Tell me to Lie

by Charlotte Byrd

  Sydney and I make small talk without really addressing what is on our minds. I don’t go into the details about what happened with Nicholas and she doesn’t discuss James.

  I am sure that we are both worried about each other and we both think we’re making mistakes, but for now we keep it to ourselves.

  “Okay, I can’t stand it anymore,” I say, finishing my cup of tea and pouring myself some more hot water from the kettle to fill it back up. “I know that you think that Nicholas did something wrong, but he didn’t. At least, I don’t think so and I’m back here to find out the truth.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m going to try to find his friends from back home and just get to the bottom of this somehow.”

  “That’s a bad idea,” Sydney says unceremoniously as if I don’t know that already.

  The people he associated with back then were mafia members, at best, and cold-blooded murderers at worst. Who the hell knows what kind of dealings they were involved in and who the hell knows what they’ll do to me to get to him? I know this, probably more than Sydney does.

  But I have to try.

  I don’t have any other choice.

  Otherwise, I won’t be able to forgive myself.

  “You’re an idiot if you do this,” Sydney says, grabbing a handful of granola out of the box and stuffing it into her mouth.

  “Of course, I am,” I say with a shrug. “I’m a woman in love.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that.” She shakes her head. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I have to find out the truth about Nicholas. I love him and I can’t just continue loving him and not know. If he did it then it’s over, but if he didn’t then I will fight for him.”

  Sydney gets up and goes to the sink. She turns her body away from mine and I sense that something is wrong by the way her shoulders tense up.

  “What? What is it?” I ask. She doesn’t reply so I try again.

  “He’s going to go away for a very long time, Olive. Years. I just don’t want you to be one of those women who visits their loved ones in prison. It’s awful. I know that TV makes it look romantic but it’s shit. You know it. I know it.”

  I’ve never thought about that until she brought it up.

  Shivers run down my spine.

  What if that happens?

  What if I find out the truth and he’s innocent and that’s still not enough?

  What if they have a trial and convict him anyway?

  My blood runs cold.

  I crack my knuckles and stare at the floor.

  Sydney and I don’t talk much after that. I escape to my room until she goes to work and try to figure out what to do. I have no idea who Nicholas hung out with back then and even if I could reach him, there is no way he would ever name names.

  He would just tell me to stay away, which is probably wise advice, except that you can never find out a thing by not asking difficult questions.

  There is, however, one person who might know.

  I look her up on Facebook and when I message her, she responds pretty quickly.

  She messages her address and, an hour later, I find myself walking down a street in a very nice part of town near Cambridge where the luxury condos tower over the sidewalks and slim moms, with fifteen-hundred dollar strollers, exercise in the park.

  I look up the address a few more times, double-checking that I am going to the right place. This is the last place I expected her to live.

  Nicholas only told me a few things about his mom and how he was raised, but the one thing I know for sure is that he didn’t grow up with money. And this building has new money written all over it.

  A doorman opens the door for me and asks who I am here to see. I tell him her name and after a polite smile he makes a call to her apartment. A few minutes later, I stand in front of her door.

  I knock twice and hold my breath.

  “Coming!” she yells from somewhere deep in the apartment. It takes her a few minutes to get here.

  “Olive?” she asks abruptly as she opens the door.

  “Yes, thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Crawford.”

  Nicholas’ mom waves her hand and invites me inside. There’s a cigarette in between her two fingers and, with her other hand, she drags an oxygen tank on two wheels behind her. It makes a loud sound on the hardwood floor and I wonder if it will cause damage after continuous use.

  The apartment itself is gorgeous.

  There are floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the park below. The furniture looks like it’s straight out of the West Elm catalog. The only thing that doesn’t seem to fit is Mrs. Crawford.

  She’s not very old but very overweight. There are fast food wrappers everywhere along with empty liquor bottles and beer cans. On the console table behind the couch, I spot pill bottles. She may not be actively trying to kill herself but I’m not sure she’s not going to succeed at it at this rate.

  “What do you want?” Mrs. Crawford asks me.

  “Um…” I stutter, not sure where to start.

  “You said you were Nicky’s girlfriend and you had some news for me.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” I nod.

  I look around her place and again forget what I came here for.

  This apartment must cost four grand a month, at least.

  Where does she get this kind of money?

  Has Nicholas been supporting her?

  “If you’re not going to talk, you best get out of my house,” Mrs. Crawford barks at me.

  6

  Olive

  When I talk to her…

  Get yourself together, I say to myself. You came here to find something out so don’t act like a deer in headlights and make her think you’re an idiot. If you want to find out who Nicholas was friends with, you have to give her something first.

  “Sorry, I’m just a little distressed over everything that has happened,” I say, clearing my throat.

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Crawford asks, dragging on her cigarette.

  “Well, you see, Nicholas got arrested.”

