False Hope (False #2)

by Meli Raine

  Chapter 20

  Dark, mesmerized eyes meet mine when I look at Jane, who is walking towards me with a slowness that isn't driven by fear.

  It's driven by determination.

  She knows.

  She knows.

  “After the rape,” she starts, “when Lindsay was trapped in the mental institution by her parents, someone reached out to me to give me information I could feed her. To help her. And it did. But I never knew who that person was. He had an Irish accent. He was interviewed on the radio while I was being shamed in the media. His was the only voice defending me. Monica Bosworth turned everyone against me as part of her crazy plan. You were my informant, weren't you?”

  Drew and Silas jerk as if electrocuted.

  Squaring my shoulders, I fight instinct. I tell the secret.

  “Yes.”

  I expect anger. I expect recrimination.

  I don't see the slap coming.

  Jane's hand moves faster than I expect, hitting me square on the cheek. Holding my space, I barely flinch. She's in the right. I deserve it.

  A public humiliation is a small price to pay for what she perceives.

  “That,” she says, breathing hard, “is for lying to me all this time.”

  I nod, a jerky movement of acknowledgment on many levels.

  She pulls her arm back again. I don't flinch.

  “I should hit you a second time for using that Irish accent with me. Learned it from your grandma, huh?”

  Silas steps forward and touches her arm, corralling an erratic animal without making it feel restrained. She looks at him.

  “Did you know?”

  “No.”

  She turns to Drew. “Did you?”

  “Not until today.” Unemotional eyes catch mine. “You're good.”

  “Don't know about that. But I do know how to fulfill a mission.”

  “Playing hide-and-seek with me while Lindsay was institutionalized and desperate for information was 'fulfilling a mission'?” Jane shouts.

  “That's how Alice wanted it.”

  “You–what? Alice?”

  “She spearheaded the whole thing.”

  “ALICE? ALICE wanted it that way?”

  Lily steps into my space and touches my elbow. “I don't understand half of this. Could someone explain?”

  Before I can speak, Drew beats me to it. “Six years ago, three men gang raped my wife, Lindsay. Abused me, too,” Drew says, the words clinical. “It was all part of a political network designed to give a kingpin drug trafficker, one of the most powerful senators, and the Bosworths even more power. Monica Bosworth was behind it. She and a senate leader, Nolan Corning, thought they could use Harry Bosworth as a political pawn, each in completely different ways. Their plans backfired.”

  “Obviously,” Lily murmurs. “They're both dead. Can't backfire worse than that.”

  He frowns at the interruption. “Now it turns out Alice Mogrett hired Duff to feed Jane the information that Lindsay wanted while she was being held against her will in a mental institution by her parents.”

  Lily blinks rapidly, then turns to me. Her eyes go to my cheek, which burns from Jane's slap. “You gave Jane information to pass on to Lindsay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because Alice told you to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because she wanted to make sure Jane and Lindsay were safer?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Lily gives Jane a raw look. “Then why did you slap Duff? He was on your side!”

  “WHAT?” Jane screeches.

  “He was! Sounds like you and Lindsay were victims, Alice knew it, and she was trying to protect you both. Duff was her tool.”

  “I wouldn't go that far,” I protest.

  “He was just a pawn!” Lily continues.

  “Hey, now–I wasn't 'just' anything,” I argue.

  “You told me your goal is to be a robot. To carry out the client's mission at all costs. To make snap judgments in the moment and to protect the client. Alice was your client. She told you to give Jane information to pass on to Lindsay, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you were just a messenger boy!” Lily announces with glee.

  Drew and Silas smother twin grins.

  “I am far more than that, Lily,” I growl.

  “Then you're the mastermind? You were one of the bad guys?”

  “Hell, no! I was working for Alice to protect Jane and Lindsay.”

  “Who? Who were you protecting them from?” Drew demands.

  “At one point–you,” I have to tell Drew.

