A Perfect Lie

by Lisa Renee Jones

  But that didn’t last, not for me, at least.

  Not long after that night in Austin, I began to see myself differently, and therefore, over time, I saw him more clearly. As time passed, that random quote from the dictionary stood out to me. I homed in on the way he’d defined the word “more” for me but not the word “wrong.” At that point, I decided that in his eyes the definition of right vs wrong was complicated by subjectivity, and therefore indefinable, while more is simply limitless. I would later expand on that conclusion and decide that the word “wrong” wasn’t a problem for him because of the nature of its subjectivity but rather its representation of morality. Something I believe he felt was better left undefined. Otherwise, he might have to look himself in the mirror and claim his sins. In case you wonder, he wasn’t just the cold, hard father who believed I killed my mother. He was a man of sins that were as limitless as his greed for power.

  In terms of sins, we return to where we left off, to that day the press discovered Danielle was missing. On that day, it wasn’t my father’s sins that were in question. It was mine…

  ***

  THE PAST…

  Riding in the back of that black sedan, with Rudolf silently driving me toward my father’s house, I am reminded, and not for the first time today, that I am not most people. Most people obsess over normal things that fit into categories such as chocolate, wine, yoga, books, or even how many droplets of rain smashed against the windows surrounding me. I instead obsess over the idea that I might have killed my best friend, and that my father, who wants to be President, who intends to be President, covered it up. He would, of course. That’s how much he wants to be President, and let’s face it. A dead daughter represents the sympathy vote. A murderess daughter represents bad genes that she inherited from him. I’m not sure what it says about me that I know this about my father, and still crave his approval and affection. I’m not even sure what it says about me that I’m even contemplating my guilt in a calm, reserved manner. No freak-out. No tears. No shaking. I’d like to think that’s because I don’t really believe myself capable of such a thing. Danielle is my best friend. The two of us once vowed a blood secret and swore neither one of us would ever betray the other.

  Rudolf turns us onto my father’s street, and it’s not long before the property is in view. It’s expensive, round, contemporary, and white, in what feels like a modernized placeholder for the White House, a detail that I’ve never believed to be an accident. The fact that Rudolf has to avoid umbrella-toting reporters, some of which pound on our hood as we pass, to get into the gated property, must, in fact, please my father. He’s the star of the hour. He’s the center of attention. It doesn’t matter that someone might have died to bring this particular spotlight, which is exactly why I know that press leak didn’t happen until he wanted it to happen. When he discovered whatever he knows that I’m about to find out.

  I note that two additional security people appear to be manning the gate, clearly a response to the potential threat Danielle’s disappearance represents. In other words, my father enhanced his security in the comfort of his home, but rather than have me join him, he left me in a hotel room with Rudolf.

  Rudolf is now guiding the car down the driveway, past the front lawn, where there is obviously a podium and press area setup. All of which is being pummeled with rain, a detail I’d say might save me from a public showing, but I’m back to the girl who knows her father. He’ll offer some high-profile reporter a sit-down exclusive. That means the cameras, up close and personal, analyzing me for signs of being a murderous monster who killed her best friend.

  We pull to the back of the house and Rudolf is clearly not a first-timer here. He hits a button and pulls us into the basement level garage, which is more like a warehouse with shiny white floors and a collection of fancy cars. Once we’re sealed inside, I open my door and exit to the garage. It’s then that nerves punch at my belly and weaken my knees.

  I head for the door, and once inside, I walk up the winding stairs to enter the foyer, and like the rest of the house, it’s all windows and high ceilings, with dangling lights and modern furniture and art, most of which was chosen by my mother. Step-mother dearest, dressed in a red dress, her blonde hair free around her shoulders, is waiting on me. “How are you, dear?” she asks, sticky sweet, her fingers laced together in front of her. Her rock of a diamond, which is bigger than my mother’s was, glistens in the sheen of the chandelier of a hundred tiny lights, directly above her.

  “Where is my father?” I ask, no interest in playing the fake mother-daughter routine.

  Her expression tightens. “In the media room.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Bennett is with him.”

  Of course. Step-brother dearest. The son he never had. I turn away from her and she calls me back. “Hailey.”

  I inhale and rotate to face her. “Yes?”

  “Your photo from the debate is all over the internet and you look stunning.”

  She means her dress is all over the internet, and since her eyes are now alight with excitement, I’m clearly not yet labeled a killer, nor is she anticipating I will be. “I wouldn’t know,” I say. “I’ve been cut off from the internet.” I rotate and start walking, heading down a curved hallway that is lined by windows, before traveling down a winding stairwell that leads to a fancy den. I cross the mahogany hardwood floors, ignoring the sitting area and bar to enter another hallway, until I reach the double doors that are my destination.

