The Perfect Liar

by Debra Lynch

  His face nearly crumpled, his ghostly looking skin glowing under the moon. His hands rose in front of his body, and he let out a gasp. “I just want to be your friend. You know. Close friend.”

  Why wouldn’t he just spit it out? He really meant girlfriend. And while we’re at it, let’s call it what it really is: his own personal prey, sucker, his holy freaking burnt offering.

  When I spoke, my voice came out so loud that a few vacationers turned to stare. I pointed to the ground. “And this is your idea?”

  Dennis shook his head as though addressing a small child. “Now, now my dear sweet Rachel. What kind of way is that to talk to your new friend? You’re lucky, you know.”

  “Yeah? Want to explain how?”

  “What if you’d gotten caught by someone else? Don’t answer that because I’m going to tell you.” He actually counted off my fate on each finger. “First you’d be arrested for shoplifting and taken downtown in a police car, next you’d be fingerprinted and photographed. Those photos never come out pretty, then they’d put you in a dirty pissed on holding cell until you hired some fancy attorney. You wouldn’t have a prayer once I gave my testimony. Once they found you guilty, they’d shackle your ankles ’til they dug into your sensitive skin, slap cuffs on you and perp walk you to the rank bus where felons go to jail. And believe me, you wouldn’t like the dirty feet smell of the big house. You’d get your government issued jumpsuit along with those snazzy prison slippers, and let me tell you one thing, they won’t compete with your trendy high heels. Then the AG’s—and if you don’t know what that is, it’s a prison lesbo—will have the time of their lives with you. Oh, and don’t forget. Your arrest would be plastered all over the place.” He folded his arms across his chest. “The police don’t take kindly to felons. I’m doing you a favor.”

  I just stared at Dennis. Stared as he undressed me with his beady brown eyes looking all myopic behind the hipster glasses. I wanted to scream and yell, scratch his eyes out for making me feel so damn dirty. Instead, I gathered my acting persona, conjuring the patient yogi. I would work on my plan in silence. “I have to go.”

  I turned to start the half-mile walk to my house, but Dennis caught my sleeve and grasped me with force. Oh, hell no. He was touching me again. Now I’d have to wash and bleach my clothing.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  If he thought that something was going to be a goodnight kiss, Jesus. Then I seriously would have to consider picking Dennis’s scrawny body up by the seat of his pants and the scruff of his neck and pitching him right over the cliff. To hell with the consequences. I turned on him and nearly bared my teeth. “And what’s that?”

  His lips curved into a skeletal smile. It made him look like his corpse had been hauled out of a grave after all the worms had had their way with him, leaving nothing but a white skull of smiling teeth. “My personal yoga video. And I want you to wear that blue top like I told you.” He tapped his chin as though deep in concentration. “Also, I like the tight black shorts. Maybe you can mix it up with a one-piece leotard? Unless you like the color of an orange prison uniform, but I already know it wouldn’t look good on you. Not with your coloring. Oh, and make sure to put your hair in a braid. I love the way it makes you look so young. Kind of like you’re a teenager.”

  Young. When he used that word in that context, I nearly called my therapist right then and there for an emergency session. And what the hell was he doing picking on me if he liked them young? I wrenched myself out of his grasp and brushed my sleeve off in an exaggerated motion. “I’ll make the damn video.”

  I stomped away, and the last thing I heard was Dennis saying, “Ta ta! See you soon.”

  As the Brits liked to say, bloody hell.

  When I walked into my home, the first thing I did was pour myself a hefty tumbler of vodka and swig it straight down, right there at the kitchen sink. I threw my head back as the booze burned my throat. Ah, much better.

  I wasn’t an alcoholic. Okay, maybe once in a while, I did like a few more drinks than the surgeon general deemed healthy. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Alcohol erased the vision of Dennis’s creepy face.

  I slammed back another shot and looked around my beautiful beachfront home.

