by Palmer, Dee
I tried to reach out to her at the time she was arrested, but she was no longer my sister. I didn’t know the stranger sitting in that cell. It’s not that she didn’t care what she’d done; she did care, and she believed she’d done the right thing. Her one and only confession, however, was to me as I tried to wake my parents, frantic and screaming for her to call for help. She just stood there, smiling, telling me we could be together now, nothing would come between us again. She told me again that she loved me and would protect me, and I told her if I ever saw her again, I’d kill her.
I hover over the email received today and bile washes up my throat and fills my mouth. I lurch over to the wastebasket and spit out the burning mixture of acid and Jack Daniels. I cough until my lungs are clear, and I don’t feel so damn sick. This is exactly the same feeling I used to get when I neared the damn front door, and now it’s in my office. The irony isn’t lost on me that I had actually started to make progress with this irrational fear that’s kept me prisoner all this time.
After my parents’ funeral, I chose not to leave the house. It was my decision, and I was fine with it. Somewhere along the line, that changed, and the mild feeling of nausea I experienced at the thought of leaving my home escalated into full-blown panic attacks. It wasn’t worth it. Nothing held enough interest to put myself through that, not until Tia.
This last year, I decided I’d had enough. Tia had offered to help, but I needed to do this myself, for me but also for us. I’ve been working through some on-line therapy techniques to help break down the barriers I have, over the years, made insurmountable. I even stepped up my sessions when she moved in with Atticus. I haven’t attempted to leave, but I’ve certainly made it to the front door and pulled it open without incident.
It’s only a matter of time.
I just need more time, and now it seems contacting my sister is the trigger to set me back to ground fucking zero. Fuck, I didn’t think it was possible to hate my sister any more but every day’s a school day. I pick up my phone and punch in her number. I know in my gut this is going to cost, and I just have to hope that, this time, the right person pays.
“You called me!” Her shock gives her voice a shaky edge. Still, I can hear the joy loud and clear. I fight the urge to hang up as a sick, clawing feeling thickens my blood and makes me feel the weight of the tragedy all over again.
“Why, Lilith, why did you send Tia to me?” I force the words out as I try and focus on what I need and only on what I need: information.
“She looks a little like me, don’t you think?”
“She looks nothing like you. She is nothing like you.” I growl and I can feel the rage building too fast to temper down. I puff out a calming breath and crack my neck, free of the instant tension.
“You like her?” Her tone is eerily impassive, and I curse my slip. Even if my tone was full of anger, I could hear the softness in the way I phrased the accusation. I need to kill this now.
“I fucking hate her, almost as much as I hate you.” The chill in my response feels all wrong, even if it is necessary.
“And you’re calling me now because you suddenly needed to tell me this,” she goads, and I can almost see the satisfied smile creep across her face.
“I hate loose ends, and I hate being played. I want to know why you sent Tia here, and I want to know what she’s up to.”
“You care about her?” Her response is quick, and my stomach twists at the implication that she’s not buying my faux indifference.
“Are you deaf? I said I hate loose ends. Answer the damn question, Lilith!” My lack of patience is testing my temper to its limits.
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll hang up.”
“I don’t believe you,” she retorts with a quaver in her voice, which is music to my ears. She needs this conversation, regardless of the content, and that is all I need to know.
“Just try me.” I hear her breath catch, and I’m just about to make good on my threat when she speaks.
“She needed access to your computers.”
“And?”
“And I wanted…” She checks herself.
“What, what did you want, Lilith?” Lucky for me my frustration sounds a good deal like aggressive impatience.
“Call me Ghost.” Her pleading voice has a hard edge.
“What?”
“Lilith died. I’m Ghost. Call me Ghost.”
“I don’t have time for this.” I drag my hand through my hair and grab the back of my neck. This whole conversation is fucking insane.
“Really? Because you’re in such a hurry to go somewhere?” Her sickeningly sweet delivery is filled with malice, and I’m running on reserves just keeping this line live. I close my eyes and mentally count to ten before I exhale slowly and ask.
