The Perfect Lie

by Cheryl Bradshaw

He swung for the ring and missed. I closed my hand around it and whipped it behind my head, tossing as far as it would go. Between the nineties rock music blaring in my ear, the crowd, and my increasingly blurred vision, it was hard to tell where it landed.

  “You stupid bitch!” he seethed.

  Instead of going after his ring, he directed his fury at me in the form of a balled-up fist. It connected with the edge of my jaw. A second later, as I fell to the ground, I caught a glimpse of Finch’s fist as it struck Jordan’s face, and he too went straight down.

  CHAPTER 10

  My body was weightless and numb, like a giant cloud floating through air. I opened my eyes, staring at the mirrored panels surrounding the square box that contained me. An elevator perhaps. Finch cradled me in his arms, which made me feel stupid and weak.

  He looked down, gave me a sarcastic grin, and said, “After I get you back to the room, I’ll get some ice for your jaw.”

  I nodded. At least I thought I nodded. My head was pounding too hard to be sure. “You can put me down now. I’m fine.”

  Instead of complying with my request, he clutched me even tighter. “You might think you’re fine, but you’re not. A minute ago, you slapped my ass, said a few things I won’t repeat.”

  No, I didn’t. Did I?

  I rubbed a hand over my face, winced at the pain. “My chin hurts.”

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  “The guy I was talking to at the bar hit me, and then poof, you were there.”

  He laughed.

  “You got a standing O from everyone in the bar when you stood back up. You remember that?”

  I shook my head. I remembered landing on the floor, remembered Finch’s fist smacking Jordan’s face, Jordan going down. Everything else was a blur, except for a slight memory of me muttering something to Finch about him being the horse and me being the rider. The ass-slap assertion was starting to make sense.

  I didn’t need a rock to hide under.

  I needed a crater.

  “How did you ... I mean, I know I told you I was going to the bar downstairs. I even assumed you’d follow me. But I didn’t see you come in.”

  “That was the point.”

  “How long were you there?” I asked.

  “The entire time.”

  “You never came over to talk to me. Why not?”

  “I figured whatever’s going on with you today, you wouldn’t talk to me about it, even if I asked. And I’d rather you told me about whatever it is when you’re sober. Besides, you did this same thing last year.”

  “Did what?”

  His forehead wrinkled as he looked at me, like he knew I knew exactly what he meant. “Binge drinking.”

  “Drinking isn’t a crime.”

  “I’d sure like to know what happened on this date that drives you to drink every year.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The night’s over now, isn’t it? The clock resets. Three hundred sixty-five days to go.”

  “Drinking to escape the demons in your past won’t change anything. Believe me. You’ll never get over it that way.”

  I wasn’t trying to get over it. I was trying to get through it. I wouldn’t get over it no matter what I did. “She was so beautiful, Finch. I can still see her face, you know? Every curve of her lips, every expression, every freckle.”

  “See whose face? Who’s the she you’re talking about?”

  “Elena.”

  “Who’s Elena?”

  “She’s ... I mean, she was ...”

  What was I doing?

  What was I saying?

  “No one,” I said. “She was no one. I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”

  Finch inserted the hotel card into the slot, using his back to nudge the door open. He walked to the bed, reached down, yanked the comforter toward the end of the bed, and set me down like I was made of porcelain.

  “You need, uhh, any help with your clothes and stuff?”

  I shook my head. “I can manage.”

  I attempted to stand. Not a good idea. My legs wobbled like I was trying to balance my weight on a hoverboard, which was hard enough to do sober. I sat back down.

  Finch glanced at me, shook his head. “Where are your night things?”

  “My night things?”

  He frowned, riffled through the dresser drawers. “It’s not funny. Stop laughing.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  He handed me a T-shirt and pair of cotton leggings. “Yes, you are.”

  I touched my lips. He was right. I was laughing. “I don’t get it. I only had three, maybe four shots.”

