by Fenton, Liz
I wait for my mom to step forward to the mic, but to my surprise it’s Carrie who walks up, clutching a stack of flyers. I’m not sure where she’s come from, as the camera didn’t show her before. But it’s a relief to see her face. She’s wearing the mint-green top I bought for her birthday last February, and I feel a stab of hope. Is she sending me a message by selecting it for this event? Is this her silent way of telling me not to give up? The camera zooms in, and I’m not surprised that her eyes are clear and bright. I’ve always said, whether it’s chairing the local chapter of Mothers Against Gun Violence or simply fighting for the best table at Nobu, when the shit hits the fan (can’t stop with the clichés now), I want Carrie on my team. People, sometimes even Sam, often mistake her shiny personality as a weakness. I asked him why he’d ever cheat on her—she caters to his every need: his laundry is handled and folded, fine-tuned organic meals are on the table when he walks in the door, she makes delightful conversation with his colleagues. Because she’s weak, Bennett. Not like you. You’re strong, he said. It was then I realized he might not know either of us as well as he thought he did. Because I’d always understood I was the weak one. The one who was sleeping with her best friend’s husband. The one who was attracted to him for the very reason he thought he was attracted to me—because he was strong. He didn’t let me be vulnerable and weak like Ethan did. With Sam, I felt bulletproof even though I sometimes felt like I could be pierced by the lightest of feathers. And I had realized long ago that underneath Carrie’s perfect veneer lay a Teflon coating. She didn’t need Sam to be strong.
I see it now as she speaks. It was smart for my family to choose her. Ethan is clearly a mess. And my mom is clearly his comfort. “We are offering a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar reward for Lila Bennett’s safe return or for any information that leads to finding her,” Carrie says, holding up the flyer with my picture and the word reward in bold. “Please,” she pleads. “We want her home safe.” She looks directly into the camera. “Lila, if you are watching this, we are doing everything we can to bring you back home. Please hang on. We’re coming for you.”
She chokes on the last part, a tear escaping from her eye, and I force myself not to cry with her, the knowledge that I will probably never see any of them again hitting me hard. Because the other thing they say about someone who’s been missing for more than twenty-four hours, which I’m sure has passed by now, is that they’re usually not found. And the other reason I know I’m screwed? There was nothing said about a ransom demand. There’s a chance that’s because the police don’t want to reveal this to the public. But something about the look on Q’s face tells me there was no mention of it because no one wants to exchange me for money.
Which means I must be here to suffer. To die.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TUESDAY
FREE
So many different thoughts and emotions are swimming inside my head when I burst out of Sam’s office and slam the door that I plow right into Carrie. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say, then find myself peering at her stomach, as if knocking into her has done something to the baby.
“It’s okay, I’m fine,” Carrie says, following my gaze. She reaches down and picks up her bag, which fell to the floor in our collision.
I glance back at Sam’s door, but it’s still closed. He must not have heard the commotion or is pretending he didn’t. Either way, I’m relieved he hasn’t come out.
“You looked upset when you charged out of there . . .” she says.
Her statement or question—I’m not sure which—hangs in the air longer than I want it to. But I’m frazzled, finding it hard to grasp any words that will explain why I clearly was upset. If I tell her he’s making my life hell at work, I won’t be able to tell her why. But if I don’t give her a reason, it’s going to look worse. She might wonder, Why was my best friend so emotional when she came out of my husband’s office? Or at least that’s what I would think. But Carrie . . . Carrie is different. She has a loyalty to Sam, to me, that seems to wash away any cynicism.
“It’s about a case,” I finally say, knowing it’s weak. That she should be able to see right through it.
“Attorney-client privilege. Believe me, I get it.” She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“I wish I could tell you, Care,” I say, meaning it. I would do anything to be able to heave this rock of guilt off my chest. But the only person who would feel better after would be me. And that would be selfish. Despite what my track record would indicate, I do love Carrie; I do appreciate her as a friend.
I think of the time I had bronchitis last year. I had a trial starting in a few days, so I couldn’t stay home. So she brought home to me. Chicken noodle soup, water, homeopathic oils, a humidifier. I stare at her full pink lips, her big blue eyes, and I wonder what kind of person I must be to be able to betray someone I love. Who loves me. Who has been nothing but a good friend to me.
The Monday after we met at the holiday party, Carrie called me. I was surprised but also excited to hear from her. She wanted to take me out for lunch and make sure I was okay after what happened with the senior partner. But I remember hesitating, being afraid that I couldn’t be the friend she was hoping for. As we’d sat out on the rooftop and finished off that cigarette, she’d mentioned she’d found it hard to make friends after she and Sam moved to the Palisades a few years before. They’d relocated from New York, and she said she felt like she was in high school all over again. I knew she was taking me for a test drive—would we connect while sober, while away from her husband’s and my workplace? And it turns out we did. We talked nonstop for two hours, waving our hands in the air as we told our very best stories. I’d called the office to cancel my afternoon appointment. As we’d hugged goodbye at the end of our meal, I vowed that I would be loyal. That I wouldn’t betray her the way I had Janelle. This friendship would be different. And it was, for the first three and a half years. And then Sam kissed me.