“What did you want, Ghost?”
“I wanted to talk to you. I missed you, and I thought if you took her in because she does look like me a little, and I thought…” She rushes the words like I’ve just opened a six-year floodgate, and I have to jump in before we both drown in the crazy.
“Lil-Ghost, you need to get help.” I try and keep my voice soft, even if compassion is the last thing she deserves. I need answers, and at this point, I don’t care who I have to fool to get them.
“I need you,” she pleads.
“What is she up to with Kraus?” I deflect and, thank the devil on my shoulder, she answers.
“She’s up to her neck, but why do you care?” Her insecurity is flashing big fuck-off warning signs, but all I can do is keep repeating the same response.
“I don’t. I just don’t want this blowing back on me. So, if she’s in danger, I’d like to know about it,” I calmly state, and she snorts.
“Oh there’s no if about it; she’s in danger.”
“So, help her; she’s your friend.” The fingers of my free hand are curled in an unyielding fist, ready to punch the living shit out of something, anything, and her casual regard for Tia’s safety has me wishing for the first time that this was a social call not a phone call.
“I don’t have friends.”
“Fuck, Lilith, you’re a piece of work.” My bitter laugh echoes down the line.
“I’ll help her if you’ll let me come home. I know you’ll never leave the house again, but just let me come and see you.” The certainty of that taunt spurs my determination to prove her wrong, a counter to her original trigger and just one more reason fuelling my desire to overcome my phobia.
“Never gonna happen, Sis.” I spit but feel the need to clarify. “I can’t do that even if I wanted to, and trust me, the last thing I want is be in a room with you. I meant what I said last time I saw you Lilith. I’ll kill you.”
“You think I’m afraid of dying? Interesting.” She hums lightly and an unearthly chill runs the length of my spine.
“You need help. Get some fucking help, Lilith. You have the money; why don’t you get some help?”
“Logan, my love, it’s not me that’s in danger.” She laughs, and I swallow hard at the sound. “The only thing that is going to save the Kraus Corporation is cashing in the life insurance policy on the one and only heir.”
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“Invite me round and I’ll tell you,” she replies with a satisfied sneer to her tone. I take a moment to think and have to curse my sloppiness.
“You hacked my cameras?”
“I did. The funny thing about this juicy revelation is the grandfather actually told Tia, but she didn’t believe him. Thought it was the ramblings of a dying man.” She snickers with detached amusement.
“She told you that?”
“She told me lots of things, Logan. We were cellmates, and there’s not much more you can do other than talk…and plan.”
“The video wouldn’t give you life insurance information. You’re bluffing.” I’m beyond irritated at myself. Even so, I have to know.
“Because that’s what I’m good at: pretending.”
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“I’m not buying this bullshit. No, you don’t pretend. You do exactly what you want, regardless of whose lives you destroy. You’d do anything to get what you want, which included feeding me information about bogus life insurance policies. You’re not that good a hacker,” I goad and can’t help smiling when my email pings with an incoming message, a scanned file attached with a copy of the very document in question.
“I never lied to you.”
“You sent Tia here. I consider that lying.” I snap the truth through gritted teeth.
“She was my in. Two birds, one stone.” She sing-songs her reply like she’s won some great prize. My hackles are up, and I’m just about done.
“It makes no sense you would send any woman to me.” I regret I couldn’t keep this thought in my head.
“She lied to you. You don’t like liars. Do you, Logan?” Her explanation is simple, and her warning tone is serious. I told her often enough when she refused to confess.
“No, I don’t.” I don’t bother to add, Tia obviously didn’t have a choice, trusted the wrong psycho. I also neglect to say that I didn’t know she was a liar when I fell in love. “How was she your ‘in’ exactly?”
