Until the Day I Die

by Carpenter, Emily

  By the end of the story, she’s looking at me like I’m Wonder Woman and James Bond all rolled into one.

  “Also?” I say. “I kissed him. Rhys.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “His dad died too. But that’s not why I kissed him. It is maybe why I paid him more than four thousand dollars without really thinking it over too long. We have a lot in common.”

  “It’s definitely a moral dilemma,” she says. “But look, I think it’s okay what you’ve shared with Rhys so far. But you don’t have to tell him anything else. Not one thing. What you absolutely have to do is go to Birmingham, get into Ben’s house, and find your dad’s journal.”

  “You think?”

  “Shorie! That journal is missing for a reason. It definitely has information in it, something your dad noticed about the glitch you saw or something else, I don’t know—but that is definitely why that shit gibbon, Ben, stole it.” She wags her head ominously. “The journal is evidence.”

  “Then he’s probably already burned it or thrown it in a river or something.” I pop my knuckles slowly, one by one.

  “Or maybe he’s trying to alter it somehow and will put it back in your dad’s office later. That’s why you have to try to find it. Shorie, I don’t mean to stir up more drama than you already got going on, but I don’t think you realize how big this is. Jax is a successful, well-known company. And an employee stealing from it—maybe even two employees—is going to be big news. Especially because of everything that just happened with your mom.”

  I blink, an animal in headlights.

  “I mean”—she speaks carefully here—“don’t you think it’s a little coincidental that she had this random blackout and got sent away to a Caribbean island at the exact same time all this weird Jax money stuff was going down?”

  My mouth opens but nothing comes out. Of course I knew that. I just hadn’t heard anyone put it in such clear, concise terms. And now that Dele has, I’m really nervous. Super crazy nervous. And flooded with guilt.

  And, Jesus. I just sat there, in our kitchen, at that table, and let everyone gang up on Mom. I agreed with them that she needed to be sent away. I let this happen.

  Dele softens. “I’m not trying to be your grandma here—really I’m not—but I think there’s a good chance that your life is about to go balls up, big-time.”

  I don’t bother mentioning that Gigi, my proper southern grandmother, would never say balls up or, for that matter, condense and contextualize all the events that I’d just told her about in such an impressive way. Even as messed up as I am right now, I can see that Dele is gonna make one hell of a reporter. Which gives me an idea.

  “If you’ll drive me to Ben’s house,” I say, “I’ll give you the story. You can have the exclusive rights, the scoop, or whatever they call it, to write about the whole thing.”

  “Nobody says scoop anymore, FYI,” Dele says. “But that’s really nice of you.” She puts a hand on my knee. “I’m happy to drive you to Birmingham. But I just want to let you know, I’m not doing this for a story. I’m doing this because you’re my friend.”

  35

  ERIN

  I force my swollen eyes open, no clue as to how much time has passed. Wherever it is they’ve put me, it’s bathed in low amber light. Jess is curled up next to me, her head resting against the wall. I can see blood dripping from a gash in her lip. We’re not tied up, but that’s probably because there’s a huge wooden door bolted with iron fittings keeping us locked in this place. Our feet are bare. I guess Lach’s taken our boots.

  “I heard them talking before you came,” she says, and I start. I hadn’t realized she was awake. “Antonia told him not to kill us here, so we’ve got some time.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Wednesday, I think. You’ve been out for a while.”

  As my eyes adjust to the light, I see we’re in a wine cellar. It’s wired for electricity and hung with gothic sconces in the shape of iron torches. Arched brick cubbies, cobwebbed and dark, line the walls. Probably home to about a million spiders, I think, and shudder. There are no wine bottles that I can see, but in the center of the room, on the stone floor, sits a wobbly wood table and two chairs. Someone’s left peanut butter sandwiches and water. I help Jess to her feet, and we finish them off in seconds.

  We’re not so far down in the depths of the earth that we can’t still hear the god-awful music playing on the main levels. The trippy, trance-like beat is driving me out of my ever-loving mind. I tell Jess about the run-in with the actress and the message—the half message, to be more exact—that I got out to Shorie.

