by Zelda Reed
I’ve always been the opposite. A little quiet, a little cold, watching the scene in front of me with narrowed eyes and a tight mouth.
There were a few times, after my initial comments about my father that my image ended up in the press. I would be waiting at the Midway baggage claim for my father, or running out of the condo to go shopping with Suzanne, always pouting beneath captions of how difficult a child I must be. Poor little rich girl.
I try to stay away from the news but I know it’s the same this time around. Like Anthony told me in the café, I’m not falling apart enough for the press. I should be bathed in black, dotting tears from my eyes as I cling to my father’s memory. Instead I’m parading around with Neal. The worst kind of daughter indeed.
Neal slides his hand to my knee. “You’re doing great,” he says.
“No, I’m not. But thank you for lying.”
Neal squeezes my knee gently and leans forward, our lips meeting in the middle. It’s a light kiss, one shared by couples in public, a quick reminder that I have someone to exist with.
The feeling is almost too much. My first instinct is to run but Neal keeps me grounded.
“You have to relax,” he says. “Take a few deep breaths, picture everyone in their underwear.”
“You were imagining Gilda in her underwear?”
Neal smirks. “Oh yeah. She may be my mother’s age but you can’t deny she’s one beautiful woman.” I laugh and his smirk grows. “See? That’s the most beautiful sight in the world. You’ll have those reporters eating out of your hand if you show them some genuine emotion.”
“The only genuine emotion I feel is fear. Fear that I’m going to screw something up and Lee is going to put a bullet in your head.”
“Trust me.” Neal takes my hand. “Nothing like that is going to happen.”
The front door opens. Martin weaves through the kitchen and down the hall before he makes his way into the living room, Neal’s leather travel bag in hand.
“Gina’s home and safe,” he says. He tosses Neal his bag. “I picked up something for the two of you to wear tomorrow.”
Neal sorts through the bag and pulls out my white blouse and yellow skirt.
“You went to the condo?” I say.
Martin nods. “Chris seems to be making a nice nest for himself with Miss Ashleigh.”
Rage crawls up my throat. “He’s still there?”
“Not anymore. The two of us exchanged some words and while he, nor Miss Ashleigh are happy about it, I’ve told him he must find another place to congregate.”
“Was Louis there?” I say.
“Louis whom?”
“Louis Romero. He was my father’s doctor.”
“Ah. You mean Louis Thoreau.” Beside me, Neal snaps his gaze towards Martin. The older man smiles. “Your childhood best friend?”
Neal glances at me. “You told me he was a doctor.”
“He is,” Martin says.
“Impossible. He was kicked out of medical school for being an unethical piece of shit.”
“America isn’t the only place to get a medical degree,” Martin says. “And it’s much easier to do so when you change your identity.”
A blanket of red covers Neal’s neck. His fingers tighten around the straps of his bag, knuckles whitening until my palm covers his hand. His fingers loosen beneath my touch.
“There is one more thing,” Martin says. “My source says there was another woman with you, who fled the scene at Neal’s house.”
“Alanis,” I say.
“Have you heard from her?” Martin says.
I shake my head. “No. Nothing.”
Neal tangles his fingers with mine. “She tends to disappear,” he says. “The last time I saw her was years ago. We were supposed to meet for lunch and she never showed up.”
Martin nods and makes a humming noise between his teeth. With one hand cupping his chin, he turns towards the hall. “Tomorrow we leave at nine sharp. Are the two of you prepared?”
No, I want to say, not at all.
Neal confidently nods. “Of course we are.”
Martin smiles. “Good.” He looks at me. “Then we have no reason to worry.”
______
You always see it in movies. The night before the climax the protagonist and his love interest – almost always blond, always unattainably gorgeous – fall in bed together, their limbs tangling on the mattress as the woman grabs the man’s hair and he tugs off her clothes. They roll around in low light, rutting against each other like teenagers, missing each other’s mouths and licking strips of skin. A desperate sort of love making. The kind that says, we might not be able to do this again, so here’s to one last night.
