Inferno [Part 4]

by T. K. Leigh

  “Do you really think California would ever have two Republican senators? Doubtful. I still can’t believe your father’s been in office as long as he has. But people like him because he doesn’t necessarily vote the party line. He’s not a true Republican. I think he just ran under that ticket because it was closest to his ideology at the time and we were coming off the Reagan era.”

  I stared off into space, mentally sorting through all the information I knew to be true in an effort to rationalize Mila’s crazy theory.

  “You say Dante’s daughter died six years ago?”

  I nodded.

  “I think this plan has been in motion since Brock won election that first time. I think he’s slowly been dropping little breadcrumbs every so often over the years, all leading up to a huge bombshell that will eventually destroy everything your father’s worked for. And Brock is so OCD, he’ll make sure not one piece of evidence can ever point back to him. What other explanation is there that Brock, Mr. Meticulous, would leave his desk drawer open, displaying a file he’d amassed regarding your father, when he knew you’d be in his house? I don’t think that was a mistake. I think it was intentional, a way to drive a wedge between the two of you.”

  I opened my mouth, considering Mila’s theory. It had occurred to me that Brock may be involved in some way, but I thought it was because of his relationship with my father, like they were simply two co-conspirators helping out the pharmaceutical industry for huge kickbacks. Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe there was a different reason. But what? And that still didn’t answer the question why my father failed to disclose Cynthia Edelman’s true identity. Was it because of the pregnancy? It didn’t make sense. He had nothing to do with that. Why would he protect James’ adulterous past so fiercely? There had to be another reason.

  I continued sorting through all the information in my head, filing it away in different folders, trying to narrow it down to what was important. What I knew as a fact. What was backed up with evidence. The secret. The drug contamination. The suicide. It kept coming back to these three things. They were all somehow connected in a carefully spun web.

  Images of Cynthia Edelman flickered in front of my eyes — some when she was known as Lauren Hall, others after she had changed her identity. What caused her to do that? What was her relationship to my father? I recalled all the photos Blake had shown me from when Lauren was an intern. Dozens of photos of her with James. With my father. They swirled around me. Laughing. Smiling. Hugging. My father. Hugging Lauren. His hand on her lower back. His eyes gazing down at her. I knew that look.

  One minute, I was beside Mila. The next, I was back at that dive bar, eavesdropping in on my father’s conversation with Brian Edelman. I heard his voice. It was so clear, so vivid.

  She kept your secret.

  I quickly shot to my feet, my breath coming in shallow gasps as those words repeated in my head, tormenting me, mocking me, telling me I should have figured it all out months ago.

  “Ellie…” Mila looked at me in concern. “Are you okay?”

  Every muscle in my body seemed to tighten as I ran my hands through my hair, dizzy, lightheaded, nauseated. The secret wasn’t that James got Cynthia Edelman pregnant. The secret was that my father did.

  His secret.

  The burn of a hand on my arm snapped me out of my trance and I shot my wide eyes to Mila. I stared at her, my lips parting as I struggled to find the words to tell her what I’d just figured out. Instead, all I could muster was, “I have to go find Blake. I’ll call you later.”

  I rushed out of the bar, ignoring her pleas to tell her what was going on.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  RAIN WHIPPED MY FACE as I practically ran the few blocks from the bar to the law firm, my brain reeling. How had I not seen it all before? I was so focused on connecting my father to Cynthia Edelman’s death, refusing to believe what he said was true. In the interim, I ignored the one clue that told me everything.

  Your secret.

  Those two words proved my father had to be involved, not Brock, like Mila wanted to think. It all made sense. My father would never win re-election as a conservative if information came to light that he’d fathered a child with a college intern. He used his power and influence to cover it up, threatening anyone who could expose the truth. That must be why he killed Cynthia, regardless of his insistence she was still alive. He was worried about the truth getting out. But how did all this connect to the drugs that took Lilly’s life?

  Maybe they weren’t connected.

  But my father claimed Cynthia was blackmailed because of this secret, forced to bury any complaints and ensure Sprylif made it to the market. My father did receive substantial campaign contributions from various pharmaceutical companies, particularly ones with home offices in California, like Barnes. I tried to recall the manufacturers of the drugs on the list I found in Brock’s office, wondering if they all had offices here. Maybe there was widespread contamination and my father helped them cover it up so he wouldn’t lose those important campaign contributions. But Cynthia was smart and started to put the pieces together, so he needed to do something to silence her. Could that be right? Nothing made sense. Nothing told me one way or another exactly what was going on.

  Feeling like my head was going to explode with all the possible explanations floating through it, I rushed into my office building, rainwater dripping from me as I made my way across the slick tile toward the bank of elevators. I needed to talk to Blake and figure out what the truth was.

  An elevator arrived almost immediately. I stepped inside, pressing the button for the sixth floor. As it began its ascent, I leaned against the wall. Mila’s voice echoed in my ears once more, nagging at me to consider her theory, too.