  My head throbs with every beat of the music. My knee’s tender, too, but I keep bending it and stretching it. I think if I have to run, I’ll be able to, even barefoot. These people, they’re monsters. Although they’re not the only ones. There’s someone else—someone from my real life, back at home—who set this up.

  Ben, Sabine, Layton, Gigi, or Arch. Or maybe all of them, working together, a well-oiled criminal conspiracy machine. I wonder what Antonia named them in her stupid code name, secret spy landscaping file. Poison ivy? Deadly nightshade?

  We’ll go with motherfuckers for now.

  “It’s up to your daughter, I guess,” Jessalyn says.

  “Except that I didn’t give her any useful information. Or any information at all,” I growl.

  She pats my knee, and we both go quiet. It feels comforting to be with her here, down in the shit hole. She makes me feel stronger. More hopeful. I sigh and let my body relax against hers.

  “Have you thought about how it’ll be if we get out of this?” she says after a while. “I mean, somehow we dodge this asshole who’s chasing us, hop a plane—me to New Orleans, you to . . .”

  “Birmingham.”

  “What do we do then? Stroll up on our family or our friends who signed us up for Rehab, the Deluxe Version, and say what, exactly? ‘I know you put a hit out on me, like you think you’re some goddamn Tony Soprano. But—surprise, I slipped out the side door and now I’m home, so you wanna go get some mozzarella sticks and tell me why you want me dead so bad?’”

  I regard her. “You said your father sent you here.”

  “He did.” She wipes her eyes and sniffs. “Because I fucked up, big-time.”

  Just then, we hear the squeal of metal on metal, and the heavy door creaks open. Antonia strides in, glamorous and out of place in her black dress and heels. The door slams shut behind her and locks with a loud chunk. She looks down at us with an expression of thoughtfulness, and I realize I’ve dropped my eyes to the floor, the posture of the submissive animal. I lift them again and glare at her.

  She addresses me. “I’m impressed with you, Erin. But then, I had a feeling from the start about you.”

  “What’s the holdup, Antonia?” I say. “Why haven’t you killed us yet?”

  She sighs. “I think you know why. Witnesses who are high or drunk are, unfortunately, still witnesses.”

  “Okay,” I say. “So, another subject. Who signed me up for this magical experience? This L’Élu trois?”

  She blinks, surprised that I’ve put it all together, and I have to admit, satisfaction shoots through me.

  “I think I deserve to know,” I add.

  “You deserve nothing.”

  “If you’re not going to talk,” Jess snaps, “why don’t you go ahead and get the fuck up out of our dungeon?”

  Antonia smiles. “Actually, I came here because I thought you two should know about each other.” She addresses me. “Have you gals had a chance to get to know each other?”

  Jess makes a dismissive sound.

  “I could understand if you didn’t want to lead with it, Jessalyn,” Antonia continues. “It’s delicate when you’ve just made a new friend. When you’re thrown into a situation where trust is so crucial . . .” Antonia gathers herself with a deep breath and a pat of her braids. “Anyway, what’s done is done, and I have work to do with my upstairs group. So, au r
evoir, ladies. I leave you to Lach.”

  She vanishes, the door bolting behind her.

  I turn to Jess. “What the hell was that about?”

  Jess is picking industriously at her nails.

  “Why would she want us to tell our stories to each other?”

  Jess sends me a defiant glare. “I don’t know. Because she’s got some kind of competitive CEO thing going with you? Because she doesn’t just want you dead; she wants to make sure you know she’s won?”

  “Maybe that’s true. But, since we’re here with nothing to do, why don’t you tell me what I don’t know about you.”

  “Are you fucking serious?” She laughs. “You’re going to grill me just because that princess said so? This is just another one of her manipulations. You’re too good to fall for that kind of thing.” She attacks her hair, working it into a fresh bun.

  “What are you hiding?”

  She gets very still.

  “Jess.”

  She sighs. “It’s a long story, okay?”

  “I got nowhere to go.”

