The Perfect Liar

by Debra Lynch

  “I’m Dr. Janet Smith. I’ll perform any female surgery for $299.95!” She probably threw in a set of Ginsu knives, for all I know.

  Only problem was, one of those surgeries got her shaky medical license ripped right out of her greedy hands. What happened was, she yanked out a tumor from some unfortunate skank and left the wench a souvenir in its place—a thirteen-inch metal retractor.

  The chick ended up okay. Maybe a lot of scarring is all, but Mom lost her license and ended up working out of our dump of a house injecting women with back-alley Botox and lip fillers.

  That’s how I met Brandi. She was one of Mom’s young bootylicious clients.

  I glanced at the mantle, and there stood a shit load of pictures of Rachel. Rachel wearing ski clothing, Rachel holding a surfboard, Rachel posing at sunset, Rachel in one of her twisted yoga poses, and a few of Madeline and Rachel together. My glass stopped midway to my mouth, and I pretended to act surprised. “Hey! I know her. That’s Rachel Goodman.”

  Madeline smiled proudly. “That’s my niece. Famous right? And sexier than socks on a rooster. You know her from the yoga show?”

  I stood up and peered at the recent pictures of Rachel. She looked like a supermodel with her tanned skin, shiny hair, and brilliant blue eyes smiling at the camera. “I do.” I’d learned it was best to always give a version of the truth. That way, I wouldn’t have to remember what story I told. Being a liar took work, and no way would I screw this up. “Not only from YouTube, but can you believe she advertises my uncle’s shop on her show?”

  Madeline’s brown eyes opened wide. “Well, slap my head and call me silly. What shop is that?”

  “It’s called The Treasure Trove.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s in El Toro.”

  “I’ll have to get Rachel to take me there. I could use a shopping spree. What does he sell?”

  I pointed at her with my index finger and a wink. “Treasures.”

  She waved me away with one hand. “Oh, Dennis. You’re a riot.”

  I settled back into the cushions. “It’s mostly unique items. Locally made jewelry, housewares, letter openers.”

  “Letter openers?”

  “Yep. I run the security department. Can you believe that just last week somebody came in and tried to steal a letter opener? It’s worth over a thousand dollars.”

  Madeline covered her mouth with one wrinkly hand. “No. Why, that egg sucking dawg.”

  “They sure did. But that’s why my uncle pays me the big bucks.” I drained the last of my drink. “The streets are safe from letter opener shoplifters as long as Dennis is on the job.”

  Madeline studied me for long moments and finally laughed so hard I thought I’d have to give her CPR. The vision of my mouth against hers was enough to make the bile rise in my throat. Her hands waved as she tried to gain control. “The streets are safe! Well that just dills my pickle.”

  Jesus. Rachel had to grow up with this person? How did she turn out so sophisticated with a country bumpkin like Madeline?

  Madeline’s watery gaze fell on me. “So tell me about yourself. What did you do before you worked for your uncle?”

  Made license plates. “I worked in a laundry.”

  Her face screwed up, and all the wrinkles smooshed together prune-like. “Laundry?”

  “Money laundering.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Oh my.”

  I slapped my thigh. “I’m just joking.” The laundry with its humid bleach stench really was the job I’d worked in the big house. How did this old crone get me to cough up the goods without even thinking up a lie first? “I worked for a dry cleaning operation. One for high-end customers. You know, people who live in Newport Beach and paid big bucks for personalized service.” I was making up whatever came to mind. Something about Rachel’s aunt put me on edge like she was looking right through me.

  “From high-end laundry to security?”

  “Like I said. My uncle owns the store.”

  “Well I think laundry’s an honest day’s work.”

  I coughed. Honest? Like my honest mother?

  Was it my fault Mom was the world’s worst doctor? Just because it didn’t work out for her didn’t mean she had to try to make me everything she wasn’t. Mom made it her mission to turn me into a smartie-pants student.

  She homeschooled me, and when I didn’t get the grades she liked—You’re better than this, Dennis— she’d lock me in the dank, dark, cockroach ridden closet with nothing but a box of stale cookies and some flat soda. It got so I liked the dark.