It isn’t like that with Neal and me. The night before we lay together, the comforter bunched at our waists as we listen to one another breathe in the dark. My head’s on his chest and his arm is thrown around my shoulder, holding me as I hold onto him.
The room spins with our thoughts, as loud as they are silent, whipping around in time to the beat of our hearts.
Neal’s the first to fall asleep. His breathing slows minutes after he drops a kiss to the top of my head and I soon follow.
I dream of shadowed men dragging Francis to the back of a building; of Neal and Chris hovering over a bleeding Carl; of Ashleigh throwing her head back as Chris’s teeth scrape against her neck; of my father, waking up in the middle of the night, knowing his time has come.
I dream of being fifteen and standing in the middle of my father’s condo, empty except for me. I push the balcony door open and lean against the railing, soaking up the silence of the city. There are no cars, no trains, and no tourists’ three streets over. The city is barren and I am alone.
Almost alone.
Someone calls my name from the sidewalk. He’s a speck but I recognize Neal instantly, only it isn’t the Neal I know. He’s younger, around nineteen, with hair that curls around his ears.
He’s screaming, “Caitlin Wheeler, would you like to run away with me?”
From the balcony I scream, “Yes!”
My words tumble below, echoing through the city. Neal smiles and it blinds me.
He cups his hands over his mouth. “All you have to do is jump.”
I throw a look over my shoulder. The balcony door has disappeared, replaced with an impenetrable wall of brick. My hands tremble around the metal bannister. I can’t jump. I’m too afraid.
“Caitlin! I promise to catch you. You just have to trust me.”
Below Neal stands with his arms outstretched, ready to receive my falling body.
“I do trust you,” I say, but I don’t have enough nerve.
My fear keeps me grounded on the balcony, knees trembling as the summer sun beats down on my head.
“You can do it!” Neal says. “If you want it enough.”
My stomach swells into my throat. There’s nothing I want more, than to be with Neal, to run away with him.
I suck in a breath, fingers flexing around the railing before I thrust myself over it. I’m falling backwards, the air around me whooshing against my ears and my skin, pushing me further and further down.
I hear his voice, a few feet below. “I got you, I got you,” he says.
I close my eyes and wait for the impact.
Eight
No one knows what to call it.
In the foyer Gilda fixes a pearl necklace around her neck and says we’re attending a press conference. Behind the wheel of his car, Martin says it’s a televised announcement. Minutes away from the site Lee picked, Neal calls it an extortion of power.
Whatever it is, it’s being held on the South Side, on top of the barren property that once belonged to Neal. Surrounded by flimsy chicken wire fencing, the gate’s open allowing news vans and cars access to a dirt road, leading to a stage rented for the occasion. There’s nothing but abandoned homes for miles; empty brown and red bricked townhomes with busted windows, boarded up doors, rundown steps and for sale
signs tipping over in half-dead yards.
I don’t see the potential in a wasteland like this, but I don’t have an inch of my father’s business savvy.
“I thought we would be early,” Martin says, moving his car through the crowd.
Journalists and news crews, armed with their cameras, double-take at our vehicle. Some of them are too busy setting up to care, but others snap photos of Neal and me in the backseat, sitting close together in the middle.
One of Lee’s men directs Martin’s car behind the stage, a tall black platform with an equally black background. The car’s hidden from the crowd and the sun. He tugs open Gilda’s door. She steps out, passing him a tight smile and pulling off her sunglasses. The three of us follow, surrounded by Lee’s men and another group I don’t recognize.
“These men are working for us,” he says, motioning towards the men in navy blue suits. They say nothing to Neal and me, but nod as Gilda and Martin pass.
The tall, slim man from the Chinese restaurant, the one who tried to kick me and Alanis out, meets us. His familiar blank smile is painted on his face. “Ah, Mr. Dietrich, it’s nice to see you’re alive and well.”
