A Perfect Lie

by Lisa Renee Jones

  ***

  THE PAST…

  Ten minutes after I lock up my rental, and a short walk later, I discover the building Logan bought to live and work in is right on the edge of the residential area, as are many businesses in the Cherry Creek area. It’s also a black glass high rise, that wouldn’t come cheap. Translation: Logan has money and while some might find this appealing, I don’t. Money, power, and an “I know who you really are” declaration equal a threat, not a turn on. I enter the building and walk to the directory on the wall to discover floors one through fifteen are all businesses, while sixteen to twenty are residential. Logan’s offices include levels nine through fifteen.

  With a plan to hide my envelope, I head to the stairwell and enter, starting my walk up while looking for a sliver of insulation or anyplace that might become a hiding spot, but nothing works. I reach floor three, and exit, in search of a ladies’ room, and find it. Once I’m inside the two-stall room, I find the ceilings to be flat and sealed. There’s not even a cabinet under the sink. This just isn’t going to work.

  My phone buzzes with a text and I dig it from my purse, to find a message from Logan’s number that reads: WHY did you LEAVE? WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY.

  My eyes go wide. What the hell? That is a crazy message. Almost child-like. This isn’t Logan. I don’t believe that anymore. Suddenly I’m jolted with the memory of following Megan into the restroom last night. I remember her confronting me over her scars and her confession about her car accident. Even more so, I remember the way she’d felt lost and needy, in that same way Danielle so often did. Then there was the hug that felt like I was hugging Danielle. Then nothing. I have no idea what comes next.

  I glance back down at the text message. I was so consumed with Logan’s confession about my identity, that I just assumed he was the one texting me, but this has to be from Megan. I must have given her my number. That has to be what is going on. I punch “dial” on the number texting me and immediately get a voicemail with no greeting. “Megan. It’s Hailey. Can you call me back? Actually, I’m going into a meeting. I’ll try you back right after it ends.”

  Just in case she calls right back, I stay my ground, waiting a full minute. “Damn it,” I whisper, certain now that Megan is really quite troubled. I’m now officially torn between hurrying to the coffee shop to check on her and staying here to deal with Logan. Of course, I can’t help Megan if I’m not there, and I won’t be if Logan stirs the pot. I stick my phone back in my purse, and head for the elevator.

  In a short ride up, the doors open to a gray wall inked with the words “Casey Law Firm” in thick, silver letters that confirm I’m in the right place. I cut right and enter a typical lawyer-style office with a fancy leather furniture framing a glass reception desk. “Is Logan available?” I ask, stopping in front of the forty-something redhead manning the post.

  She presses her black-rimmed glasses up her snooty nose. “Can I tell Mr. Casey who is here?”

  “Hailey.”

  I look up to find Logan standing to the left of reception, his three-piece blue suit, as sharp as his blue eyes focused on me. “Do you have a few minutes?” I ask.

  There’s a pregnant silence, a coldness about him that contracts every one of the many war moments I’ve shared with this man. “This way,” he says, which I assume means yes to having a minute, and that were headed back down the hallway behind him.

  Afraid he might just change his mind, I hurry forward, and the minute I join him, he indicates a hallway to the left, which we travel side by side, a sharp energy jutting from him to me. He’s pissed and I’m not sure why. Because I came here? Because of last night? I want to know and I am quick to cross the second lobby we enter, and allow him to motion me into his office. I gladly enter first, which gives me about sixty seconds to take in the wide black desk, leather seating area, and floor-to-ceiling windows with a mountain view.

  By sixty-one seconds, the door is shut and I’m stunned to be pressed against the wall, his big body crowding mine. “No more games,” he bites out. “What the hell is this?”

  “If I wanted to play games I wouldn’t be here,” I snap back, not as easily intimidated as he might think.

  “After last night,” he replies. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Right,” I say, and then I just dive in, offering him an olive branch with the truth. “I don’t remember last night.”

  His eyes narrow sharply. “What does that even mean?”

  “I remember pieces but not all of it.”

  “Well let me refresh your memory. You called me a user, who was after your father’s power, and volleying for a position, right after you kissed me like you wanted to—”

  “Enough,” I say, pressing my hand to his chest. “I don’t know if you deserved that so I can’t apologize. I think I was drugged or—it’s more complicated than that.”

  “You drank the same champagne I drank and after last night, I’m going to need a lot more than that to continue this conversation.”

  “I want to hire you.”

  His withdrawal is instant. His jaw flexes and he pushes off the wall, his hands settling under his jacket on his hips. “I don’t need your money and I have plenty of clients.”

  I have this crazy urge to grab him and step into him that I have never felt with Jake, or Tobey for that matter. And yet I ended up in bed with both of them. “I remember the champagne and cake,” I say. “I remember talking to Megan and then I was suddenly just in the art room with you. You were declaring you knew who I really was in a public place which you had to know was going to freak me out.”

  He draws a subtle but distinct breath. “I’ll admit that was poorly timed, but the idea was for you to know you don’t have to hide from me. Instead, I got attacked.”