  When I busted out of her prison of the closet, I made sure I was as different from Mom as possible. I took to hanging out with the cool kids in the hood of Liberty City. That’s where I found my true talents. Breaking and entering, credit card scams, swindling geezers out of their life savings. I was good at it. Make that great at it.

  Madeline peered at me through watery eyes. “So, who’s the lucky lady who gets to be your honey?”

  I waved my hands. “Nobody.”

  “Handsome man like you? No. You gotta have a sweetheart.”

  All this thinking about Florida got me remembering Brandi. Unfortunately, Brandi didn’t respond well to the Rohypnol.

  I drained the tea in two long gulps and stood up. “Better get back to it. Thanks for the drink.”

  “You stop by anytime. ‘Cause if you don’t this old lady’s gonna pitch a fit.” She wheeled herself into the kitchen to put her glass in the sink.

  When she wasn’t looking, I slid the phone out of my pocket and snapped her picture.

  Sixteen

  Things were going fantastic with the love of my life.

  First, she’d invited me to drinks at her house, and now she wanted me in her hot yoga class. The woman couldn’t get enough of me! She probably wouldn’t take her eyes off me during the entire ninety-minute workout. I’d make sure to give her what she wanted after we’d sweat our buns off in the steaming hot room.

  The way she’d purred on the phone when she invited me to class that night, there was a chance I wouldn’t even need the date rape drug. It was always good to save a buck, that’s for sure.

  I walked into the hot yoga studio, paid the ridiculous twenty-five dollars for a drop-in class, (why hadn’t Rachel comped me?) and rolled my mat out on the concrete floor as the other students filed in around me. Women outnumbered the men, but there were a few brave guys like me who were ready for a tough workout in one hundred-five-degree heat. They could blast the heater all the way to a thousand degrees as long as I got to watch Rachel perform her yoga poses for me.

  I settled in and took in my surroundings. They’d decorated the studio with what I guessed was a yoga vibe. A large mirror covered the front wall. A babbling water thingy in one corner, a humongous purple stone highlighted with dramatic lighting in another. And plenty of statues of Buddha or whoever that yoga dude was.

  The female students wore skimpy yoga outfits that looked like they may as well be wearing bathing suits, and the men wore shorts. None of the women were nearly as beautiful as my Rachel. My heartbeat sped up at the thought of her, and I kept glancing at the door to see when she’d make her grand appearance.

  The clock showed seven-twenty as I warmed up with a few simple stretches, then seven-twenty-eight.

  Still no sign of Rachel.

  At seven-thirty-one on the dot, a man who looked like he could’ve doubled for Duane Johnson in one of those macho action films strode into the room. He rolled out his mat at the front of the class and said, “Welcome to seven-thirty hot yoga. I’m Christopher, and I’ll lead you through ninety minutes of pure torture. Get ready to sweat.”

  The class stood up, but I could barely breathe. I stumbled to a standing position and raised my hand. “Excuse me?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where’s Rachel?”

  “Can’t make it. Not feeling well.”

  My mat dropped out from under me as the room tilted on its side. “
Oh my god! Is she okay?”

  He looked at me through impatient eyes. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.” He stood up straight and said, “Toes and heels together. Spine straight. Clasp your hands under your chin. Ready? Begin. Inhale one, two, three …”

  I stood there staring at my shocked reflection in the mirror, my hands at my sides. The Duane Johnson ringer looked my way. “Keep up with us, please. Exhale one, two, three …”

  My mind went into overdrive as I eyed the exits. Rachel sick? Had she gotten into an accident? Was she hurt? Bleeding? Unconscious? Lying in a hospital somewhere?

  The teacher’s voice boomed in my ear. “You’ve done this before?”

  I flinched at the sound of his piercing voice. “Hell yeah, I have. Do I look like a rookie?”

  His expression told me he wasn’t used to anyone who dared disrupt his class. “Just answer the question.”