  He recoils, like buckshot hit him. Emotional buckshot, at any rate.

  “Me?”

  “We didn't know your role in the gang rape of Lindsay. In the first round of video, you just sat there. Until the second video was released, we didn't have all the evidence.”

  “I was the subject of an investigation by Alice Mogrett, too?”

  “You all were,” I have to admit. “All of you.”

  “Not me!” Lily pipes up.

  “No, Lily. Not you. Alice was dead before then.”

  “Who else knew about this additional private investigation?” Silas asks sharply.

  I know why he's asking.

  “Monica Bosworth. Probably others.”

  Jane inhales sharply. Her words shake with pain. “Alice's death...”

  Lily's eyes bulge. “You think Monica Bosworth killed Alice? My parents think Monica Bosworth is the one who tried to have me killed. Er, tried to have Jane killed, I mean.”

  “I think she's got her finger in a lot of the worst actions here,” Drew says.

  “Her dead finger,” Jane grinds out, livid.

  Drew should know. He's the one who killed his own mother-in-law. Now he's revered for saving Harry Bosworth. For rescuing the president of the United States from his deranged wife. At least, on the surface, that's the story: decorated war hero saves presidential-candidate father-in-law from homicidal mother-in-law.

  From the inside, the story's way more complicated.

  And I just made it even more so.

  “We'll never know,” Silas interrupts, sighing. “Autopsy results showed that Alice died of natural causes. She was ninety-two. At that age...”

  “At that age, she still had plenty of life in her!” Jane interjects.

  “No one's saying she didn't. Just pointing out the facts,” he says to her in a soothing voice.

  “The facts are that Duff lied. Alice lied. She befriended me when I was a student at Yates under false pretenses. I went into her class so devastated by the assault on Lindsay, from finding her naked and tied up and beaten. Alice was a balm for me. A safe haven. And now I'm learning she was intentionally searching for me? That our friendship wasn't organic? It was part of some investigation plot she had?”

  “I don't think it was like that, Jane. Alice loved you,” I say softly.

  Jane's eyes are filled with pain.

  Good.

  The conversation took a turn I didn't expect. I'm being saved by throwing them all a bone–a damn big one. Telling them about Alice's role in uncovering the plot Monica Bosworth hatched to get her husband into the White House takes the heat off me.

  Off what drove Alice to start this investigation in the first place.

  “But not at first. At first I was her target.”

  “You were a person of interest.”

  “Because I was connected to Monica Bosworth! Damn it!” she shouts, throwing her hands up in the air. “Just when I think I'm done with wondering about people's motives, here we go again. Now I have to re-evaluate my entire relationship with Alice? The woman who gave me all this?” Her hands wave wildly around the room.

  “She would never have made you her heir if she didn't love you,” I say firmly.

  “What about you?” Lily asks me kindly. “Did Alice make financial provisions for you?”

  “Why would you ask that?” Drew questions her, giving me side eye.<
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  She shrugs, but doesn't let go of my arm. “If Alice and Duff's grandma were that close, it makes sense.”

  I stiffen. “I can't answer that.”

  “Can't or won't?” Silas challenges.

  “I did not directly benefit from Alice Mogrett's death,” I declare.

  “What was your grandmother's name?” Jane asks, opening the door to the detail I'm trying to hide. Gran's name is public knowledge. Jane will put it all together the minute I say it.

  So I do.

  “Eileen Mary Elizabeth Sweeney.”

  “Sweeney isn't your last name.”

  “She was my mother's mother.”

  “That's the name of a trust some of Alice's estate went into.” She turns to Silas, confusion in her downturned brow. “It was a huge amount. The trust is for a charitable foundation that helps orphans who are raised by–” She gasps, big eyes meeting mine.

  “What? Say it!” Drew demands.

  “Their grandparents.”

  Lily squeezes my arm. “Oh, Duff.”

  “Don't 'oh, Duff' me. I'm fine.”

