Conspire

by SE Hall

  Hours later, my stomach’s growling, I have to pee, and my back and shoulders ache with stiff tension, but I don’t move, watching in fixated fascination as his brilliant hands and mind move before me.

  “Those mother fuckers,” he roars, flopping back against the couch, shielding his face, that I suspect is sodden with tears, in a couch pillow.

  “Bry—Grah—Bryce,” I finally say, scooting closer. “What is it?”

  He wipes his face on the pillow and lowers it. “Come over here.”

  When I’m right beside him, he shows me the internal workings of the device. “Devon got two units of insulin on a schedule and manually when he needed it—meals, dizzy, snacks. If his blood sugar dropped below fifty, he would up it to four units, and if it ever rose above four hundred, he knew to inject ten units and call 9-1-1 immediately. He’s been doing this most of his life, and as you can see here by the readings, he almost never needed four, and hadn’t ever given himself more than six.”

  “What about there?” I point to the ten, then another ten, only minutes later.

  “Look at the date, Jocelyn. That first ten went in about two hours after Hunter took him for drinks; the next ten only eight minutes later. Devon would’ve been in insulin-induced diabetic shock—a coma—unconscious in no more than twenty minutes, tops. The coroner says he died right about here,” he points to the strip, “yet somehow, while in a coma, he not only hung himself, but then turned the units back down to three,” this too he shows me on the reading. “Defying Houdini with that shit he was. Dead man hanging himself and working pumps... amazing,” he barks out a pain-filled, facetious laugh.

  “So, somehow, they incapacitated him, jacked it up to put him in a coma, hung him, then turned the port back down?” I shiver as I say it aloud.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what he, Hunter, did. All so he wouldn’t have to work harder on fixing Cerefore, tweak it, delay release.”

  I can feel moisture on my face, so I assume I’m crying, but everything else is numb, shell-shocked. This type of thing happens in movies, not in real life, my real company. I suck back the tears, wiping my face as I stand, strong. “I’m not ready to think about us, Graham, Bryce,” I toss a hand in the air,” whoever you are. But I believe you, and I’ll help you. I’m taking a cab home, don’t call me or text me, just tell me what to do.”

  “Hunter and your father, both their offices have been tapped. I’ll hear and record everything, whatever you’re comfortable with, you know them better than me,” he says, sadness for his brother no doubt, perhaps some for us, edging his response.

  “Got it,” I jerk my head in a curt nod and turn to leave.

  “Jocelyn, I love you.”

  I walk out without a look back, miss in my step, or reply.

  REAGAN COMES HOME FROM her friend’s house sometime late Sunday; I have no clue what time it is. Alternating between fighting off tears, punching holes in the walls of this rat trap that almost help the décor and convincing myself that murdering Hunter Pierce won’t make things any better—it won’t bring either Devon or Jocelyn back—I finally pass out from mental exhaustion.

  “Bryce? You home?” she calls out, rousing me from my unrestful slumber.

  “I’m in here,” I reply, voice muffled by the pillow over my head.

  Footsteps enter the room and stop, then I hear her sigh. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”

  Uncovering my face, I reluctantly force myself up into a sitting position; I might as well get it out of the way, she needs to know everything too. “It depends on your definition of well. All of my suspicions have been confirmed—between what Jocelyn found out at JCC and her visit to the clinic director and me cracking open Devon’s pump to find it had been jacked with after his time of death, I’m one hundred percent positive Hunter Pierce killed my brother to shut him up about the problems with Cerefore.”

  “Fucking bastard! He messed with his insulin?”

  “Yes,” I shake my head.

  “So, uh,” she stares at the ground, shifting from foot to foot. “He would’ve gone out, right?” Her question is an agonized squeak. “Like, he didn’t feel anything, suf, suffer?”

  “No Reg,” I reach out to take her hands and jostle them, my silent request for her to look at me, which she does. “He slipped into a coma, never woke up; peaceful, I promise.”

  “Ok,” she bobs her head, convincing herself. “Peaceful. That’s good,” and with a huge sniffle, nose wipe and forced resigned stature, she smiles. “So, what did Jocelyn say when you showed her everything?” she asks.

