Conspire

by SE Hall

  Reconfirmed, my gut having never failed me yet, I was spot-on in my positive assessment of Reagan. Like me, she doesn’t believe for one second that Devon killed himself either. Add smart and intuitive to her list of admirable qualities.

  Since my initial, exploratory visit to the perimeter of their once-shared apartment, she’d installed a deadbolt. The window appears to have been super-glued shut, which will keep one out as long as it takes to break the glass. I’ll teach her about that one later, but bless her heart for trying. Not that the window’s an entrance option for me—not only is this happening in broad daylight, but I’m almost certain she’d notice the broken glass, and/or missing window, and resulting new draft in the room.

  Seeing my only option, I return to her door and wait until the hallway’s clear and quiet, having also confirmed on the first visit that there are no security cameras in the low-rent building, then crouch and slip my endoscope inspection snake camera under her door. It wasn’t the high-tech model used by NSA—they’d undoubtedly notice it was gone—but the handy-dandy six LED version I’d purchased off the internet for a measly fifty dollars! This model will serve my purposes here just fine—and serve it does, well.

  Reagan is scared…and about to run.

  My survey of the interior reveals piles of moving boxes sealed, labeled, and ready to join her on her departure the hell out of here. Now, maybe I’d assume she simply couldn’t remain in the home where her friend and roommate had hung himself, every walk past his bedroom door a reminder, but the new safeguards she’s taken with the door and window, as well as her increasing ‘guard’ as she walks out in the open, all add up to one frightened girl running from what she knows is the scene of the crime, a murder, because she’s worried they’ll come back. She doesn’t know who or why, and most likely it’s a random, brutal act in her eyes, but if they got in and pulled it off once, what’s to say they won’t do it again?

  It’s as though I can hear her precise thoughts and reasoning in my mind; it’s exactly what I’d be thinking.

  I’ve seen all I need to, so I retract the camera, quickly getting all the equipment back in the case and standing up, now presenting what a passerby would assume to be a salesman with a briefcase, and head back to my apartment. I stroll casually around the whole block and enter through the back entrance.

  Reagan Pennington. Easy enough to push a few buttons in my blue laptop, I have a more in-depth bio in front of me. My eyes quickly scan until I find the spot I need, and I enter a special code known to few, and viola—her cell phone number.

  Enemy of the State, Bourne Identity and however many fucking sequels, or Criminal Minds—not as sci-fi, oh-that-couldn’t-really-happen as you think, people.

  Now, I just have to devise my approach. I could simply knock on her door; she’d immediately recognize me as Graham, the brother in Devon’s many pictures. Before I willingly alert another human being that Graham Harrison is in Philadelphia, snooping though, I have to know she’s absolutely in line with my train of thought…and can be trusted.

  Speaking of which, the closer I get to my answers, the more hackles I chance raising, and whomever needed my brother gone has a team. With even one member half as good as me…

  I shake off the thought and spend the rest of the night, still on my faithful blue computer, erasing as much as I can of Devon’s life to a level of vague, yet not suspicious ‘who was the kid?’ proportions. Basically, you can still see where he went to school, that he had no criminal record, and his credit score, but to find out where his parents and/or brother live, work, or what they look like, you’d have to be better than me.

  As I lay still and memorize the ceiling, sleep my evasive enemy, I practice, recite, and contemplate the call I’ll be placing to Reagan.

  THURSDAY MORNING COMES WAY too early. I shoot daggers at the numbers staring back at me on the clock, then hide my head under my pillow, already wishing the day was over. I’m anxious about facing Hunter at the office, not knowing how he’s going to act after last night, but even more than him, I dread telling my father about our break-up.

  Disappointment. Frustration. Annoyance. Three emotions I hate seeing on his face, especially when I’m the culprit. Daddy’s girl since the day I was born, all I’ve ever wanted was his approval, but I can’t continue on being a hushed, subservient puppet—his, Hunter’s, or anyone else’s. I deserve to be happy.

