by Fenton, Liz
“You bet your ass I can change,” I mutter under my breath as I exit the 110 Freeway, feeling as tall and strong as the skyscrapers that surround me. “Just watch me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THURSDAY
CAPTURED
I can feel my resilience oozing from every limb, my dirty legs numb from lack of circulation. My inner strength leaks from my bandaged arm, the dried blood a reminder of what’s to come. I thought my life was worth fighting for. But the one person I naively thought would never hurt me wants me to suffer. To die. What does that say about me? That my own husband wants to torture me?
I understand now. The cast of characters who hate me is way too long. The list of things I’ve done wrong longer. Why am I fighting for myself when there’s no one fighting for me? Is this how my disgruntled clients have felt? Failed? Helpless? Like they had no one in their corner? Like their lives didn’t matter? Was I meant to walk in their shoes—to understand their resentment and pain? Were they truly my pawns? I wanted them to win, but if they didn’t, on to the next. Should I have tried harder? Should my appeals have been more vigilant? Why did I think I was invincible? Untouchable?
Maybe it will be better for everyone if I’m gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THURSDAY
FREE
I push the button for my window, and it opens, a rush of cool air hitting my cheeks. As I exit James M. Wood Street, I let the magnitude of what’s happening settle on me—my shoulders slumping under the weight. I’ve given the respondents in our divorce case the ammunition to stop Greenwood in his tracks. I’ve helped them sink us. Ethan’s words cut through my thoughts: I don’t think you can fix this. But I can. I must.
I turn left on Francisco and stare up at the deep-maroon TCW Tower, my gaze landing on the windows of my corner office, and something that Professor Callahan used to say strikes me. He preached that most lawyers study law to help the poor, the helpless, the wronged, only to be lured by the dollar signs later. I can recall shaking my head smugly, thinking that I understood myself so much better than my peers. That I had no illusions about my career path—I intended to make money. Of course, I’d help innocent people along the way too. But even as a twenty-two-year-old law student, I knew myself. That I would be addicted to the challenge, the chase, and the paycheck.
What I had been too naive to realize was that in exchange for all those things, I’d have to give up part of my soul.
And as respected as I’ve become at the firm, I’ve always understood that I am replaceable. That there is always another shark circling the waters, willing to do the things I won’t do anymore. Someone with bigger balls than mine. With a smaller conscience.
The conversation I’m about to have with Sam is going to be hard. And not only because I’m quitting the firm, a decision that didn’t come lightly but one that’s been on the horizon for a long time. It’s been an itch just out of reach. It taunted me and bothered me, but I pushed it aside until now. And I can’t completely explain it, but this week I finally reached back and got it and scratched the hell out of it. It’s finally time—I’m quitting the career we’ve shared and enjoyed. We’re like two lions who lick their lips after demolishing their prey—getting off on the kill, barely letting it digest before we go on the hunt yet again. We let this wild animal instinct be the glue that cemented our bond, telling ourselves that our spouses could never understand us the way we understood each other. We told ourselves that this was their flaw to own. But we were so wrong. It was ours. It was always ours.
Ethan had been right when he’d implied I didn’t know where my honesty ended and the deceit began. I’ve been painting my life in grays for too long, stretching truths until they snapped, twisting lies to fit into whatever reality I’d created, telling myself that deception was the only way to win.
I stare at the stream of cars headed west, on their way toward the freeway or to their homes near the beach. Leaving the hustle and bustle of downtown Los Angeles and heading to their families.
As I wait to turn right into the parking garage, I lock eyes with a woman in the other lane. She’s laughing and talking on her Bluetooth. Is she chatting with her husband about what to pick up for dinner tonight? Filling him in on her day because it can’t wait until she gets home? It seems so long ago that Ethan waited for me with Mongolian beef and Hulu queued up to The Good Wife. Has it only been a few days? So much has changed since then. I have changed. But I don’t know if my personal evolutions will be enough to make Ethan want to forgive me. For Carrie to not end our friendship once she discovers the truth.