  Sure, my father had a lot to lose if anyone found out he’d fathered a child outside of his marriage, but maybe that wasn’t the smoking gun here. Maybe it was something else. Maybe someone else had found out about it and decided to use it to his advantage to show the American people my father wasn’t the man they all thought he was. Even if that were the case, why would Brock blackmail Cynthia? What did he hope to gain out of a cancer drug reaching the market? If he wanted the opportunity to run for my father’s Senate seat, why wouldn’t he just come out and tell the world what he knew? The incumbent having an adulterous relationship would certainly improve Brock’s chances, particularly among many of his conservative voters.

  When the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened, I barreled down the hallway, using my keys to let myself into the office. The normal liveliness this place exuded during the day was gone, most of the lights off. I made a beeline down the hall, past my own office, and toward Blake’s. The door was slightly ajar, light filling the space.

  “Blake?” I said, knocking. “Are you in here?” I pushed the door open, stopping when I didn’t see him sitting behind his desk or lounging on the couch. Still, he must have been somewhere in the vicinity. Papers were spread everywhere, chaotic and frenzied. From what I’d learned about Blake in the few months since I’d begun working here, he was typically meticulous and orderly…unless he was onto something big.

  Glancing over my shoulder to see the corridor still deserted, I continued into his office, raking my eyes over all the papers scattered across his desk, his coffee table, the couch. Reports on various drugs. Information on my father’s Congressional voting record, as well as his largest campaign donors. Photos of him as a freshman senator standing with James Harrison and Lauren Hall.

  As I stepped toward the desk, something caught my eye. With an unsteady hand, I reached for copies of medical records. But that wasn’t what had grabbed my attention. It was the fact that it was my medical record. Blake had made a few notes in the margin, highlighting my blood type. I flipped to the next page — my father’s medical history. Again, there were notes in the margin, the blood type highlighted. The following page had my mother’s. Again, the blood type was highlighted. I furrowed my brow, not understanding why this wa
s relevant.

  I was about to put the papers back on the desk to see if Blake had made any headway on figuring out who the mystery man off camera was, or where Cynthia Edelman was hiding, if she really was in hiding, when Blake’s scribbling on the back of the papers in my hand caught my attention.

  Francis - Blood type A.

  Marjorie - Blood type O.

  Eleanor - Blood type AB.

  Marjorie can’t be Eleanor’s biological mother. Scientifically impossible for parents with blood types A and O to have child with AB.

  Lauren / Cynthia - Blood type AB.

  Eleanor - born 30 January. Three days after last doctor visit, according to Lauren’s record.

  I shook my head, the papers trembling in my hand. Maybe it was a mistake. The only evidence was based on blood types. There could have been another explanation. Maybe the doctors were wrong when blood typing me. And Cynthia. And my mother. There had to be some sort of explanation.

  “Elle?” Blake’s voice ripped through my frantic thoughts and I snapped my wide eyes to his, still holding the medical reports in my shaking hands. “Oh god.” He rushed toward me as I remained motionless. He ran his hands down my arms, concern filling his eyes. “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way. I wanted—”

  “I have to go, Blake,” I said in an alarmingly calm voice, the shock of this news making me devoid of any emotion.

  He stepped back, studying me. “Are you okay? You don’t sound like—”

  “Of course.” I placed the papers on the desk, straightening my spine. “Why wouldn’t I be okay? Why should I be surprised to learn my parents have lied to me? It’s not the first time.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” I smiled, then somehow found the wherewithal to put one foot in front of the other in order to make my way down the hallway and out of the law firm. In the recesses of my mind, I heard Blake calling out to me, but I ignored him.

  I had no idea how I even made it to my car, or pulled onto the street, or drove all the way home and walked into my house. I’d retained complete control of my faculties when most people would break down. But not me. I’d been raised to always remain poised. And that was what I did here, regardless of how much of a struggle it was.

  Pretending this information didn’t just change everything, I headed up the stairs and entered the master bedroom. With an alarmingly clear head, I opened the door to the walk-in closet. Boxes lined the shelves, many of my things still not yet unpacked. I began to methodically take down box after box, dumping out the contents.

  When I reached the fifth box, the item I was looking for tumbled out and landed on top of the massive pile I’d built. The instant I picked up the photo album, a memory immediately flooded back. I lowered myself to the floor, feeling as if it were just yesterday that my father stopped by my dorm during move-in day, this album in his hands.

  “What’s this?” I asked, eyeing the worn leather cover.

  “Just something I think it’s time you had. Something to remind you of where you came from.” There was a hint of longing in his eyes as he held the album out to me.

  I hesitantly took it, opening to the first page. I furrowed my brow, wondering why he thought it necessary to give me an album containing photos of my childhood. Why did he choose this moment to act like a father when he hadn’t for years?

  “There may come a time when you’ll have questions,” he continued, as if reading my inner thoughts. “And if I’m not around to answer them, I hope this will let you know that you were loved.” He swallowed hard, his eyes locked with mine. “That you are loved.”

  I ran my hand along the dark leather, the corners worn and dull from years of collecting dust in my closet, its spine never cracked open, apart from that day all those years ago. I propped myself against one of the walls, steeling myself for whatever met me once I turned to the first page.

