Between Now and Always (The Forever Trilogy Book 3)

by Dylan Allen

“I don’t think going to see Susan will get us very far. Whose going to take the word of a convicted murderer over a man who’s running for governor?”

  Phil’s eyes narrow to slits. “He’s not running anymore. He lost in the primary. For all his influence people aren’t that sold on him. They might believe her if she could get evidence that backed her up.”

  “You just said she wasn’t credible.”

  “Whatever made her think you were safer on a church doorstep in fucking Ithaca New York, than with him, is something only she can tell us. If we know what he did to make her feel that way, then maybe we’ll know where to look. What if she didn’t do it? But we need evidence and the only way we’ll find it is if we know where to look. And that’s the thing that will help us bring him down for good,” he says with grave certainty.

  “Shit.” My shoulders slump under the weight of my fatigue from travel and dealing with the drama that landed on my doorstep tonight.

  Just this morning, I would have said my life was virtually trouble free. I’d just come off a short, but successful tour where we opened for Coldplay a few times. I’m making money. My family is good and I’m sleeping okay.

  Twelve hours later, everything is fucked up. I frown at Phil, who looks so much like the devil who spawned us that it’s jarring.

  When we reconnected all those months ago, he asked me to help him get dirt on Drew and Duke. I was more than happy to help. So far, my contribution has been splitting the costs of PIs and lawyers and paying people for information they put a price on.

  We have another month before we head off for our first official tour, but it’s a crazy time with rehearsal and press, and work.

  I want to do more…but actually contacting Susan Kendicott fills me with panic. I wrack my brain for an alternative.

  “What about Dina? She was working on this stuff when I last spoke to her. Said she was going to blow it all wide open. She had a theory similar to yours.” I grasp at the straw of hope the thought gives.

  “Dina? Liz’s friend?” He looks totally bewildered.

  “Yes. She’s the one who convinced me to write you the note on the DNA registry in the first place. She’s in touch with Susan’s lawyer and everything. He gave her a bunch of papers from Susan’s file.”

  He frowns, his surprise deepening.

  “Her lawyer’s never mentioned her to me. But, why would he, I guess?” He’s talking to himself more than to me.

  Then, he shrugs and shakes his head, as if to clear it before his eyes focus again. “Dina was at the wedding, but I haven’t seen her since. Not that I do much besides work and this.”

  His frown deepens, his brows draw even closer together and I recognize that austere expression on his face. I’ve seen it staring back at me from the mirror.

  It’s a crazy feeling. But, I like it. When I was a kid, I envied my siblings for their resemblance to each other. And now… I have Phil.

  “What reasons did she give for thinking Susan Kendicott was the fall guy?” he asks.

  It takes me a second to backtrack my thoughts to the conversation we’re having. While he waits, he drums his fingers impatiently. Just like I do.

  “It was when she realized who I was that the other child – you – was still alive too.

  She started doubting all of the other things she knew about Susan.

  “Why do you look disappointed? It’s a sound theory,” I add when he runs a frustrated hand through his hair and rolls his eyes.

  “It’s not enough. Just because she didn’t kill her children doesn’t mean she didn’t kill her husband. If, in fact, he did hit her, it wouldn’t be hard to believe that she lashed out in self-defense and killed him accidentally. She’s not, as far the picture my knowledge of her allows me to paint, a credible person. She was sleeping with another man and got pregnant. What we need is evidence of… something that implicates someone else. I haven’t been able to find the original police reports or statements taken from witnesses at the time.”

  I sit up, a memory cutting through the fog.

  “Oh, man, yes. Of course. How could I have forgotten?” I say in self-reproach.

  “Forgotten what?” Phil perks up and hope fills his wide blue eyes. I smile, relieved that, finally, I had something to contribute.

  “Dina gave me a file folder full of documents from the initial investigation. I didn’t look at it back then because by that point, I was ready to wash my hands of the whole business. But she said it had original police reports and shit in it.”

  “Where is it?” His gaze sharpens and he leans across the table.

  The knot in my chest loosens.

  “In my bedroom. In one of the suitcases I never unpacked, it has all my documents and a brick of cash I keep in case of the Zombie Apocalypse … I can make copies and send it to you.”

  “That’s great. I’ll take the copies. But can you look through it now? I want to see if there’s anything in there. I’ve been waiting for something like this.”

  I glance inside my new apartment, taking round the elegant room plushly appointed in a palette of beiges, browns, and grey with mid-century modern sleekness that saves it from being drab. My mother found it and convinced me that life on the Upper East Side might not be so bad. She was right. It’s perfect for me.

  Now… Giselle’s in there, uninvited, troubled, and waiting for me to come back in and solve all of her problems.

  I don’t even want to know what really brought her here. I just want her gone.

  “Well, what the hell are you waiting for?” Phil snaps when I don’t respond.

  “I’ll send it to you. I’ve got…company.”

  Understanding lights his eyes and he rolls his eyes, but grins. “Ah, I see…okay. Fine. But call me as soon as she’s gone, “

  He’s got the wrong idea, but I let him think whatever he wants. I don’t know how to explain Giselle anyway.

