The Two Lila Bennetts

by Fenton, Liz

  “My name is Lila Bennett, and I’ve escaped my kidnappers. Please help me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  FRIDAY

  FREE

  The parking karma gods clearly aren’t having an issue with me, and I find an amazing space on Temple Street. I pay the meter and hurry down to Spring. I catch sight of the Los Angeles Times building, hoping that Lynn and her attorney followed through on our plan and confronted Greenwood with the evidence I provided them. That the threat of exposure will make him back off. That when I arrive at the courthouse, Greenwood will sheepishly tell me he’s withdrawing his suit against his wife. That she can have the kids, the house, the money to which she’s entitled. He’ll pretend it’s because he’s decided to be reasonable, and I’ll nod and smile in agreement, neither of us acknowledging the things we did to get to this point. I cross my fingers that this is where it will end, because if the chief of police discovers that notes have been leaked from something he tried to cover up, he will go on the warpath to find out who was behind it. I’ve already planned to take the heat and say that I hired someone to find the notes for me any way possible—even if that meant breaking in and stealing them. Sully did the right thing by handing them over, and there is no way I’d expose him.

  I push myself into a half run, half walk, as fast as my pencil skirt will let me move, and adjust my bag on my shoulder. The preliminary hearing is less than fifteen minutes from beginning. And I know this particular judge; she won’t start a second after eleven. I cannot be late. I had hoped to get here sooner but am relieved at what I accomplished this morning. There is only one item on my mental to-do list left to check off, and then my new life can begin. I’m already picturing myself at dinner with my mom tonight, her raising her glass of cabernet and toasting me for finally quitting, us making plans to travel somewhere relaxing together. Then returning home and calling Ethan to tell him I went through with it. Praying he offers to come over. But at the very least that he confirms it makes him happy to hear.

  “Lila!” I hear my name and squint to see where the male voice is coming from. Traffic is heavy on Spring, and a bus releases its exhaust as the person says my name again. I keep moving forward, and this time when I hear “Lila,” there’s no question whose voice it is: Greenwood’s. He’s in a shadowed area in front of the courthouse, but his looming silhouette is still obvious. His arms are flailing in the air as he walks toward me and away from the building. Behind him is Lynn Greenwood and her attorney, Mark. So there’s my answer. He knows. And judging by his demeanor, their meeting hadn’t gone as I hoped it might.

  “Where have you been?” he screams, his face a deep shade of red.

  “I’m here now,” I say, out of breath. I glance at my watch. It’s ten to eleven.

  “You’re late!” he bellows.

  “What is it that couldn’t wait until I got inside?” I glance behind him at Lynn and her lawyer, standing shoulder to shoulder, Mark barely an inch taller than Lynn. Both of them are at least a head shorter than Greenwood, whose anger makes him seem taller than his six-foot-five frame. Mark nods at me quickly, confirming that they told him what we’d talked about.

  “They’re blackmailing me!”

  “With what?” I ask, widening my eyes for effect as two lawyers sail past us into a waiting car. I move closer to Greenwood so we’re not overheard.

  “They’re accusing me of crazy things. I bet they concocted this scheme because they’re sleeping together!” Spittle comes out of his mouth as he rants, and I step back quickly. “Said they’ll go to the Times with what they are saying I’ve done,” he huffs.

  “Is what they said true?” I ask, trying to keep my face impassive, glancing at Lynn, who looks pale.

  “What the hell does that matter?” Greenwood hisses.

  “I’m trying to assess what’s going on here.” I straighten my back slightly and suck down all the words I want to call him.

  He turns swiftly on his heel and points at his wife. “All you need to know is that she’s a lying bitch!”

  “I am not,” she says, tugging on the bottom of her black jacket, then looking up at him, her eyes full of tears. “You know what the truth is and that we can prove it. So drop your suit against me and let me have the boys and the money I’m entitled to, and then you can go on with your sad little life.” Her bottom lip quivers slightly. She’s probably never stood up to him before.

  I move around to the other side of Greenwood, and now I’m positioned in between him and his wife. His face reddens more. “What did you say to me?” he yells at her. “You do not talk to me like that.”

  “I forgot that’s your area,” Lynn mutters, her voice trembling. Then, after a beat, she sucks in a deep breath, brushing at her eyes to stop the tears. “What’s next, are you going to hit me? Because it wouldn’t be the first time. Do we want to talk about that too?”

  Her attorney puts his hand on her arm and whispers something in her ear.

  “What are you doing?” Greenwood moves in Mark’s direction, and Mark’s face loses some of its color. “Giving her more bullshit advice?”

  He clears his throat. “Mr. Greenwood, court is set to begin. We need to know what you plan to do. We cannot be late. Judge Mattheson will not hold our time. She is a stickler for punctuality.” He looks at me, and I check my watch again. We have four minutes.

  “I’m not going in there,” Greenwood says and puffs out his chest.