  My Laguna Beach eco-house was my oasis from the world. The YouTube channel had taken off after the first three years, bringing in enough money for me to afford the high rent district that the properties overlooking the Pacific commanded. Then, when Levi came on board—at first as a test, and then when the subscribers fell over themselves to clamber aboard—we’d come up with a contract that made us both happy. Levi did very well for himself. As much as he liked to joke that I was the one with the high-priced lifestyle, Levi could afford a five-star yoga retreat in Bali whenever his heart desired. No problemo.

  I carried the bottle out to the ocean-view deck, taking in the spacious living room as I went. Bleached hardwood floors, down cushioned sectional sofa, imported ivory rug, sandstone coffee table with the glass top, original artwork gracing the walls. No way was Dennis taking any of this away from me. But more important than the elegant possessions, no way was he ruining my life. And if he had any ideas of harming Levi or Madeline, I didn’t care if I ended up in the darkest hole of solitary. I’d go for blood.

  I settled myself into my favorite patio chair, put my feet up on the deck railing. Then I programmed my smartphone to blast Beethoven’s ninth from the surround sound system as the ocean boomed and crashed on the rocks below.

  My plan percolated in my head.

  Dennis thought he was smart, but he had no idea who he’d taken on.

  I came from a long line of grifters, and you can’t hide from the blood running through your veins, now can you? I took another swig and raised my glass in a toast to my nemesis. “Game on, Dennis. Game on.”

  When the ninth was over, I reluctantly set the bottle aside. Wouldn’t do to be drunk when I recorded Master Dennis’s yoga video. I trudged into my recording studio, but before I set up the equipment, I made a detour into the closet, which held my safe. I crossed the two steps toward the hidden door and stabbed in the code to my secret room. The lock disengaged with a satisfying pop.

  The room was dim, the only light was the one emitting from my recording studio. The air smelled faintly of burnt sage, this which I’d used in my last cleansing ceremony.

  My lips broke into a shaky smile as I spied Daddy’s urn sitting in its place of prominence on the middle shelf. With great reverence, I lifted the container and held it to my heart. “Oh, Daddy. I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a mess.”

  I convinced myself that I experienced an electric surge from the urn to my heart. A feeling of deep peace engulfed me as I remembered my father. I visualized his warm embrace. I inhaled and conjured the soothing balm of my father’s cologne—Old Spice.

  I squeezed the urn tighter.

  I continued my monologue because there would never be a dialogue with Daddy. Not today, not ever again.

  “But I’ll use everything you taught me. I know you didn’t want me to end up like you. But you weren’t so bad. Not like you thought. Who cares what everybody else on the block said about us?” I stroked the urn. “Daddy, I know you wanted to raise a strong daughter. But sometimes I’m afraid. Guess what? Sometimes I even sleep with a night light just like when I was little.” I smiled, thinking about my stuffed animal—a worn grey elephant that I hugged to my heart many nights. “I even sleep with Dumbo sometimes.”

  My eyes filled, and I opened them wide, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just that sometimes life is so scary with scary people. And I got myself mixed up with one of the scariest. But I’ll get myself out of this. I will.” I wasn’t at all religious; people in my profession liked to call ourselves spiritual. But sometimes it didn’t hurt to conjure whatever help might be lurking about. I set the urn on the shelf and performed the sign of the cross. Isn’t that what Catholics did before confession? “After I’m done with Denn
is, I’ll be good. I’ll never steal, I’ll never lie. I know I’m one of the worst liars out there. I’ll change. No more lying. No more shoplifting. Never again. Cross my heart and hope to die.” I kissed the urn and nearly doubled over in pain, remembering when I heard the words, We’re so sorry, but your father … he’s in heaven.

  I was only nine, but I knew the meaning of the word dead. Why did adults treat me like I was an imbecile? I’d seen more in my nine years than they’d seen in their lifetimes. Good things and horrific things. If my father were there, he would’ve tossed those social workers out, told them to take a hike, told them that his daughter was smart, that they didn’t need to sugarcoat things. “I love you, Daddy. I miss you so bad.”

  I replaced the urn and turned around so I could view my vision board. Well, it was really more of a vision wall.

