by T. K. Leigh
“Ellie.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “So nice to see you again.”
“Shut it, Brock.” I pushed past him to stand in what used to be my home. Looking around, I realized it had never been a home. I never felt comfortable here. I was never able to just relax on the couch and watch TV or read a book. And God forbid I ever put my feet on the furniture. Brock would call a cleaning crew to have the entire place sterilized.
“I’m trying to be civilized here. I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”
I reeled around, my nostrils flaring as I glared at him. I had so many comebacks on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to ask him where his civility was when he decided to break into Dante’s apartment and attack me. Where it was when he clamped his teeth on my neck and drew blood. Where it was when he put me in a chokehold and cut off my oxygen. But I didn’t. I kept what happened to myself…for now. I had to believe he’d eventually pay.
I clenched and unclenched my fists, then fixed my face into a congenial smile. He wanted to get a rise out of me. I refused to give him that. “I’m just a bit surprised you’re here, Brock. We agreed on this date and time because it worked with both our schedules. I was under the impression you would be in Washington.”
“A few things came up requiring my attention here. I was just on my way out. You know… Work. That may seem like a foreign concept to you now that I hear you’re unemployed.”
As much as I would have loved to smack that arrogant smirk off his face, I just kept smiling. “Do you have nothing else to occupy your time that you still keep tabs on me?” I continued past him and onto the spotless cream carpeting of the living room.
“Ellie!” he exclaimed.
A mischievous grin crossing my mouth, I slowly turned around. I thought he was about to have a coronary based on the expression he wore — his eyes wide, his jaw hard, every muscle in his body tight.
“Your shoes! You know—”
“Oh, how silly of me.” I covered my mouth with my hand in a show of feigned remorse. “I forgot the rules.” I took my time returning to the entryway, every step on the carpet like another slash of the knife against his skin. I glanced past Brock to see Steven and Mila trying to hold in their laughter. It was a struggle for me, too, but seeing the vein in Brock’s neck bulging with irritation and rage made it all worth it.
I slipped my sneakers off my feet, then turned back to Brock. “Don’t you have to get going?” I lifted my brows, placing my hands on my hips. “You know… Work.”
He glanced nervously between the door and living room, unsure whether he should stay or leave, worried what else I would do to his precious house, what other germs I would bring in.
His lips curling into a snarl, he leaned toward me, his face less than an inch from mine. I flinched. When Steven started forward, I held up my hand, stopping him. I wasn’t scared of Brock. He had controlled me for the past ten years. No more.
“If there’s so much as a fingerprint on the counters when I get home, you’ll regret you ever met me.” He pulled back, glaring at me.
“Oh, Brock. I already do.” I spun around, heading into the living room and toward the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sitting in front of it to start sorting through my books. “Have a nice day at work, sweetie.”
I felt his eyes on me for several more seconds, then the front door slammed. I peeked over my shoulder at Steven and Mila, an infectious grin on my face.
“That…was…awesome,” Mila exclaimed, kicking off her shoes and rushing toward me, dropping to the floor to hug me.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk to him like that before,” Steven commented, carrying the bundles of boxes and packing tape we’d brought with us.
“I haven’t. And it felt damn good. Now I can’t wait until dinner at my parents’ tomorrow night.” I began placing some of my books into the box Steven had just assembled.
“I still don’t know why you’re going over there,” Mila sighed, shaking her head.
I stopped what I was doing. “You just saw why. I need to cut the chains they’ve had shackled around me my entire life. This is how I do it. Not by avoiding them. By facing them head-on. By showing them they can’t control me anymore. Trust me.”
I returned my attention to the box. I couldn’t exactly come out and tell them the real reason I wanted to see my parents. That I needed to find out the truth about my father’s supposed involvement in Lilly’s death.
“It’s going to infuriate my mother when she realizes I’m no longer going to behave like the well-mannered woman she thought she’d raised. That Ellie is gone. This new Eleanor drinks hard liquor. She swears. Hell, maybe she’ll even smoke a cigar or two. And she certainly doesn’t give a damn about what any of them think of her.”
Mila swiftly flung her arms around me again. “God, I’m so glad you got good and fucked by Dante Luciano. He’s replaced that stick up your ass with something better.”
“Mila!” I admonished, giggling to myself.
“A ginormous cock.”
“I can’t believe I married you,” Steven interjected, laughing.
“You’re horrible,” I added.
“But you both love me.”
I met her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Sure do, babe,” Steven answered, leaning down to kiss her temple.
We spent the next several hours combing through everything in the house, tossing my things into various boxes — donate, garbage, keep. The stack of boxes containing items I planned to keep was drastically smaller than the others. Most everything here held a memory I wanted to forget. Honestly, there was nothing in this house I couldn’t live without, but I needed to be here in order to bid farewell to the last ten years. This was an important step, regardless of how much it seemed like a waste of time.
“I think that’s it.” I turned to Mila and Steven, placing the last pair of shoes in one of the boxes. Brushing my hands on my jeans, I looked around the master bedroom, not seeing anything else of mine hanging around.