  I enter the home theater, with fancy red leather seats and a ceiling that is black with lights flecked like stars throughout it. The lights are on and the debate is playing on the big screen, with my father and step-brother positioned side-by-side, in the center of a row of ten seats, open seats on either side of them. Unfortunately, my step-brother is on this side of the aisle. I walk down the stairs and stand at the end cap of their row, no interest in joining Bennett, or walking across him so he can “accidentally” grab my ass. Been there, done that. Don’t want the t-shirt. I have the one that says: “Monroe 2020” and that’s all I can stomach.

  Obviously aware that I’m present, my father hits the pause button on the remote in his hand, and Bennett stands up. He’s in a suit as is my father, but then, it’s a business Thursday. Why wouldn’t they be? They haven’t been captive in a hotel room.

  Bennett walks toward me, and when I turn to face him, he pauses and stares down at me. “Danielle wants to do me?”

  I am not an impulsive person, but the idea that he read my messages and then on top of that made that remark, when Danielle is in peril, is too much. I raise my hand and I fully intend to slap the living shit out of him, but he catches my wrist. “Be careful,” he warns. “That temper of yours could get you into trouble.” There is a flicker in his blue eyes that is one-part threat, and one-part taunt.

  I’m just considering a well-placed knee when my father calls out, “Leave us, Bennett,” in his most commanding tone.

  Bennett’s lips quirk and he releases me. “Talk to you soon, sis.” He walks away and regret ticks through me. I not only lost control, I’ve now given Bennett the satisfaction of thinking he has that power over me, that he can push my buttons, when he does not. My father owns my anger. He gave him my phone. This idea re-ignites my anger, in a more familiar way. That low, simmering he’s always a bastard to me kind of way. I step into the row of seats and sit next to my father, when I could leave a seat between us, and with good reason. He won’t like it.

  “Daughter,” he greets.

  I don’t give him what he wants. I can’t bring myself to even speak the word “father.” “I assume that Bennett wouldn’t be making suggestive remarks toward Danielle if you didn’t have good news to share,” I comment.

  He cuts me a steely stare. “I don’t know what remark you’re referencing, but no. I do not have news on Danielle. The Secret Service has intervened and we’re all on lockdown here, until further notice.”
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br />   “They didn’t approve of me in a hotel room with Rudolf and you and your family here?” I ask, flippantly, because apparently, my control hasn’t returned.

  “Don’t start down that path again.”

  Again is not an appropriate choice of words, considering this is where I went when I found out he was remarrying, and just one year after my mother’s death. But then, a presidential candidate needs a wife, and my mother would have been the perfect First Lady. A doctor who’d volunteered in third world countries. “What do we know about Danielle?” I ask, before this goes to a place he won’t like, but I just might.

  “Other than you left her in a bar alone?” he snaps, punishing me, not for my choices with Danielle, but for my choices the night my mother died.

  “To protect your career,” I remind him. “I left her for you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I’ve lived my life for you.”

  “We both know that’s not true,” he replies.

  “Where is Danielle and why is the Secret Service involved?”

  “They’re involved because we have nothing but a bloody shoe right now. And since the details of such have been released to the public, the two of us will be sitting down with a reporter and pleading for help in locating her.”

  “How can I go on camera when I don’t remember what happened?”

  “Stick to the story we’ve established, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Until someone you missed recognizes me and comes forward with details we aren’t prepared for,” I counter.

  “What details, Hailey? What do you know that I don’t know?”

  “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

  “It’s handled.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “Why are you so damn afraid of the unknown?”

  “Why are you not?” I demand, narrowing my eyes on him.

  “Because I have control that you obviously do not.”

  I stand up.

  “Sit down,” he bites out.

  I inhale and force myself to obey. How can I not? I’m now a prisoner in his house, wishing I was back in the hotel. I claim my seat, but do not look at him. He grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly. “Look at me.”

  I obey again because that is what I do. I obey my father, the future leader of the free world. “Yes, father?”

  “I have this under control. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “You will do as I say. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I repeat, trained well on the script. “How is her father coping with this?”

  “As expected,” he says. “Not well and full of questions for you, which he’ll ask when he arrives here for the press conference. Make sure you stick to the story and make him feel good about it.”

  His cellphone rings where it sits on the armrest between us. He picks it up. “The FBI,” he says, and my fingers ball into my palms, heart racing. This is it. This is the answer I’m waiting on and I know, it’s bad news. My father shows no signs of premonition or even anticipation. He simply, calmly, answers the line. “Monroe here,” he confirms, before listening several beats.

  “I’m about to speak to the press,” he asks. “Is this public knowledge?” More silence follows and then he says, “Understood,” and hangs up.

  He sets the phone down and without looking at me says, “The FBI has been questioning a homeless person for the past three hours. They wanted us to know since the press knows.”

  I turn to him. “Did this person see something? Did this person hurt her?”

  “No further details at this point, but they want us to make a plea to the public for information. We’ll hold a press conference in the foyer in one hour.” He stands up, the cue for me to do the same and I do. It appears that I’m going in front of the cameras whether I like it or not and my father is far too comfortable with that idea. Still, I walk with him out of the room, but my opinion of what he knows hasn’t changed since I entered this house. He knows more than he’s telling me.