  “She believed me, but of course it was a lot for her to process all at once. The situation she thought was serious enough, her company involved in highly illegal falsification of medical records and corruption. The deadly, as in really killing someone part, well, you can imagine.” I explain, for some reason feeling I need to justify Jocelyn’s shock, anger, and pain to Reagan. “And she’s agreed to help me. She’s going to confront Hunter in his office tomorrow so I can record the conversation and hopefully use it as evidence when I turn over my findings to the police.”

  “Wow,” she sits beside me, resting her head on my shoulder, “that’s pretty admirable of her.”

  I wrap my arm around her, hugging her snugly, knowing she’s still torn up over Devon’s death as well. “Jocelyn’s a good person. Honesty, integrity, and honor are very important to her; she knows it’s the right thing to do.”

  “And you two? Are you guys okay?”

  The painful tug in my gut returns, thinking about her walking away. “Like I said, she holds honesty, integrity, and honor in high regards; I failed her miserably in one of those, and only time will tell if she can understand it was for the other two. I did what I had to do, I can only pray she forgives me. But for right now, she needs some time.”

  She squeezes me even tighter. “I’d do anything to have Devon back, but I’m thankful you’re going to clear his name and bring him the justice he deserves. I hope she sees that before it’s too late.”

  Pressing my lips to the crown of her head, I murmur, “It’ll never be too late.”

  Nervous doesn’t even begin to cover how I’m feeling late Monday afternoon. I called into work sick, obviously not needing the position any longer, but waiting for everything to be over until I—or Bryce—officially resigns.

  As she asked, I haven’t contacted Jocelyn at all, trying to give her some space to figure things out for herself. She texted me around lunch time, letting me know she’d be in to talk to Hunter right before she left for the day and I replied with a brief, “okay, thank you,” and have been on pins and needles ever since.

  For the past hour I’ve listened to Hunter on the phone, mostly with what sounds like friends, not work associates, talking about fucking the strippers from the bachelor party over the weekend. It kills me to think she put up with this asshole for as long as she did; his conceit so profound it doesn’t even know value for the life of others. If she never speaks to me again, I’m thankful I helped her, in any small way, move past that part of her life.

  There’s a light tap at the door and then I hear her voice. “Hey Hunter, you got a minute?” she asks timidly and my ears perk, spine shooting up arrow straight.

  This is it. Sweat beads out on my forehead and swallowing becomes laborious; I know what I’m about to hear will sicken and enrage me.

  “Yeah, come on in,” he replies gruffly. “What do you need, Jocelyn?”

  “I needed to talk to you about the Cerefore trial data.”

  Some ruffling of papers, then a chair squeaks, before he answers. “What about it?”

  “I’ve been going through some of the logs, and a lot of it’s missing or inconsistent, so I was curious if you knew anything about it.”

  “Your job isn’t to go through the reports. Your job is to handle the marketing and public relations sector of this company,” he barks at her, and I shift, hands balling in fists.

  “My job,” her voice elevat
es to match his, “is to make sure what I’m telling the public about our drugs is the truth, because if it isn’t, it will then be my job to clean up the fucking mess that follows.” That’s my girl. “Now, tell me what’s going on. It’s my name on the side of this building and on the top of every goddamn thing that leaves this door; so tell me the truth about all of the fraudulent reports and who ordered the clinics to stop the trials.”

  “You nosy little bitch,” the sound of something slams against the desk, his hands I think, and mine do the same against my thighs. Talking to her like that, two minutes alone with that lil fuckwad, that’s all I’d need. “What shit have you been stirring?”

  “Tell me now, Hunter,” she demands. “Was it you that ordered this... this full-out corruption of the trials and reportings? Why’d you do this?”

  A deep, evil laugh bellows and I hear footsteps. I jump up in my own living room, as if I’m able to do something to protect her from here. Guilt starts to dig at me, this may have been a terrible idea. If he hurts her…

  “Yes Nancy Drew, it was me that ordered this corruption—is that what you called it? This corruption that will make this company, your company, billions of dollars. Are you really so naive to think we never do this?”