A blaring horn makes me jump a little in my seat. I look in my rearview mirror and see a middle finger being waved at me. I’d stopped driving and failed to start again, letting three car lengths of space accrue. I ignore the bird being flashed at me and decide I’m not going to play into this road rage. I’m going to refuse to be an active participant and allow the person to rant. There have been many times in the past I would have engaged, hidden behind my big heap of metal, feeling powerful. Why did I do that?
That answer is simple: my ego.
It has become clear that I need to check my ego, my pride, the chip on my shoulder—all of it—at the door when I tell Sam I’m walking away from the career that I took years building. Ironically only taking a matter of days to tear down.
I pull up to the entrance to the garage beneath my building and swipe my key card in front of the censor. As the gate starts to lift, I look over my shoulder, check my mirrors, a habit I’ve now developed that I’m not sure I’ll ever completely shake. No one is behind me. I pull in slowly and stop on the other side of the gate and wait for it to close. The garage is well lit, and because it’s not underground, some light does stream in, even at night. I drive around to my level and notice the lights have been fixed where I usually park. But still, the familiar jolts of adrenaline are rushing through me now. The feeling that an assailant could be waiting crouched in the shadows the lights can’t illuminate. The police have not proven the attack was planned, but I’m certain it was. My gut is screaming that the man in the mask meant to take me.
My phone rings as I’m parking. Janelle’s name pops up on the screen. I debate letting it go to voice mail. But instead I take a breath and tap the green button to accept the call. “Hello?” I answer and lean back in my seat, prepared at this point for anything.
“We need to meet,” Janelle says, her speech rushed.
“Okay, I’m busy tomorrow, but would Saturday work?” I ask, pulling down the rearview mirror and studying my face. My eyes are bloodshot, the circles beneath them dark. I flip it back up, not wanting to look at myself for another minute.
“No. Tonight.”
“Everything okay?”
“No, Lila, it’s not. Not by a long shot.”
I feel a jolt of adrenaline shoot through me, my pulse quickening not only in fear of what she will say to me but also because I can’t avoid her any longer.
“What’s up?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“I don’t think we should talk about it over the phone.”
I stare at the door leading into the building and sigh. I know I need to say yes to her request. I think back to what Carrie said a few days ago—that I need to face this in order to move forward. And I know she’s right. I’ll have to email Sam and tell him I want to meet early tomorrow morning and hope he can. I need to notify him that I’m resigning before the preliminary hearing. That way I can make that my last task, and he can begin to figure out a game plan. I back out of the space. “Let’s meet at the Intercontinental on Figueroa. I can be there in less than ten minutes.”
After we hang up, I try to figure out why it’s so urgent to Janelle that we meet. When she called the other day, it sounded like she simply wanted to touch base because she was moving down to LA. But now? Something about the edge in her voice makes me wonder if it’s more than that. Could there be some way she’s found out what happened with the int
ernship? My mind wanders to Ethan. He is furious with me right now. Would he have told her? I shake my head at the thought. He didn’t tell Carrie about the affair, so it’s unlikely he’d track down someone from college and tell her about something I did fifteen years ago. Still, a tightness forms in my stomach that I can’t get rid of. Because I know that if she doesn’t already know, I have to tell her. There is no more room in my life for anything but the truth.
As I walk into the hotel, my phone buzzes with a text from Joe Dennis, the investigator.
Found Franklin. He’s been at his aunt’s house in Florida for the last few weeks. Can’t be your guy. He’s also still quite scrawny—definitely hasn’t seen the inside of a gym in a long time.
Perpendicular feelings consume me. Relief he’s not stalking me. But there is also fear—because Franklin had always seemed somewhat harmless. Almost predictable. And if it wasn’t him, who could it be?
