled with both fatigue and concern as she lifted my arm and inspected for any damage I’d inflicted. Her black hair was pulled back too starkly. I imagined that with a different hairstyle and other clothes, she could be quite pretty. Even now she was attractive. “Why?” I asked.

  “It’s a saline solution to help you, flushing the drugs from your system.”

  That didn’t make sense. I didn’t do drugs. I never had. Well, in Colorado there were legal options, and of course, I had an occasional drink, but never drugs, not the kind that would need to be flushed from my system.

  My raw and dry throat scratched as my eyes filled with tears. I started to speak again, “Who are you? Where am I?”

  Ms. McCrie. The words she’d said came back.

  McCrie. Araneae McCrie.

  Memories were returning as more tears flowed.

  “Araneae.” She said the name the same way Sterling said it.

  Sterling.

  My memories were building blocks, rebuilding what I’d momentarily lost.

  My chest filled with emotion. “Sterling? Where is he?”

  She held a cup before me, bringing a straw to my lips. “He’s here. He had to step away. Drink some water. It’ll help your throat.”

  I nodded before my lips pursed and I sucked. The cool, clear liquid made its way over my tongue and down my throat, like rain to a desert, rehydrating what had been on the verge of demise.

  More memories returned. I remembered the plane ride, two of them, and two on a helicopter. The cabin high in the trees with Paul Bunyan’s lake was coming back...and the return trip to Chicago. I was mad at him. He’d ruined what had been good, and then...I thought we made up, but the rest was gone, like a switch had been flipped.

  What happened on the plane?

  How did I end up with an IV flushing out drugs?

  When I stopped drinking, I asked again, “Who are you?” My eyes roamed the room. I was in a bedroom, not in a hospital or clinic. No medical facility was this luxurious.

  Was I in Sterling’s penthouse?

  The palm of the hand I could move—the one not connected to an IV—ran over the blanket that had been keeping me warm, taking in the exquisite softness and quality. The windows were covered with drapes, their color a light beige contrasting the chocolate-colored walls, as sunlight seeped from the edges. It was daytime. I just didn’t know what time or what day. The bed I was in wasn’t hospital issue either. Its sleigh style was constructed of dark, heavy wood. The light ceiling and darker walls were bordered with white carved molding, the color matching the wood of the baseboards, bookshelves, and doors.

  Somehow, I knew that this was his home. Sterling had once told me that his mother lived in the castle. From what I could see, he had constructed one within his penthouse, significantly statelier than the cabin where we’d been.

  “My name is Renita,” she answered. “Renita Dixon. I’m a doctor, a cardiologist, and I’ve been with you since last night.”

  My eyes opened wide at her introduction. “Cardiologist? Oh God.” My free hand came to my chest. “What happened? Why do I need a cardiologist?”

  Her grin broadened, showing a gleaming white smile. “No, you didn’t need a cardiologist. Your heart is fine.”

  “Then why?”

  “You did need medical care, and let’s just say that Mr. Sparrow called and I answered.”

  That was my confirmation. This was Sterling’s home.

  I tilted my head toward the IV. The clear tube ran from my arm to a bag secured on a silver post. “Do I still need that? I’m awake and it’s...uncomfortable.”

  Dr. Dixon scooted off the bed and bent down. “I’d like a little more liquid output before removing the IV.”

  Oh God. The muscles of my core clenched.

  Do I have a catheter?

  I did.

  I let out a long breath and leaned back to the pillows, closing my eyes. “I know I’m at Ster—Mr. Sparrow’s apartment. Did you say that he’s here?”

  Did I want him to see me like this?

  “He is,” the doctor answered. “Mr. Sparrow has been in here with you for most of the night.”

  My eyes opened. “He has?”

  “Yes, he’s been talking to you, saying your name. I honestly don’t think he slept at all. You’ve had us all worried.”

  “All?” I asked.

  Dr. Dixon nodded. “In the years I’ve known them, I don’t recall seeing Mr. Kelly or Mr. and Mrs. Murray nervous.” She nodded. “Like I said, you had us all concerned.”

  “Kelly? Murray?”

  “Patrick Kelly and Reid Murray, his wife too. Mr. Kelly and Mr. Murray have been with Mr. Sparrow for as long as I can remember.”