Neal stuffs his hands in the pockets of his grey suit. “Cut the shit, Dae. We both know you wanted to put a knife to my throat.”
Dae laughs. “Wanted?”
Martin throws his arm around Gilda’s waist. The two of them look regal. Gilda, in her white cotton dress and matching shawl, a slim gold belt around her waist; Martin, in his brown tweed suit and tortoiseshell glasses. They’re very old Hollywood, a writer and his beautiful, actress of a wife.
“Where’s Lee?” Martin says.
“He’s around,” Dae says. “We’re waiting for a few more news crews to show up before we get started.”
Martin glances at his watch. “The start time is in twenty minutes.”
Dae smiles. “Lee was ready an hour ago.”
______
Neal and I stand near Martin’s car, waiting for Lee to make his appearance. A film of sweat builds on the back of my neck, dripping into my dress. Each droplet sets off a cloud of nerves in my fingers, the tingle forcing me to wring my hands.
Neal pulls my left hand closer to him. He entwines our fingers, kisses the back of my hand. “Remember what I said about breathing?”
The stage is blocking the sun but I can feel its heat, suffocating me.
I suck in a deep breath. “I’m trying.”
Neal’s smile grows. He moves in front of me, our feet centimeters apart. “You look beautiful,” he says.
I don’t look as good as him, in his grey fitted suit, a black tie stuffed beneath his jacket, the collar of his crisp white shirt without an inch of sweat. He shaped up his stubble in the bathroom this morning, dark hair pushed back with a dollop of gel. He looks straight out of GQ and I’m the average-looking girl who managed to snag him.
Neal presses his forehead against mine. I can’t contain my smile. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, his breath ghosting across my lips.
I open my mouth to speak when, on the other side of the stage, a great noise erupts, the sound of cameras flashing and feet rushing towards the stage, the crews and journalists hurrying to capture the new arrival.
Martin rushes over to us. “Lee just went on.”
Lee taps his microphone. “Can everyone hear me?” he says, voice booming amongst the open space.
“Are the two of you ready?” Martin says. He tries to hide it, the way his voice quivers towards the end.
A drop of nervous sweat forms on his forehead. I wipe it away.
“We’re ready.” I plaster on the bright smile I’ve been practicing all morning. Something genuine and without a hint of grimace.
A sigh of relief moves through Martin and Neal raises an eyebrow. He’s impressed.
Martin leads the two of us towards the edge of the stage, hidden by a thick black curtain. “Gilda tells me you know your cues?” The pair of us nod. “Fantastic.” He pats Neal’s shoulder and wraps his hand around my arm. “Don’t let them eat you alive.”
______
What happens next is a blur, an ocean of images made hazy by the warm afternoon sun.
I remember stepping onto the stage and hearing the crowd burst into applause. Not for me but for Neal, who mere hours ago was a ghost. The two of us shake hands with Lee, his smile wide and camera-ready, all straight white teeth and enlarged cheeks.
Lee does most of the talking, then Neal, who wows the crowd with his charisma and charm. The reporters were told to wait until the end for questions, but they shout them towards the stage and Neal answers them all.
When he passes me the microphone, my palms are slick with sweat but I take a deep breath. He kisses me and the crowd lights up with camera flashes, every news outlet capturing the light pink blush crawling up my cheeks.
My first words are an apology to Lee, from me and my father. He’s touched, dramatically flattening his hand against his chest, nodding graciously as if I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I tell the crowd to end years of an infamous rivalry, I’m offering Lee a small slice of what my father’s built. Gasps ripple through the audience and Neal plasters on a brighter smile, crossing the stage to shake Lee’s hand again. A motion of good faith.
More questions erupt soon after. Most of them crawl from Anthony Serafin’s throat. He’s standing near the front, black eye fading, a tape recorder in his left hand: “Are you positive you didn’t know Mr. Dietrich was in hiding?”; “Are you sure this whole thing isn’t one big stunt?”; “There was a break in at Mr. Dietrich’s home a few nights ago, did you have anything to do with that?”