  “Seven.”

  “What?”

  “You had seven.”

  “Oh, wow. Seven. That’s a record for me.”

  He turned. I lifted my shirt halfway, and the uncontrollable giggling started. “My shirt. It’s ... well, it’s stuck, Finch.”

  He didn’t move, didn’t look back. “Try harder. You’ll get it.”

  Try harder.

  It felt like I’d slipped the armhole over my head, and my fingers weren’t coming to my aid either. Every time I tried to grab hold and tug the shirt down, I lost my grip. It was like my fingers were metal prongs, grappling at the stuffed cat I’d never win inside a toy machine.

  “Finch, I need your help, and before you refuse again, you know how hard it is for me to ask for help when I need it.”

  He arched back, looking at me with one eye half open. “How did you ... what are you ... never mind.”

  He gripped the shirt, fixing it before sliding it over my head the right way.

  I pulled off my jeans, flung them across the room, took the leggings he’d laid out for me and flung those too. It was too hot for pants. Much too hot.

  He pulled the comforter over my chest, handed me a glass of water. I set the glass back on the bedside table without taking a sip, twisted his shirt, pulled him toward me. “You’re handsome, Finch. You know it?”

  He pried my fingers off his shirt, set my hand back in my lap, and went for the water again. “You really need to drink this, Joss. Then you need to get some sleep.”

  He walked over to a table in the corner of the room and sat down.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “You don’t need to sit there. I’ll drink the water. Go to bed. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine.”

  “I don’t want you watching over me. I’m not a child.”

  “You’re acting like one.”

  He sounded mad, which made me mad. “Are you listening? I don’t want you to be here. I’m the boss. You’re the employee.”

  He crossed his arms in front of him. “I don’t care what you want right now.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, the emotions I’d been dealing with all day, Finch seeing me at my worst, or the fact I wasn’t getting my way. The past twenty-four hours seeped in just enough to hit me hard. Embarrassed, I cocooned myself beneath the blanket.

  “Joss, what’s wrong? Are you crying?”

  I felt the warmth of his body next to me, his hand on my shoulder. I felt like a fool. I was his boss. This wasn’t right. “It’s nothing. Please, Finch. I need to be alone right now. Okay?”

  “I know I said you should wait until you’re sober, but if you want to tell me what’s going on, I’ll listen.”

  “No, you were right. I should wait.”

  “Don’t you trust me enough to tell me?”

  “It’s not about trust, Finch. Believe me.”

  The silhouette of the moon shone through the window, casting a ray of light across his face. I poked my head over the blanket just enough to see his expression, a mixture of confusion and hurt. “Don’t be mad. Okay?”

  He stood, tucking the comforter around me. “I’ll leave you alone. Knock on my door if you need me. Goodnight, Joss.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Elias Pratt

  March 17, 1983

  11:30 p.m.

  Out of b
reath and panting like an overworked hound, Elias Pratt leaned against the kitchen cabinets, sliding down until his backside connected with the firmness of the vinyl floor. He propped the pistol he was holding over one knee, muzzle still pointed at Donald and Dorothy Hamilton, who were slumped over on the ground. Dead. At least, he assumed they were dead. They weren’t pleading for their lives anymore. Still, he wondered if he ought to plug them both one more time just to be sure.

  For now, it could wait. The last several minutes had left him out of gas. Tired. He knew he needed to leave. He just needed a little breather first.

  Elias hadn’t expected the murders of Donald and Dorothy to take as long as they had, but then, he hadn’t had time to plan it like he usually did. Hell, he hadn’t even decided on whether he’d kill Donald only or the both of them until after he’d arrived, when fate made the choice for him.

  “You shouldn’t have gotten out of bed,” Elias muttered in Dorothy’s direction. “You might be alive right now. It’s your fault you’re dead, not mine.”

  It was a fact. Five more minutes to ransack the place, and her life may have been spared. She would have been out a husband and a few of her precious possessions, but she’d be alive.