  I’d attended a week-long yoga and meditation retreat in Thailand. The facilitator, a lovely young Thai woman who could bend herself into the best damn scorpion pose I’d ever witnessed encouraged the participants to create a vision board. Cut out pictures from magazines. Use affirmative wording, maps. You can even use photographs of people in your life, houses, cars, money, whatever it is that inspires you.

  This, she promised us, would work as a powerful attractor in our lives, and our dreams would be made manifest.

  I fell in love with the concept.

  The sweet little Thai woman would be proud to review her star student’s aspirations. You could say I was going for the brass freaking ring.

  I ran my hand along the Google map, the numerous photos I’d affixed to the wall, and my goal setting chart before I left the room. Everything was in place. I felt it in my bones. My goals were on the brink of manifestation, just like the Thai yogi promised.

  But all the breathing exercises and sage ceremonies in the world couldn’t contain my fury. I set up my video recording equipment, angrily tugged my hair into a thick braid, and performed my heart out. Oh, and I wore the yellow yoga top, not the blue. Screw you, Dennis.

  As I was recording, a text pinged from Dennis: Tonight was fun. Sweet dreams my favorite felon. And wouldn’t you know it? More cheesy emojis proclaiming his heartfelt love. Did the idiotic man have no imagination? Fun? If your idea of fun is blackmail, then yeah, it was a complete and total blast.

  The evening finally ended with me curled up in my luxurious feather bed underneath the Egyptian cotton comforter. I knew I had it in me to con Dennis. I thought out my scheme—simple with a backup plan. All I had to do was get the slimeball on my side, and with a few well-placed flimflam techniques, I’d beat Dennis at this chess match. It had to work.

  I sat up and arranged the pillows, enjoying the delightful sea breeze through the open window, and sent Dennis the text that would put the wheels of my plan in motion.

  I started the video and can’t wait to show you what I’ve got. How about drinks at my house next Tuesday?

  Dennis must have had his phone surgically implanted in his hand because the return text was instantaneous.

  Love to!!! Can’t wait to see you.

  Seven-thirty?

  See you then! he wrote along with a heart emoji.

  A smirk graced my lips. The tension I’d been carrying dissipated, and my body relaxed into the luxury bed as I mentally reviewed my plan to take Dennis down.

  I knew exactly how I would do it.

  I’d been asleep for about an hour when a blood-curdling scream pierced the night.

  I jackknifed out of bed and fumbled for the switch, squinting and rubbing my eyes at the sudden blaze of lamplight.

  Faint words carried above the ocean, and if the man hadn’t shrieked so powerfully, I wouldn’t have picked up the words. In the otherwise stillness, his harsh voice bellowed. “If you say one more fucking word about my girlfriend I’ll kill you!”

  I sprinted to the window and caught sight of the corner of the beach below. Rushing through the house, I flung the sliding glass doors open and hung over the railing to view the vast shore below.

  The moon shone on the empty beach. Empty except for two people. Two men.

  One man lifted his arms in front of his body as the other lunged at his legs, knocking them out from underneath. “Say you’re sorry!”

  I tore into the kitchen and grabbed the binoculars I kept for whale watching. The humid night air seeped through my nightshirt as I stood on the deck, and with shaky hands, I adjusted the binoculars.

  And there was Dennis beating the crap out of some guy. His fist connected with the man’s stomach, his face, his chest. “I’m gonna kill you!” Dennis screamed.

  What the fuck? Call the cops! I held on to the binoculars as I grappled for my cordless phone. It was somewhere out here. The chaise lounge?

  Dennis’s body flew through the air and landed against the man’s body with violence.

  The blood-covered man screamed. “Get the fuck offa me!”

  Before he had a chance to protect himself, Dennis swung and punched the man again in the jaw, the man’s head jerked backward. My fingers closed around something, but I couldn’t find the damn phone.

  The dude’s hands flew to his face. “Son of a bitch ... stop!” His head swiveled left and right like some sick puppet.

  The man somehow got himself to his feet, where he shakily stood with sand covering his clothes. I rapidly scanned up and down the beach, but it was empty.