  “Yeah, I will. Get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

  I disconnect and sit there trying to figure out the best way to deal with Giselle. I don’t understand how she keeps popping up. And I regret the stupidity on my part that made it possible for to invade my life the way she did again, tonight.

  When I got back got back to my room after meeting with Jack in Los Angeles, she was still there.

  Turns out, she was having the worst day of her life.

  She’d been fired after a customer complained about her runny nose and red eyes. The day before, her roommate brought a cat home that she was allergic to. But she had nowhere else to stay. She had no family to speak of and she was burned out on LA and sick of rejection after rejection for the dance auditions she’d moved out there for.

  So, I let her stay in my hotel room. That night, she climbed into the shower with me and was on her knees with my dick in her mouth before I could register was going on. I stopped her and she said, “I’m on my period, so I can’t fuck you. This is all I can give you for letting me stay.”

  I pulled her up, told her she didn’t have to give me anything. I don’t know what happened to her, but I could tell something was off. She wasn’t the talkative type. And that was fine, because I wasn’t really in the mood to take on anyone else’s problem. Instead, we slept - her in my bed. Me, on the couch.

  And that’s what we did for my last month in LA. But it’s not like we became friends. I hardly saw her and I didn’t even know her last name.

  The day I left, she said she’d look me up if she was ever in NYC. I’d said, “fine” was out of politeness than anything else. I never expected to see her again. She didn’t have money for bus fare, let alone a redeye from LA to LaGuardia.

  I did a double take when I found her waiting in the lobby of my building when I got in from the airport.

  She said she was in town for an audition and needed a place to stay. Just for a few days, she said. I sit outside for a few more minutes and gather the will to go back inside and deal with her.

  “Hey, I’m done,” I
call as I walk back in.

  It’s as quiet as a tomb. She’s not where I left her in my living room.

  I walk to my bedroom and call her name.

  A quick look in my bathroom confirms what the silence implied, she’s gone. Relieved, I lock my front door. Then, I call down to the front desk to tell them that she’s never allowed back up unless accompanied by me.

  My mood is on an upswing and I head to my room to look from the files I promised Phil. I open my closet and find it completely wrecked. All the drawers of the built-ins are open and overflowing with clothes that have been roughly yanked out.

  I step over the things she didn’t bother to put back and stare at the empty space where my suitcase, the one where I kept all of my important documents and my cash, used to sit.

  It’s gone.

  Anger flares. That little bitch stole from me.

  My knees buckle when I remember what else was in that suitcase.

  Shit.

  What the fuck am I going to tell Phil? There’s no way I can deny his request about Susan Kendicott.

  Fuck me.

  I call down to security to let them know what happened and then wait while they call the police.

  When they come I show them the picture I took of Giselle. Their questions make it clear they think is a lover’s spat and when they leave, I know they’re not going to look for her.

  Rabbit Hole of Frustration

  CARTER

  “This is so amazing. I can’t believe we’re here,” Nadia wraps her arm around my waist and squeezes me.

  “Remember we’re not staying long, okay?” I adjust the cuffs on my jacket and sweep the crowded room for signs of my agent and his wife.

  I spot my best friend, Dave by the bar talking to Lucia Carras, a bona fide star in the literary world who is also the wife of one his best friends.

  “Come on, I see Dave, let’s head over.” I put a hand in the center of her back and try to steer her in their direction.

  “Wait,” she hisses and digs her heels in.

  “What?”

  “How do I look?”

  I give her a quick once over. “You look nice,” I say honestly and her frown deepens.

  “Ryan’s here tonight, Carter. I know he’s your friend and all, but ugh…I really want him to like me.” My irritation fizzles in the face of her confession.

  “You like Ryan? The pediatrician who wears bow ties and doesn’t own a television?”

  She sighs dreamily. “Yes, him. On top of all of that, he’s hot. And he’s a doctor that takes care of kids. I mean…what’s not to like?”

  “It’s just… your last boyfriend was a football player and the one before that was a model. I thought you liked…you know, those type of guys.”

  She groans in annoyance.

  “No, but they’re all I seem to attract. I have never ever been so crazy for anyone in my whole life, and he’s so out of my league.”

  “I’m sure he’d say the same about you, Nad,” I reassure her. “Unless of course you make that face you’re wearing right now.”

  She harrumphs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re used to seeing him, but this is a big deal for me. I need to make a good impression.”

  I have to stop myself from asking the “why” on the tip of my tongue.

  “Come on, let me introduce you,” I say instead.

  She nods, solemnly. Her eyes sparkle, though and I can’t help but smile at her irrepressible excitement. I let her take my hand as we make our way through the crowded living room of Dean’s apartment.

  “Hey, there you are,” Milly, his wife says, stepping into our path with a soft scold turning down the corners of her lips even as she presses a kiss to Nadia’s cheek.

  “Sorry we’re late. Traffic was murder,” I apologize and shrug out of my coat.

  “If you took the subway, you wouldn’t have to worry about that,” Ryan drawls as he walks up with Dean.

  “I’d rather be late,” Nadia says at the same time.

  Ryan looks at her and smiles. “When you’re the party, you’re never late,” he says and Dean and I exchange surprised smiles over Nadia’s head.