  “I might not remember everything, but I know I felt sideswiped and trapped.” I step to him and grab his lapels. “There are things happening. Things that make it impossible for me to trust anyone and I repeat, you chose a public place to tell me that you knew who I was.”

  “What things are happening?”

  “You want answers? Let me hire you. Be my legal confidant and representative should I need you. That protects you and me.”

  “You don’t need to hire me to trust me.”

  “I can’t give you that.” My hands fall away from him and I step back. “That’s not the world I live in and I don’t know you well enough. And even then, I can’t just trust anyone. We sign a contract with legal confidentiality or I leave. And you draw up the contract. It has to have my real name on it to be valid and I don’t want anyone else seeing that.”

  He studies me for several beats. “Have a seat,” he says, and then without another word, he turns, walks to his desk, giving his attention to his computer.

  Inhaling, I let out a calming breath and then make sure he knows that if he’s in, I’m in. I walk to the sitting area, and claim a cushion on the black leather couch, sitting my briefcase and purse next to me. My phone buzzes with a text message and I pull it out to read: Why would I even consider calling you?

  I type: Let’s meet in person.

  No, she replies. I shouldn’t have even texted you. I know why you left. We both know it was HIM.

  She’s scaring me. She’s obsessive. Scary obsessive. I don’t know what to say. I have nothing. Logan stands up and I stick my phone in my purse again. He sits down next to me and sets the contract and a pen on the coffee table in front of me. “The retainer is one dollar. I don’t want your money. I have plenty of my own.”

  I glance over at him, the look on his face unreadable, but I believe him. He doesn’t want my money. I wish that meant he didn’t want anything else. I think it does, but that’s not enough. Not with so much on the line. I pick it up and read the simple one-page document. I grab the pen and sign, Hailey Anne Monroe. I slide the paper toward him and reach into my purse, pulling out a twenty.

  “You can buy me coffee with rest.�
�

  He doesn’t take the bait and invite our familiar banter. He takes the twenty and stuffs it in his pocket, and we shift to face each other. “Talk,” he orders. “I’m listening.”

  I hesitate, but I decide I’m all in. This man’s father is not my father’s friend or political ally and your enemy’s enemy is your friend. If he burns my father, I really don’t care. In fact, I might just celebrate, as long as he doesn’t get killed. I really don’t want Logan to die.

  “I’m still here,” he says, snapping me into action.

  “Right. First, how do you know who I am?”

  “I was watching the news and I recognized your photo,” he says. “But I wouldn’t worry about others figuring it out. I’ve been up close and personal with you. We’ve talked. I’ve looked at you closely.”

  “Too closely if this goes wrong,” I say, reaching in my briefcase and pulling out the envelope. “What I’m going to ask of you could be dangerous. So that one-dollar fee isn’t enough but I also don’t want you to be motivated to get rid of me so I’m going to let that fee stick.”

  He leans closer. “Talk faster.”

  I offer him the envelope. “I’m being watched. I need you to protect this and if anything happens to me, be it now or later, I need you to use this in the most vicious of ways. I need you to make it count and don’t get killed doing it. If that scares you—”

  “It doesn’t. What is it?”

  “You can look, but please not in front of me.” I cut my gaze and swallow the knot in my throat. “My best friend that was murdered, was having an affair with my father. You have graphic proof that on the heels of that book that just released would hurt him.”

  “Are we talking about a murder cover-up?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t believe a homeless person killed her but—”

  “You were drunk that night.”

  “No,” I snap. “No, I was not. This was a bad idea.” I try to get up, but he catches my arm.

  “I shouldn’t have assumed anything I saw in the media. Tell me your truth.”

  My truth.

  I press my hands to my face and then flatten them on my knees. My truth. Here it goes. I told Jake. I can tell Logan, who is now my attorney. “I’ve drank three times. At a high school party. At the bar the night Danielle died. Last night. I’ve blacked out every time. I thought Danielle drugged me. She was—a unique person, troubled. It wasn’t farfetched. Then when I woke up this morning and I didn’t know how I got home, I thought someone who knew Danielle was screwing with my head.”

  “What’s the ‘but’ because there is one, right?”

  “I googled the topic and it’s possible that I’m just allergic to alcohol, but that’s not the point. The point is that I can’t remember the night Danielle died in its entirety, but I found out about the affair that night. I remember that much, and I remember calling my father. And then she was dead.”

  “You think your father might turn on you?”

  I tell him everything. The push to send me here, the missing art I’d created, and my interactions with Jake, minus the part where I got naked with him not once but twice. “So you see,” I conclude. “I need insurance. I need to tell my father I have proof and I’ll use it.”

  He rejects that idea. “If you do that, you could trigger a reaction that isn’t what you want. That’s not the answer.”

  “Part of me just wants to release the photos anonymously and pray it ends his run,” I say. “I’m sure your father would be happy. But my father is Teflon and if he doesn’t win this time, he’s young. He’ll have a recovery plan for the future.”