  ***

  My reunion with Danielle’s father is tearful and filled with hugs. He asks me questions, but they are short and sweet, and interrupted by my father and a Secret Service agent. It’s not much later that the rain pauses and allows us to gather on the front lawn. I stand at the podium with my father as he relays what the press already knows. Danielle is missing. Nothing more. Reporters fling questions at me, but my father answers for me, an indicator that he is perhaps not as comfortable with me in front of the cameras as I might have thought him to be.

  We step aside, and Danielle’s father takes the podium. “Please help me find my daughter. I’m headed to Austin when this is over. I will be there. If you know anything, if you are there, I can meet you. I can talk to you. I need to find my daughter. And Danielle, if you can hear this, I love you, honey. I love you so much.”

  I tear up. My hand balls between my breasts. I know in my heart that it covers that she isn’t coming back. No sooner than I have that thought, one of the Secret Service taps my father on the shoulder. He inhales sharply, and moves forward to join Danielle’s father. He whispers to him, and then grabs the microphone.

  “We’ll be taking a short break,” he announces before turning to me and motioning me toward the house.

  A bad feeling, curls in my belly and sixty seconds later, I’m standing next to Danielle’s father, when my own father says, “The police have been questioning a homeless person about Danielle for the past four hours. He’s confessed to Danielle’s murder.”

  The room starts to spin, and everything seems to fade to black and then move in slow motion. Danielle’s father collapses and paramedics are called. My father never speaks to me, nor does Susan or Bennett. I am pushed away from Danielle’s father, but I stay close, and I watch security, and then the medical personnel work on him. He’s taken to the hospital, but only as a safety precaution. Once they strap him onto a stretcher, my father finally addresses me.

  “We’re going back out to talk to the press.” He motions to the door. “Let’s go.”

  No “are you okay?” No “do you need anything?” Just “let’s go do a job.” Somehow, I slip into robot mode, and do just that. I stand on the lawn and I watch my father deliver the news to the public. I listen to him choke up. I see him grab the podium and lower his head as if he fights pain. He’s full of shit. I know him. This is a show. A setup. A cover-up.

  I endure what I must endure until I finally find an escape to my old bedroom, where I shut the door and sink low to the ground. Danielle is dead. It can’t be and yet, I knew it would be. So did my father, I think, and before it was announced.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  And so, the surgeon’s blade had indeed cut with precision, though it wasn’t Danielle who ultimately felt the pain but those of us left behind. Those who claimed responsibility for what we wrongly believed, could have been changed. I was one of them. I suffered. I also noticed who did not…

  ***

  THE PAST…

  The announcement of a confession in Danielle’s murder case, is followed by chaos, questions, media, and more media. When I finally leave my father’s house, it’s in the back seat of that black sedan again, with Rudolf behind the wheel, and with a desperateness to reach Tobey that borders on starvation. He was there that night in Austin. He knows what I cannot remember. I need to know, too. I don’t call him, though. Not with Rudolf in hearing distance. I’ll be free once Rudolf drops me off at my apartment, cleared from the sights of danger. Cleared from prying eyes and ears.

  Frustratingly when we arrive at my apartment, Rudolf insists on carrying my hotel purchases upstairs. I try to leave him at the door. “I’ve got it from here,” I say.

  “I’ll need to check out your apartment for you,” he states, towering over me and standing far too close.

  “There is no threat to me. I check out my apartment every night by myself.”

 
His hard expression doesn’t change, and he doesn’t move. “I’m going to need to check out your apartment,” he states. “Step aside.”

  Unlike my normal politically-correct moments, I don’t even try to hide my grimace. This feels like a power trip designed by my father, who has yet to ask me how I’m handling the potential murder of my best friend. I hand Rudolf my keys, and then “step aside” as he’s ordered. He opens the door and heads inside my apartment. I lean on the wall, and wait, counting every second until I can call Tobey.

  After what feels like a lifetime, Rudolf appears. I push off the wall and he announces, “All clear,” before handing me a card. “Call me if you have any problems now, or ever.”

  I don’t want to take the card, but it’s expected, and the sooner I do it, the sooner he leaves. I accept it, but I don’t speak. He gives me this hooded, impossible-to-read five-second stare and then turns and walks away. I enter the apartment, lock the door, and pull my phone from my purse. By the time I’m sitting on my couch, Tobey’s line is ringing. He answers almost immediately.

  “They freed you from captivity.”

  “Do you think she’s really dead?” I ask, getting to the point.

  “Hailey—”

  “Answer,” I demand.

  “Yes,” he says. “I think she’s dead.”

  The certainty in his words does nothing to make me as certain. “Tell me what happened.”

  “You know what happened. We left. She stayed. That was a bad decision on her part.”

  My confession of memory loss is replaced by anger. “You’re blaming her?” I demand instead. “Are you really doing that?”

  “You tried to make her come home with us. She stayed.”