  He’s their kid’s pediatrician and we all play basketball together on the weekends we’re in town, but he hardly says more than a few words. That might the longest sentence I’ve ever heard him say.

  “We’re just waiting for a few more people before we sing happy birthday to Dean,” Milly informs us before she takes our coats and walks away with them.

  “Hey guys,” Hetal chirps happily as she joins our little group.

  She drops air kisses on our cheeks, even on Ryan’s who I’m sure she’s never met before. But Hetal is the kind of person who has never met a stranger.

  She’s been like this her whole life and we’ve been friends since we were kids. She was adopted, too. She’s of South Asian descent and her parents are Mayflower Blue bloods who were my parents best friends and neighbors in Brooklyn.

  She started an organization for kids who have been in the system for more than a year without being adopted and also provided help for the transition from being wards of the state of New York to being fully independent.

  They help with housing, jobs, educational access, healthcare, mental health services, everything. When she asked me to join their board, I said yes right away.

  When she asked if I would give some of the kids piano lessons, I’d been less enthusiastic. I wasn’t sure what to expect with these kids. A lot of them are either fresh out of a crisis or still in the throes of one. I expected them to be unfocused and reluctant.

  I’ve been so glad to be wrong. Some of them stopped coming or half assed the lessons. But there are a few who are hungry to learn, restless with creativity, and really talented.

  It’s turned out to be one of the best things I’ve ever done.

  The kids have given me a perspective on life I was sorely missing. They all tell me how lucky they feel to get to study with me. But it’s me who’s lucky to have the chance to do for them what my father did for me.

  Being away on tour hasn’t stopped our lessons. We play on Skype once a week.

  Hetal slips an arm through mine. “I know we closed nominations for the Citizen Hero award, but there’s someone I think we need to consider,” she says with a conspiratorial smile on her face.

  The nominations just went out and the ceremony is in a month. All of the plans are finalized.

  “Isn’t it going to be expensive to change all the graphics and stuff we’ve printed already?”

  “Yes, but once you see, you’ll understand,” she says with a wide grin.

  “See what?”

  “Come on, it’s in Dean’s office.” She pulls me down the hall with her.

  We step into the small room and she flips on the light. “Ta-da! Dean helped me set it up in here, so all the board members could see it. I thought it would be easier to convince you if you could see it up close. It’s an experience, right?”

  My heart nearly stops beating when I see the painting in the center of the room.

  I know right away that it’s Beth’s work. She’s got this distinctive style - the fantastic mixed with real - human faces and bodies with accents that are only found in the wildest imagination. The use of metallic gold and silver, and blue, was also her signature.

  “Hetal, where did you get this?” I try to sound like my mind isn’t screaming.

  “Isn’t it amazing? I was totally blown away,” she smiles dreamily at the painting.

  The painting is Hetal’s face, but reimagined. She’s got golden suns for eyes, her lips are formed from a cluster of tiny metallic red hearts, her eyebrows are streaks of silver lightning raised in defiance. It’s beautiful - like something out of a fairytale, and yet, it is so clearly Hetal - the eternal optimist, who lifts everyone up with her loving words and her lightening quick wit.

  Something’s wrong with my lungs. I can’t tell if they’re working overtime or malfunctioning, b
ut I can’t breathe.

  “Where did you get it?” I ask again. This time my voice sounds as coarse as my insides feel and she looks at me, concern furrowing her brow.

  “It arrived in the mail today.”

  “From where?” I ask and walk over to the canvas in the middle of the room.

  “Somewhere in the city, the return address is one of the PO Box places. I mean, I knew her work was amazing, but today was the first time I’ve even considered nominating her.”

  “Do you know the artist?”

  “No, well, I mean. Yes. Kind of. Hold on, here.” She hands me her phone and I take it, holding my breath as I turn it over to look at the screen.

  It’s open to a picture she posted on IG. In it, she’s standing next to the painting on her wall, her cheek pressed to it to give a side by side comparison. I read the post slowly trying to focus on the words instead of the millions of questions that are rushing around my mind.

  “Thank you to the life changing artist, @thefreebeth for this mirror to my soul. It’s hard to be a woman who doesn’t look the part - The reality is that if you want to succeed in almost any career, looking as close to the standard of beauty as possible has become a requisite. So, I wear these extensions, and I don’t leave my house without my face contoured and my brows perfectly done. But nothing can be done about the half of my face paralyzed by Bell’s Palsy. I’m one of the rare cases where it hasn’t gone away on its own. Since I was seventeen, I’ve looked like I’m frowning or in pain all of the time. Even when I’m happy - which is most of the time because despite this face, I’ve got a great job, a wonderful husband and loving friends. But I’ve always wished people could see beyond it. A few months ago, I came across this IG account just by chance and saw the most beautiful paintings, and then read the stories behind them. There is something powerful about the idea of giving your spirit and soul an actual face and showing the world what you would look like if they could see your heart. I contacted the artist, told her my story, sent her a selfie and she sent me this. It arrived this morning and I couldn’t wait to show the world. This is who I am. Aren’t I beautiful?”