  36

  SHORIE

  On our way to freshman parking, somebody cruises up behind us and honks their horn. Dele shouts, “Slow your roll, fuck boy!” but when I turn around, I nearly faint.

  It’s Rhys.

  Not a coincidence, my brain tells me, Jax style.

  Auburn is a small town, I argue back, but my brain is wise to probability theory, so I leave it at that.

  “Hey,” I say, and lift a hand. Rhys guns it and pulls into the lot ahead of us.

  “Oh,” Dele murmurs appreciatively. “Your moral dilemma is coming into very sharp focus now.”

  He intercepts us at Dele’s Honda.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” Rhys says.

  Again, my brain adds helpfully.

  He nods at Dele. “Hey. I’m Rhys.”

  “Dele.”

  They shake, and Dele flips her hair over her shoulder. I can’t say I blame her. He’d make the Venus de Milo flip her hair.

  “What’s up?” he says.

  Dele and I exchange glances.

  “You’re going to Ben Fleming’s house to look for your dad’s journal, aren’t you?” He says it in such a matter-of-fact way, I want to laugh. But I don’t. There’s still that chance that he’s involved somehow. I mean, the guy can code some. And he already admitted he likes easy money. What if he sees this as an opportunity to get in on the Jax scam? It would certainly explain why he keeps popping up at the most opportune moments.

  Dele fixes him with a gimlet eye. “Rhys, I’m going to need you to tell the truth.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “Did somebody from Jax hire you to babysit Shorie? Maybe to keep her off their trail?”

  I flush instantly. But, at the same time, I’m also glad she’s grilling him. Something I’m clearly too chicken to do.

  “What? No way.” Now Rhys reddens too. “I’m one hundred percent on her side. I want this loser to pay. To get locked up for what he’s done to her family and their company.”

  Dele stares at him.

  “Okay.” Rhys addresses me. “I will admit I’ve been . . . circling around the lot for a while. And . . .” He swallows. “I didn’t leave after I dropped you off last night. But I swear it wasn’t in a creepy way. I was worried that you would try to go to Ben’s house alone, and I don’t think it’s safe.”

  Dele arches one brow. “Shorie can take care of herself.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I echo, sounding 100 percent like I can’t.

  “I know, I know,” Rhys says. “Look, I don’t have to go or anything. You guys can handle it. I was just . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Concerned,” I say.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets. “More than that, actually. I wanted to see you again.”

  My eyes meet his. “You did?”

  “Yeah. I did.”

  I turn to Dele. “He could be the lookout, maybe.”

  She thinks for a minute, then sighs. “Okay. You’re the lookout.”

  In Dele’s beater Civic, ninety miles an hour feels like a Category 5 hurricane, but by noon, we’re turning off 280 and rolling into Ben and Sabine’s neighborhood, a quaint little pocket of houses and shops called Crestline. Their house is situated on a narrow street that runs up to the crest of Red Mountain. The streets below us are alive with lunch-hour joggers and stay-at-home moms walking the family dogs. Thankfully no one’s home at the Flemings’.

  Dele parks down the street, and we sit in the car, looking over our shoulders at the white shingled house with a dark-plum door and shutters.

  “What now?” Rhys asks.

  “We break in,” Dele says.

  “Seriously?” Rhys asks.

  “You have a problem with breaking and entering? The guy who’s running a massive criminal enterprise out of his bedroom?” Dele says.

  “Hold your horses, Woodward,” I say to Dele. “We don’t have to break in.” My eye on the little cottage, I climb out of the car, and they all follow suit.

  “Woodward didn’t break into the Watergate, FYI,” Dele grumbles. “He just reported it.”

  “Come on.” I motion them to follow.

  The back gate’s unlocked. When we enter the small backyard, which consists of a tiny stone patio, a gas grill, and a bedraggled vegetable garden at the far end of the fence, the only thing I’m worried about is Tiger. But he’s nowhere in sight. He’s probably crated inside.

