Locked, Loaded, & Lying

by Sarah Andre

  Lock passed an SUV on the slushy roads, checked his mirrors, and noted his speed before gliding back into the right lane. The silence lengthened. He had a right to know.

  He looked down at her. If she was any paler she’d sport a toe-tag. “Need me to repeat the question?”

  “I’m wondering why you need to know,” she said through her teeth.

  “Maybe to see if you can get through a conversation without lying.”

  It was cruel, and the water bottle crackled again, but he didn’t take it back. Maybe it was a test—would she tell him the truth this time? Not that he’d know if she lied.

  She let another minute go by before placing the bottle on the legal pad in her lap and crossing her arms. “Let’s see. Why did I shoot my father?” The careless tone was ruined by her rigid posture. “How’s this? I knew if I didn’t kill him that morning, he’d kill me.”

  The words chilled him. Leo inhaled sharply.

  She waited a heartbeat then continued, each word cuttingly precise. “When you’re a kid and you have no control, you accept it. Abuse is all you’ve ever known, and you figure there must be something rotten inside you, because why else would he keep screaming that before he whipped you?”

  Something rotten inside you. Shock rippled through him at the familiar phrase.

  “So you grow up believing you deserve the beatings and aren’t worthy of his love. You spend every conscious minute in survival mode, always trying to gauge his mood because you never know what’ll set him off. You might get punished for something one time and the next time he’ll laugh it off. But you learn real quick that lying to keep him happy will keep you safe.”

  She rubbed her forehead, looking anxious and beat, and suddenly Lock regretted pressing the topic. Her childhood was so alien to his that he struggled to absorb what she said.

  “I remember an English assignment in tenth grade.” Her voice was quieter now, as if talking to herself. “Everyone had to come up with a one-sentence simile to describe their life. Other kids wrote things like: ‘My life is like a summer day; stormy one minute and sunny the next.’ I wrote: ‘My life is like tiptoeing along a greased log in a river of snapping crocodiles.’”

  “Jesus,” Leo muttered.

  “That got me sent to the guidance counselor real fast.” She lowered her head. “Her name was Audrey Wayland. She was my very first friend.”

  “Your guidance counselor?”

  “Well, she was in her early twenties so there wasn’t that much of an age gap. And we both felt like misfits. I was too afraid to make friends with kids my own age. Too afraid they’d find out what a freak show my life was. Plus I had to go straight home after school. The few times I didn’t, I ended up in the hospital. And Audrey had moved from a big, close-knit family in Boston to Prattville, Alabama for her husband’s job, but their marriage was on the rocks. So she was basically all alone in small town, Southern culture shellshock.

  “I spent all my free periods in her office, talking about anything. So pathetically glad to have a friend.”

  For a split second he caught the little-girl vulnerability in her big blue eyes before she turned away.

  “It wasn’t long before she pieced together my hellish life. She drove me home and actually got in my father’s face until he agreed I should stay after school for different activities or additional studying.” She shook her head smiling. “It was the first time I saw someone stand up to my father. And the thing is,”—her eyebrows knit—“he backed right down.

  “He came to dread seeing that red Camaro barreling down the dirt road toward our trailer. But the hours she negotiated were so precious to me. I’d sit in her office, or we’d go out for ice cream and hang out talking. In hindsight, it’s obvious she used that time to try to instill a sense of self-worth in me. That I had a right to defend myself. That I controlled my life. And I guess it worked.”

  She paused and looked over again, her fathomless gaze wrenching something deep inside him.

  “I began defending myself and my mom from his attacks. The more I fought back or mouthed off, the more intense the beatings became. When that still didn’t stop me, he came up with another punishment.” She inhaled a shuddering breath. “He took his wrath out on my mom. Forced me to watch.”

  “Jesus,” Leo whispered again. Lock swallowed hard.

  “It was like she welcomed it. Even in the off chance that he did swing at me, she had a knack for knowing just how to press his buttons and instantly turn the focus to her. I couldn’t stop her. Couldn’t get his attention back. She told me she did it because she loved me. But that just makes you feel guiltier, you know?”

  Leo nodded, giving her knee a squeeze.

  “Where does she live now?” Lock asked.

  “With me. She’s unable to care for herself.”

  “Unable how?” his brother asked. His hand still rested on her knee.

  “She suffers from brain trauma, so her thinking is more like a child’s. She also has muscle tremors. The doctors correlate it to the constant cranial abuse.”

  He caught Leo’s eye and squinted in silent threat. His brother removed his hand, and Lock turned his attention back to Jordan.

  “So what made you finally snap?”

  She picked up her water bottle, studying it for so long he figured she’d gone as far as she could. God knows it was far. The horror and fear she’d lived with, the lies she told to stay safe. But what had happened? To actually shoot your father… What sick event brought that on? He had to know.

  “What made you finally snap?” he said again, softer.

  She looked up slowly, and the anguish in her face was unbearable. “He was about to chop my mother’s hand off.”

  …

  It took all Jordan’s energy to remain in the here and now, because the moment she didn’t concentrate with all her might on Lock’s handsome profile or her mangled water bottle, her mind would drag her back to that kitchen in Prattville sixteen years ago.

  “Jordan?” Leo grasped her fingers. “If this is too difficult—”

  “Let her talk.”

  Maybe it was Lock’s stern tone or Leo’s innate shyness, but his hand slid immediately away.

  “I’ll…I’ll get it out.” If only she could say these words without recalling the sludge of that horrific morning. Say each word independently from the others, string a sentence, and leave the emotion out. “I—um, woke up that morning because of his shouting. I remember thinking it wasn’t even seven and already something had ticked him off.” Her mouth was so dry. She desperately needed a sip from this bottle but knew it would come right back up. “Then I heard the pitch in my mother’s voice. It went beyond her usual pleading. She was terrified. That’s what made me rummage through their closet until I found his gun.”