  “That's my line,” Lily whispers.

  “You worked for Alice all these years, knowing you weren't going to receive any of her inheritance, knowing she was creating a trust in honor of your grandmother?” Jane asks, agog.

  “Yes.”

  Lily lets go of my arm and moves towards Drew with a hard look. “Then you guys need to stop.”

  “Stop?”

  “Stop blaming Duff. Stop thinking Duff's bad. He's not.”

  Bad. Good. Lily still has an idealistic view of the world. Naïve, even. I'm surprised.

  Still makes me smile.

  Her stomach gurgles in the silent space between her and Drew. Jane scowls. “Let's eat.” She pulls out her phone and starts talking to someone.

  “Now?” Drew's eyebrows shoot up. “We're not having light dinner conversation.”

  “I don't know about you, but I need time to digest all this new information. And we can digest in other ways at the same time,” Silas says, taking Jane's hand. We all move towards the door, making our way over to the guest house.

  “Right,” Drew continues under his breath. “Duff worked for Alice. Alice figured out the attack on Lindsay just shy of it happening. Sent Duff to be Jane's informant to Lindsay.” He shakes his head. “I still don't swallow it whole. What was Alice's purpose in digging into Monica Bosworth, of all people, in the first place?”

  Jane rubs her nose, frowns, and looks at Drew. “Monica's family were the benefactors of the art gallery at Yates. The Mosners. Monica's maiden name.”

  “I know that. But what drives someone to hire a private investigator? A disagreement about how to run an art gallery doesn't provoke that.”

  I stay stoic. I keep my mouth shut. They're not wrong. Alice did start investigating Monica because of funding irregularities.

  But she also did it for a very different reason. One that is personal to me.

  And no one here can know that until I have no choice but to talk.

  “I don't know,” Jane replies, giving Silas an uncertain look.

  “And here we have Duff, looking like a Soviet brick. You know more about all of this than you're letting on.”

  I engage my inner brick and look back with a soft gesture that says, dunno.

  “But he doesn't profit from it.”

  “That's a stark way of putting it,” Lily tells him.

  “It's a stark topic. Can't sugarcoat it.” He looks at her closely. I bristle. Then I realize what he's doing.

  Lily yawns. Jane glares at Drew and says kindly, “Lily? You want to freshen up before dinner? Bathroom's down there and feel free to take a shower.”

  “Are we going anywhere tonight?” Lily asks.

  We all shake our heads.

  “Good,” she says, relieved. “Then a long, hot shower sounds even better.”

  I guide Lily down the hall to the guest bathroom. I've spent enough time here to know the floor plan inside and out. I also know that Alice has extra sweatsuits and guest clothes, so Lily won't have a problem with the basics, though there might not be underwear for her. She turned down the offer to pack a bag when we were in California in favor of getting here faster.

  I close my eyes and will myself to stop thinking about her walking around without underwear.

  “Are you okay?” she asks me as we reach the bathroom.

  “Me?” I can't keep the incredulity out of my voice. “What about you?”

  “I'm sure it'll all hit me tomorrow like a ton of bricks. You, too.”

  “I'm used to getting shot at.”

  “I'm not,” she says firmly, closing the door on me as if I've offended her. The shower water starts. I hear her opening and closing drawers and cabinets.

  “Robes are on the back of the door,” I call out. “Extra clothes in the wardrobe.”

  “Got it.”

  I'm sure she does.

  I press my forehead against the closed door and give myself the luxury of a few ragged breaths to try to regain focus.

  And then I turn towards the deepening conversation in the living room.

  Because I'm on the job, after all.

  And robots don't need to center themselves.

  Chapter 21

  It's good to see Lily smile.

  I can’t call the dinner relaxing, but it’s definitely a relief. Jane’s kitchen staff manages to conjure up a feast on short notice.

  Alice’s studio isn’t remotely formal. None of us wants formal. I’m half expecting to be kicked out of here at any moment. When that doesn’t happen after the first ten minutes, I start to unclench.