  “Agreed on the negatives of that action, but to be clear. Politics isn’t a part of this for me, though I get it. If you want your father out, my father, being your father’s adversary, actually makes you feel safer with me.” He doesn’t wait for confirmation that isn’t required. “As for what comes next, the photos are more moving parts in a weapon that needs to be broader. Luckily, I’m good at developing broader weapons and thanks to my father, if, and I mean if, we needed political backing to help wield our swords, we could get it.” He sets the envelope aside. “Let’s be completely frank and not talk in circles that seem to say one thing but could be another. What’s your goal here? Survival and getting to the White House or ruining him?”

  “He cheated on my mother. He slept with Danielle and most likely had her killed. He would use me as political cash. So, no. I don’t want to go to the White House and yes, to be clear, I know that ruining him is what that takes.”

  He considers me for an eternal moment and he must not like what he finds because he doesn’t close the deal. He takes a proverbial step to the side and then wide. “I need you to give considerable thought to that answer. I’ll ask it again before I take actions.” He glances at his watch. “And right now, I’m on limited time. I need to be in court in an hour and we need to talk about how to keep you safe.”

  “I have to convince my father that I’m all in with him and I haven’t. It’s the only way. I know that. Now, let’s talk about your safety. Stay away from me. If they come after you, this ends, and it could end badly for both of us. They can’t know you’re helping me.” I pause and add, “Stay away for now, Logan.”

  “Agreed. For now. I’ll still come to the coffee shop or it will seem unusual but this visit to my office will have been monitored. What are you going to say if you’re asked about me?”

  “Megan’s sending me some crazy text messages. I’ll say I was looking for her.”

  He frowns. “What crazy text messages?”

  “About you, I think. She’s jealous. It’s not healthy. Did I tell you anything that happened with her last night?”

  “You did not,” he says. “We jumped right into the conversation about who you are when you got back from talking to her. You left angry. The end, and right now Megan is not what’s on my mind. You and my court hearing are. I need a way to contact you. I’ll buy you a phone and leave it in your art cabinet at the coffee shop tonight.”

  “You don’t have to do this, any of this.”

  “No,” he says. “I don’t, but I am. And you owe me a painting for my living room wall when I give you the freedom to be an artist. Now leave, before I kiss you, because that will just make things more complicated.”

  “Thank you, Logan.” I stand up, slipping my briefcase on my shoulder and for just a moment we look at each other.

  “I said go,” he orders softly, and I listen this time. I hurry to the door, but I don’t exit. I turn around to find him facing my direction now, watching my retreat. “I’m glad you didn’t kiss me, because when, and if you do, I want to know that neither of us has anything to gain. I can’t give you the White House and you can’t give me freedom.” With that, I turn and leave, and it’s not until I step into the elevator that the levity of what I’ve just done hits me. I’ve decided to stand between my father and the White House, but I don’t feel guilty. Not one ounce of guilt. It’s me or him and he made it that way, not me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Guilt.

  This is an emotion you feel when you believe you should have done something differently. This is an emotion driven by an eternal belief that we can change the future. We can’t, at least not the eventual outcome. If you’re meant to become famous, you will become famous, even if it takes a random person on the street discovering you. If you’re meant to die, you will die.

  I still didn’t get that back then. I was still of the belief that my actions made a difference. If you look back at every action I’ve taken, you’ll see guilt driving me. If I hadn’t gone to the party in high school, my mother wouldn’t have died. If I hadn’t gone to Europe with Danielle, that woman on the cliff wouldn’t have died. If I hadn’t called my father, Danielle wouldn’t have died. There were a lot of “what ifs” with Danielle, actually.

  Megan reminded me of Danielle. That would become a problem for me.

&nb
sp; ***

  THE PAST…

  As soon as I leave Logan’s office, I walk to the coffee shop, where I find Ashley and Eddie working a small crowd. I hurry to the bar, where Ashley is waiting on an order. “Is Megan in?”

  “She quit, and Michelle is sick today. She sounded like walking death. We don’t want to call her and freak her out. She never takes off and I got a fill-in. A girl that used to work here is coming in any minute.”

  I’m still digesting the most important part of what she just announced. “Megan quit? Why? When?”

  “She didn’t say. She told Eddie. I tried to call her back, but her line is disconnected. I think that’s a pretty clear message. She’s done with us.”

  And yet she is texting me. “Did you try her alternate numbers?”

  “I grabbed the one in Michelle’s rolodex. Her files are locked up.”

  “When is Michelle back?”

  “Hopefully tomorrow morning,” she says. “Like I said. She’s really sick.”

  “Do you know where Megan lives? I can run by there.”

  “I actually do,” she says. “She rooms with a couple of girls in the apartment right behind the Cherry Cricket Inn. Number 476.”

  “I’ll go by there. I’ll let you know if I reach her.”

  “Why bother?” she asks. “She’s gone. We’ll move on. She’s trouble anyway.”

  “More like troubled,” I say. “And you don’t look away from those people.” Like I did Danielle, I think, heading for the door. What did I say to Megan last night? Did I make her quit? I shove my hand through my hair. Logan said I kissed him. I kissed that man and don’t remember, which is truly an injustice but aside from that, Megan must have seen it and reacted in an irrational way.