The Two Lila Bennetts

by Fenton, Liz

  This situation I find myself in now feels like it’s all about me. Whoever is behind this wants suffering and lots of it. The scariest part? I realize now it has to be someone much closer to me than Stephanie or Franklin, someone who is aware that ruining my career, making me face my mistakes that I am so good at burying, and driving away the people I love most is the worst torture they could inflict.

  Personal. For sure. Could it be Ethan?

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Q infiltrates my thoughts. I move my head up and down in response, my mind racing.

  Ethan has been frustrated with my work hours and how I handle—or rather don’t handle—some of the baggage that comes along with it, but never with my work. He often seems proud of me. I’ve always thought it’s because he values that we’re so different—that he secretly loves that harshness that lives inside me, respects my determination to win in the same way I value his quiet and gentle nature. His patience. We cherish the qualities most in the other that we’re lacking, or at least that’s what I told Carrie one night this past summer after sharing an ice-cold bottle of rosé on her deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean. She confided that she felt the same way about Sam—that there was a part of her that respected how he went for what he wanted, not minding it meant taking huge risks. Hurting people sometimes. At that point I was one month into my affair with him, and I had felt my cheeks color, knowing I was one of those risks.

  But what if Ethan pulled back the curtain and saw what my desire to win really equates to? That it spills over into wanting forbidden things, looking the other way when I shouldn’t? He knew about Janelle, but it hadn’t seemed to faze him when I told him the story years ago. He’d mentioned a creative writing teacher he’d fantasized about and that he wished he had the balls to have done something about it. He’d also assured me that I couldn’t have known Callahan would pick me over her for the internship. And although that was technically true, I could have made the situation right once I knew. But Ethan let me off the hook. Found a way to make me right when I was clearly wrong.

  What if my affair with Sam changed everything for him? Caused him to want to teach me an overall lesson in morality, in the creepiest of ways?

  Almost sounds like the plot of a movie. A blockbuster.

  “Is that all it took to get you to shut up? Play a video of your husband getting ambushed on national TV?” Q says, his deep voice interrupting my thoughts.

  “I guess so,” I say, glaring at Q, who is hovering over me. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” I snap.

  “Don’t take it out on me that he looked guilty as hell.” Q laughs and points to the camera. “You wondering if it’s him up there, watching? Maybe you should wave hello.”

  My cheeks start to burn, and sweat tingles my scalp. I’m suddenly so hot. The walls of the room seem to be closing in on me. I’ve always been slightly claustrophobic—in elevators, small cars. And while this room is not tiny, it feels so now. I swallow, fearing another panic attack is coming. I have to get out of here. “I need to use the bathroom,” I say, my voice catching. I can feel the sweat rolling down my back.

  Q surveys me but doesn’t respond.

  “All those beers,” I add when he tilts his head as if he doesn’t believe me. I don’t want to mention how light-headed I am, how my heart is beating too fast. He’ll get off on that, make me stay in here.

  “All right,” he finally says, surprising me. He pulls me up. My feet have fallen asleep—again—and I stumble slightly when he lets go. They tingle as I walk, hurting as they wake up. I will the circulation back with each step.

  He unlocks the door, and I walk out first; then I hear him closing it. I lean against the wall and suck in all the air I can. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to swallow back the sobs. But it’s impossible—the tears come pouring out before I can stop them. I force myself not to make a sound.

  “What’s the holdup?” Q asks from behind me.

  I shake my head because I can’t talk. I start walking again, hoping he won’t notice I’m crying. If I show him my vulnerability, I will be giving him exactly what he wants.

  “Hey,” he says, grabbing my elbow. He walks in front of me, and I drop my head. “Look up,” he demands.

  Slowly I raise my eyes, the tears still falling. I brace myself for one of his snide remarks, for his lighthearted I told you so laugh. But it doesn’t come.

  “You’d better get moving—we only have five minutes before I have to get you back in the room.” He says this softly, as if he’s talking to a child.