  Christopher reminded me of some of the guys I’d met in the slammer. Scuzzbags who’d wanted me to be their bitch. I may not have had the hulking frame like Christopher, but I had something he didn’t have. A brain. “Yes, I have,” I said. I clasped my hands together, placing them under my chin and moved into the breathing exercise. I would play along with this barbaric drill sergeant’s class, and as soon as the ninety minutes were up, I would bolt out the door and call Rachel.

  Not feeling well? Rachel had to be okay. I had plans for her, and not feeling well had no part of my plans.

  By the time yoga class finished, I was nearly sick with worry.

  The first thing I did was call Rachel, but it went straight to voicemail.

  Rachel’s house was only two blocks from the yoga studio. I sprinted over cracked sidewalks, past people coming out of restaurants. I pushed one reeking homeless man out of my way with a not very polite, “Move!” and then calling over my shoulder, “Ever heard of a shower?”

  I was nearly out of breath, panting with the exertion when I reached her home.

  Her car was gone, mine still in the driveway where I’d left it the night before. I rushed up the walkway to Rachel’s porch and pounded on the door. “Rachel!” I rang the bell and hammered on the wood fifteen more times until my knuckles felt raw as I screamed her name. “Rachel, open up!”

  I trotted around her wraparound deck, banging on windows, yelling her name until I made it to the back where I peered through the sliding glass window.

  No Rachel.

  My heart hammered in my chest so hard I thought I’d have a coronary. Something was wrong.

  Hopping into my car, I speed-dialed her number at least thirty times, and every time it went to voicemail.

  My voice sounded frantic, even to my own ears. “Rachel! Where are you? Are you okay? Did you get hurt? What happened? How come you weren’t in class?”

  I hit redial every few seconds as I sped home but no answer.

  I knew something was wrong the second I pulled up the drive because my neighbor was prowling my front yard, and he jogged over to my car, a frantic expression on his face.

  I rolled down the window, and he nearly pulled me out with his thick meaty hands. “Somebody broke in!”

  Panic shot through my veins. “What?”

  “To your place! Somebody was on a rampage.”

  I sprinted to my front door, but I didn’t need to bother with the key because someone had jimmied the lock, the wood splintered. The door stood ajar.

  When I saw the disaster and the words CREEPY HIPSTER spray-painted in red screaming at me from my living room wall, I felt so nauseated I almost doubled over. “Did you call 911?” I said, my voice high pitched and panicked.

  He waved his phone in front of my face. “It just happened. Tried to chase him down but the dude was fast. Sailed right over your back fence like a pole vaulter or some shit. Want me to call the cops?”

  I called him off. “Give me a second.”

  He waggled his phone in front of my face again, and I saw his screen saver photo, a picture of his dog, its slimy tongue hanging out. Last thing I wanted him to see was the disgusting message spray-painted in jerky big ass letters on my wall. “Fuck!”

  “Are you okay?” he said.

  “Does it look like I’m okay? Give me a few minutes here, okay? Wait outside.”

  “But what if—”

  I whirled on my neighbor so fast some spit flew on his face when I screamed, “Give me a few goddamn minutes, okay?’

  He held his hands up in surrender. “Just trying to help. I’m next door if you need me.” He stalked away. “You’re welcome. For nothing.”

  My heart beat so hard against my ribcage that I thought my ribs would crack. The first thing I did was to check Seymour’s tarantula cage. Sure enough, the thumb drive was missing. Between the offensive graffiti and the missing thumb drive, this disastrous havoc had Rachel written all over it.

  I grabbed my hair with both hands and yelled, “Fuuuuck!”

  I still had my other copy.

  I raced over to my laptop to hit the start button, but it was already turned on. My fingers scrabbled on the trackpad frantically searching for my proof, and sure enough, my beloved had permanently deleted the QuickTime Movie file. Damn it! Why hadn’t I done a stupid Cloud backup?

  I stood up, nostrils flaring.

  Rachel sure had herself a good time at my expense. Broken dishes littered the floor, books covered the living room carpet, glass crunched underneath my feet when I stalked through the living room and into the bedroom. And the worst part of all? Rachel had dismantled my shrine.