  And then, unexpectedly, bitterness coils through my gut. I spent countless summer nights running through this yard. Whenever Ben and Sabine had us over to grill out, or when Mom and Dad had to stop by on Jax business. I can’t believe Ben would throw all of this away. I can’t believe how little he values us.

  I lead everyone around the back of the small shed, paint flaking and boards half-rotted along the eaves. The key’s stuck in the space between two boards on the side of the cobwebby building, right where it’s always been. It slides out easily.

  Inside, Ben and Sabine’s kitchen is cozy, nothing fancy, just the maple cabinets and granite they put in when they bought the place. In fact, the whole house is simply decorated, filled with comfortable, worn furniture, bright rugs, and simple art.

  “No offense,” Dele says, “but I thought you Jax people were millionaires.”

  “A valuation is hypothetical,” I tell her. “Formulated for a fundraising round or an IPO. You don’t get the real money until you sell the company.”

  “It’s real money for Ben now,” Rhys says. “And whoever his partner in crime happens to be.”

  Rhys heads to the front door to keep an eye on the street. I lead Dele down the hall to Ben’s office. It’s messier than the rest of the house. The only modern things in the room are the three sleek monitors and black keyboard. The desk is an oak farm table set against the double window that looks out over the front yard and the road, with a scarred metal desk chair on wheels and a couple of metal filing cabinets along the side wall. Dele flings open the file drawers.

  I move to a bookshelf filled with rows of dusty books and frames of faded pictures. A curled, yellowed concert ticket rests against a picture of my mom, dad, Ben, and Sabine. It must’ve been taken back in their college days. Mom and Sabine have big hair and giant hoop earrings. Ben and Dad look apple cheeked and shaggy haired.

  I pick up the ticket. Ruffino-Vaughn presents the Ramones. Boutwell Auditorium, Birmingham, Alabama, December 17, 1989, Sunday, 7:30 p.m.

  “There’s nothing in here that looks like a journal,” Dele says. “Just contracts and stuff. I can’t believe a computer developer keeps paper copies.” She slams the file cabinet shut, heads for the desk, and opens a drawer. “Oh, look at this.”

  I move closer. She’s holding up a tiny gold letter M.

  “It’s a charm,” I say. “Layton wears a charm bracelet. It was her grandmother’s. M for Marko.”

  We stare at each other.

  “Just becau
se he has one of her charms in his desk doesn’t prove Ben’s having an affair with Layton,” Dele says. “But it is a little wonky.”

  “Yeah, wonky,” I say. “Let’s keep going.”

  “I’ll check the bedrooms,” Dele says, then yells, “Rhys? All clear?”

  “Check!” he yells back, and I can’t help but smile. I prop the ticket back in its place against the picture, which is next to a small, antique-looking book. Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. I slide the book out and open the front cover. There’s an inscription on the flyleaf.

  3/19/95

  Ben,

  Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

  I say yes.

  Erin

  I study the words. Mom and Dad got married in 1995, Ben and Sabine the very same year. But had Mom and Ben had some sort of relationship back then? Something more than just a friendship? It’s hard to tell from this inscription, but something about the words feels significant.

  In my head, I play out the if-then-else.

  If Mom and Ben were always just friends, maybe they’d only recently started an affair. But even if that’s true, why would my mother agree to skimming money from her own business, which she’d worked tirelessly to establish and ultimately to sell? It made no sense.

  The else made more sense. Ben, pining for my mom—the one who got away—but unable to win her over, moved on. Maybe he’d even had his romantic revenge on Mom by sleeping with Layton and stealing from Jax.

  Protectiveness wells up in me. For my father, my mom, everybody who’s put any of their heart into Jax. And a feeling of hopelessness. I’ve always liked Ben, and even when I figured out he was cheating on Sabine, I never dreamed he would be capable of such vindictiveness.

  “Shorie!”

  I run to the living room, where Dele and Rhys are standing. She pushes something into my hands. “It was under the guest bedroom rug, under the bed.”

  A coffee-colored leather book. When I turn it over, I see the gold-stamped letters. March. My hands immediately start shaking, so hard I almost drop the thing.