  With an indignant growl, I toss the pillow and sheet aside and climb out of bed, ready to hoist up my big-girl panties and face the music, but first, I need a run. Nothing else in the world helps me clear my mind and organize my thoughts like five miles of pavement blurring beneath my racing feet while the music blaring from my earbuds urges me on, spiking my adrenaline and inner-woman in control.

  Dressed for a much needed diversion, out the door I go into the dewy, fresh, early morning air. My legs begin to move on their own accord, one foot in front of the other, rapidly falling into a steady rhythm. This is, without a doubt, my favorite time of the day—the sun just beginning to peek her sleepy head out from the blanket of the horizon, her fiery, tousled tendrils strewn across the starless sky. The moon still lingers high overhead, looking on as his wild, fervent mate wakes from her slumber, as if he’s ensuring she’s okay before he kisses their shared sky one last time and disappears. Very few people are awake and moving around outside at this dawning hour, witnessing this changing of the guard, and I pity them for their loss.

  Soon, my skin is swathed in a layer of sweat and my lungs scream for more oxygen as my heart furiously pumps blood to every extremity of my body, but I feel utterly amazing, like I could conquer anything I set my mind to. I wish I could bottle this natural high I always get after a run, and drink it anytime I need a shot of daring courage. Unfortunately, I can’t, and I only pray it lingers around long enough for me to talk to my dad.

  Showered and dressed in less than an hour, I rush to get on the highway, only to find myself at a dead stop in traffic. Of fucking course. Less than five miles into my commute, my cell phone rings through the speakers of my car, abruptly halting the song I was singing along to. A quick glance at the display and seeing Alyssa’s name, I know immediately; Hunter told her.

  “Good morning, Lys,” I answer in a sing-song voice.

  “You broke up with him?! Are you serious?” Her urgent voice bounces skeptically throughout the small confines of my car.

  A small smile graces my lips, even though I know she can’t see it. “Yeah,” is all I offer back.

  “‘Yeah?’ Come on, Jocie, you’ve gotta give me more than that! What the fuck? All he said was I needed to talk some sense into you before you lost the best thing that ever happened in your life,” she chuckles, “to which, of course, I replied that I wasn’t going anywhere, then he hung up on me. So spill, woman. Where are you, by the way? I got to the office early to hear all the details.”

  “I’m stuck in traffic, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be there anytime soon,” I whine. “There’s not much to tell, honestly. I’m tired of everything about him. I’m not sure I even like him that much anymore, much less love him. I want to be happy and make my own decisions, and I told him as much.”

  “Hallelujah! My best friend is back! I can’t wait—” She grows quiet instantly. “Shit, your dad is here,” she whispers. “I’ll tell him you’re stuck in traffic. Bye.” And she’s gone.

  The sound of my heartbeat is deafening as I enter my father’s office. With each step I take toward his desk, my nerves seize in double-time until my entire body is a live wire, one cross look or hurtful word away from detonation.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” he greets me with a warm smile. Standing from his chair, he rounds the corner of his desk to engulf me in a strong embrace. “I’ve missed you. I hope everything here ran smoothly while I was away.”

  “Morning, Daddy,” I reply with a tight squeeze to his neck in return, “I missed you too.”

  “Alyssa told me you were stuck in traffic this m
orning; I warned you that traffic would be an issue before you bought the townhome in Conshohocken. I don’t know why you couldn’t stay close to Mother and me.” He taps the end of my nose with his fingertip like he’s scolding a five-year-old.

  “I know Dad, we’ve been over that. But, I actually wanted to talk to you about,” I begin.

  His face lights up. “Good! You’re thinking about finding a place closer? I was wondering when you’d come to your senses.”

  I swallow hard, the words waiting patiently in my mouth. “No, not that.”

  His face falls. “Oh, okay, then what’s up?” he asks hesitantly.

  “I broke up with Hunter.”

  A muffled grunt is suppressed in his throat as he leans back on his desk, arms crossed over his chest. His face is stoic, neither pleased nor displeased, but I sense the tension building.