  Her photo frame remained, but the picture was gone, and the glass shattered. Same goes for the photo of her and Levi I’d carefully doctored so that my face replaced his. She’d slashed the marijuana baggie into pieces, the weed scattered about. The martini glass that I had carefully stashed into my backpack the night we’d drank at the kombucha bar lay shattered at my feet. And the used tampon that I had been lucky enough to find in Rachel’s trash lay in the middle of my unmade bed. She’d taken red spray paint and smeared another angry slogan on the wall above my bed. YOU SICK MOTHERFUCKER!

  I stumbled, and my foot landed right in something wet. Rachel’s vomit? What kind of girlfriend was she turning out to be?

  The anger that swirled up my spine raced like a lightning bolt. I was willing to die for Rachel. I would do anything it took to make her happy. I’d even erased the evidence of her shoplifting from the permanent records of my uncle’s security system. Did she not get that the thumb drive and the extra copy—both gone—was nothing more than my way of ensuring that she cooperated? Women, especially a strong woman like Rachel, needed a man like me to make sure she stayed in line, made sure she got what was best for her.

  Why didn’t Rachel trust me?

  As I trudged through my ruined house, I realized that this meant Rachel probably knew about the Rohypnol. Was that what set her off? Did she find it, and God knows, have it analyzed or some shit?

  I trusted Rachel, and this was how she repaid me? Well, you’ve got another thing coming, Ms. Rachel Goodman, because you are mine! And no way was I letting her go this easily.

  My feelings were deeply hurt, but I took a few deep breaths and forced myself to do the right thing.

  I went over to my neighbor’s house and apologized, telling him I called the cops and would file a police report. “Hey, sorry for snapping at you.”

  He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, and when he spoke, the slur in his words and the smell on his breath told me he was way into a bottle of Wild Turkey. “No prob, man. What’s this neighborhood coming to?”

  I hung my head. “I hear ya.”

  No way was I calling the cops. I’d handle this myself.

  Before I walked back to my house, I unzipped my pants and pissed in one of his potted plants.

  My heart pounded out of my chest as I scraped my chair back and hunkered over my laptop again, my vision blurring with rage. I couldn’t open my security footage program fast enough—and there she was, my be
loved caught on camera.

  I texted Rachel. No answer. Called her number. The infuriating female didn’t answer. Fine. Let her sulk.

  All she managed to do was piss me the hell off. The last thing Rachel wanted to see was my angry side. The gall of that woman!

  As I knelt in my kitchen with an extra-large garbage bin by my side, the seething anger returned. Rachel would pay for the way she treated me. I picked through the shards of broken dishes and mopped up the melted frozen dessert as I thought about my next move.

  Did Rachel think I was stupid?

  I kicked the trash bin sadistically, and it flew on its side, eggshells and empty soda cans scattering across the dirty floor. Rachel was mine! Not Levi’s, not Madeline’s, not the millions of viewers who thought they knew her. Mine!

  I stalked into the backyard. With bare hands, I dug through the worm-infested flowerpot. My fingers sifted through the cold soil until my hand closed around the plastic bag in which I’d hidden the letter opener. I tramped into the bathroom, snapped on the light, and yanked off my shirt.

  Taking a deep breath, I held the sharp letter opener up to the light and smiled. The first cut soothed my nerves as I carved the letter R into my chest. Blood trickled down my skin, and I winced when the second cut sliced through my skin with the letter A. By the time I’d finished, sweat poured from my face, and my blood pressure had spiked sky high, my breathing ragged.

  I mopped up the blood and posed in front of the smudged bathroom mirror, a massive grin on my face as I examined my blood-soaked handiwork.

  RACHEL4EVER.

  Seventeen

  The day after Rachel’s brilliant B&E, vandalism, and theft, I queued up YouTube to watch the live performance of her show, which started in five minutes.

  Did Rachel think I was an idiot? Well, I may not have been Albert Einstein, but I had a brain in my head. I shook my head slowly. Did Rachel really think she could win this game? I’d outfitted my house with spy cameras. Nifty devices, small as a keychain. You can’t beat the high-resolution video.