by Fenton, Liz
“Right? I thought so too.” Chase nods at my laptop where he sticks my messages. “And a woman named Janelle called.”
My face must change, because Chase frowns at me. “Not a friend?” he asks.
I can feel my cheeks flush. “Nope,” I say honestly. “Well, she was once. A story for another time, but one I will tell you. I promise. No more secrets.”
Chase smiles. “I need to go down to the mailroom. We have some packages,” he says, obviously giving me space to make my call.
“Thanks.”
He walks out and closes the door behind him. I pick up the Post-it with Janelle’s name and number written on it, wondering what she wants. I question again if she’s simply calling because she’s also invited to the wedding and wants to clear the air.
Don’t call her. You need to protect yourself! bad Lila whispers in my ear.
It’s time to face your demons, good Lila murmurs.
Good Lila is right. My hand shakes when I reach for the phone and punch in her number. My heart is in a full pound by the time I push the last digit. I haven’t talked to her since I got the internship and she didn’t. Does she somehow know what happened? Has she found out what I did?
Just when I think I’m going to get voice mail, she answers. “Hello?”
“Hi . . .” My voice sounds hoarse, and I clear it. “Hi, Janelle, it’s Lila. Lila Bennett.”
“Lila, hello. Thanks for returning my call.”
I search her voice for a trace of irritation, but I’m not sure it’s there. “Of course. It’s been a long time,” I say.
“I know. Since graduation,” she says.
“Gosh, that’s been what? Thirteen years?”
“Fourteen this June,” she says simply, and we fall into an uncomfortable silence. Has she been keeping track? Keeping score? The last I heard of Janelle, she was a prosecutor up in Sacramento. Another friend from law school ran into her and told me.
“So, how are you?” I ask.
“Good. Married, two kids. I’m a prosecutor.”
“Up in Sac, right?”
“Oh no . . . well, yes, that’s where I was. But now I’m going to be here in LA. I transferred last month. That’s why I’m calling. Well, I wasn’t sure I should, but I got Tiffany’s wedding invitation, and I took it as a sign to reach out.”
So that’s all this is. But why doesn’t that thought make me feel better?
“Oh, wow, that’s . . .” I try to think of a word to throw in. “Great,” I finally say, but my mouth has gone dry. Without Janelle in my life, I can often convince myself nothing happened so many years ago. That I got this job fair and square . . . or at least earned the right to have it by now.
“I’ve read up on you—you’re quite the star down here,” she says. Again, not a trace of anger. At least not one that I can sense.
“Well, I don’t know about that. Just doing my job.”
“I thought we might have lunch—catch up. Especially if you plan to attend the wedding.” She half laughs. “Anyway, not only that, but if I’m in LA, I’m assuming we’re going to be crossing paths a lot.”
I forgot how deep her voice is. Strong, we always joked. She’d joke that she was going to scare juries into submission. She never showed much interest in being a prosecutor, and I swallow hard and hope my actions didn’t influence her choices.
“Right. Yes, okay. Let’s do that,” I say. We hang up, and I sigh. I don’t want to have lunch with her. I can think of nothing I want to do less. Because if I’m right, if she really does want to get together without any ulterior motive, she must not know, which will make seeing her worse. The guilt slowly tearing me apart. Of course, there is a chance she knows. That she’s chosen now to confront me. Possibly wanting to clear the air now that we’ll be in the same city?
I glance at the Post-it with her number and toss it in the trash can and pray she doesn’t follow up to make plans with me. My office line rings, startling me. The caller’s number is blocked, and I debate whether to let it go to voice mail, but it could be the private investigator, Joe Dennis. And if it is, that’s a call I need to answer. I wait another ring, hoping Chase will sail in and save the day. But he doesn’t. “Hello,” I finally say.
“Lila, it’s Joe.”
“Hey, Joe. I was hoping it was you. How’s it going?”