  “If you and your lawyer don’t show up, the judge will rule in our favor.”

  “You’re not going in there either,” Greenwood barks. “We are going to settle this right here, right now. I’d already decided there would be no woman in a robe telling me how my life turns out.”

  Mark gives him a quizzical look, then shakes his head. “Come on, Lynn, let’s go.”

  As if it’s happening in slow motion, I see Greenwood reach inside his suit coat pocket, and the sun glints off the handle of a pistol. I scream Lynn’s name, and she turns, her eyes wide in recognition of what’s about to happen. I move toward Greenwood slowly. “Stop. You don’t have to do this,” I yell, but he only laughs.

  “Get out of the way, Bennett. This isn’t about you.”

  “Don’t do this!” I scream again. But he holds the gun out anyway and moves his finger closer to the trigger. I pounce, pushing Lynn out of the way as I hear the crack of the revolver firing, and I instantly experience a sense of déjà vu. But from where? I’ve never been near a gun firing in my life. I fall backward as the bullet pierces me, the pain in my chest excruciating. I hit the ground with a thud, the concerned faces above me fading in and out. Lynn and her attorney hover over me, pleading with me to hang on. They tell me over and over that it’s going to be okay, almost like a mantra. But I already know it’s not going to be—they’re only trying to make themselves feel better. My lips quiver, but I can’t speak—the life I knew is draining out quickly.

  I’m so tired.

  Lynn is begging me to keep my eyes open, but I can’t. It’s too hard. I summon an image of Ethan. Will he forgive me in death? I pray he does. My earlier conversation with my mom flashes through my head—I’m so thankful that my last words were I love you. As I draw a final breath, I think of Chase and my very first case—Ed, the man who was convicted of the murder of the man his wife was sleeping with. I see Chase’s eyes, and then I see a boy named Derrick sitting stoically in court next to his tearful brother, Quincy, and his sobbing mother, and I feel the dots connect, and I finally understand that Chase had been the one intent on destroying me—my impending death bringing me an intense clarity I had lacked in life.

  Then it all fades to black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  FRIDAY

  CAPTURED

  I barely feel the weight of the heavy blanket the tall, barrel-chested man places gently on my shaking shoulders. I think he said his name is Bill as he led me away from the prying eyes of those watching me from the rec room of the Los Angeles Mission into a ba
ck office, but I’m not sure. “The police are on their way,” he says now, his eyes soft as he slides his wire-framed glasses up his nose. He must see the fear still etched on my face from what I’ve been through, because he adds, “Don’t worry, we’ve locked the doors until they arrive. You’re safe now. They’ve been scouring the city for you all week. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when you came through the door. I recognize you from the news.”

  His declaration of my safety slows the adrenaline that’s been shooting through my veins since it gave me the power to hit Chase and run from captivity. I can now feel the warm throbbing of my bloody feet, the aching in my back and legs, my body’s desire to curl up and sleep as that veil of adrenaline lifts and reality sets in. I glance at a tattered copy of the LA Times sitting on the desk. It’s Friday. I’ve been missing for five days. Five days that have felt like a year.

  I was supposed to die. But I lived. I’m free.

  Q let me go. There’s no other explanation. He could have stopped me. Cut me. Shot me. But he stood frozen, his eyes as green as I’ve ever seen them. I’m sure in the coming months the many theories as to why he let me run past him will be explored—that he finally realized he wasn’t capable of taking another life, or maybe he was tired of doing Chase’s bidding. I’d like to think he came to the conclusion that it wasn’t another person’s job to punish us for our mistakes. We have to do that for ourselves. I choose to believe that theory—that there was a silent understanding between us as I flew past him in the hallway.

  Although I escaped and am sitting here on a stiff wooden chair in the mission’s tiny office, the warm Diet Coke Bill placed in front of me sitting untouched, there is a hard ache in my chest. Because, although I survived my concrete prison, the person who lived inside me, the Lila who was capable of driving Chase to devise an elaborate revenge plan to torture me and ultimately kill me, is gone. And I’m feeling her loss. Because she drove who I was my entire life. And had it not been for Chase, would she still be here? Did it take something that cruel, that harsh, that unthinkable to drive her out of me? I won’t say that I’m happy to have gone through it. God, no! Because that would be crazy, wouldn’t it? But I’m not unhappy either. Maybe we leave it right there.

  Then I notice a headline on the front page of the LA Times. Man’s alleged attempted murder of his wife thwarted by his lawyer at courthouse. My heart beats faster as I scan the article. Steve Greenwood tried to kill his wife. His lawyer saw that he had a gun and was starting to point it at his wife, and she knocked it out of his hand. The gun went flying, and security was able to detain Greenwood as he attempted to grab the pistol that had landed several feet away. I think back to the night I’d been taken—I’d met with Greenwood just prior. He’d swaggered into my office like he couldn’t lose. I wonder what had happened to take him from the man I met to someone who would try to murder his wife. Would things have turned out differently if I hadn’t gone with Sam that night? If I’d gone home to curl up on the couch with Ethan? If I’d been free and able to represent Steve, would he have made different decisions? The thought brings hard, wet tears flying off my cheeks and onto the newspaper, blurring the print until I can’t make out the words any longer.