  Elias thought back to the events that took place in this room not thirty minutes ago. The kitchen light had flickered on. Elias turned just in time to see Donald, bat gripped in hand, shouting, “Stop right there!”

  Elias had done what he was told. He stopped. Then he aimed and he fired. The first bullet went through and through, nicking Donald on the side of his chest before lodging into the wall behind him. By most standards, it was a decent shot, but in this particular situation, it was far from good enough for Elias. He needed Donald to be dead, and a decent shot wasn’t dead enough.

  Upon seeing the gun, Donald had dropped the bat and outstretched a hand in front of him, using his other hand to apply pressure to the bloody area surrounding his chest wound. Voice now soft and light, Donald seemed to understand his only option was to bargain for his life. “Now, now, son ... let’s talk about this. Please. If you could just put the gun down, you can take whatever you like and just be gone.”

  Put the gun down?

  Elias laughed. Even now he couldn’t believe the look in Donald’s eye. The guy had really believed he had a fighting chance. The facts were simple. Elias’s face was covered with a ski mask. He’d just shot the guy. It should have been obvious what was coming next.

  “You deserve to die, and you’re going to die,” Elias had said before firing again. That time, the bullet hit its target, going right where it was intended. Donald went straight down. Elias stepped over Donald and said, “You’re going to hell, sir. Right where you belong.”

  The commotion downstairs had awoken Dorothy. She ran into the kitchen, arms flailing in front of her. Elias steadied the gun. A single shot smack dab in the center of her forehead was all it took, and she too was dead.

  Looking at Dorothy now, Elias couldn’t peel his eyes away from the red ooze trailing down the length of her face. It slid down her cheek, pooling on the vinyl below. He wrinkled his nose, jerking his head in the opposite direction.

  It wasn’t the death itself that bothered him.

  Death was a beautiful thing.

  A peaceful, ethereal thing.

  It was the blood that turned his stomach.

  Over the past year, Elias had robbed a total of twenty-one houses. The first thirteen occurred without incident. Precious items were taken, but everyone lived. During his fourteenth robbery, the man who lived there caught Elias after he switched on the living room light. Without a ski mask to conceal his face, the old man recognized him, leaving Elias with no choice.

  On the one hand, Elias had grown up a good Catholic boy. Committing murder wasn’t how he was raised. On the other, something inside him had changed when he popped the old man. Something satisfying. Something he now realized had been there ever since he was a young boy.

  An urge.

  A festering.

  A seed sprouting inside his young body, twisting and growing like the blood pumping through his veins.

  He thought back to a fistfight he’d had with a classmate when he was seven. All the boy did was steal his money. Three quarters, one dime, and a nickel from inside Elias’s desk. The boy had even left a note: IOU ninety cents. Steve. Steve hadn’t touched his wad of dollar bills even though it was right next to the coins, in plain sight. Still, the rage Elias felt from his friend’s betrayal wouldn’t subside. He couldn’t leave it alone. He just couldn’t. He found Steve in the lunchroom, grabbed him by his collar, and yanked him out of his seat. Once outside, he thrust Steve to the ground and jumped on top of him. He punched and punched and punched, until the principal wrapped his arms around Elias, tearing him off his classmate. Later that night, Elias’s mom sat on the edge of his bed, her eyes red and puffy. She looked worried, but not just worried ... scared. “You’re not like other boys, Elias,” she’d said. “I guess I’ve known for a while now, ever since you stepped on our cat when you were three years old. I’m sure it’s hard, but I need you to control your anger. Keep it inside you. Deep inside. It’s important what happened today doesn’t happen again. Understand?” Not wanting to disappoint his mother, he’d nodded, and from then on he pushed his feelings down inside him. Deep down.

  Now an adult, everything changed when he’d murdered the old man. It was like a dormant switch inside him turned back on again. He developed a taste for death, an irresistible need that, in the last year, had only grown stronger. And now here he was, several murders later, having killed his first woman.

