Convince Me

by Nina Sadowsky

  “Return your property?” I’m completely bewildered, but dread seeps through my veins like a London fog, thick, slow, and pervasive.

  “Surely you’re not going to start playing the innocent now?” Fellowes looks genuinely affronted.

  “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s it, then,” Lorraine clips out. “You should be advised that we’ve launched a full investigation and intend to turn over all of our findings to the police.”

  Two burly security guys materialize in the doorway, summoned like genies.

  I’m not an idiot. I stand and gesture surrender. It’s time to go.

  They think I have something that belongs to them.

  My brain is spinning, but this explains a lot. If Justin wasn’t with Hayley for sex, maybe he was with her for something she stole from MediFutur.

  With a lurching stomach I remember when he accelerated our launch a few months ago, based on the “latest breakthrough by Dylan, our resident genius.” What if Dylan’s breakthrough had, in fact, been appropriated illegally by Justin?

  I’m outside now; the guards have deposited me directly in front of MediFutur’s concrete cube of a building. Harsh sun forces me to squint. I slide on sunglasses and head for my car.

  Twenty minutes later I’m back in Venice, at the Convincer offices. There’s a desperate mad-tea-party atmosphere among our employees. Music’s blaring. Huddled groups splinter when I enter, nervous-looking people hurtling back to their desks. Rumors must be flying thick and fast, and they don’t even know the half of it. The staff tries to straighten up and fly right when they see me, but an edge of hysteria colors everyone.

  I head for the lab in search of Dylan, our “resident genius.” I’ve never quite clicked with Dylan; he’s got an intensity I find unnerving, probably a result of where he lands on the neurotypical spectrum.

  When I ask, I’m informed he’s in the meditation room—once a windowless storage for baby clothes, now a yoga-mat-filled retreat for the tech nerds.

  I enter without knocking. Dylan’s barefoot, cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a laptop, one hand tugging at his unruly hair.

  “Am I interrupting?” I ask.

  “Always” is his snarky reply. He doesn’t even look up.

  “Dylan,” I begin, and then stop short. If I’m correct and Justin obtained proprietary tech from Hayley, Dylan must be complicit. Not just in the theft, maybe in her death as well. I can’t just come out and accuse him.

  I watch as his fingers fly over his keyboard. Once again, he pauses and tugs at his hair. The unpleasant scent of dirty clothes and unwashed man wafts in my direction. I can’t tell if he’s avoiding eye contact or just being his usual self.

  I decide then and there that I’ve had enough of playing amateur detective. Justin has left me in deep shit, that much is crystal clear. I can’t handle this situation on my own.

  “Dylan. Look at me,” I command.

  His eyes flick to me. Dart back to his screen.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me, Dylan?”

  “Only that if you don’t let me get back to work, we’ll never hit our launch targets.” His fingers are a blur on the keyboard. His eyes glued.

  Okay. He’s made his choice. I’ve made mine.

  I’m going to the police. I’m going to tell them everything.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CAROL

  I couldn’t really make sense of Los Angeles when I first moved here. A sprawling mess of interlocking counties, cities, and villages both official and unofficial, L.A. lacks a sense of order that I took for granted as a New Yorker.

  When I was first looking to move to the West Coast, downtown L.A. felt the most like home to me. At least it was a semblance of a city. But the staggering population of homeless living in tent encampments, as well as the distance from the Westside, where Justin and Annie were living, made me rethink.

  I settled on the neighborhood of Westwood, and Justin found my apartment. I liked the city feel of the Wilshire Corridor apartment buildings and the proximity to Westwood Village, with movie theaters and shops within walking distance.

  It was only after I moved in that I discovered the Village’s strange, almost ghostly character. Unable to find shops and restaurants that cater to the student market as well as the affluent residents in the surrounding neighborhood, the Village suffers constant retail turnover. I heard it once had a heyday, but it’s long past.

  Now it’s an odd collection of cheap clothing shops, cookie bakeries, hookah lounges, and chain restaurants, anchored by a pair of large standalone movie theaters that squat opposite each other and are still regularly used for gaudy movie premieres. Many empty storefronts sport FOR LEASE signs.

  I discovered that I liked to take long walks through the pedestrian-only sections of the UCLA campus, away from the buses that roared up the main drag of the Village. I could be anonymous, hands tucked into a hoodie, eyes shaded behind sunglasses. On these excursions I found the street theater I so badly missed from New York.

  New lovers swooning into each other, students promoting clubs, religious proselytizers, harried-looking professors, peppy tour guides leading eager parents and dazed-looking high school students, an outdoor fencing class, varsity teams out for a jog—I never know what I’ll find.

  I’m here today, perched on a shaded bench near the statue of the large bear placed on a pedestal between the athletic facilities and the bookstore. Picture-takers snap a series of happy poses with the bear. They flash peace signs or offer thumbs-ups, grin broadly or give shy smiles.

  A young man catches my eye. How could he not? He’s so like Justin at that age. Those lively eyes, that coiled energy!

  A smile lifts the corner of my mouth as I watch him throw an arm around the shoulders of a woman who must be his mother. Shorter than her son by a good six inches, she shares the same thick reddish-brown hair and uptilted nose.