  Maybe all we are is the sum of our choices, each one leading us down a different path, each with its own unique outcome. The notion that each decision holds that much power is overwhelming, and I squeeze my eyes shut to shake the thought away.

  The sirens are growing louder. Coming closer. The police will want my story. They will interrogate me about the ins and the outs of my captivity. They will take their notes and write up their reports and do their best to bring Chase and Q to justice. They may pity me for what I endured. But what they’ll never comprehend is that the experience has made me shed the worst part of myself, like a snake outgrowing its skin. I will never be that person again.

  I may have lived. But that Lila Bennett, she is dead. Two parts of me, now one.

  Today is the first day of the rest of this life. And this Lila plans to listen to the good voice inside her, the one who reminds her to be the best version of herself. That she is her father’s daughter, but she’s not her father. I know that sometimes the bad voice will creep in, because I’m still human after all, but when she does, I will tell her I’m not interested. Now that I understand every decision counts, I intend to make better ones.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The process of writing books is different for everyone, we’re sure. In our case, we’ve found it can be like a pendulum. Swing too far one way, and it can break you. But sway the other direction, and it can also put you back together. As we wrote in the acknowledgments for Girls’ Night Out, that book fractured us. As coauthors. As friends. But Lila Bennett? She mended us. She brought us back from what we thought was our last collaboration and breathed new life into our partnership. She reminded us of our love for the written word. So, thank you, Lila. You reminded us why we are stronger together. Why the ups and the downs are necessary. You very well may have saved us from ourselves.

  And now on to the real-life people we can’t live without. We’ll start with all our wonderful supporters at Lake Union: Danielle Marshall, for always believing in us; Dennelle Catlett, for your amazing multitasking wonderfulness; Alicia Clancy, for your wonderful editorial insight; and Gabe Dumpit, for everything in between. We tell each other often how lucky we are to be a part of the Amazon Publishing family, and that’s because of each and every one of you.

  And of course, Tiffany Yates Martin. As we type this, we await your editing notes on this novel. We know they will be smart, laser-focused, and fierce as hell—just like you. (And while we have you, should we have put that em dash there?)

  And we wouldn’t be anywhere without Elisabeth Weed and the Book Group. Thank you for all you do to further our career and, more importantly, for texting in emoji-speak occasionally. You get us—you really, really get us. Hallie, we appreciate you putting up with us!

  Kathleen Carter. Have we mentioned what a joy it is to work with you? (Actually, we’re pretty sure we have, several times, after too many martinis on the GNO book tour!) But seriously, thank you for your unwavering professionalism and integrity as our publicist—two qualities we consider to be invaluable.

  Ellen Goldsmith-Vein with the Gotham Group—thank you for taking us on! And for liking our Instagram posts!

  To all the book bloggers and bookstagrammers who work tirelessly to promote novels, “thank you” doesn’t even begin to cover it. You are each a force of nature with a mission: to encourage people to read, something so desperately needed in our world. Please know that we see and appreciate all your tireless work.

  Andrea Katz! Thank you for your valued—and brutal—honesty. We love you.

  To our author friends: thanks for all the hilarious group chats and invaluable advice. They are a lifesaver, and we feel honored to know all of you.

  To our readers: it’s really simple—we wouldn’t be here without you. Thank you for every word you have read.

  To Riley: we dedicated this book to you because of your wonderful idea of revisiting the Sliding Doors concept—a movie we made you watch! We were creatively depleted, and you stepped in and saved the day. We hate to break this to you, girl, but you are a writer! Embrace it!

  To our families: we know we can drive you all a little nuts with all the texting, emailing, and talking we do with each other. Thank you for understanding why this needs to go on. (And not only because we have to discuss a marketing idea that can’t wait or text-fight about a timeline for accomplishing something book related. Sometimes it’s necessary to have an hour-long chat about how hot John Krasinski is in Jack Ryan.) So thank you for humoring us and all our craziness. We appreciate your sincere and unwavering love and support of what we do. On that note, Mike and Matt, have we told you we’ve narrowed down the exotic location for our next book?

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Photo © 2017 Debbie Friedrich photography

  Liz
Fenton and Lisa Steinke have been best friends for over thirty years and survived high school and college together. They’ve coauthored five novels, including Girls’ Night Out and the Amazon Charts bestseller The Good Widow. In their former lives, Fenton worked in the pharmaceutical industry, and Steinke was a talk show producer. They both reside with their families and several rescue dogs in San Diego, California. Find them at www.lizandlisa.com and on Instagram @lisaandliz.