“You know, same ol’ same ol’, following rich stay-at-home moms around. A regular day.” I can hear him inhale his cigarette. For as long as I’ve known our private investigator, he’s been a chain smoker. At my urging, he once quit for a day after I ordered him the patch on Amazon.
“And?”
“Well, if Greenwood’s wife has this book club boyfriend, she is an expert at hiding him. Got him locked up in the dungeon or something. In fact, I couldn’t find truth in any of Greenwood’s claims. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was the most routine—dare I say boring—stay-at-home mom on the planet. I followed her around all day, nothing.”
“So she’s not an alcoholic? Day drinking?”
“From what I could see, the only liquids she’s consuming during the day—or night—are coffee and herbal tea. I went through her trash. Not one bottle of anything in there.”
“And the kids?”
“Seem happy. She picked them up from school. Took them to and from activities. They all had dinner together. After they went to bed, she watched TV. Lights out by ten. I never saw a nanny either.”
“Hmm.”
“Look, Lila. It’s only been a day, and of course I’ll stay on her, but the woman doesn’t seem to have a vice so far. And my gut tells me we won’t find one.”
“Thanks, Joe. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”
“Right. Chase told me you wanted an update on Franklin.”
“Yes, please.”
“I’m on it.”
After we hang up, I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. Is it possible Greenwood made it all up? That his wife really is that clean? Or did she sense she’s being followed or watched and change her routine? My gut tells me it’s the former. Joe’s the best of the best.
Greenwood is proving to be the bad guy in this scenario. I pick up the phone to call Detective Sully. I need him to find that police report on Greenwood. Or at least help me figure out why it no longer exists.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WEDNESDAY
CAPTURED
I wake to the sound of my own screams—my throat raw, my lungs collapsing under the weight of the intensity of my cries. I’d been dreaming I’d escaped and was running down the street, barefoot, errant pebbles and debris getting stuck in my feet, chest heaving as I gasped for breath, but I pressed on anyway, my pencil skirt ripping as I broke into a full sprint. But then I turned, and Q was there, reaching for me, pulling me back. Finally free from the nightmare, I shoot upright in my concrete prison, and pain rockets through my ankles and up my legs. I look down—the bindings have worn the skin down, and it’s red and blistered. My eyes water, and I wince until finally the radiating jolts of anguish subside.
I have no idea how long I was passed out, but I’m groggy, the corners of my eyes caked with sleep, my mouth dry, indicating it’s probably been many hours, perhaps overnight? I’ve been trying to keep track—still counting the minutes—but it’s become almost impossible. Q keeps me on irregular patterns, never coming and going in any way that makes sense, changing outfits frequently, but I know from the video it’s been at least twenty-four hours, and Q more or less confirmed that when I challenged him about the police’s efforts. I would guess, at this point, I’ve been here closer to thirty-six or forty-eight. I use the wall to get myself upright, careful not to pinch my wrists or bother my ankles, and lean against it, my eyes adjusting again to the semidarkness. I glance up at the blinking light. “I have to pee,” I say. “Badly,” I add, grimacing. “Anyone? Anyone?” Then I can’t help myself. “Bueller?”
I close my eyes and count. By the time I’ve reached eighteen hundred, no
one has come. I eye the bucket and blanch, but it’s my only option because I cannot hold it another minute longer. I shuffle over to it, turn my back to the camera, hike up my skirt, and do my best to squat. It’s not pretty, but it’s fairly successful—and I exhale when I’m finished. As I’m pulling up my panties and pulling down my skirt, I hear the lock.
“Well, if it isn’t Ms. Sleepyhead. Nice Ferris Bueller reference, by the way.”
“Were you watching?” I nod toward the bucket.
“No way,” he says, scrunching his nose as if he’s smelled rotten fish.
Holding me hostage, putting a gun to my head, those things aren’t beneath him. But watching me urinate—that’s where he draws the line?
“I already told you, you’re not my type. Plus, I don’t have a fetish—at least not that kind.”