When I walk through the doors of the hotel, I spot Janelle sitting at the bar in the lobby, her back to me. Her hair is still long and a muted red, slightly darker and less fiery than it used to be. Her figure lithe. She turns as if she senses me, and my lips creep up into a broad smile, despite my nervousness. I made myself forget all the great times we had together after what I did. But those memories now break through the surface.
She simply nods at the stool next to her, her red-painted lips tight.
“Hi,” I say tentatively.
“Thanks for meeting me tonight,” she says, the conciliatory words not matching the tone of her voice. As if she’s reading a script.
“Of course.” I sit.
The bartender greets me.
“Whatever she’s having.” I point to the dark-colored liquid in her highball. Some sort of whiskey, I’m assuming.
“She’s always wanted what I’ve wanted,” she says more to herself than anyone else, her eyes narrow as she plays with the straw in her drink.
“What is this about, Janelle?” I ask. But there’s not a doubt in my mind now. She knows.
“I think you know,” she says, reading my mind. Then she turns to me, her chocolate eyes hard.
I wait. Sam’s words ring in my ears. Never give anything away. Make them talk first. But no, that’s not who I want to be anymore. I want to start over. Be honest. Be accountable.
“I do,” I say. “And I’m sorry. If I could go back and change things, I would.” The words come quickly and painlessly. I feel relief. It’s getting easier and easier to tell the truth.
Janelle’s eyebrows rise slightly, but she says nothing. She’s surprised I’m not denying it. “I was sent an anonymous email,” she finally offers.
“When?”
“Yesterday. That’s why I wanted to meet.”
Was it Ethan? He decides to confront me about the affair with pictures; then he contacts someone I screwed over in college?
“I tried to trace it,” she says. “Had the tech guy in the DA’s office work on it. But it was a dead Gmail account. I was thinking you might know who sent it,” she says, laughing softly. “It seems from what I’ve heard since I got to town that you’ve made a lot of enemies.”
“I have,” I say as the bartender sets my drink in front of me. I take a long sip and let the whiskey burn my throat.
“What you did. Was it worth it?” she asks, not unkindly, and I understand. She’s asking me whether I’ve made the most of what I took from her. And in many ways I have—I’ve lived up to be the kind of person who would steal a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity from a friend.
“I’d always thought that it was, until recently. I mean, I felt terrible at the time,” I add, when her eyes widen. “But I told myself that I couldn’t change it, that it would have done more harm than good to out Callahan, to reveal myself and our affair.” I circle my finger around the rim of my glass as I choose my next words. “But now I wonder if it was the very first of my many, many failures as a human being.”
Janelle studies me for several beats before speaking. “Well, I’m not here to tell you that you ruined my life because I didn’t get the internship.”
“Thank God,” I mutter under my breath.
“But that doesn’t make it okay, Lila.”
“I know that. I’m sorry.”
“I think the worst part was that you stopped speaking to me. For years I racked my brains wondering what I did wrong,” she says. “It made me question everything, because I had thought we were real friends.”
“We were,” I say reflexively but stop myself. “No, you were.”
“What are you saying?” A shadow crosses her face. “That you were never my friend?”
“No!” I shake my head. “I loved our friendship,” I say, grasping for the way to best describe what I’m feeling. I remember Janelle taking notes for me in class when I got the flu. I recall the many times she skipped dates with her boyfriend to hang out with me. Or when I didn’t go home for Thanksgiving that first year because the news of my dad’s philandering was like a vise grip around my heart, so Janelle took me to her parents’ place in San Francisco. She was so dependable that I took her for granted. Like a foundation that you think will never give out until it’s shaken so hard that it does. “You saw me for who I was and liked me anyway.” And it’s true. She had celebrated my sharp edges. Until they cut her.
“Yeah, you were a tough one,” Janelle quips, and we laugh awkwardly. “But, Lila, you have a heart in there—a big one. Don’t think I didn’t see how hard it was for you—not connecting with many people. I never understood why you pretended to be the Tin Man.”
We fall into silence as I search for my response. “Because it was easier. Or so I thought.”