As I think about the two people in my life I’ve screwed over without much deliberation, the resonating guilt is a slow build. I might be a terrible person.
“I know, I get it. I shouldn’t have asked. But I worry about you,” Carrie says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Thanks,” I say, noticing a huge scuff on the toe of my red pump. I make a mental note to have Chase order another pair. It’s out of his job description, but he insists on doing it. He tells me he’s proud of how his fashion influence has changed me. Because of him, I’ve agreed to wear heels that are colorful. But I still refuse to stray from what he calls my bland suit palette of black and gray. That’s our next hurdle, he always says.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Carrie. “Not that I’m complaining. But two days in a row? We might need to put you on the payroll.”
Carrie hesitates for a moment, and I see something pass across her face. Like she’s not sure she wants to tell me. Finally, she leans in. “I was a real bitch to Sam yesterday, so I brought him cheese rolls from Porto’s as a sorry.”
I have never seen Sam eat a cheese roll in my life.
“I also wanted to check on you,” she adds quickly. Her phone buzzes, and she looks at it, then drops it in her purse.
“Need to get that?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says.
“So why are you wanting to check on me?” I ask, my heart beating faster.
“I texted you a couple times, and I called,” Carrie says as a colleague passes by us in the hall. We move into the break room, which is adjacent.
“You called?” I say, leaning against the wall and eyeing the Keurig. Caffeine is exactly what I need right now.
“Yeah, I did.” She breaks into a grin. “People still do that.”
“Did you leave a voice mail?” I smile back and walk over to the machine and make a cup of coffee.
“I’m not that old school.” She laughs.
“Want one?” I ask. “There is decaf—and tea.”
She shakes he
r head but opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of Fiji. “This is all I need. I swear I’m so much thirstier. Have you ever heard that?” She drops her voice. “Pregnancy makes you thirsty?”
“I have no idea, but I’m sure it does!” I say, then take a long drink of my coffee. “So what was up? Why did you call?”
“I’ve missed hanging out. Wanted to make plans. Are you free tonight?”
I shake my head. “Dinner with Ethan and my mom.”
“Ah, the last Tuesday of the month! How is Alexis?”
“The usual. Wants me to quit my job. Work as a lawyer for a nonprofit. Or maybe become a prosecutor. Get the bad guys instead of save them.”
Carrie gives me a look.
“What?” I ask. But I know what she’s going to say.
“She’s not totally wrong, you know.”
“Not you too,” I say playfully. “You’re married to a criminal defense attorney!”
“I know. Why do you think I agree with your mom? She means well, is all I’m saying. If she’d seen you so upset over a case like I did, it would only concern her more.”
“I get it. I do,” I say, thinking about my meeting with Steve Greenwood tomorrow. My gut has been knotted about this case—only tightening more after my conversation with Sam. I need to read over Greenwood’s file again—hopefully I’ll find something that makes me feel better about representing him. That helps me see his side. “But I have responsibilities.”
“Your mom doesn’t need you to take care of her. She has a pension. Her place is paid off. She’ll be fine.”
I shake my head. “It’s not only about money. It’s hard to explain . . .” I think about my dad. About all the recent doubts I’ve been having about this job.
She takes a small sip of water. “It’s the drive. You can’t stop until you’re at the very top. Until you’ve knocked everyone else off.” Her words are slightly harsh, but her expression stays neutral. “Sorry,” she says when I don’t respond immediately. “I see the same thing with Sam. With everyone who works here.”
I know she’s right, at least partially. But it’s always uncomfortable when she aligns me with Sam. “I hear you, but I don’t know how to change at this point,” I say, more to myself than to her.
“What time are you guys having dinner?” she asks, changing the subject.
I shrug. “Depends on when I get out of here. Then I have to go home and get Ethan.”
“Isn’t it easier for you to meet there?” she asks. “Because of traffic,” she adds, checking something on her phone.
“I was going to take the 10 straight out to Santa Monica, grab Ethan, and then take PCH down. But I could take the 110 to the 105 to the 405, I guess, and meet him there. But without the carpool lane . . .”
“This is such an LA conversation to be having.” Carrie pretends to stick her finger down her throat. “Can you grab a drink before you go home?”
“I wish. But you and I both know what will happen. One will lead to two, and I won’t make it to my mom’s. Then she’d kill me. How about tomorrow night?”
“Perfect,” she says, then types something into her phone again. “I have to go,” she says, tossing her empty water bottle into the recycle bin. “Blast Zone class. You have to come try one with me—like I said, the first time is free.”
“You are really into this,” I say.
“Well, my coach is also really good.” She smiles, then catches my look. “I don’t mean it like that.”
“It’s okay, a little flirting never hurt anyone.” There were so many moments with Sam before we crossed the line. Running into him in the law library, joking about carrying books the size of me. Banter in the break room. Coming to my office with things he would normally task to his assistant.