“Then why didn’t you come when I asked to use the bathroom?”
“This isn’t the Four Seasons! I’m not your fucking concierge. I don’t work for you!”
“Obviously,” I mutter.
We sit in silence for a few moments. What could be the purpose for taking me? Is this a sick and twisted game, or is there an actual plan? “So what’s on the agenda today? Torture? Maiming?” I ask flatly. “Murder?” I add, a little bit quieter.
“You want to find out?” Q thrusts his shoulders back, which makes his chest puff out.
“I don’t know. Depends. What’s it going to be, Russian roulette, or do you have another adventure in mind?” I say, then press my lips together and wait. I know I’m pushing, but I have to see what I can get out of him. He didn’t kill me yesterday, so maybe today’s not the day my life ends either.
He steps closer, leaving mere inches between us. “Look, you really need to realize your place here. Watch it.” His eye flicks up toward the camera so fast I almost miss it.
“Or what?” I ask, noticing his forearms are tensing, his shoulders lifting up toward his ears. But it’s been two, maybe three days, and I’m still trapped in this room, eating scraps of bread, tablespoons of water, pissing in a bucket. I need answers. What have I got to lose by asking for them?
Your life, Lila.
Q starts pacing. I glance up at the camera again. Who’s watching me? Why did my outburst cause him to look up? Is it his boss who’s behind that camera? The person who’s really calling the shots?
“Or I could put a bullet in your leg and let you sit with the pain,” he blurts, jolting me out of my thoughts. “No, actually, I think the knife might be more effective.” He pulls the blade out of its sheath and flashes it. “Carve a little drawing in your thigh so you never forget about me and our time together. Q plus L forever, with a little heart around it maybe?”
Seeing the sharp edge of the weapon, imagining him slowly penetrating my flesh, the blood spilling out, sends a rush of fear through me. I start to shake.
“What happened, Lila? You were acting so tough before . . .” He walks around somewhat aimlessly for a moment, then plants his feet in place and jumps toward me. “Boo.”
I clench my jaw to keep from reacting.
He walks toward me and puts the knife against my neck. I freeze with fear.
“Or we could end it real quick. This here is your carotid artery. One slice and you’ll bleed out. Well, your blood will spurt all over the place. You’ll die in minutes. You hear me?”
I’m trembling now, so much so that I’m afraid I’ll cut my neck on the blade of the knife, which Q still has pressed firmly against my throat.
“I asked you a question,” he yells. “Because I need to know that you understand you are not the one in control here. I am.”
I flinch, and the blade moves slightly. “Yes. Yes. I hear you,” I say, the fight I had in me earlier vanishing like a puff of smoke.
He pulls the knife back and gives it a kiss before sliding it into the sheath. “Good.”
I’m still shaking and try to stop the tremors, but they only seem to be getting worse. My teeth begin to chatter, so I thrust my mouth open. I try to breathe, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. I feel tingling in my hands and up my arms and through my legs; then my hands go numb.
Am I having a panic attack?
I focus hard on my breathing. In and out. In and out.
“You don’t look too good,” Q says, cocking his head at me.
I try to say the words I’m thinking. I’m not okay. Help. But of course he’s not going to help me. I concentrate my gaze on a spot on the floor and breathe until the feeling starts to come back into my hands. Until my heartbeat slows.
Q pulls his backpack off and unzips it. He thrusts a bottle of water toward me. “Here.”
I hold it awkwardly between my bound hands and guzzle half of it down so quickly that I start to choke a bit, then cough several times. “Thanks.”
He nods at me, taking the bottle away, but stays silent, as if he’s considering his next move. A moment later he grabs his backpack and heads for the door, slamming it. I hear the lock click, and I curl up on the floor again and start to whimper, wondering when—or if—this will ever make sense. I start counting again. I’ve lost track, so I start over.
One, two, three, four . . .