  I took this walk with a purpose in mind. I need to clear my head. Think things through and decide on a course of action. I’m wrestling with the horns of a moral dilemma.

  I’m in a rare position of power. I’ve been forced to react to circumstance so much of my life. I know how to cope, adapt, and readapt, but having options feels heady and rich.

  If I go to the police with the information I have, I will undoubtedly destroy lives. But so what? I’m not responsible for other people’s decisions. That’s something I learned a long time ago. I can control only my own attitude and my own actions.

  I rise and head for the steep stairs at the center of the campus that I know will get my heart rate up. A kid on a skateboard whizzes past me with a wink and a low wolf whistle. His cheekiness flatters and annoys me at the same time.

  The stairs loom in front of me, three steep brick flights, so shallow I need to keep my eyes fixed on them as I climb or I stub my big toes every time. The first round leaves me breathless. I tap my way back down and take the three flights up once again.

  Sweaty and proud of myself, I pause at the top and rest my hands on my knees. The plaza at the top of the stairs is littered with blue and gold sequins, residue of someone’s celebration.

  I remember Justin’s tenth birthday. Magic themed. His last birthday before Mike died. Robyn was there and Mike’s parents, of course. We were still a family then.

  We had games and cake and a real live magician, the Magnificent Marvel. He was a huge hit with the kids and with the adults too, possessing an impish charm and patter loaded with slightly naughty double entendres. After all the guests left, Justin disappeared into his room with his presents while Mike and I straightened up the house.

  After a good solid hour of picking up paper plates and plastic cups, sweeping crumbs and wrapping leftovers, I finally turned on the dishwasher. Mike pulled the trash out to the curb. We collapsed on the
living room sofa. Mike reached for my hand and pulled it to his mouth for a kiss, signaling his appreciation for a job well done. I smiled at him, happy.

  Justin appeared, a black mask over his eyes, a black satin cape flung over his shoulders.

  “I am Mephisto the Mysterious!” he announced in an attempt at a bass growl. “Behold my magic!”

  He ran through a series: Chinese interlocking rings, a card trick, pulling a coin from behind my ear.

  Mike and I applauded and Justin rewarded us with a sweeping bow to the ground.

  It was past his bedtime and we told Justin to go brush his teeth. Mike and I sat for a few moments more in a companionable silence.

  “I’ll go check on him,” I volunteered.

  I found Justin sound asleep on top of his covers, fully dressed, cape still knotted around his neck. I tugged off his sneakers and removed the cape. Pulled his extra blanket over him. His breath was deep and even, his hair falling into his eyes. I smoothed it away and kissed his forehead.

  There is nothing like the love a mother has for her child.

  Mike was waiting for me in the bedroom, buck naked and smiling. He pulled me into his arms and onto the bed, nuzzling my neck right at the spot he knew drove me insane. Our sex was familiar and loving and explosive.

  As we crawled under the covers, Mike opened his arms and I nestled my head on his bare chest. He closed his arms around me, almost instantly asleep. I relaxed into the rhythm of his long, deep breaths. I felt safe.

  How long has it been since I’ve felt safe?

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” A concerned-looking corn-fed youth is squinting at me from underneath the brim of a baseball cap.

  “What?” I startle. “Oh, I’m fine.”

  “Okay. It’s just that you were, um, breathing really hard. And kind of red in the face.”

  What business is it of yours? That’s what I want to say. Then I soften. At least this is a polite, concerned young man. Better than the many oblivious little shits I’ve encountered.

  “Thank you. Just working out. So that’s kind of what I was going for.”

  “Good for you. At your age!” The dolt smiles at me like this is actually a compliment.

  “Have a good one.” I smile through clenched teeth as I walk quickly away.

  I teeter on the verge of invisibility; I know it. If I didn’t work so rigorously to maintain my figure, if I wasn’t so careful to dye my hair, I’d be invisible already. But to be an object of leering and pitying condescension all in one morning? Horrible.

  I circle back to my apartment building. Wave hello to the concierge on duty at the desk. Ride the elevator upstairs.

  I’d left the living room window open and a welcome breeze stirs the air. I avoid looking in the hall mirror and head for the kitchen. I gulp a glass of water and take a seat, removing my sneakers. As I rub my feet, I consider my options:

  Silence.

  An anonymous tip.

  Direct communication with the authorities.

  Silence hardly seems tenable. The information would fester, sure to rot me from the inside out. And there’s the matter of justice. People need to face consequences for their actions or society collapses.

  I debate the merits of an anonymous tip. The information would be in the right hands, but how much credence would the police give to information that came from an unnamed source?

  I could, of course, contact Detective Ruiz. I’m sure she would appreciate how much easier my information will make her life, enabling her to put a murderer behind bars.

  Will Barber charmed me and fooled Justin. He more than likely will make moves on Annie after a “decent” interval too. I think about the bogus credit cards Justin told me about, the forged checks. I’m filled with loathing for Will as I contemplate my options for bringing him to justice.

  But is that something I want on my conscience?

