by Ellery Kane
Her lungs felt flattened, like deflated balloons. Sliced tires. She barely could squeeze out an oh?
“I think I might find my way through the forest.”
After he’d left, Ava wasted no time. She knew exactly what to do. Later, she’d tell Ian but not until she’d done it. It would mean more to him that way—if she took the initiative. Maybe it could even bring them together again. Not unlike a baby, a devil’s spawn.
She flipped through her phone to the number Ian had given her months ago, when they’d come up with their bailout plan. Because surely, Wallace would catch on one day. And they had to be ready.
Her mouth dry as a bone, she dialed Ian’s patient, Liza Munroe. The forty-something—who could tell in LA anyway?—columnist for the LA Times to whom he’d prescribed sixty milligrams of Prozac daily for the past year.
“LA Times. This is Liza.”
Ava didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. Later, she’d replay it in her mind and wonder what that meant. What it said about her. Who she really was. And who was to blame for what came next.
“I have a story for you,” she said. “A big story.”
****
12:15 p.m., Beverly Hills
“Happy anti-versary, baby.” Ian made their silly joke seductive, the way he put his lips right up against her ear. Pressed his body to hers, his skin warm with desire. “I want you. Now.”
And it thrilled Ava, his need. Never mind that they were at lunch at Spago in Beverly Hills. Or that Ava had a patient—the patient—in forty-five minutes. His need for her, the urgency of it, was a hard-won victory.
Ian pulled her into the men’s lavatory. Locked the door behind them. And slammed his mouth onto hers until she felt dizzy. Like he couldn’t get enough. And when somebody wants you like that, it drops you to your knees in the Spago bathroom, hikes up your skirt, bites your neck. Want like that, it hurts.
Ten minutes later, they emerged together, breathless, and faced a line of scowling men, unashamed. When Ava spotted her lipstick mark on Ian’s collar, she felt proud. Smug, even. It seemed irrefutable proof of something important, something essential. Though she couldn’t say what exactly. Only that her heart skipped like a side-armed pebble, light across the water, when she saw it.
“No matter what he says or how hangdog he looks, don’t you dare feel sorry for him.” Ian’s last words to her before he put her in a taxi and made a left at the corner, to the office where he saw patients in Beverly Hills Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.
“I won’t,” she said. But only so he would kiss her again like that. Like his life depended on it.
The taxi ride took twenty minutes, during most of which the driver blathered into his cell phone, but Ava barely noticed. His chatter dissolved like elevator music as she rested her head against the half-opened window and thought only of Ian.
When she burst through her office door at 12:55 p.m., she expected to see a distraught Wallace sitting in the waiting room under the abstract print Ian had bought for her, his pink fedora clashing with the primary colors above him. He’d already rescheduled once this week. His assistant had called on Tuesday morning—“Mr. Bergman isn’t feeling well.” No kidding, she’d thought.
But the worst of the story had hit the news yesterday, and she’d imagined he’d be crushed. Desperate to talk to somebody who’d understand. Even if that somebody had put him here, cracked him herself as carelessly as a dropped vase.
The phone rang at her desk. “Hello?”
“Doctor Lawson, it’s Wallace.” He sounded worse than she’d predicted. His voice faraway and hollow. Like he’d fallen to the bottom of a well. “I can’t come in today. The place is surrounded by paparazzi. I’m afraid to leave the house.”
“We could speak on the phone,” she suggested, suddenly needing to know what she’d set in motion. A pang of guilt gripped her, but she remembered Ian’s admonition. Easy for him to say.
“Yes. Please. That would be wonderful.”
“Where would you like to begin?” she asked, cruelly.
And he laughed. A laugh unlike any she’d ever heard. Sharp-edged as an axe, bitter as a lemon. “Well, have you seen the papers? Television? Internet?”
“Yes.” And she had seen it all. Entertainment Tonight. TMZ. She’d even paged through the LA Times on Sunday morning, naked in bed with Ian. Eating the pancakes he’d cooked for her and giggling over the headlines that weren’t funny at all.