“Get up.” Time has passed. I have no idea how much. Q is standing over me. “I said, Get. Up.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to move, but my leg is cramped from where I must have fallen asleep on it.
Q has changed again—this time he’s wearing a red track suit and white Adidas tennis shoes with black stripes. How long has he been gone?
I finally get myself to a seated position, and he grabs me under my armpits and drags me over to the wall. He leans me up against it.
“I want to talk to you about Janelle Anderson.”
“What?” I ask, my eyelids heavy. My mouth is drier than it’s ever been. I feel like I’m in a haze. Not quite awake, but not asleep either. Almost as if—
“I said, Janelle Anderson.”
“Did you drug me?” Have you been drugging me?
Q nods as if I’ve asked him if the sky is blue. “You were getting too riled up, so I gave you something. You think I was really that concerned about your little anxiety attack or whatever it was?” He laughs. “Come on now.”
“How long was I out?”
“Nice try. I know you want to figure out what day it is, how long you’ve been here. But I promise you that won’t be possible. So you might as well save your energy.”
For what?
He sits down, leaning his back against the adjacent wall. I notice a new bucket has replaced the old one. Which means he came in while I was knocked out. But why? Why not make me live with the stench? Maybe he simply didn’t want to smell it when he entered the room. He sees me notice the bucket but doesn’t say anything about it. I wonder if he did that on his own, unbeknownst to his boss. If there is a boss. Maybe the camera is part of the game.
“Anyway, it’s time to discuss your old buddy Janelle. Remember her?”
“Who?”
“I thought you might play dumb. Want me to refresh your memory?”
No, I really don’t want to think about her. Or more specifically, why you know about her.
He pulls out his phone and starts reading. “Law school friends. Roommates for a while. Then there was that class you had together—Ethical Issues in Criminal Practice—so ironic the name of the class, don’t you think?” He looks at me but doesn’t wait for me to answer. “It was in that class that you all competed for the internship that would lead to the job. At Douglas, Shirby, and Jones. Recognize that name?”
I don’t respond. But yes, I recognize it. It’s where I work now. Where I’ve always worked.
I visualize Janelle. Her long red hair, pale skin, and eyes the color of dark chocolate. It was the first day of our second year, and she walked into our administrative law class twenty minutes late. The teacher scolded her, and her cheeks darkened to a color that matched her hair. She quickly slipped into the seat next to m
ine and smiled at me through her watery eyes. I smiled back, moved by her ability to be kind in such a humiliating moment. After class, I offered to share the notes from the portion of the lecture she’d missed, and over coffee that afternoon I decided I liked her a lot. She had a sweet voice and kind eyes. I hadn’t connected with anyone my first year and worried I might go through my entire law school experience without making a real friend. I had always considered myself independent, with a few close friends here and there, but I hadn’t had time for parties and boys and all the other things that made friendships tick. I had been focused on getting into college and then law school.
But Janelle was different. Focused like me. I could see it in her like a reflection. Unlike so many of our classmates, she didn’t need to show you how smart she was. There was a quiet confidence about her that I grew to envy as we became closer. How was she so sure of who she was? Sometimes when I looked back at our friendship, I wondered if I’d hoped the best things about her would eventually transfer to me as well.
Clearly, that hasn’t happened.
“But the thing is, Janelle didn’t get that internship, did she?” Q’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I shake my head lightly, my eyes fixated on my lap.
“I see I’ve helped jog your memory.”
My mind is still foggy, and I blink several times, trying to think. “How—”
“How do I know about Janelle?”
I nod.
“Let’s just say that I have a very reliable source.”
I look up at the camera.
He smirks. “You want to know who’s watching, don’t you?”
I nod again.
“Maybe it’s all the people you’ve wronged, Lila. Although . . . we’d have to rent an auditorium for that, wouldn’t we?” He shakes his head.
We.
I know he’s working for—with—someone. The question is who?
“Does Janelle know why she didn’t get the internship?”
I don’t know. I hope she doesn’t.