  “Okay,” I say, somewhat stunned at his reaction to my tears. I thought he’d be elated, slap his knee. Isn’t this what he wanted? He gave me tissues. Suddenly it hits me—this isn’t his game. There are no cameras here in the hallway that I’ve seen. Is it possible he’s been playing for the one in the room? Could he actually have a heart inside his chest?

  I squat over the toilet, and as I’m peeing, I hear Q. He’s arguing with someone. I quickly finish and move over to the door, straining to listen.

  “I’ve done everything you’ve said. Everything we had discussed. No, that’s not true. I slashed her, for fuck’s sake.”

  It has to be his boss he’s speaking to. I swallow. Is he hearing Ethan’s voice right now? Is he angrier after that interview—wanting me to suffer more to help appease the rage that is now bubbling over in him like the water in a simmering pot? I press my ear closer to the door but don’t hear anything for a moment. Then Q starts up again.

  “It was a few beers—who cares? Figured it would loosen her up—get her to talk more after the interview . . . I know, she didn’t. I don’t know why! What? I thought we weren’t going to do that yet.”

  I stand up straighter. Are they talking about killing me? Because that’s the only thing left. And I’m pretty damn sure that it isn’t going to be a quick bullet to the head.

  “Fine. Okay. Yes! I understand. You’ve made yourself very clear. I have to go.”

  A banging on the door makes me scream out.

  “What the hell, Lila? I’m knocking to make sure you’re done.”

  “You scared me.”

  “It’s time to go back in,” he says.

  I open the door slowly and don’t make eye contact. I don’t want him to know I’ve overheard. That I am now quite sure my husband or whoever has me in here has ordered me dead.

  Because there’s nothing else to take from me except my life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THURSDAY

  FREE

  I wave to Carrie one last time, taking in the young valet whose gaze lingers on her lithe body as she climbs into her Mercedes SUV, blushing slightly when she turns around and catches his eye. “Keep me posted!” she calls out to me.

  I nod obediently.

  The same valet walks toward me and asks for my ticket. “I think I’m going to walk back to my office,” I answer. When he glances down at my three-inch stilettos, I add, “I probably shouldn’t. But it’s not far. A few blocks. I’ll pick up my car later. I just need some air, you know? To figure everything out,” I say, noticing his eyes are glazed over. Clearly I’m talking to myself at this point, but I don’t care.

  “Whatever you like, ma’am,” he replies politely, already moving in the opposite direction. I’m obviously not having the same effect on him as Carrie did. Maybe he could see the contrast between us that went beyond her shiny blonde hair and my jet-black locks. That her lightness and my darkness went far beyond hair color.

  I head down Ninth, leaning my face toward the sun. It’s one of those days—breezy with the perfect amount of heat. The tall buildings block the sun, but then it will pop out again exactly when I need it most. I breathe in deeply in an attempt to clear my mind, to get my bearings. Ethan. The pictures. Greenwood and the report that was never filed. A large black SUV blares its horn, and I jump, almost losing my balance. I know I shouldn’t be walking by myself after everything that’s happened, but I’m desperate
for clarity. The next moves I make need to be the right ones.

  I pull my phone out and dial my mom. She picks up on the first ring. “How are you feeling? Have you been taking it easy?” she asks. No hello. She doesn’t know Ethan left last night. She’s referring to the attack on me near her house earlier this week. That feels so long ago now.

  “I’m okay, Mom,” I say evenly.

  “Any dizziness? Trouble sleeping?”

  Yes, but not for the reason you think.

  “No, everything’s good. I feel fine,” I say and step off the curb to cross Hope Street, cursing under my breath when I feel my toes pinch inside yet another pair of uncomfortable but oh so fashionable shoes I let Chase talk me into.

  “Then what aren’t you telling me? You sound off. And why is it so loud?”

  “I’m walking back to the office from lunch. It’s street noise.”