  Jane is still giving me little looks of distrust. We can understand why something happens without emotionally liking that it happened. That doesn’t mean the process of accepting it into our bones is an easy one.

  Or a quick one.

  We're seated around a circular table. I have Lily to my left, Drew to my right, and Silas and Jane roughly across from me at ten o’clock and two o’clock. I’m staying quiet on purpose. It’s not just good politics, and it’s not just because I’m low man on the totem pole here. It’s also because I’m vulnerable. Too much personal information about me has been revealed in a short period of time.

  I’ve gone well over a decade without having this much revealed. It’s jarring, leaving me unmoored. The rawness that comes from telling them the truth about my role with Alice destabilizes me. An internal shakiness that you couldn’t feel if you touched my skin vibrates from within.

  I don't like it.

  I’ve always been able to identify with Lily and her wounds to understand her healing process, to grasp the subtle and not-so-subtle psychological developments that help her to reconstruct a self. What I didn’t feel enough, though, was empathy.

  Putting yourself in another person’s shoes isn’t just about imagining the body. We can create little movies inside our minds as mirror neurons give us the ability to imagine ourselves in someone else’s place.

  Going deep emotionally, though, is a skill set you can’t develop. The building blocks have to be inherently in place. It’s like fast-twitch muscles that allow athletes to go from great to Olympic level. You have it or you don’t. And if you don’t, you’ll never develop it.

  If you do, it’s up to you to find a way to optimize it.

  As we sit here eating, I focus on the food. Never underestimate the power of macronutrients in reestablishing stability and empathy, though there’s no perfect ratio of protein to carbs to fats to give yourself an edge in that department.

  I’m sitting here at the table, feeling all these feelings, when Lily taps my hand. She’s freshly showered, her hair hanging in loose, wet waves around her face. Soaked through, the strands of her hair hang longer than they do when dry, giving her an even more wholesome look.

  And covering the scar in the back of her skull.

  She smiles at me. “You’re a million miles away.”
>
  “No, ma’am,” I tell her. “I’m right here, present and on duty.”

  “Must have a nice job if duty involves raclette.” She looks at the hot stone in front of us with melted cheese and an assortment of meats and other foods.

  I have to laugh. “It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.”

  “All of that back there,” she says. “Does any of it have to do with—” she cuts her words off.

  “With you?”

  “With what he—” she reaches up and touches the back of her head, where the scar lives. “What he did to me.”

  “You can say his name. It’s safe,” I urge her.

  “Romeo,” she says softly. “What Romeo did to me.”

  It’s my turn to reach for her hand. This time I take the initiative, threading my fingers through hers, our hands on display. Not on the table, but on her thigh. If anyone looked down, they could see.

  I’m not hiding anymore.

  “Thank you,” I say to her.

  She jolts and looks at me, scowling. “For what?”

  “For trusting me.”

  “Anyone who would go through what you’ve gone through, Duff, is worth trusting.”

  “You didn’t think that earlier today.”

  “No, I did.”

  “You did?”

  “I’ve wanted to trust you since the moment I opened my eyes in that hospital bed.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because you were right there with him. I didn’t know if you were working together.”

  Her openness is killing me. “Finally,” I say, not realizing the words coming out of my mouth.

  She looks away, a sad smile tickling her lips. “I was just thinking the same thing. Finally.”

  I squeeze her hand again. “You’ve been terrified for months.”

  “Yes,” she confesses.

  “What was the biggest concern you had? Aside from having him come back and finish the job?”

  “Mom,” she says. “Dad. Gwennie. Bowie.”

  “But he never directly threatened you,” I clarify.

  “No. He didn’t have to. There was the spider. The note. The way he weaseled his way into Mom and Dad’s life. Giving Gwennie rides.” Her face scrunches up in anger, lips pursing. “I didn’t even know about that until the other day. Sick bastard.”