  When he’d popped the old man four months earlier, it was an odd feeling at first. One part shock over what he’d done. One part thrill. One part wondering why he didn’t feel any guilt after it happened. He’d stood over the man for several minutes, contemplating what in the hell must be wrong with him that he’d just committed murder, and yet he felt nothing. No sense of remorse, no sympathy—just a sea of calm. The festering wave inside him was gone. As a child he hadn’t understood what his mother meant when she said he wasn’t like the other boys. After killing the old man, he did.

  Returning to the present, Elias clenched his hands into fists, pushing his knuckles onto the ground then boosting himself to a standing position. He walked over to the Hamiltons, gave each of them a few swift kicks. Neither moved. Satisfied they were dead, he grabbed his pillowcase of goodies and started for the back door, halting when he heard what he thought was the front door opening.

  He glanced at the time on the cuckoo clock on the wall: half past midnight.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

  Earlier that night at the high school football game, Elias had overheard the Hamilton’s daughter Sandra saying she was staying the night at her friend Vicki’s. This was why he’d changed his plans, decided to target the Hamiltons’ house tonight instead of the Morrisons’.

  Sandra wasn’t supposed to be here.

  So why was she?

  The front door closed, and Elias heard the jangling of keys being dropped on a vinyl floor, followed by a female voice muttering, “Dammit!”

  Elias’s heart sank. He would know that voice anywhere. Sandra.

  The distance between the front door and the kitchen was a short fifteen feet, maybe less, leaving him with little time to weigh his options. He should flee, hoping he’d be far enough away by the time she screamed. He had three bullets left, and he didn’t want to use them. Not on Sandra.

  The kitchen light came on, and Elias realized he’d contemplated his decision a few seconds too long. Sandra’s ear-piercing scream penetrated the air, droning on and on until he couldn’t listen any longer. He had to act. He had to act now.

  The gun was raised once again, but Sandra didn’t seem to notice it, or him. Delirious, she was only focused on one thing: the dead bodies in front of her.

  Faced with the prospect of a shattered eard
rum, Elias spoke up. “Shut your mouth, would ya? Screaming won’t do anything.”

  Eyes wide, Sandra’s mouth closed long enough for her to finally see she wasn’t alone in the room. She took one look at the masked man in front of her and jumped back, stumbling over her mother’s body in the process. She fell to the ground on top of her mother. Clothing now stained with her mother’s blood, Sandra pressed both hands over her face and began sobbing.

  Elias remained still, watching her. Frozen. Confused. Wondering why he wasn’t running, why he was still standing there, unable to take his eyes off of her. He placed the gun on the counter, thought about walking toward her, but he didn’t. “Please. Stop crying. Just stop it, okay?”

  The flood of tears continued, followed by an eighteen-year-old Sandra muttering, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” like an inconsolable five-year-old child.

  It was more than he could take.

  “Sandra, please!” Elias insisted. “They’re gone. They’re dead. Get it?”

  In an instant, Sandra switched gears, her tears slowing to a trickle. She wiped them away, glared at the man in the mask. “Do I ... do we ... know each other?”

  He’d slipped, said her name. It was too late to take it back.

  “We do, don’t we? You know me.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  An awkward silence followed. It looked like she was thinking, processing, putting it all together.

  Her eyes widened.

  Recollection.

  “Your voice ... I ... it’s familiar,” she said.

  Even with the mask, it wouldn’t be long now.

  He thought about sparing her life.

  Could he do it?

  Was it possible?

  Of course it wasn’t.

  What if she made the connection?

  What if she figured out who he was?

  What then?

  He knew what then.

  “I’m sorry, Sandra. I’m so sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be here. I never meant for you to see any of this If I could just explain, you’d realize I was only trying to—”

  He stopped. It didn’t matter what he said now. It wouldn’t change what had already happened.