A Perfect Lie

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “I’m back to, are you really blaming her for getting killed by a crazy person?”

  “You want me to blame myself? I didn’t even want to go to that damn bar. I told you not to go.”

  “And now you’re going there? Blaming me? Really?”

  “What do you want me to say here, Hailey?”

  “I want you to tell me you remember something that helps us find her.”

  “You told her to leave. Hell, you fought with her over it. She lashed out at you and stayed.”

  I flash back to Danielle grabbing my arm in the bar and screaming at me. He’s given me explanation as to why and yet it still doesn’t make sense. “You and I did leave together, right?” I ask, because he’s not in my flashbacks.

  “Don’t play that game with me,” he says. “I know you remember last night. We were naked thirty-seconds after we got to your hotel room. Is that a jab? It wasn’t good enough to remember. What the hell Hailey? I’m not the enemy.”

  “You weren’t with me when I woke up,” I punch back.

  He laughs without humor. “You told me to leave and now you’re mad that I left?”

  “Nothing about this feels right,” I say, remembering nothing he’s saying.

  “Death never feels right.”

  “I need to go to Austin,” I say.

  “Why? To stir up the press and complicate the investigation?”

  “I need to know the truth, Tobey.”

  “The truth? What truth can you discover that the police won’t?”

  “Something doesn’t feel right,” I say.

  “Leave it alone,” he insists.

  “I have to know.”

  “Leave it alone,” he repeats. “I’ll come over. We’ll talk this through.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “No, I don’t want you to come over.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “Don’t,” I say. “I won’t answer the door, because frankly I can’t stomach you blaming Danielle for what some monster did to her.”

  I hang up on him and toss my phone across the room, feeling like he’s a monster and so am I.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I remember my mother as good and right in ways that defied her choice in my father. She was the light in the darkness of greed and power. The heart in the machine. She changed the balance of our lives. She diluted the wrong with the right. In other words, from the moment she died, I was living in my father’s undiluted version of those things. His world became my only world, and as I contemplated the end of Danielle, I contemplated my role in that end. My father didn’t grieve Danielle. He did, however, grieve any hit to his campaign, lashing out in response, and when I left that bar, I left to protect him or perhaps me, from that lashing. I left because I chose him—okay, myself—over her. I made him right and her wrong. It reminds me of something I once heard him say: Sometimes there is no avoiding wrong to get to the place that is right. In other words, you can justify just about anything if you’re doing it for the “right” reasons. In the days after Danielle’s disappearance, I struggled with a growing sense that I’d done more wrong than right that night.

  ***

  THE PAST—SEVEN DAYS AFTER THE CONFESSION…

  Still no body, I think, parking my car in the garage of the building that is my destination. It’s day seven. How can there be no body? It’s also day four of me being back at work, interning for the fourth time in two years for Keith Smith, a senator, who is also a brilliant Stanford graduate and attorney. The inspiration as well for my law school application, though I have yet to hear on my acceptance that I desperately crave. I need out of this town. I need away from my father. For now, though, at least work keeps my mind busy.

  I exit my BMW, a gift from my father when I was accepted into Georgetown, which was all about show and the spotlight. Or perhaps it was a reward for supporting the perfect image that he requires I present as the future First Daughter. He never said he was proud of me. I start walking toward the elevators and my cellphone rings. I dig it from my purse and find Tobey’s number. I decline as I have every time he’s called since the night he’d blamed Danielle for her own demise. The same thing Danielle’s father has done with my calls every day since as well. He hates me for leaving her in that bar. I hate me, too.

  It’s not long until I’m inside the tiny office where I work, and I’ve barely sat down at my desk when Senator Smith pauses inside my door. He’s a tall man, thin, his dark hair graying at the temples. His eyes kind. “How are you?”

  He’s asked me this question every morning since my return to work, and he isn’t doing it for formality. He cares about people and that’s a trait you don’t see often in politics. “Better at work where I can stay busy.”

  “Any word on the law school?”

  “No,” I say. “Nothing.”

  “Want me to make a call?”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course,” he says. “I’ll call today.” He narrows his eyes on me. “You look thin. Go get us a bucket of those chocolate chip bagels we both love and coffee. Charge my account. When you get back, come to my office. I’ll let you know about the call then.” He doesn’t wait for agreement. He disappears into the hallway.

  I swallow hard, wondering why a man who is my mentor is more a father than my father. It cuts. It cuts deep. I grab my purse and stand up, determined to get out of this office before I do that thing my father hates and show emotion. Thankfully, my office is off the beaten path and has a direct line to the stairs, which are preferable to the elevator right now, despite a ten-floor walk in high-heeled boots.

  I enter the stairwell, and my phone rings yet again. I grab it from my purse, and eye Tobey’s number once more. I hit decline before shoving it into the pocket of my black dress, just one of my variations of grim and dark that I’ve worn these past seven or so days. Some part of me clings to the idea that Danielle will suddenly appear, and we will wear pink and red and laugh at the way some joyride spun out of control. I exit to the garage and it’s not Danielle that’s suddenly appeared, but Tobey. He’s leaning on my car, in his expensive, politician-ready suit, arms and ankles crossed.