  “Arrested?” She smirks.

  I thought she would be surprised but instead she just sits down on the couch and shakes her head and laughs. Her laugh is thick and throaty, forming somewhere in the deep of her stomach and coming out like a crackle. Instead of joy, it’s full of contempt.

  “They arrested him for supposedly killing his old partner from the streets but I don’t think he did it,” I say, trying another approach.

  Surely, she doesn’t think her son is capable of anything like this.

  She takes another drag on her cigarette and adjusts her over-sized nightgown that zips up the front. It has large pink flowers on it adding to its general shapelessness, though it’s probably quite comfortable.

  “Eh, who the hell knows what that kid is capable of,” she says.

  “He didn’t do this, Mrs. Crawford,” I insist.

  “You don’t know that. You don’t know the first thing about my son.”

  I refuse to accept that, even though a small part of me sort of believes her. Still, I can’t let her know this.

  “He promised to pay for this apartment. He put me in here. Said that my old neighborhood is shit and I should live somewhere else. I agree. But now what? He hasn’t sent me rent in two months. One more and they’re going to start eviction proceedings, if they haven’t yet. And then I’m going to have to move again. Do you know what that’s like for a woman my age?”

  “I’m really sorry about that, Mrs. Crawford.”

  I am not sure what else to say. I was about to ask her about his old friends when she went on this rant and now it only feels right to acknowledge her predicament.

  “Do you have any money?” she asks.

  Her bluntness makes me take a step back as if her words were actually a physical blow.

  “No…um, no, I don’t.”

  She looks me up and down, analyzing the value of my shoes up to m
y coat and scarf.

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  I have no idea what exactly she saw in my attire but it definitely doesn’t reflect like I have more than twenty bucks to spend on the whole ensemble.

  “Let me assure you, I don’t have any money. And frankly, I didn’t even realize that Nicholas had any.”

  This last part is a lie and I immediately regret saying it as soon as the words escape my mouth. She narrows her eyes and tilts her head to one side. She isn’t buying it.

  “My son always has money, even if he says he doesn’t,” she hisses. “Or at the very least, he has a way to get some.”

  I take a deep breath. My current approach of taking my time and trying to lead her into the conversation that I want to have isn’t working well. It’s time for me to pivot.

  “Mrs. Crawford, Nicholas has been arrested for murder. I doubt that he’s going to get out on bail.”

  “What do you want from me?” she asks when I pause for a moment trying to gather my thoughts.

  “I need you to tell me where I can find some of his old friends from back then. The people he used to hang out with. Someone must know what happened. The truth of what happened.”

  “Yeah, he killed his partner to keep the whole loot,” she says with a smirk. “What the fuck do you think happened?”

  “I need to find out the truth.”

  “That is the truth,” she spits back. “You’re wasting your time.”

  “Even if I am, can you please just tell me where I can find them? Anyone.”

  She takes a long drag of her cigarette and walks over to the window. The oxygen tank makes a loud squeaking sound as it rolls over the parquet floors.

  “Come here,” she says, indicating for me to approach her with her index finger. I do as she says.

  “You see that BMW down there, all covered in snow?” I look at where she’s pointing and see a new model BMW SUV parked at the corner.

  “Nicholas got me that car when he got me this apartment,” she says.

  Unsure as to how to respond, I mumble that he’s a good son.

  “Good son? You think so?” she snaps.

  When my eyes meet hers, all I see is anger and hatred.

  “It’s a lease, you idiot. This apartment is a rental. If he really loved me, he would’ve bought these things outright. But he didn’t, because he’s a selfish prick who doesn’t think of anyone but himself.”

  I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me.

  I want to defend him but I don’t want to make her angry. I need her to tell me what she knows. So, I bite my tongue and just listen.

  “I really need to find his old friends, Mrs. Crawford,” I say. “Maybe they’ll have some answers for me so I can help him get out of prison.”

  “You really don’t know who you are messing with, girlie,” she says. “Those guys don’t talk. They’re in the mob. They don’t turn on each other.”

  “That’s not what I want them to do. I just want them to give me some information that might help him.”

  She shakes her head and lights another cigarette.

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  “Maybe I am, but I have to do something,” I say. Sensing that I’m not getting through, I search for another approach.

  “And if by some chance I can get him out, I’m sure that he’ll be happy to pay your rent and car payments again.”

  I can tell that I have hit on something by the way her eyes light up as if there’s a bulb flashing over her head. Finally, she has a reason to help.

  “There’s a clubhouse they used to all meet at. It’s in South Boston, nowhere a pretty girl like you should ever step foot in. I have no idea if they still meet there but they are creatures of habit,” Mrs. Crawford says, putting out her cigarette. “But I’ve got to warn you, if you go there, you’ll be a sheep walking into a wolf’s den. And I don’t say that lightly.”