“We’re talking now aren’t we? You let her in because she looked like me. It gave me hope, and I knew you could never love her, never want her like that. She was raped; she can never have children. It’s not her fault she’s not pure and barren, but I knew.” Her words sound like mad ramblings, terrifyingly deluded ramblings, which make me numb. “And you had your whores, so why would you want more with Tia when you could have me? You were waiting for me.” I swallow down the sickness in my mouth, too ill to speak. “Besides, she owed me,” she mutters dismissively, and that’s not like her. Her tone holds something more, and it takes a second for my brain to catch up with stored and pertinent information. Tia’s attackers were poisoned.
“She…you…you and those women. They were poisoned, just like Mum and Dad,” I stutter.
“I believe the recorded cause of death was inconclusive in the case of the Mother and Father. However the women who attacked Tia justly died of belladonna in the blueberry muffins. I’m not a complete monster, Logan,” she offers, and I know what she’s hoping for with this revelation. Despite what I’d said at the time about wanting to shake the hand of the person that killed Tia’s rapists, Lilith is sick, and I’m not remotely torn.
“No Lilith, you’re just mostly a monster, and I will never trust you, ever. Goodbye.” I lift the phone away from my ear and cut the call, barely hearing her cries.
“No! Logan, don’t go! Please don’t—” I press the end call button so hard the screen cracks. I drop the phone like it’s too hot for my fingers and rest my shaking hands on the desk, grounding myself before I figure out how the fuck I’m going to do what I have to do.
I’ve been standing at the front door for I’m not sure how long. It could be minutes or days. All I do know is my feet are like lead fucking weights, and no matter how much I will my muscles to move me forward, nothing fucking happens. I made it easily past my safe distance marker, yet now I can feel rivers of sweat trickling down the hollow of my spine from my neck all the way to the crack in my arse. The waistband of my jeans seems to be soaking up my fear, preventing the stream from reaching its final destination.
That’s what this is: pure, unadulterated terror.
No, not terror, crippling uncertainty, and I will conquer it. I can feel my stomach roll, and I swallow down the watery taste of sickness, fighting the urge to throw up. I guess that’s one thing. I haven’t thrown up…yet. I draw in a deep, steadying breath and sweep my damp hair from my face for the hundredth time. I focus all my attention on lifting my damn foot from the ground. I have to do this.
Months of talking with my therapist are condensed into this pivotal moment. Phobias are irrational, and I need to embrace that to overcome it. It is what it is because I allow it to control me and only I have the power to change my mindset. It’s just one more step, and I need to take it. I’m ready. I remind myself there is nothing rational about love, yet I want that more than my next breath.
Closing my eyes, all I can see is her face, her tentative smile and the wrinkle at the bridge of her nose when I do something gross or dumb. I can picture her as clear as if she’s standing before me. The way her eyes light up when she’s talking about an artist she loves, about music and books, restaurants she’d like to try, and places she’d love to visit. Places I want to visit too, cities and experiences I’m never going to be able to share with the woman I love if I don’t fucking move. If I don’t save her. If I don’t manage to… My foot twitches, and I hold my breath. The only sound is the blood rushing in my ears and my heart trying to break free of its bony prison.
The next thing I feel is a cool rush of air as I step forward…one foot then the other. I don’t stop until one hand is resting flat on the doorframe and the other is gripping the handle. It’s not a death grip either; it’s just firm and with purpose. I have a job to do, and fuck this phobia, I’m going to get it done. I pull the door handle down with a jerk, swing the door wide, and with a strength I didn’t know I had, I step outside for the first time in nearly ten years.
I stand for a moment on the red tiled porch, which overlooks my substantial patch of front garden, now overgrown with shrubs and untamed rosebushes. I stare out over the horizon, down the hill of the street where I’ve lived all my life. Water glazes my vision, and I have to blink several times because, looking at this view, it’s as if I’m just now seeing it for the first time with fresh eyes and fresher air in my lungs. I’m more than a little shocked I can breathe at all.
I did it!