“We’ll bring these boxes out to the truck,” Mila said. “Do one last check and make sure we got it all. You want to make sure you don’t leave any dildos or butt plugs hanging around. Or, better yet, maybe you should. I bet Brock would burn the house down if he saw them.”
“Get out of here, Mila.” I pushed her into the hallway, her laughter echoing as she followed Steven down the stairs.
I walked toward the reading nook in the corner, which used to be my special little oasis of calm in this house, a place I’d hide to stay away from Brock’s critical eyes. I was going to miss sitting in this chair, reading whatever book had my attention that particular day, looking out at the rose garden in the back yard.
I took a minute, my eyes scanning my surroundings. It was a little bittersweet, but in a good way. There was not one ounce of fear, of worry, of trepidation over the idea that I essentially now had no home, no job, no car. I had absolutely nothing to my name, but I didn’t need material things to be happy. I had something better. I had love. And, as cheesy and cliché as it sounded, that made me richer than I’d ever been.
Drawing in a satisfied breath, I took one last look, then walked out of the bedroom, closing the door, along with this chapter in my life. As I made my way toward the stairs, I hesitated just outside Brock’s office, instantly reminded of his earlier admonition that I not leave so much as a fingerprint on his untarnished counters. A devious grin tugging on my lips, I crossed the threshold and proceeded to his cherrywood desk, not one speck of dust visible on the surface. I sat in his oversized leather chair, spinning around in it. He’d lose his mind if he knew I was in here, which was precisely what I wanted.
Licking my finger, I slid it down the wood, smearing the spotless desk. Then I ran my fingers all over his computer screen, the streaks glaring against the darkness of the monitor. He w
as going to have a complete meltdown when he came home tonight and sat in this very chair to check the latest stocks, as he did every night. I wished I could be here to see his panic, to see his face turn white with disgust over something as simple as a few fingerprints.
Just as I was about to get up and leave, I furrowed my brow, noticing the top left drawer was slightly ajar. Normally, I would have let it go, but this was Brock. He never left doors or drawers open. Ever. Unless I’d interrupted him when I showed up, which caused him to be careless.
I raised my hand to the drawer, my pulse gradually increasing as I pulled it the rest of the way, revealing a mess of papers. The state of disarray only confirmed my assumption that I must have interrupted him. He never would have left these in such a haphazard state.
Picking them up, I flipped through them, trying to make sense of it all. There was what appeared to be background checks on over a dozen people, along with surveillance photos, some of meetings between one person in particular and my father. It made it look like Brock had been spying on him. Why? Did he know something?
I couldn’t make heads or tails of what all these photos and background information could mean. Maybe it was just a coincidence and completely irrelevant to everything I’d learned. But as I neared the end of the pile, I realized this wasn’t just a coincidence. Gasping, I dropped the papers when I came across a photo. I’d never seen the woman, but I’d heard the name…Cynthia Edelman. The woman who’d called Dante to try and steer him in a different direction. The woman who’d been corresponding with my father. The woman who had committed suicide on the night she was supposed to meet with Dante.
My eyes raked over her features. Although she was in her early fifties, she didn’t look a day over forty. Her lips were full, her gold-speckled eyes large. She had dark hair that contrasted her fair skin. And she had a beautiful smile. I didn’t even know this woman, but I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss over her death.
Was this the reason Brock had returned from Washington? Based on all the papers in front of me, he must have figured out something was going on. He had records of Barnes Pharmaceutical employees, including a full background check on Cynthia Edelman. But that wasn’t the only pharmaceutical company he had records on. He had reports on various other drugs released from over a dozen companies, from over-the-counter fever reducers to chemotherapy pills, like Sprylif, the drug Dante believed killed his daughter.
My mind spinning, I took my phone out of my back pocket, snapping photos of everything. When I reached the last few papers, my brow furrowed as I stared at two surveillance photos — one of my father walking into Barnes Pharmaceuticals, the other of him leaving. It didn’t seem like these were too incriminating. There could certainly have been an innocent explanation. So why would Brock have them?
I spied the time and date stamp on the lower right-hand corner of both — 8:02 PM and 8:25 PM on March 14th of this year. After snapping a photo of the image, I flipped to the next paper, scanning the coroner’s report of Cynthia Edelman’s death that ruled it a suicide. I looked at the time of death. 8:20 PM. Then I noticed the date — March 14th.
I continued flipping through the rest of the papers, stopping when I came across the police report of Cynthia’s death. Apparently, her assistant found her in her office the following morning. She had been so shaken up by the scene that she’d taken a leave of absence. According to her employment record in Brock’s possession, she was still on that leave.
With everything I’d learned in Italy and now here, the likelihood that Cynthia Edelman was murdered grew stronger and stronger. It was a bit suspicious that my father had been seen walking into and leaving Barnes Pharmaceuticals on the night Cynthia Edelman, a woman he had sent threatening emails to, took her own life. Something didn’t add up here.
“Ellie?” Mila shouted from downstairs. “Are you coming?”