  She draws a sharp breath. “Lila! Why are you walking by yourself after what happened?”

  “I’m in the middle of downtown LA. There are a million people around. It’s safe. And I’m only a block or so from work. I’ve walked this route more times than I can count. Plus, I’m on the phone with you. You can call the police if something happens,” I say and laugh awkwardly. I can understand why she’s upset—I should have gotten my car out of the valet and driven. But there’s something about pulling into my parking structure that’s been giving me pause each day. I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels like it’s no longer safe. That the key card we all need to enter isn’t enough to protect me. I remember the car that I thought was following me. Was it? Or was I simply being paranoid?

  “Have the police found out anything about Franklin? Could he have been behind your attack?” My mom’s voice sounds jittery. I know I can’t blow her off.

  “Not yet,” I say. “But they’re looking into it, and I also have my own private investigator on it as well,” I add and hear her exhale.

  “Listen, Mom,” I say, changing the subject. “There’s something else . . .” I pause and decide whether I really want to do this—tell her before I’ve had a chance to talk to him.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  I sigh. “It’s Ethan. We’re having some problems.”

  “Everyone has problems. Want me to get some counseling referrals? My friend Diana—remember her? The one with that cute dog, the one that looks like the one they use in those Target ads? What are those called again?”

  “Bull terriers,” I say flatly.

  “Yes, that’s right. Anyway, her son was having all kinds of issues with his wife, and they went to a therapist in Culver City, and they renewed their vows last month! Let me get you her number,” she says, and I can hear her rummaging around her kitchen, probably looking for a pen so she can add saving my marriage to her hearty to-do list.

  “I don’t think he’ll go with me,” I say. “At least right now.”

  “Well, tell him—”

  “Mom. He left me. Last night.”

  “What do you mean he left you?”

  “He packed his shit and walked out the door,” I say, my voice rising. A young woman in a striped maxidress strolling with a woman who appears to be her grandmother shoots me a dirty look. Sorry, I mouth to her and pick up my pace.

  “Why would he do that? He seemed fine the other night.” She lowers her voice. “Is he depressed again?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. It’s too complicated to get into right now,” I say vaguely. I don’t know why I called her. I’m not ready to admit why he’s gone. I guess I wanted to hear her voice. Have her tell me everything will be okay, even if it won’t. With each passing hour I don’t hear from Ethan, it becomes more real, more likely that he won’t call.

  “You need to uncomplicate it! No one said marriage is easy.”

  “I’ve never acted as if it were easy! Believe me, I understand how hard it can be.”

  “You have such a difficult time showing your heart,” she muses. “You think being strong is the only way to survive. You never know when to ask for help. You never have.”

  “Mom—”

  “And it didn’t help, me telling you about your dad . . .”

  “This isn’t about that,” I interject quickly.

  “Isn’t it, though?” Her voice is soft, and I feel my eyes begin to burn. “Call Ethan, Lila. Call your husband, and tell him you’re sorry for whatever happened. That you need him. Don’t let what I did to you define who you are. Or your dad’s actions. You are your own person. Please.”

  “How can I unknow what I know? How can I separate myself from your and dad’s missteps? They are part of the fabric of who I am. Aren’t they?”

  “They are, but they don’t have to be. You can make your own choices that aren’t reactive to what we’ve done. You can apologize.”

  “Why do you assume it’s me who needs to apologize?” I ask, my voice rising. “That I’m the one who screwed up? That I’m the only one capable of hurting people?” Her assumption angers me. But only because I realize she’s spot on.

  “Lila—” she starts.

  “I have to go. I’ll call you later. Bye, Mom,” I say briskly, tears stinging my eyes. I stop walking and stare at the sun glinting off the windows of the Bank of America building. She’s right, of course. That’s probably the real reason I called her. To be told that I’m the one who must make amends. Which of course I knew. But it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

  I brush a finger under my eyes and straighten my dress (black, of course) as the elevator whisks me to my floor. I stride off the lift, ignoring the pain in my feet from the walk back.