My chest expands, drawing an abundance of air, even liking the subtle clogging scent of early morning fumes from commuting cars, which are starting to stack up in the distance. The noise seems like I’ve lifted my noise cancelling headphones off my ears, and I’m being bombarded with a quality of sound and vision I thought would have me on my knees. My stomach is rolling but it’s not with nerves, it’s something else. I don’t think excitement is quite the right emotion but it’s definitely not fear. I can do this.
I pull the door shut behind me and swallow the dry lump in my throat at the final clicking sound. This is it. I’m really outside now and turn without thinking too much and make my way down the steps. My hand reaches for the solid stone column supporting the porch overhang, when I get a wave of lightheadedness. Sucking in a deep breath, I focus on my goal. The gate first, then a taxi. Shit! I almost laugh aloud at my fucking stupidity. I pat my back pocket and fish for my phone and keys but not my wallet. Dumbass. I’m so used to paying for everything online or Tia paying for deliveries, I rarely ever carry the damn thing, but in the real world, cash and cards are kind of a necessity, especially since I don’t have a car, and I still need to get from point A to saving Tia.
Turning around just as I reach the gate, I walk back to the door. My heart starts to pound a little harder, and I curse, I’m going to have to put myself through all of that again.
Fucking idiot.
I just have to hope it’s not as bad the second time, because walking through that door was akin to walking through the gates of hell. I was sweating enough, and it sure as shit felt like I was going to burst into flames at one point. The keys jangle in my shaking hand until my fist grips them silent, and I turn the lock. The door creaks open, and I relish the feel of relief at being home, even if it’s short-lived. I pick up my wallet from the table by the bottom of the stairs and turn around to face my nemesis once more.
“Who the fuck are you?” I stride forward at the mountain blocking my doorway and any chance of daylight getting past his vast frame. I’m only vaguely aware I’ve stepped over my safe distance line without hesitation. There is a stranger in my doorway, and he doesn’t look remotely like a deliveryman or in the least surprised at my instant hostility for that matter.
“I asked a fairly simple question. Answer it and
then get the fuck out of my house!” I state with enough aggression to make my point. If I wasn’t all fucked six ways to Sunday with leaving the damn house for the first time, I might’ve picked up on the alarm bells ringing in my head. As it is, they got drowned out with all the other shit going on, and now it’s a little too late.
“I can’t do that,” he responds calmly, his face impassive, and he stretches his thick neck to one side as if loosening up. He’s built, and I get the sense this is nothing personal. This is professional, and that’s when I realise he’s not loosening up; he’s warming up.
He starts to reach for something behind him, and I move too quickly to see the result of his search. I barrel into him, sending us both crashing against the doorframe. His meaty hands rain down onto my back in three hammer-like strikes, winding me, but I still have a firm hold around his midsection. The force of my charge has knocked him off balance enough to drop whatever he was reaching for. I glance in the direction of the noise of an object hitting the floor as a matte black handgun skids across the hallway, drifting to a stop under the sideboard on the far wall.
The distraction costs me, and I crumple to the floor when his knee drives up between my legs. Stars shoot behind my eyes as pain I never believed possible pierces my balls. My hands cup too late, but honestly, I’m feeling for the ice pick, which must be lodged in there it hurts so damn much. I look up to the shadow of the dark man towering over me.
“You fight like a girl.” I cough and choke out on a strained voice. Catching the glimmer of enjoyment flashing in his shadowy eyes, his lips curl around an animalistic snarl as he pulls back, and I brace for the hefty fist flying toward my face.
I lift my head up with enormous effort; the pain in my neck is agony. My head weighs a ton, and the shooting pain inside my damn brain makes me wince; I swear it’s going to explode from the tiniest movement. I must’ve been in this position for a long time for it to hurt like this, and the fact I feel dizzy just lifting my head up off the pillow makes me think I’ve been unconscious for a while. I get an instant flashback. Bright sunlight, green open fields next to our tree and the feeling of rage in my very soul. Then the pinprick to my neck and the sudden heaviness as I slumped against Atticus, but that’s all.