  “May I ask why?”

  “He doesn’t respect me, treats me like I’m a replaceable possession, and I’m tired of it. I know our families are close, Dad, and everyone always thought we’d be the perfect couple to run this company together, but I’m not going to live a miserable existence with him…and that’s exactly what it’d be,” I ramble, hoping the ‘he doesn’t respect me’ line will strike his core.

  Silence.

  Ten seconds. Thirty seconds. A minute.

  “Please, say something,” I urge, heart pounding.

  “Maybe a break is what you need to understand how good you have it with Hunter. I will allow it—for now,” he states matter-of-factly, then turns his back on me to return to his chair. “I expect you to figure out how to continue to work alongside him here at the office, young lady. Hunter Pierce is an important part of this company, and he’s not going anywhere.”

  “Are you fucking serious?” The words tumble from my mouth before I can think twice. “You’ll allow it?”

  His neck snaps up, those dark eyes I know all too well capturing mine. “Watch your mouth, Jocelyn Camille Craig. I am still your father and your boss, and you will not speak to me that way. Ever. Now leave before I really get angry.”

  And it started out so well, I even got a hug—I wouldn’t be surprised a bit if it was all an act; he already knew and was playing me to his hand. Angry wetness now vehemently streaming down my cheeks, I retreat to my own office, hoping I can hide out within these four walls all day, not wanting to see or talk to anyone. Stupid Jocelyn, when will you learn, there’s always a motive lurking behind even the smallest, random acts of kindness!

  However, not fifteen minutes later, Hunter bursts through the door with a shitty grin on his face. “Hello, Jocelyn, I hope you’re feeling better this morning. I’ve come to give you the opportunity to apologize for your irrational outburst last night, and we can pretend it never happened.” His arrogant voice grates against my nerves, making me want to scream for him to leave my presence and never speak to me again. But I don’t. For my dad.

  “Good morning, Hunter,” I reply in a controlled tone, “I hate to disappoint you, but I won’t be apologizing for anything I said last night—not now, not ever, nor will I ever define intolerance of being cheated on and regarded as a favor irrational. I’ve already discussed our conversation with my father, and he was rather understanding about it all. His only concern was regarding our ability to work in a professional manner together, which I assured him would not be a problem.” Narrowing my eyes at him, I lower my voice to a stifled growl. “I don’t ever want to pretend last night didn’t happen, ‘cause it most definitely did, and it just may be the smartest decision I’ve ever made. I’ll be civil, unless I found out you gave me something, in which case, I will not only tell my father, I will draw him a map of where to find your body. Now,” I smile, dripping with sarcastic sugar, “if you don’t mind, please see yourself out; I have work to do.”

  I don’t look up as he storms out, slamming my office door like he did at my house last night. The minute he’s gone, I exhale a gigantic sigh of relief and slump into my chair. I hope I know what I’m doing.

  Alyssa demands I go out with her for drinks and dancing Friday night. After a tense few days at the office with Hunter alternating between hot and cold—one minute he’s extra nice to me, acting as if he’s trying to show me what a great guy he can be, and the next, he’s a complete dick—I can’t help but agree to go with her. I need to get out. Desperately.

  She arrives at my place to pick me up a little after nine, and takes one look at my outfit before doubling over in laughter. “What are you wearing? We’re going to a club, not a barbeque, Jocie.”

  I glance down at my jeans and black tank top, confused. “What’s wrong with this?” Then, I take note of her shimmery, silver tank dress and matching heels, and realize we do look like we’re going to two very different places. If it was anyone other than Lys, I’d probably be embarrassed by my lack of knowledge on how to dress to go out. The only times I’ve ever been to a bar have been with Hunter and his friends, and they’re usually casual type places.

  On a mission directly to my closet, she blows by me, still laughing and shaking her head, and promptly begins tossing different articles of clothing on the bed. After several minutes of deliberation, she instructs me to change into black leggings and a crimson, sleeveless chiffon top. Grateful for her assistance, I quickly change, then allow her to mess with my hair, add a bit more makeup to my eyelids, and clasp a chunky, black choker around my neck. When I look in the mirror at my appearance, I smile at myself, surprised how well put together I look.