“Jonah Vaughn, Teen Star of BXA’s Top-Rated Sitcom, Admits Programming Exec Asked for Sexual Favors”
“BXA Exec Fired amid Sex Scandal”
“Up-and-Coming Star Alleges Misconduct against Bawdy Bergman”
And then Wallace’s phone call. “I’m a joke, a cliché. I’m Bawdy Bergman. My whole life is over.”
Sucker punched, she caught her breath, wishing she could hang up. But she knew exactly what he meant. She’d tried to save her father from a similar fate—the crooked cop cliché—by tossing his note into the ocean. But this was different. This, she’d summoned upon Wallace like the wrath of a vengeful god.
She gripped the receiver tight to steady her hand, listening to the sound of Ian’s voice in her head. You didn’t lie. You did nothing wrong. Ian believed that. Why couldn’t she? Everyone’s got to live with the consequences of their behavior.
“Doctor Lawson? Are you still there?”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking this must be overwhelming for you. But you are far more than your job, Wallace. You must know that.”
Another scornful laugh. “In this town, all a man has is his reputation. No network will touch me now. Hell, I wouldn’t touch me. I’m a PR nightmare. They’re making it sound like he was a goddamned kid. He was eighteen. Perfectly legal. And Richard was dying. Besides, Jonah was totally into it. He came on to me.”
She flipped through her notes, the ones she’d read and reread again with Ian. The ones that had sat on her lap, silent partners, when she’d made that call to Liza. She felt certain he’d never said that.
“When we discussed Jonah in our sessions, you said he made you feel as if you were alive again. That you used him to cope with losing Richard. Powerful emotions like grief and loss can be confusing for anybody. Might you have misunderstood his intentions?”
“I didn’t misunderstand his hand on my dick.”
Ava recoiled from the vulgarity of his words. The viciousness. Even though she deserved it, no matter the truth.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be so crass. But I didn’t tell you everything about Jonah. He confided in me. It’s not easy being a gay teen. Not to mention a gay teen heartthrob on a show like his. I mean, it doesn’t get more heterosexual than Ocean Nights. So I invited him to a few gay clubs in LA and things happened.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the whole story?” But the real question that burned in her throat: Would it have mattered?
“I didn’t want to out him to anybody. Even to you. And of course, he won’t admit it now. Ocean Nights’ ratings have never been higher since the network started the rumor about him and Heidi Hudson, that bimbo costar of his. And this whole scandal will probably be a ratings boon. No good deed goes unpunished, they say.”
“Do you know how the media got wind of it?”
She heard him sigh. Like the last bit of life left his body. “Who else but Jonah?”
“Right. Who else?” And she hated herself completely. Because he didn’t even suspect. “But why?”
“Since Richard died, he’d been avoiding me, giving me the brush-off. Maybe he thought I was about to spill the beans. He wanted control of the story. He wanted the spin. In Hollywood, it’s all about how you spin it.”
“How will you spin it then?” she asked, trying to be a good therapist. Though it was too late for that. Much too late. “What can you do to turn this around?”
“That’s what I’m paying you for. You and Doctor Culpepper. I’ve been trying to reach him all week. I need something stronger than Prozac. I can’t even get out of bed. But his secretary said he couldn’t get me in till Monday. And don’t think I don’t see the irony in it. Me needing help from the guy I left behind in Aokigahara. Now it’s just me in the forest, Doc. Deep in.”
Secretary, schmecretary. She knew it was all Ian, withholding. Punishing. But she heard the threat between Wallace’s words. Conjured her father on that last day, his mouth contorted in anger. In disapproval. At her. When really, it was himself he hated. What would he think of her now? “Let me call him. I’ll see what I can do.”
****
8:45 p.m. Beverly Hills
Ava sat in the downstairs garage of Ian’s Beverly Hills office as he’d asked her to. Even though it felt like a waiting tomb—cold and gray and empty. Their used BMW and Wallace Bergman’s Jaguar the only two cars left. Unnerved, Ava had locked the doors. As if any threat could be greater than her shadow self. Her own black heart.