  She gasps. “We?”

  Another chortle of mockery from the bastard. “What, you think this was all big, bad Hunter’s idea? You really think Daddy Dearest doesn’t know anything about this? Grow the fuck up, Jocelyn! This company didn’t build itself and nothing happens in it without his approval; he’s the puppet master behind all of it. We do whatever it takes to make JCC successful and prosperous while you prance around in ignorant bliss, the pretty face. And I hope you’re enjoying your little playtime as a single girl, because that shit’s about to end soon too. I’ve worked too fucking long and hard, given your father too much of me, to not get half of this place as your husband when he retires. You will marry me, one way or another, and you will do what I say!” He ends his tirade on a threat and I start lacing up my boots, this has gone far enough.

  “Or what? You’ll kill me? Like you killed Devon Harrison?”

  And there it is. My hands freeze as I wait, not so much as a breath, to hear his response.

  Hunter’s voice dips low and villainous. “Oh there’ll be consequences, if you can’t keep your mouth shut, like he couldn’t. Although, I’d prefer to tie you up naked and gag you, fuck you until I can’t stand to look at you any longer, rather than hang you. Kid looked scrawny, but damn dead weight; cost me twenty k to get a bro who doesn’t run his mouth to help me lift him up,” he laughs. Laughs. “I’m thinking keeping you alive and actually torturing you would be a lot more fun. He didn’t feel a thing. You’ll feel it alright,” he hisses at her and my nails dig in, the warmth of drawn blood oozing in my palms.

  “You’re a sick fucking bastard, an embarrassment to the human race, a waste of skin,” she growls. “And a murderer. Over my dead body will you ever touch me again.”

  Rapid, angry footsteps followed by a door slamming and him calling her name once, then chuckling, I know she’s out of there safely—for now. I’ve got to keep track of her phone and his car on my GPS until I can get everything to the police and him and her father in custody.

  I allow myself a long exhale of consolation. I know with the evidence I have, the case against them is airtight. Justice will be brought to my brother’s name. I am still his keeper—even in death.

  Now, I’ve gotta win my girl back. Somehow. Someway.

  And keep her safe.

  I check my screen, her phone tracker—she’s moving, away from the building, and he’s not. So while my concern’s manageable, and though I know she probably doesn’t want me to, I wouldn’t be a man, or the one worthy of her anyway, if I didn’t call.

  “I’m fine,” she answers, out of breath.

  “Are you? Babe?” I ask on a shaky sigh, no definition for the combination of countless different emotions exhaled with it.

  “Yeah, I’m in my car now, he didn’t follow me. I’m sure he’s in with my father, figuring out how to cover their asses and shut mine up,” she laughs brusquely. “Honestly, they’re probably not that concerned; my father has no reason to believe I’ll buck the system, seeing as how I never have before.”

  “Where are you going, J? Can I come to you?” It’s a grovel, that I’ll proudly own. I’ve never needed the comfort of her touch more than right now.

  “Away, for a while. I need time Br-, Gr-, err,” she yells, exasperated, and slams her hands on what I’d bet is the steering wheel. “What the hell do I call you?”

  “Whatever you want, terrible names, anything... just don’t shut me out.”

  She’s crying, trying to hide it, probably thinks I can’t tell... but I hear it, wrenching my heart from my chest.

  “Jocelyn, don’t cry, my love. Let me come hold you; we can get through this together.”

  “No,” she spats. “But, watch them,” she now whispers. “Don’t let them follow me, or, you know-”

  “I won’t take my eyes off them. Keep your phone on and charged, babe, and I’ll keep you safe.”

  “‘Kay, bye.”

  Silence, then the harsh dial tone in my ear.

  NO WORDS EXIST TO EXPRESS the overwhelming despair I feel, my bones hollow with desolation—people I thought I knew aren’t really those people at all. Bryce is Graham, my father a type of wicked the likes of which I can’t comprehend, and the man chosen for me, who I’ve grown up with my whole life so far beyond just the lecherous worm I finally found him to be…a cold-blooded killer! I’ve never felt more alone in my life.