I stand tall and answer the questions with ease.
It happens quickly.
The three of us are shuffled towards the middle of the stage for one last photo op. I’m pushed to the middle, Lee and Neal’s arms around my waist, my arms around theirs, equally fake smiles tugging at our mouths.
I don’t see it happen but I feel Lee go stiff, his body slumping backwards before he falls to his knees. I remember the crowd, the way their faces twist in horror, mouths dropping open until one newscaster screams.
Neal pulls me into him. He buries my head in his chest as he rushes towards the side of the stage.
“What’s happening?” I ask, looking over his shoulder. Vomit curls in my stomach as I spot Lee, laid out on the stage, bleeding from the hole in his neck.
Off-stage there’s chaos. More shots ring in the air. Most of the news crews scatter, rushing towards their vans for shelter, but a few swing their cameras around, looking for the source of the shots.
Neal shields me, his back towards the bullets, as he leads me towards Gilda.
She wraps her arms around the pair of us. “Are you hurt?” she says.
Gilda steps back. I’m face-to-face with a smatter of blood on her chest. “Gilda,” I say. “I think…”
Her eyes widen as she looks at me. “You’ve got blood all over your face,” she says, wiping it away with her thumbs.
“It’s Lee’s,” Neal says.
Martin scrambles to the right of us, directing his security team. “Find out where those goddamn bullets are coming from!” With his red face and balled fists, I’ve never seen him so furious.
There are a few police officers in the crowd. On stage, I pointed out Officers Hagrity and Manson, standing a few rows in front of Officer McManus. The three of them, along with the rest of the cops, usher people behind news vans and towards the back of the stage, keeping them out of the line of fire.
“You fucking asshole!” someone in the crowd shouts.
My eyes land on Ashleigh, pushing through the crowd with tears streaming down her face. She’s heading for Neal, eyes red as she points to him and says, “You had to add another body to your list. I’m not going to let you get away with this one. Murderer!”
Gilda places her hand on my shoulder. “What’s she talking about?”
Chris rushe
s behind her, standing at a distance as Ashleigh stalks forward. “You killed my boyfriend! You murdered Julian and now you’ve killed Lee too!”
I wrap my arm around Neal’s but he pulls away. “Why do you even care?” he says. “You hated Lee.”
Ashleigh whips her head around and makes eye contact with the first officer she can find. Officer McManus. “Did you hear that?” she says. “He just admitted to killing Julian Wheeler.”
Officer McManus perks up in interest.
“No, I didn’t,” Neal says. “I didn’t kill anyone…How could I have shot Lee if I was on stage with him?”
“You could’ve hired someone,” Chris says. “It’s really not that hard.”
I want to run to Neal but it’s too late. Within seconds he’s lunging towards Chris, his hands around his throat as he tackles him to the ground. Over Ashleigh’s scream, I can hear Neal’s fist slamming against Chris’s jaw.
Officer McManus and her partner rush over.
I move to pull Neal off but Gilda wraps her hand around my arm. “Let him get it out,” she says. “Chris deserves this.”
Officer McManus breaks up the fight. She grabs Neal’s arms and pulls him off Chris, his clenched fists hovering over his broken nose. He looks the way I imagine Carl looked in the women’s bathroom, blood gushing out of his nostrils, painting his lips and teeth red.
“You’re a monster,” Ashleigh yells, kneeling next to him.
Chris rests his head against the ground, blinking up at the sky as if he’s unable to move.
“Fuck you,” Neal spits down at him.
With one hand on Chris’s chest, Ashleigh makes eye contact with Officer McManus. “Arrest him.”
“You pressing charges?” she says.
“Yes,” Ashleigh says.
“I need to hear it from him,” McManus says, one hand wrapped around Neal’s arm, the other pointing to Chris.
A weak, “No,” floats from Chris’s throat.
Ashleigh’s gob smacked. “If he’s not pressing charges, then I am.”