“Oh, I would never,” she says seriously. “But he does have the most interesting eyes. Hard not to stare.” She blushes slightly. “Anyway, I should go. If you don’t get there early, you can’t start on the treadmill.”
“Wait—weren’t you on your way to see Sam? The cheese roll peace offering?” I ask.
“I’ll drop it to his assistant and talk to him later. If you’re upset about the case, I’m sure he is too, and it might not go well. I’ll text you about a time and place for tomorrow.”
“Okay, thanks—I’m looking forward to it,” I say, although I’m relieved she’s leaving. I watch her walk out of the kitchen, and then I slump into a chair, sipping my coffee, thinking about all the things that are weighing me down. I notice a small spider making his way up the wall by a trash can that’s in dire need of being emptied. A strange sensation passes through me that feels similar to déjà vu. Like I’ve been here before. I can’t seem to look away until he crawls through an opening in the baseboard and disappears.
My phone buzzes with a text from Chase.
Greenwood is here
What? Our meeting is tomorrow.
He says he needs to see you now. That David told him it would be fine.
I grit my teeth and fight the urge to storm into David’s office and tell him exactly what I think of this.
I’ll be right there. I let out a long breath as I stare at the screen, watching as Chase’s response comes in. I’m smart. There has to be a way out of this.
Chase sends the red-faced Muppet devil emoji, and I send back an LOL. It’s a perfect representation of Greenwood.
Chase is going to ask why in the world they’ve made me the lead on this case. Especially when it’s obvious I don’t want it. And I’m going to have to lie—again. So much for my vow to stop. And as much as I’d love to confide in Chase, it’s better if he doesn’t know.
When I reach my office, Greenwood is pacing in front of Chase’s desk. Chase rolls his eyes, and I suppress a smile when Greenwood almost catches him.
“About time, Bennett,” Greenwood says, tapping his gaudy gold watch. I bite my lower lip, thinking of Sam—that was his nickname for me. Only when it slips off Steve Greenwood’s tongue, it sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard. I take him in—his almost entirely gray thick hair is in need of a cut, too long around his ears, skirting his forehead, with bushy eyebrows to match. His cheeks are ruddy and full. His beady eyes almost get lost in his face. I’m not quite sure where his chin ends and his neck begins. He’s wearing an expensive black blazer, and underneath is a white button-down that hugs his gut and is tucked into faded jeans. He’s finished the terrible look off with a pair of scuffed cowboy boots.
“Hello,” I say, ignoring his remark. “Come on in.” I walk into my office, and he follows. “I thought our meeting was tomorrow?” I ask as I sit in my chair.
“It is, but I’ve moved it up.” He smiles, exposing a top row of yellowish teeth. I’ve seen pictures of his wife; she’s attractive. A petite brunette who looks like she could rival Carrie at that Blast Zone place she joined. What drew her to him? I recall from the file that they’ve been married a decade and have twin five-year-old boys. He’s originally from Texas, his family’s wealth tied to oil. About ten years ago he and the family moved out here and bought a string of car dealerships, leaving his brother to run the company in Texas.
“So I heard.”
“Well, it seems like good timing. You don’t appear to have much going on.” He motions toward my desk—the only items on it my laptop, a picture of Ethan and me, and a container full of pens. I think of the million replies I could fly at him, but I bite my tongue. I can’t fight back. And clearly he knows it.
“Listen, I’ll get right to the point.” Greenwood leans forward. “Every day I’m still married to this woman, she has access to my money, which she is spending like the world is about to end.” His face turns redder than it already is. “Also, since our last meeting, I’ve discovered she’s been fucking around with some guy in her book club for at least a year. Book club. A dude sitting around with a bunch of chicks. I can only imagine what he’s like. Not to mention she’s been a terrible mother to the boys. She doesn’t make them a proper meal. She do
esn’t go to the grocery store. My sons have been eating fucking Froot Loops for dinner. She doesn’t drive them or pick them up from any of their activities. She tells them to Uber. And I’m pretty sure it’s because she’s drunk. The neighbors have told me she’s tipsy when the kids come home from school at three o’clock. I do not think they should be living with her. So I want primary custody. When can we get in front of a judge?” He slaps his hand on my desk, and I jerk my head back, startled by his aggression.
My armpits dampen with sweat. There’s something about him, the way he’s ranting, his nostrils flaring, that makes my stomach lurch.
“You’re going to have to be quicker than this in court,” he adds before I can respond.
I take a deep breath, grasping the last bit of patience I have left. “Listen, I was prepared to meet with you tomorrow, and tomorrow I will be ready to answer all of your questions, and we’ll put together a solid plan for the preliminary hearing on Friday. I appreciate the additional information you have brought me, and I will consider it.”
“Consider it?” he huffs, shooting up out of his chair. I glance behind him and notice Chase watching us. He nods toward the door, wondering if he should come in. I shake my head quickly.
“What I mean by that is I will factor it into my plan for your case. I need to talk with your wife’s—”
“Ex-wife.” He balls his hands into fists at his side.