“Just a minute,” I called back, grabbing my phone and snapping photos of the autopsy report and the remainder of the papers. Then I put the file back into the drawer, closing it all the way, as Brock normally would have. I didn’t know what was going on, but I didn’t want him to think I knew anything. There was no telling what he would do with that information.
Chapter Five
I parked Steven’s car in front of my parents’ house overlooking the country club in Calabasas, then killed the ignition. There were a few other vehicles parked in the driveway. All of them were luxury, a stark contrast to the economical Ford sedan I currently sat in.
Checking my reflection in the rearview mirror, I reapplied my lip gloss, then tossed it back into my purse. I paused for a moment, staring up at the large two-story stucco house with brick façade that seemed to exude comfort and happiness. But I knew the truth. There was nothing but misery and bitterness residing within those four walls.
Squaring my shoulders, I drew in a calming breath, running my hands over my dress. I shouldn’t have been this nervous. This was just like every other Friday night of my life when my mother would host her weekly dinner party, always inviting a different group of people she wanted to impress for whatever reason. Votes. Donations. Or just to fan the flame of her own sense of self-importance. She’d always put on quite the show, and I always went along with it. That all ended tonight.
Brock’s indignant look when I finally stood up to him yesterday flashed before my eyes. I laughed slightly. I’d never felt so powerful. I wanted more of that. I had to believe fate had a damn good reason for making that coin land on heads. She knew I needed to be here to tie up all these loose ends, that I needed to show my parents I was no longer going to live under their thumbs.
I stepped out of the car, making my way up the brick walkway toward the front door. My back straight and head held high, I pulled my key out of my purse. Inserting it into the lock, I turned, furrowing my brow when it didn’t work.
“Are you kidding me?” I muttered to myself after a few more failed attempts. Even Brock hadn’t changed the locks, but my own parents had?
Shoving my keys back into my purse, I rang the doorbell. A chill ran through me when I heard the ominous sound of heels clicking on the marble tile in the entryway. When the door opened, I was faced with my mother’s fake smile.
Her unnatural blonde hair was perfectly coifed, falling to just above her shoulders. Despite being over sixty, her skin had the appearance of a much younger woman, thanks to all the Botox injections she’d received in order to fight the natural aging process. Her five-foot, three-inch frame wore a conservative suit, a string of pearls around her neck, channeling her inner Barbara Bush. I’d met the former First Lady. My mother was no Barbara.
“Oh, Ellie,” she said in a shrill voice. “There you are. I was wondering if you were going to show at all.”
“It’s 8:01, Mother. You told me to be here at eight. I’m not sure being one minute late qualifies for sending out a search party.”
“Well, after your little disappearing act at your own wedding, I don’t know what to expect out of you anymore.”
I bit back the snarky comment begging to spill from my mouth, instead offering her the same exact expression she had on her face — pleasant, cordial, hiding everything.
“Thank you for inviting me.”
I walked into the foyer and past the ornate wooden staircase. Most homes had photos of family members, close friends, and loved ones. Not here…unless you counted all the pictures of my father with one important person or another. Diplomats. A few celebrities. And every President since he’d been elected to the U.S. Senate thirty years ago. Not one photo of me.
“If I’d have known you were going to change the locks, I wouldn’t have bothered to bring my keys with me,” I sneered, getting in one more jab. I had a feeling tonight would be filled with one passive-aggressive comment after another.
“It was simply a precaution, Ellie. For all we knew, you could have been
kidnapped by a gang. It wasn’t until we saw a photo of you with that…that chef or whoever in Rome that we even knew you were alive.” She placed her hand on her heart in a show of feigned compassion. I knew my mother too well to know anything about her was genuine, right down to her lips. “Do you have any idea how concerned we all were?” She dropped the act, her voice becoming critical, as I was used to. “And why did you change your hair?”
“That chef,” I began, gritting out a smile, “prefers brunettes.” I paused. Noticing her disgust at my response, I decided to go in for the kill. “And spanking…but that’s an entirely different conversation.”
Incensed, her eyes bulged out of their sockets. “Well, that certainly is not appropriate dinner conversation…or any conversation.” She grabbed my hand, tugging me toward the formal sitting room where I was certain my parents’ stuck-up friends would be lounging while Maria, our housekeeper, finished preparing dinner. “Please remember your place tonight. We’ll discuss your recent behavior later, but tonight, we need to give off the impression that you’re normal.”
“I am normal, Mother. It’s you and Dad and everyone you surround yourselves with who are anything but normal and genuine. I’m done with it all.”
“Not now, Ellie,” she hissed.
“Of course not. We wouldn’t want someone to think you’re anyone other than the gracious wife of a senator, would we? We wouldn’t want anyone to realize you’re a miserable, self-centered, egotistical shrew who gets off on everyone else’s failings.” I smiled, then abruptly turned from her shocked expression and continued into the sitting room where four older couples sat. The men drank scotch, while the women held glasses of champagne or club soda. It was such a double-standard and I despised it. Just because we were born with ovaries instead of testicles we couldn’t handle the hard stuff?