Janelle arches an eyebrow, and it transports me back to our shared apartment that we rented second year. She’d look at me that way when I’d leave my dishes piled high in the sink. I’m about to tell her as much when she starts talking.
“You know there were guys who wanted to date you. People who wanted to be your friend. But you rebuffed them, gave off that vibe of yours. You were so guarded . . .” She trails off.
“I know. I think the stuff with my dad really screwed me up in a way I couldn’t see for a long time.” Until this week.
Janelle nods.
“I couldn’t face you after what I did,” I finally say. “I knew it was so wrong but didn’t know how to fix it.”
Janelle frowns. “Yes, you did. But you didn’t want to.”
She’s right. I could have corrected the wrong with one phone call. But once I had the opportunity in my hands, I knew there was no way I would let it go. “True,” I concede. “But I don’t want to be that person anymore.”
“Because you got caught?” she asks, holding my gaze, her accusation similar to Ethan’s.
“Maybe that was the reason initially, but it’s much more than that. I want to be better. I know I can be.”
“I know you can too, Lila.” She smiles at me and touches my arm.
“I’m tired of covering up lies with more lies.”
“They add up, don’t they?”
“More than you know,” I answer. “Janelle, I want to make this right with you. What will it take? For what it’s worth, I’m quitting that job tomorrow.”
“Wow,” she says. “And what are you going to do?”
“I have no idea. Maybe I’ll sell Rodan and Fields,” I deadpan, and we both laugh.
“Or sell those leggings on Facebook.” She rolls her eyes.
“Hey, I bought several pairs! They really are smooth as butter!” I smile, my heart aching as I think of all the years with her that I lost.
Janelle shakes her head. “What’s done is done. And you know what they say, everything happens for a reason.”
“You really believe that?”
“I do,” she says. “If I’d taken that internship, I never would have met John, my husband. I never would have had my kids.” She grabs her phone and pulls up a picture of a young boy and a girl jumping on a tram
poline. “Chris is eight and Calista is nine,” she says, beaming.
“They’re beautiful,” I say as I stare at their matching dark-blond hair, surprised when I feel tears in my eyes. Janelle got the life she deserved. Maybe Chase was right. Because here karma is, once again making sure the universe is just.
“I’m okay, Lila,” Janelle says, her voice kind. “You always had much more ambition than I did anyway.”
I nod, knowing what she’s really saying—I’m so relieved I didn’t turn out like you.
“Are you happy?” Janelle asks.
I wasn’t expecting the question, and it hits me strangely. I sip my drink, trying to decide what the answer is. The old Lila would have immediately said yes. But this Lila, she is going to be honest. “No. But I’m getting there,” I say. “I have a lot of work to do.”
“The Lila I knew was never afraid of a little hard work.” She grins.
“Are you? Happy?”
“I am, but the prosecuting job I took is draining me already. Much more intense here than up north. The pay is crap, which I expected. But what I didn’t consider was how that would factor into the crazy cost of living and the private school I had to put my kids in because the public one was, well . . .”
I nod, having heard the stories.
She continues. “We already closed on our house in Pasadena, so I can’t back out now. We’ll have to find a way to make it work.”
An idea strikes me. A way I can attempt to right my wrong with Janelle. “Well, I can give you the inside track on a spot at a prestigious firm right here in downtown LA that specializes in criminal defense and pays much better.”
“So, let me get this straight—you hate your job, feel like it made you a terrible person, and now you want me to take it?” She grimaces. “And to think I thought you wanted to make things right!”
“The firm didn’t make me who I am. I did,” I say. For every fork in the road, I chose the wrong path. I know that Janelle will not. Where I would always push the envelope, she preferred to follow rules. Drove the speed limit always—even when she was late for something, which was often. Never accepting notes from an upperclassman who’d already taken a course she was in. Not willing to keep extra change that was given to her by mistake. “They could use someone like you to balance out all the assholes.”