She held her phone in her hand like a weapon, scrolling through the latest breaking news on Bergmangate and seething.
“Two More BXA Stars Allege Groping by Bergman”
“Vaughn Says BXA Knew Bergman Had Infamous Casting Couch”
Wallace had lied. Right to her face. Of course, other patients had deceived her. There’d been alcoholic Joe who claimed he hadn’t touched a drop in a year. And clueless Pamela who insisted she had no idea why her check had bounced. Everybody lies to their therapist at least once. Hadn’t Prick Whitlock told her that? But this. This rose to the next level. Because she wasn’t in training anymore. Because she should have known. And worst of all, because she’d actually felt sorry for him.
Ian had agreed to see Wallace at eight o’clock, well after his last scheduled patient. “Tell him I have to see him in person to write the scrip. He can park in the secured garage downstairs. There’s a private entrance.” And when he whispered the words into the receiver—let’s play chase—she’d known why.
They’d done it twice before but only once with a patient. A middle-aged banker who’d put his hand on Ava’s knee during their first session and called her a bitch when she’d asked him to leave. They’d followed him from work, waited for him outside Patina, and tailgated him down the 101, forcing him to the shoulder. Speeding past, Ian laughing, she’d gritted her teeth, held her breath. Then they’d had frantic sex in a mall parking lot like reckless teenagers. The whole episode had scared her. Mostly because she’d done it.
And with that came the question—what else might she do?
Ava gasped when she saw Wallace emerge from the stairwell, red-faced and running. Fast for an old man, she thought. His eyes darted wildly, and she ducked down, afraid he might see her.
When she peered up over the steering wheel, he cried out, and she thought for certain she’d been spotted. But she followed his gaze and found Ian, jogging a few steps behind. A scream caught in her throat, stuck there.
Ian looked like an animal, frothy blood dripping from his mouth. He flung open the car door, breathing hard, and wiped his lip with the back of his hand. “That SOB hit me!”
Wallace had already fired up the Jag. He backed out, tires squealing.
And Ian did as they had planned. But was this the plan? He gave chase.
“What happened?” Ava asked, her tinny voice inconsequential against the drums of Ian’s rage. She could see his pulse bounding in the spot beneath his chin. It looked like a tiny fist beating its way out of him.
“Fuck.” He spit blood onto the steering wheel as he drove up Wilshire, tracking Wallace’s bumper in the stop-and-go traffic. “I told him I knew what he did. With Love Doctored.”
“You what?”
“I needed to hear the bastard say it, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. He’ll know it was me who told you.”
Ian said nothing. The car lurched forward, then screeched to a stop. Lurched, screeched, lurched. And screeched again. He pounded the dashboard. “This goddamned traffic.”
“What did he say?” she asked, finally. Carefully. The way one might handle a grenade. “Ian?”
“Can’t you just let me drive?” One car ahead of them, Wallace inched forward. Ava watched his frightened eyes check the rearview.
“But—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Ian let out an exasperated breath, turned to her, softer. But she flinched when he touched her hand. “I’m sorry, Aves. This guy is an asshole. He’s a sexual predator. And he stole from us. From you. Your brilliant idea. I won’t let him get away with that. Are you with me? I need you to be with me on this. Be my avenging angel.”
She felt her head nodding along, but she’d gone somewhere else. To their second Valentine’s Day together, the parking lot. Prick Whitlock’s Prius. When it all went wrong. Because she’d held back and let Ian do the dirty work. And he needed to know she was on his side. What did it matter anyway what Wallace knew? Surely he’d seen her by now, white-knuckling it in the passenger seat.
“Go. I’m with you,” she heard herself say. And like that, the road opened up before them. First, the 405, a desolate stretch of ribbon all the way to the horizon. Then, Mulholland Drive, curving like a snake in black water.