  Clenching my teeth, I charge toward him. “Why are you here?” I demand, and he straightens to tower over me.

  “We need to talk.”

  I realize then that I neither want to talk to him nor do I miss him or wish for a kiss or a touch that he doesn’t supply. Why am I with him? We don’t have chemistry, if chemistry even exists. “Actually, I need to go run an errand for my boss.” I start to move away, and he grabs my arm.

  “Avoiding each other looks bad to the police.”

  “You convinced me to leave Danielle in a bar. She died. I think it looks pretty realistic.”

  “Now it’s my fault she died?” he demands.

  “If you can blame her, I can blame you. Let go of me.”

  “We’re a couple,” he says. “I’m not letting you go.”

  “We’re a political prop and we both know it,” I say. “And funny thing about death. It makes you look at your life.”

  “What are you saying?” he demands.

  “I’m saying we need a break.”

  “No.”

  “You can’t just say no.”

  “I am,” he says. “I’m saying no. I’ll give you a few days to breathe, but Friday night, we’re together. And we’re working this out. We’re going to have that talk you wanted to have.”

  “What talk?”

  “The talk you wanted to have at the bar about our future that we never had thanks to Danielle.” He releases me. “Go on your errand.” He walks away, and I don’t wait around. I hurry and get into my car, but I try to remember the “talk” I demanded and cannot. “Damn it, Danielle,” I murmur, grabbing the steering wheel and lowering my head. “What did you do?”

  I lift my head and stare straight ahead, picturing the moment she’d grabbed my arm, feeling the anger I’d f
elt when I’d turned in that hallway and faced her, one thought coming to mind: If she hadn’t drugged me, maybe she wouldn’t be dead.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, I park and enter the bagel shop, quickly placing my order. Once I’ve paid, I shove my phone into the pocket of my black dress, and while the woman behind the counter speaks to me, I am in my own head. I murmur something I hope sounds polite, distracted by my internal monologue; telling myself that soon law enforcement will discover this is a big mix up, and that Danielle is alive.

  With about a dozen cute wooden tables to choose from, I move toward a corner, and just as I’m about to sit down, I freeze as a headline flashes across the television screen: The body of Danielle Parker has been located, and she has arrived in Washington.

  I can’t move and yet my knees and hands are trembling, my breath lodged in my throat. She can’t be dead. It’s not real. This is not real. Suddenly, I flash back to Austin. I’m in the bar, charging toward an exit when Danielle catches my arm:

  She whirls me around. “How about talking to me before you judge me?”

  I don’t know what she means, but I’m angry at her. So very angry. “I need to leave. Honey.” God, now I’m using my father’s words. Honey. Honey. Honey.

  “The real you comes out,” she snaps. “Crass and bitchy.”

  The real me.

  “Hailey!” the woman behind the counter shouts with my order, and I snap back to the present, but I can’t escape those words: the real me. What did that even mean?

  I give myself a mental shake and rush to the counter, opening my wallet, and setting a twenty on the counter. “Please deliver these to Senator Smith’s office.” I grab a sheet of paper and scribble down the address, but I don’t wait for agreement.

  I head for the door and I am already removing my phone from my pocket before rushing to my BMW, dialing Danielle’s father, as I do. I’m in my car by the time his voice mail picks up. I puff out a breath and I really don’t know where to go. I need to see Danielle. That means the morgue. I google the number and address, but I’m certain they won’t release anything over the phone.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pull up to the building and park, my fingers gripping the steering wheel, Danielle’s voice is screaming in my head: “The real you comes out,” she snaps. “Crass and bitchy.”

  Was that the last thing ever exchanged between us, or was there more? God. I hate that damn word more. My gaze lifts and lands on a man hurrying this way. Danielle’s father. I reach for the car door and exit, rushing toward him. “Is she here?” I ask, stopping in front of him.

  “Yes,” he says, his voice cracking, his blues eyes swollen and red. “She’s here or her body is here. She’s gone.”

  “You saw her?” I ask, needing real confirmation.

  “Yes,” he says. “I saw her, Hailey. In Austin. I was there when they found her.”

  “Can I see her please?”

  “She was cremated this morning.”

  “What? What? No. No, please tell me—”

  His hands go to my shoulders, fingers digging in hard. “You didn’t want to see her like that,” he bites out through his teeth. “You didn’t want to see her like that.” He releases me. “And I can’t see you. You remind me—of her.” He walks around me and leaves.

  I remind him of her. No. He means I remind him of the friend who left her behind to die. I can’t stop what comes to my mind next. I can’t escape what is there, demanding it be voiced; the monster, no, the killer strikes again.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Alone.

  It’s a simple premise most of us make complicated. We think that if we surround ourselves with people, we can’t be alone, when the reality is that we’re always alone. If you look closely and objectively, it becomes clear that life is just one big revolving door of people: some who matter, some who don’t. Some that matter until they don’t.