  Appearances, however, can most definitely be deceiving, because internally, I feel like a chaotic mess, a bird caged from birth set free with no idea how to fly, much less to where.

  IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT AND MY HAND is forced; the start of my new job edging closer, only three days away, and no idea when Reagan plans to officially move, I have to call her sooner than later. Seeing as how I’m sitting in the same shithole apartment as yesterday, beer stale and ass numb from my vigil in this hardback, hard-seated, wooden chair, now seems as good a time as any.

  I trust my brother’s read on people, whom he chose to spend time with as much as I trust my own gut and instincts¸ both telling me to reach out to this girl, employ her help, so with a bottomless inhale, infusing my lungs and mentality with resolve, I dial her from Graham’s phone.

  Graham’s phone, I chuckle to myself as I press call, referring to myself as another person now. At least it reaffirms I’m fully ensconced in the mission. Of course, it could also mean I’ve completely lost my shit.

  She answers on the third ring, apprehension unconcealed in her voice, most likely heightened by the unknown number. “Hello?”

  “Reagan? Hi, this is Graham Harrison.” I wait, giving the words and realization time to set in. She’s been through a lot—we all have—so nerves are naturally on-edge, and reaction times tend to be either overanxious or impassively delayed, no in-between.

  “D-Devon’s brother?” Her small voice cracks painfully.

  “Yes. How—”Don’t ask how she is, dumbass. You know the answer is unequivocally ‘not good’. “Um, I was calling about coming to gather Devon’s things, packing them up.”

  “Right, of course, I guess I should’ve called.” She gulps deafeningly, mimicking the sound in my head. “I just…wasn’t thinking. I don’t have any of his family’s numbers anyway, and I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral. I…I couldn’t.”

  Perfect example of delayed reaction times—I hadn’t even questioned why she didn’t attend; it never crossed my mind, which pisses me off, a glaring contradiction that I’m not as on my A-game as I thought only minutes ago, but also sparks more questions. I want to ask why she couldn’t—scared, busy, too painful?—but decide against it, not willing to risk raising her defenses.

  Instead, I ask when would be a convenient time for me to come collect what’s left of my brother’s worldly possessions, at which, despite her herculean efforts, she begins to openly cry. “The sooner, the better, I’m m-
moving the second my college transfer comes through. I can’t stay here, it’s—” She stops herself; having never met me, never afforded the opportunity to gauge my eyes for herself to judge the fiber of the person she sees looking back, she doesn’t know if she should divulge her fears. I can’t hear her thoughts, but I’d bet my boots I’m pretty damn close.

  I’m going to offer her that chance.

  “Reagan, did you trust Devon?” I ask, no infliction to sway my tone, simply an outright question.

  “With my life.” Her answer is immediate, the adamancy in it leaving no room for doubt.

  “All right, then I need you to listen, to hear me out completely before you freak or hang up. If Devon told you, ‘listen to and trust my brother’, you would, right?”

  “Yes,” she drawls.

  “Okay then,” I take another deep breath, extending as much blind faith in her as I’m asking for in return, “I know you’re running because you’re scared. You know Devon didn’t kill himself, and you think whoever hurt him will come back for you. Am I right?”

  “Maybe,” she speaks softly at first, and then pauses, returning with a quipped “why’s it matter?” Her hackles are obviously rising, probably from a combination of the scarily plain truth and the fact I’m dead-on attuned to her innermost worries, sight unseen.

  “Reagan, I need us to talk in person. I can’t be sure your cell is a secure line, so I won’t say much more over the phone. Will you meet me?”

  “No fucking way!” she screeches. “How do I know you’re not luring me into a trap? How can I be sure you’re even really Devon’s brother?”

  Good girl.

  “Devon had a brown cluster of freckles, a birthmark, under his right bicep.”