Ian gunned it, with only Wallace’s taillights to guide them straight to hell.
****
9:31 p.m. Mulholland Drive
Ava couldn’t stop seeing it. The way the Jag had taken flight, disappeared over the edge of the cliff. Gone. Like it had driven straight through the portal to another world.
And the fire transfixed her. She closed her eyes, opened them again, hoping it would all disappear.
“We can’t just leave him, Ian. I can’t.”
Ian released Ava’s arm, and she toddled down the embankment toward the Jaguar, her feet slipping on the loose dirt and gravel. As she got closer, the heat from the fire warmed her face, and she began to sweat. Or were those tears?
The car lay on its back—upturned like a dying beetle—smoke pouring from the cracked windows. The driver’s side door was slightly ajar. Wallace’s arm stuck out of it, ghastly white against the backdrop of flames and embers.
“Wallace!” The whipping wind carried her voice away, so she yelled again. His fingers moved, reached for her. He moaned. Yes, she could fix this.
Like all horrible things, it happened at once. And she’d never be able to remember what came first. Her hand on Wallace’s. Ian yanking her back from the car so she collapsed against him on the cliffside. Or the ball of flame that exploded before them, lighting up the sky. From a distant planet, it would look like a shooting star. One that burned so bright you’d run out of wishes.
****
11:55 p.m. Santa Monica
She slept in fits. In stops and starts. The briefest moments of reprieve before she’d jolt awake again. And now, it neared midnight. The dawn of another day.
When they’d arrived home, Ava headed straight for her computer, hitting refresh on the internet news page until the story had broken.
“Former BXA Executive Dies in Fiery Crash on Mulholland Drive”
It hadn’t felt real—still didn’t—even looking at it right there in bold typeface. Derealization, Ian would’ve said if he’d been speaking. But his eyes had seemed as far away as her own. She hadn’t bothered with a shower. Just fallen into bed, heavy, like her limbs couldn’t hold her any longer.
Ian lay awake too. Though he said nothing, it comforted her to know he couldn’t simply drift off to dream after what he’d done. What they’d done. Together.
In the glow of the sickled moon, she studied the singed hair on her right arm. It would grow back. Strange, she thought. How unmarked she appeared. How the body recovered while the soul only got sicker.
Ian reached for he
r then, called her name. To know he wasn’t alone. Or to tell her all the things he’d kept secret, an entire world it seemed. Or to ask for a sip of water from the bottle she kept on the nightstand. But Ava would never know. Because she lay still as death. Mouth shut, eyes closed. A different kind of dead than Wallace but dead all the same.
Chapter
Eighteen
Wednesday
February 22, 2018
Dan Jarvis has his very own set of back-row girls. I should know because I’m sitting among them in his 10 a.m. Monday/Wednesday/Friday Intro to Cognitive Psych class, listening to their whispers and giggles as he prints next week’s reading assignment on the whiteboard. Here, in his element, Dr. Jarvis only vaguely resembles the slightly broken man from the vigil. But I’m exactly the same. A nervous wreck.
I’d spent the morning pondering the mystery of the spare key. Only four suspects, all of them Donovans. And searching for the missing knife. Emptied the silverware drawer, dug through the pantry. Even muscled the refrigerator back from the wall, thinking it might have slipped behind somehow. But the slot in the cherrywood block remained open, regarding me like an unblinking eye. Until I had to flee from its constant gaze.
I feel the gentle nudge of an elbow at my side and lean in to the oddly pleasant aroma of scented lotion and Doritos, the bright-red bag gaping open on the desk next to mine. “I heard that once a semester he does a class on the beach and teaches us all how to surf. You know, learning about learning by . . . learning.” She giggles at her own cleverness. “Can you imagine him in a wet suit?”
Stumped, I offer a conspiratorial smile, hoping that will appease her.
“Smokin’ hot.” She pops another chip into her mouth as she makes her pronouncement, and I laugh against my better judgment.