  Simple.

  Not complicated.

  The day that Danielle’s body was found was a day filled with emotional blows that would eventually allow me to find that objectivity. Despite what I felt when Danielle’s father blamed me for Danielle’s death, time brings clarity and now, years later, I’m not sure he really did. At least not then. Then, we both wanted the same thing: Danielle to come back. Tobey and my father just wanted her to go away.

  ***

  THE PAST…

  I’m not sure how long I stand in front of the morgue, telling myself that Danielle isn’t ashes inside. She’s not inside at all. This is all one big mistake. Nothing about this feels right.

  Once I’m back in my car, I force myself to call my boss. “I just heard,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Honestly.”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” I reply.

  “Where are you?” he asks. “I’ll come pick you up.”

  “You’re a senator,” I say. “You have a portion of our country to run. Why would you come here and help me?”

  “You know that I’m fond of you, and not in an inappropriate way. Lord help me, like a father to a daughter, despite the fact that I don’t want to be that damn old.”

  Like a father, I repeat in mind, that description clawing at me. Because he sees that I don’t have one. “You don’t have time to babysit an intern,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  “That’s a lie,” he accuses.

  “Well I am a politician’s daughter,” I say with a bitter laugh, only to realize my error. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you.”

  “But you meant your father?” he queries.

  “It was a bad joke at a bad time,” I say, because like myself, he believes in my father and what he can do as President, but I’ve read between the lines; he doesn’t always like him.

  “Was it?” he challenges.

  “Yes,” I assure him. “It was.”

  He pauses a moment and thankfully must decide to shift directions, because his next question is, “What can I do?”

  “Did you call the school?”

  “Do you really want to connect this news to this day, kiddo?”

  “I really want a path out of this city right now,” I say, in a rare moment of daring to speak the truth. Up until now, I’ve told him I wanted the edge I’d gain by stepping wider with my education.

  He doesn’t question me, though. Not on that, at least. “You remember our agreement, correct?” he asks, instead.

  “I won’t tell my father you helped me.”

  “Then congratulations. You were accepted into Stanford.”

  “Thank you,” I breathe out, thankful that while law school isn’t my dream, I don’t have to endure it while enduring this place. “Thank you so much.”

  “All I did was provide a reference, young lady. You did the hard work. You sure you don’t need a ride?”

  “Yes,” I say firmly. “I’m sure.”

  “Then take a week off. I’ll see you at the memorial service.” He disconnects and leaves me with two horrible words: the memorial service.

  There will be a memorial service.

  Because Danielle is dead.

  My cellphone rings again in my hand and I glance down to find Tobey’s number. I answer the call. “You know,” I say.

  “Yes. Hailey—”

  “Be careful what you say to me right now,” I warn. “Because my capacity to handle more of the other night is not huge right now.”

  “It’s not our fault,” he replies, clearly not hearing me.

  I hang up on him and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. It starts to ring again. I turn on the car and start driving.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, and five more calls that I ignore, I pull up to my apartment and park in the garage. Ready to be in my own space, where I can wallow in my emotions, and the tears I’ve somehow contained in solitude, I exit my car. I
’ve only walked a few steps across the garage, when a black sedan pulls up in front of me and stops. Rudolf exits the driver’s side, towering over the hood, and the back door pops open.

  Every part of me knows who’s inside the car and every part of me wants to resist getting in that car. I’m suffocating in too much of everything, and I need to breathe, but there is no escape. This isn’t just my life. It’s my prison and I’m a well-trained prisoner. I slide into the back seat and shut the door, confirming that I’m now alone in the vehicle with my father. “You cannot go off the deep end again,” he says. “There’s too much on the line.”

  “The deep end?” I demand, cutting him a look and well aware of what he’s talking about. “Right after the crash, I faced realities that weren’t easy for a young girl to face. My mother had died. My father hated me. I think I turned out pretty damn well considering all that. I have lived my life to please you. To support you.”

  “To support our country,” he corrects. “This is bigger than both of us.”

  “Right,” I say tightly. “Of course. Don’t worry, father. I’ll perform my duty and grieve in the politically correct manner.” I reach for the door.

  He catches my hand and I go still, as I’m sure he’d expected. How can I not? This is the first time my father has voluntarily touched me in years, outside of a formal event where it was required. “I don’t hate you, Hailey,” he says, his voice low, and dare I say, affected? “But I did,” he adds. “I hated you for taking her from me, but that was my grief. That was my pain. That was me needing to blame someone, anyone, anything, for taking her from me. Do you understand?”

  It’s the closest thing to love that I’ve gotten from this man in what feels like a lifetime. “Yes,” I whisper, fighting tears I didn’t know I was still capable of shedding. “Yes, I do.” And I do. I’d blamed myself. I still do. I know he does, too, and that’s why I want to cry. Because I thought this would feel—different. I thought this moment would come and everything would just be—different.