  7

  Olive

  When I make a decision…

  I don’t think much of Nicholas’ mother and I can see why he never introduced me to her before. I knew that his relationship with her was as complicated as my relationship with my own mother and sometimes the best thing to do in situations like ours is to just bury our grief and disappointment deep inside. I know that’s not the healthy thing to do, but it’s often the easiest.

  The one thing that I have been debating whether or not to bring up was Ashley. I needed her to tell me the truth about his old friends and I may need to follow up with her again, so I can’t bring myself to say everything I thought about her for what she did to my best friend.

  Ashley had gone through so much and she kept all of her sorrows bottled up within her.

  I wish that she could’ve opened up to me just once, perhaps then there would’ve been something I could’ve done.

  This was my opportunity to say something to the woman who hurt her but I didn’t do it. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t want to burn a bridge I might need to use in the future.

  Later that evening, curled up on my bed, I consider my options.

  I have looked up the cross streets of the clubhouse that she told me about online and examined the exterior on Google Maps. I walked virtually up and down the street trying to find out as much as I could about what I am about to walk into. There is no real-time video recording data, of course, so it’s hard to know what kind of men I can expect to meet there.

  Nicholas’ mom warned me that they will not be happy to see me and that will make it even worse. Nicholas double-crossed them a long time ago and they will view me as a way to get even with him. There’s only one problem with that plan. Nicholas is locked up and he’s not getting out unless they give me some information.

  I’m tempted to tell Sydney where I’m going and to ask for her help but I’m afraid she will do everything in her power to stop me.

  Still, I can’t just walk in there without some sort of way to protect myself.

  No, I need a gun.

  I need to buy one and then teach myself how to use it.

  But if I want to use it and have it not be traced back to me, I can’t have it registered in my name.

  I search for “how to buy a gun online” and read about all of the regulations, or lack thereof, that exist.

  A few pages into the search results, I stumble upon forums where people can sell each other weapons without going through licensed dealers.

  As I go deeper and deeper down the wormhole, I quickly find posts by owners selling guns without identification numbers and those willing to ship them to anyone, even those who state that they can’t pass any background checks.

  After messaging with a few different people using my burner phone and a fake name, I find one who is willing to meet up with me to do the exchange.

  I consider having them mail it to me but I’d like to go there tomorrow. Needing a safe place to meet, I suggest Starbucks.

  Later that evening, after waiting for my chai latte, a middle-aged man with the collar of his pea coat pulled up starts to make small talk with me.

  I had been eyeing the rotund man in the corner hiding behind his laptop thinking that he might be the seller, but it turns out that it’s this sophisticated-looking man with polished black shoes.

  Neither of us ask any questions. Instead, he opens the bag that he has slung across his body and unfolds the brown wrapping paper around it.

  I peek over his shoulder, assessing the merchandise. Ideally, I could take it out and feel it in my hand but in this case, I have to take the word of a complete stranger.

  I dig into my own purse and pull out an envelope with the four hundred in cash. He counts it quickly by placing it in his bag and opening the envelope out of sight of wandering eyeballs.

  Once I place the gun, still wrapped firmly in paper, into my satchel, the exchange is complete. He gives me a brief nod and walks out of the door, dumping his drink in the garbage can on the corner.

  Meanwhile
, I melt into the chair at the far end of the corner. I put the bag firmly against my thigh, taking a sip of my drink and spilling part of it on myself. Watching my hands clean up the mess, I finally see exactly how much they are still shaking.

  But it’s not just the gun that’s scaring me, it’s the fact that I might have to use it. And sometime soon.

  8

  Olive

  When I go there…

  Initially, I thought I would make my way to the clubhouse the day after I bought the gun, but that evening, I decide that I need more time to prepare.

  I haven’t held a gun in my hands since I was a little girl and my uncle showed me how to shoot his rifle. I spend the evening practicing loading and unloading the clip and putting in the bullets I had bought at Walmart, following along with the instructions on YouTube.

  One of the videos mentions that if I don’t want the gun traced then I can file off the number and exactly how to do it using things I have in my garage (as if I have a garage). But checking my gun, I see that I got a good deal: the last owner had already done this, just like he said he would.

  The following morning I take a bus to a gun range across town. From the online reviews I know that they don’t ask for identification and it’s a good place if you want to keep to yourself as you shoot.

  The practice goes as well as can be expected. I’m not a good shot but I review the right technique from the YouTube videos I saved and make sure to follow their instructions explicitly. By the end of my hour there, I’m at least hitting the target even if it’s not right in the center.

  The following day I put on a thick black jacket (vegan leather!), which I found at one of my favorite thrift stores and take two buses to the clubhouse that Nicholas’ mom told me about. I’m tempted to use an Uber but buses are harder to track just in case something happens.

  Dressed in jeans and ankle boots, I glance at myself in the window of an empty storefront.