  Well, well, wasn’t this informative?

  I decided not to mention anything she was saying to Sterling. As memories continued to flood my mind like a dam had been broken, I recalled something about him not wanting me to talk to people. It was part of the reason I had been upset with him.

  Did that rule include the doctor he’d left alone with me?

  Common sense would say no, but I also remembered enough to recall that Sterling Sparrow couldn’t be equated with common sense.

  “What happened to me?” I asked, sitting forward as my body ached. “Oh, I’m sore, like everywhere. Dr. Dixon, I don’t use drugs. I don’t understand.”

  “The soreness is normal. Your body has been through a trauma.” She smiled in a way that told me she was accustomed to difficult patient discussions. “I believe that Mr. Sparrow wants to be the one to tell you.”

  Sighing, I wanted to ask about patient and doctor privilege or maybe HIPAA rules, but I didn’t. Her response was the one answer that would stop me from asking more.

  In the short time I’d been with Sterling Sparrow, it was abundantly clear that if he chose to be my only source of information, there was little I could do to change that. My tongue darted to my still-dry lips. “Then could you tell him I’m awake? And may I have more water?” My stomach rumbled. “And maybe something to eat?”

  “Yes to all. The food and water will also help with the removal and dilution of the chemicals.” She took a step toward the door. As she pulled it inward, raised voices came into range.

  Her wide eyes darted to me as she pushed the door back into place. “Maybe we should wait a bit?”

  I tried to hear until the door was fully shut. “Was that Sterling and a woman?”

  What woman would be here with him? And why was she yelling at him?

  Surely Patrick and this mystery guy Reid were somewhere close. Wasn’t she breaking his not around others rule?

  “Ms. McCrie...”

  “Araneae, please.” My eyes narrowed. “What do you know?”

  Dr. Dixon shook her head. “Nothing really. The reason Mr. Sparrow was called away was because someone was here to see him.”

  “Dr. Dixon, please tell me who,” I prompted.

  “His mother.”

  Genevieve Sparrow.

  Sterling

  Seated on the ottoman of a plush leather chair in the sitting room that I rarely used, my feet planted, knees spread, the fist of one hand held tightly by the other, and my jaw clenched, I reminded myself again th
is raving lunatic in front of me was my mother and deserved a semblance of respect. That was all she deserved—the appearance of it—and she was losing that license by the second.

  With her skinny arms alternating from waving to slapping her sides, she’d barely shut up since she’d stormed in uninvited to my home. There were few who had that privilege. Hers was about to be revoked.

  It was barely after ten in the morning, and she looked as if she’d spent three hours in a salon chair. She probably had—after her personal trainer, blue-light shower, and a hearty breakfast of fruit and oatmeal.

  Giving her my attention when what I really wanted was to be back upstairs was quickly losing its appeal.

  “Mom, go home.”

  “I-I just don’t understand how you could do this to me.”

  My head shook. “I guarantee that nothing that I have done involving Araneae has in the least way been about you. Other than a sentence or two, you haven’t even crossed my mind.”

  “Sterling, my phone started ringing last night. Last night! The calls continued into the night, each person asking me if the rumors were true—if my son would...” She shook her head. “Well, needless to say, my sleep schedule was completely thrown off.”

  Unfisting my fingers, I ran both hands through my hair as I inhaled deeply. As the sweetness of her overpowering perfume filled my senses, I regretted my choice to breathe. It was the same perfume she always wore, her trademark calling card. The scent preceded her upon her arrival and remained after she was gone.

  The heels of her pumps clipped the floor each time she stepped from the rug to the marble. I was ready to tell her to sit her skinny ass down or at least stay on the fucking rug. Between the tap, tap, tap, her sickeningly sweet aroma, her running mouth, and my lack of sleep, my head was pounding.

  “Look at you,” she said, gesturing my way. “You’re not dressed.”

  I was dressed, in sweatpants and a t-shirt. If Dr. Dixon weren’t with Araneae, I’d be wearing less. All through the night I’d wanted to climb into the bed beside her and hold her until she woke. She appeared so small and frail lying in the middle of that big bed with the damn tubes.