  As I approach Chase’s desk, I take him in. He looks sharp in skinny ankle-length black pants, a fitted gray blazer, a blue-and-white-checkered button-down, and black slip-on loafers. A look not many men could pull off. “I know,” he says, pretending to pick a piece of lint off his jacket. “I’ve outdone myself today.”

  “You really have,” I say, leaning down and pulling my shoes off and sinking into the plush gray carpeting. I notice a folded LA Times on his desk. My stomach drops as I read the headline—a vigil being held by the family of Tom Wellner, a man killed in a controversial case ten years ago this month.

  It was that case. My very first one that went to trial, to be exact. The one I can’t let go of.

  It’s the second time it’s come up this week. I stare at the newsprint until it blurs as I recall representing Ed Cooper. Ed’s wife had supposedly been having an affair with Tom, their neighbor. When Ed went over to confront him, a gun went off. But it hadn’t been Ed’s gun, and there had been clear signs of struggle. Ed claimed that Tom had pulled the gun on him, and he’d attempted to disarm him, the gun going off in the process. The DA claimed Ed had shot Tom in cold blood. The jury agreed, and he was sentenced to thirty years in maximum-security prison. I had promised the family a zealous appeal, but Ed was shanked and killed behind bars before I got the chance. It kept me up many nights for years as I went over the case in my head, dissecting what I could have done differently. How I could have kept him out of prison and essentially kept him alive.

  I pick up the paper and begin to read the article, feeling nauseated after only a few words. I start to ask Chase if he’s seen it, but he interrupts me.

  “You”—he gives me a once-over—“are one hot mess.”

  “It’s that obvious?” I swat my camel-colored suede pump in his direction, and he grabs it. Honestly, I’m grateful for the distraction.

  “Let me guess. You walked back from Faith & Flower in these?” he asks, looking at the shoe.

  “How did you know?” I ask. “Did you see me limping?”

  “No,” he says, pointing the pump at me. “You scuffed this.” He shakes the shoe. “Footwear like this is not for walking several city blocks! It is meant to be cherished!”

  “Sorry,” I offer. “I needed some air. But for the record, they are not comfortable.”

  “Girl! These aren’t Easy Spirits
! What were you thinking?”

  “What are they supposed to be used for, then?”

  “Looking fabulous!” He rolls his eyes. “You’re never going to get it. Fashion first!” Chase holds his hand out. “Give me the other one. Let me see if I can fix them up.”

  “Thank you,” I say as I walk toward my office with the newspaper under my arm.

  It’s been a decade, but I still remember clearly the faces of Ed’s kids in a picture that ended up in the paper alongside an article about him being murdered in prison. They were outside their home, their mom hugging both of them, her back to the camera, but their faces, their eyes wide open and staring straight into the lens. Two boys. Twelve and fourteen. I wonder what became of them? Their mom had written me letters, blaming me. I feel the old pain and regret slide up inside me. I failed that day. And that family, those boys, paid the price for my mistakes.

  “Also, the notes from Sully came in. They’re next to your computer,” Chase calls out, breaking my train of thought.

  I whip back around. “And?”

  He sets his mouth in a straight line. “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

  I make a beeline for my desk, throwing my bag down in the chair and picking up the photocopy of the handwritten notes. The careful block script tells a much different story than Greenwood did.

  According to what I’m reading, the officers showed up on site to find Mrs. Greenwood hiding in the closet with her two children. The children were untouched, but she had a large bruise on her arm and one on her neck that she insisted were from her husband, who she claimed had been drinking and who fled the premises before the police arrived. The neighbors corroborated her story. She refused any medical treatment but did seem interested in getting a restraining order. The officer left a patrol car in front of the house in case Greenwood returned that evening and went back to the precinct to file the report. When Greenwood did finally arrive back home, he was taken into the station for questioning.