  Swallowing hard, I flipped open the cover of the album, running my trembling hands over a photo of me being held in what I presumed to be my mother’s arms. There were no faces visible except mine. My eyes were closed, my hands formed in tight little fists as I seemed to cry, begging to be returned to the comfort of my mother’s womb instead of the new, strange world I found myself in. I felt the same way now, too.

  I continued flipping through the images, not seeing a single photo proving Blake’s theory one way or another before coming to a stop at one of them. It was a close-up of me nestled against my mother’s chest, her arms cradling me. She was leaning down, kissing me. Her lips pressed again my forehead, but the rest of her features were hidden…except her cheek.

  Grabbing the photo, I headed back downstairs toward the entryway, pulling my phone out of my purse. I scanned through the images, my breathing growing heavier as I searched for the ones I’d taken of the file I discovered in Brock’s office back in June. Finally finding it, I enlarged it. As I held the dated photo of me to my phone and compared the two images, a chill rushed through me. Cynthia Edelman had a mole on her cheek in the same location as the woman in the photo, the woman snuggling me, the woman loving me.

  With physical proof of Blake’s theory, the composure I’d struggled to maintain disintegrated. The room spun as I fought to breathe, my world crashing down on top of me. My legs gave out and I leaned against the wall, sinking to the floor, my body becoming numb to everything. To thinking. To feeling. To living. My parents weren’t honest people. That was nothing new, but this lie… It was a cancer, invading me, spreading from organ to organ, killing me from the inside with no cure, no magic potion, nothing to ease the pain ripping through me at the knowledge I’d been lied to my entire life. At the knowledge I was still being lied to. Now I felt as if I didn’t know who I was. Had I ever?

  The more I sat there, the more incensed I became over everything. Over my father. Over Brock. Over my mother. How could I not see it all before? How could I just take everyone’s word as gold, not questioning anything when the signs had been glaring at me from the very beginning. Who else knew about this? Did Dante know? Was that why he wanted me to stop looking into my father? Because I’d uncover the truth that he was lying to me, too?

  Feeling like the air was being sucked from my lungs, I grabbed my jacket and purse, dashing out of the house, through the rain that had grown heavier and heavier throughout the evening, and into my car. I raised my phone to my ear as I tore out of the driveway, listening to the line ring. I didn’t care that I was driving and making a call. Getting a ticket was the least of my worries right now.

  My father picked up after the third ring. “Ellie? Is everything okay?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “Mom. She’s not really my mother, is she?”

  The line went silent, then he let out a long breath. His lack of response was all the confirmation I needed.

  “Is she?” I repeated.

  “I wanted to tell you, Ellie,” he finally said. “God, I’ve wanted to tell you since you were a little girl.” His voice cracked with regret and sorrow. A part of me wanted to go to him and comfort him, assure him we’d figure it out together. But he lied to me. For twenty-eight years. Why? Why did my mother pretend she’d given birth to me when she hadn’t?

  “Then why didn’t you?” I demanded, my foot pressing on the accelerator as I drove through the winding roads up the mountain.

  “Come to the JW downtown. I’m slated to give a speech at a donor dinner tonight, but this is important. We need to talk about this, and not over the phone.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Ellie.” He paused briefly. “She picked out your name,” he said softly, a hint of nostalgia in his tone. “Lauren had great admiration for Eleanor Roosevelt. She always hoped you’d grow into a strong, level-headed, tenacious woman like First Lady Roosevelt was…” He trailed off, then added, “She was right.”

  “I don’t know what to think right now.” I wiped at the few tears that had
escaped.

  “I know. Please, come see me. I’m in suite 1631. I’ll hold off on heading down to the dinner until you get here and we can talk. This is more important than some speech to donors. You were always more important than politics. I know I never gave you reason to believe that was the case, but it’s true.”

  “I’ll be there within the hour,” I said in a small voice, unsure of how I’d be able to look him in the eye and see the same man I thought he was.

  “I’ll see you then. And please, drive carefully.”

  “I always do,” I answered before ending the call.

  Gripping the steering wheel, I pressed on the accelerator even more, taking the curves and bends a little faster than was safe, but I needed to get downtown, needed answers to silence the voices in my head spouting theory after theory about what led to this, from it being a mutual decision between all involved parties to my parents forcing Cynthia, or Lauren, to give me up in order to hide the secret. Every single situation seemed feasible.

  Just as I crested the top of the canyon road, my phone rang. I almost sent it to voicemail, assuming it was Mila calling to see if I was okay. Instead, I saw Blake’s name appear on my screen. I hit the answer button, then brought my phone up to my ear.

  “Elle. Thank God,” he said when I answered. “Are you okay?”

  I gave him the only response I could. “I don’t even know. I’m on my way to talk to my father. I need answers and he’s the only one who can give them to me.”

  “Good. You need to know the truth.”

  “Yes.” There was a pause on the line. “Is there another reason you called?”

  “Actually, yes.” I heard the hesitation in his voice, as if unsure whether I could handle any more news. “I found her.”

  I blinked repeatedly. “Cynthia? She’s alive?”