  There is so much pain in the world, do I really want to rain down more?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ANNIE

  Mom nagged until she got me out to work in our tiny back garden. I have to admit she was right to push me. On my knees, with my gloved hands in the dirt and the warm sun on my back, I’m reminded of all that life offers, rather than all it takes away.

  She works silently beside me. Turning her spade with a happy little hum. Patting earth around fragile roots and giving each little plant a gentle blast from a misting bottle once it’s settled.

  Back here in the garden, it’s possible to ignore the journalists camped outside my house, the constantly ringing phone, the down-the-rabbit-hole quality that now defines my existence.

  I had forgotten what it was like to just feel at peace.

  The day Justin and I moved in here together was anything but. It was chaos. We’d decided it would be romantic to both move in the same day. That meant two crews of movers, one at Justin’s old place and one at mine early in the morning, with a plan of arriving at the house together in the early afternoon.

  My crew’s truck broke down on their way to me. The company was apologetic but said it would take at least four hours to dispatch a second team. I called Justin. He was just greeting his movers, on schedule, his excitement palpable. Frustrated, I began humping boxes out of my apartment and out to the front of my building.

  I’d moved about half a dozen when it began to rain, fat drops splattering on the cardboard cartons. I looked at the sorry collection of boxes. Should I carry them back inside? My back already hurt and my arms were aching. I began to cry, the tears rolling down my face as fat as the raindrops.

  This move suddenly seemed overwhelming and wrong. I felt irritated that Justin wasn’t here to help me. Our romantic, playful idea to “come together” at our new house now seemed stupid. We should have moved on separate days and been there to help each other.

  I felt wounded. Abandoned. I nursed that grudge, avoiding Justin’s excited texts and calls about his progress.

  abandoned [ə-ˈban-dənd]

  adjective, 1. deserted, forsaken; 2. exuberantly enthusiastic; 3. recklessly unrestrained

  By the time my movers showed up and got me to the house, it was dark. My clothes were soaked through and my hair was matted to my head. I looked and felt like a drowned rat. I was deep in the self-indulgent misery of definition number 1, with an angry pinch of 3.

  When I pulled up in front of the house, the moving truck rumbling behind me, the front door was wide open, creating a warm, welcoming rectangle of golden light. Justin was framed in the center, that magnificent merry smile on his face.

  He ushered me in and told me to go shower and change while he took charge of the movers. He’d laid out sweats of his for me, he told me; they’d be too big, but they were dry. I gratefully agreed.

  A hot shower both calmed and energized me. I climbed into Justin’s sweats and felt cozy and comforted by his faint, lingering scent. My irritation and frustration with the day began to fade. I looked around my new bedroom, our new bedroom. The new bed we’d purchased together dominated the space. Boxes were still everywhere, of course, but I began to imagine the space put together, the bedroom I’d begin my marriage in.

  Barefoot, I padded out into the living room. Justin was directing traffic as movers traipsed in and out of the house.

  “Annie O’ My Heart,” Justin exclaimed. “There you are! I have a housewarming present for you.”

  He handed me a wrapped box. Heavy. Solid. Inside was a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary.

  “I remembered.” He beamed at me. “The first night we met, when I asked what your favorite book was, and you said no house was a home without one.”

  I ached with love for him in that moment. Couldn’t even fathom the irritation I’d harbored earlier. Couldn’t wait for the movers to get out of the house so I could fuck him senseless.

/>   A shadow looms over me and Mom, pulling me back to the here and now. I look up, expecting Santiago.

  It’s Hugh Hayter.

  I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest.

  “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” I stammer.

  “I came in the gate, if you must know. It was unlatched,” he replies defensively. “I closed it behind me so the journos couldn’t follow. You should thank me.”

  Mom doesn’t know who he is, but is on her feet now too, always instantly protective of me.

  “This is Hugh Hayter, Hayley’s brother,” I inform her so she understands my alarm.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the property, Mr. Hayter,” Mom announces in her most schoolteacher voice. “I heard that message you left my daughter, and it was disgusting.”

  Hugh colors. “That’s why I’m here,” he admits. “This has been really hard on all of us, and I realize my anger at you may have been misplaced. You’re as much a victim in all this as me and my family. I came to apologize.”

  “Thank you for that,” I reply, relieved. In his infamous phone message, torture and death were deemed too good for me, the person who had introduced Justin into Hayley’s life.

  Hugh’s eyes fill with tears, infusing me with an entirely different sense of alarm. I’m not handling my own grief particularly well; I can’t take on his.

  Fortunately, Mom catches my eye and takes charge, escorting Hugh into the house for a cup of tea. Knowing Mom, she’ll put a shot of whiskey in it for “medicinal purposes.”

  I linger in the garden on the pretense of putting tools away, but really just taking the time to pull myself together.

  My momentary sense of peace fragments into tatters. Hugh’s sudden arrival has left me on edge, vulnerable and uneasy. The immediacy of the scandal may fade, but Justin’s story—and mine—will no doubt be the subject of tabloid articles for months if not years to come. I imagine the actress hired to play a lightly fictionalized version of me in a Lifetime movie, overemoting as a serious-sounding narrator outlines Justin’s many transgressions.