  The right words may be lost to me…but not the song; “The Greatest” by Cat Power, the ideal sorrowful rhythm and raw rasp of pain in her voice, on repeat for my drive home.

  The minute I get there, I grab a pile of clothes aimlessly and throw them into a suitcase, not really sure what my plan is, or what I’ll be wearing for it, but I know I can’t stay here. Scooping Stripe up in my arms, I tuck her in the travel carrier and head right back out the door, stowing us both in my car.

  The tears have stopped, for now, and though I’d love to call my mom and pour my heart out, I’m not sure I can trust her anymore either. Or, maybe much like myself, she’s a blind, easily duped “pretty face.” I’m. Just. Not. Sure…of anything. So instead, I pick up the phone and call the one person I can trust, the one and only “absolutely positive of” I have left as I pull out of the parking lot.

  “Hey lady,” Alyssa cheerfully answers the phone, “what’s up?”

  “Lys, we need to talk.”

  She laughs softly. “Uh, okay. I kinda figured that’s why you called.”

  “No. I mean really talk,” I reply solemnly.

  “Oh shit. What happened? Hunter again?” she asks, immediately sensing the seriousness in my tone.

  Sucking in strength, I decide to just go big and lay it all out for her; she deserves to hear the truth, and the only way she’ll actually get that, is to hear it from me. I’m not sure what lies our families will be feeding her when the shit hits the fan, but I’ve no doubt they will be lies. “I don’t even know where to start, so if I jump around, bear with me. Okay?”

  “‘Kay. You’ve got me really worried, Jocie.”

  “Alright, here’s the deal. Bryce Griggs is not Bryce Griggs; his real name is Graham Harrison, the older brother of Devon Harrison,” I pause, letting the initial revelation sink in, since it’s only going to get worse from this point forward. “He came to Philly, to JCC, because he didn’t believe his brother committed suicide. The last several weeks, he’s been putting together clues, both ones that Devon left behind and others he’s found at the office, and he’s now proven his theory was correct.”

  “And what theory was that?” She demands.

  “That Devon didn’t commit suicide, and again, He. Was. Correct. Lys, Devon was murdered,” I pause once more as her gasp echoes into the receiver. “And it was becuase of the t
hings he found out about the project he was working for at JCC—the Cerefore project.”

  “Oh my God! Are you serious? How? Why?” she rapid fires off her questions as if all one word, confusion heavy in her screech.

  “Yeah, it’s a lot to take in at once, I know. I’m sorry to dump this on you, especially over the phone, but you’re going to find out all of this sooner or later.” My voice cracks, eyes remaining steady on the road. “It gets worse, Lys.”

  “How can that be possible? Worse?” She blows heavily into the receiver, “Tell me.”

  “You know I’d been doing that research on the Cerefore trials recently, and there were all those inconsistencies and missing files right? Well, I decided to go visit the clinic myself on Saturday. That’s when my suspicions were confirmed—the reports were fraudulent. They were instructed to stop the trials at the clinic, yet I still got feedback. When Bryce came home, I told him about all of it; I was so upset and didn’t know what to do, thought I’d bounce it off him for advice.” I scoff, hearing myself say it aloud, driving home the bitter irony all over again.

  “Needless to say, he had more than advice to give. That’s when he came clean about who he is and everything he’d found too. So today, I confronted Hunter,” wincing as I say his name, “and he told me, no shame at all, that not only were both he and my dad aware of what’s been going on, they were behind it all.”

  “All?” She squeaks timidly. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Alyssa, Hunter killed Devon. He admitted it to me this afternoon.” My heart pounds as I state the truth aloud, still in shocked disbelief myself, to his sister.

  “No! I know he’s an asshole, but he’s not a murderer. There’s no way.” Her cries echo through the phone line, her argument more for her own sake than mine.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I have to tell you; I’m so sorry. Bryce has the recorded confession, and he’s probably already at the police station with it, and all the other evidence. Lys, I love you, and feel as shocked and hurt as you do, but we have to be ready. By tomorrow morning, your brother and my father will probably both be in custody, and the doors of JCC will be locked, most likely forever.”