  “Motherfucker!” Dennis hurled himself on top of the man again, straddling him. He reared back his fist and screamed, “Go talking trash about Rachel one more time, and I swear to God I’ll haul your body against the cliff and smash your face until your mouth don’t work no more. Got it?”

  The man cowered, hands covering his face as he shouted his reply. “I’m sorry!”

  What happened next was something straight out of a Tarantino film. Dennis gripped the man’s arm, twisted it into an awkward position, and I swear to God I could hear the man’s arm break over the ocean’s roar. God, no! Where the hell was my landline?

  The terrifying scream the man emitted sounded like he’d been drawn, quartered, covered in caustic acid, thrown into a pit of alligators, and disemboweled with their razor-edged jaws. “What the fuck!”

  Dennis sprung to standing, brushed his hands together, and bolted like a bat out of hell down the beach and up the stairs until my binoculars could no longer trace him.

  I threw the binoculars on the lounge chair, darted inside, raced into my bedroom, found my cell phone, hit *67 to block my ID and made an anonymous 911 call.

  A fire started in my belly and exploded in my head. Who the hell did Dennis think he was? He could’ve killed that man.

  I had no idea what started the altercation, but what the hell? Now he’s defending my honor?

  God, that poor man! I could only imagine his fear and searing pain. Hell, I should’ve been terrified too. Any normal person would, witnessing that horror show. But seeing Dennis in action only fueled my intense rage toward the freakshow. So much so that I wanted to grip him by the greasy hair and ram his horrid face into a scorching barbeque grill.

  First, he’s blackmailing me, and now he’s outside my home pummeling someone to death? No. Not happening. Dennis would not win this. Not in a match of wills against Rachel Goodman.

  I had to get that thumb drive back from Dennis.

  That night a deep resolve solidified. I would get the thumb drive back, I would find his computer, and I would do whatever it took to destroy Dennis. And I would enjoy every second of it as he paid with his flesh, bone, and blood. I wouldn’t stop until he was a bloody pulp ready to be fed to bloodthirsty sharks.

  Dennis Smith, you are going to be sorry we ever met.

  Six

  Where I grew up in Riverside, the summers were blazing hot, the mercury blasting above the hundred-degree mark.

  Daddy and I would wait for the sun to set, and then he’d take me for walks on the sultry nights, hoping to catch a rare summertime breeze. I loved going barefoot so I c
ould feel the pavement warm on my feet. He’d grip my hand and squeeze. “You know what it means when I hold your hand tight?”

  I had savored the feel of his protective hand. “What?”

  “It means I love you bunches.” He’d begin singing in his deep baritone about buying me a mockingbird, a billy goat, and a diamond ring. The song always made me laugh. “One of these days you’ll meet a good man who’ll buy you a diamond ring. Not a man like me.”

  I’d squeeze his hand tighter. “I don’t want a diamond ring from anybody else.”

  He’d shake his head. “I love you, pumpkin. But my baby girl deserves better.”

  I didn’t want better. All I wanted was my daddy.

  But he was gone.

  For now, I’d settle for the company of the bartender at the kombucha bar.

  “Ten bucks says I can get you to read my mind,” I said.

  The bartender placed both arms on the bar and leaned forward, looking into my eyes. “Is this another one of your cons?”

  I rummaged through my bag and extracted my notebook and pen. “I know, I know. You’ve seen them all.”

  He straightened. “Can’t put one over on me, babe.”

  I gave him a playful smile. “I got you last time with the straw trick.”

  He huffed out a breath. “What’ve you got this week?”

  Without letting him see, I wrote down the word carrot on a piece of paper, tore it from my notebook, folded it in half, and slid it across the bar. “Don’t look at it. Yet. Ten bucks says after I ask you a few questions, you’ll be psychic and tell me the word I wrote down.”

  He glanced around the mostly empty bar. It was mid-afternoon, and the lunch crowd had dispersed, leaving the Adam and Eve Kombucha Bar blissfully quiet. “What else have I got to do with my life?”

  “Lose ten bucks.”

  “Sounding awfully confident about this one.”

  “I’ve been known to lose.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Like that time you lost fifty bucks to me with the card trick?”