  It had felt bulky and heavy in her palm. The shiny barrel cold and hard like her father. “I knew it was loaded. He told us repeatedly he always kept it loaded just in case one day he wanted to use it on us.”

  Lock muttered something under his breath.

  “I hid it in the pocket of my robe. When I got to the kitchen—he had my mom’s hand on the cutting board like this.” She spread her fingers wide, palm down on the dashboard. When she removed it, the wet imprint remained. “He had a butcher knife about an inch away from her wrist, and his face was blood red from screaming. My mother had slumped to the floor, maybe in fear. Maybe so she wouldn’t see him chop off her hand.”

  She paused, trying to collect the spit in her mouth. She was so thirsty!

  “Then she saw me and screamed for me to get out. He grabbed her wrist off the cutting board—held it like the neck of a chicken and spun around, turned the knife on me. I mean, I was six feet away, but he leveled it in my face. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes.” She tried to lick her lips. “That’s when I knew one of us had to go.”

  Leo exhaled harshly, and she met his riveted gaze. He wrote about such events as a career—how strange. She’d never met anyone mor
e gentle or caring.

  “Go on,” Lock said, and he sounded distant. Like he didn’t believe her. Oddly, she didn’t care anymore. She was finally telling the truth.

  “I…I don’t remember raising the gun or firing, but all of a sudden he was on the floor holding his chest. It was the first time I ever saw him look scared. Then he slumped sideways. I thought he was dead.”

  “Why did he try to chop off her hand?” Leo asked.

  “My rebellion apparently rubbed off.” She attempted a smile. “Turns out it was the first morning Mom raised a fist back at him.”

  Lock made a sound like he was angry, but when he spoke his voice was gentle, the kind of tone people used approaching a wounded animal. “So how did you really get away?”

  “My poor mom. Torn between helping her husband or her daughter. In the end she grabbed all the cash in my father’s wallet and thrust it at me. We left Alabama in my father’s pickup with fifty-three dollars and half a tank of gas. I was still in my pajamas and robe, a murderer on the run.”

  “But he didn’t die,” Leo pointed out.

  “I didn’t know that then. I’d shot him twice in the chest.”

  “You didn’t research it or look for an obit?”

  “I was too busy driving across the country, trying to figure out how to stay alive on our pitiful money. My mom didn’t have her brain issues then, but she’d lived with a man who’d controlled her for so long that she was incapable of making a decision. She responded only if I told her exactly what to do. At truck stops I even chose her food for her. So honestly, it never occurred to me to search for my father’s obituary or call the hospital or anything. I was in survival mode for both of us, and we needed to hide.”

  “Hide how? You were sixteen. You can’t just disappear off the grid.” Lock’s skepticism dripped from every word.

  She closed her eyes as the memory of that long, frightening trip played in her head. “The only person I could think to call was Audrey. As soon as we crossed the state line, I stopped at the next rest stop and called collect. She told us to head for Boston, gave me an address where her sister lived. Rebecca Hamilton, a private investigator. She took us in.”

  “That’s awfully convenient,” Lock said mildly.

  “It’s the truth. I never expected to stay there long, but we live with her still. She’s become my other best friend.”

  “But surely your father searched for you.”

  “Rebecca knew changing our identities was our only hope, but it’s completely illegal. Audrey pressured her from Alabama—and I told her more about the abuse and that last morning with the butcher knife. She never hesitated. She created new identities, fake birth certificates, new social security numbers… Crafted such a tight history for me that any background check would come up legit. Then she convinced Jefferson to hire me.”

  “And yet you also happen to be a reporter…” Lock said.

  “I eventually went to community college at night. I always wanted to be a journalist, but no one in Boston is hiring, so I freelance on the side.”

  “You have your identities. Why not move to a new state that is hiring?” Leo asked.

  “About a year after we fled, I began noticing some of my mother’s symptoms, and I’ve spent all my energy and money caring for her. Rebecca helps out whenever she can. Most days Mom is okay because she’s in a routine and knows her caretakers. Moving is really not an option.”

  “So the tabloid money is to help your mom,” Leo said.

  She almost smiled at the irony. “Indirectly.”

  A few minutes of silence went by, and she sucked in a long breath. Wow. She’d just told someone the truth about her past. Her limbs shook like she was stark naked in the North Pole, and yet her heart felt all airy. Lightning hadn’t struck. The Prattville police sirens weren’t screaming up from behind.

  She finally had the strength to lift the bottle and guzzled the whole thing at once, the water soothing and sweet in her throat.

  “How did you find out your father was still alive?” Leo asked.

  “Audrey called. Told me there was a warrant out for my arrest. A few months later she said he’d been sent to prison for robbery and murder.”

  “I’ll bet he’s done his best to find you,” Lock said. “Even from behind bars. Do you ever hear from him?”

  Every muscle in her body froze. Why hadn’t she seen that question coming a mile off?

  “And I’ll bet if he found you, he’d call,” he murmured, talking to the windshield. “And maybe those calls come through as Private ID.”

  Tremors rolled through her body. To think she ever wrote Lock Roane off as a brainless playboy…

  “What in the hell happened to the four hours of silence rule?” she snapped.

  “It was broken by the miracle of you telling the truth.”

  She glared at his repulsive smirk. Leo said Lock hated liars, but this guy was even ruder when he heard the truth.

  “You do remember why we’re heading to Aspen, right, Sport?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, nodding toward the Welcome to Aspen sign just ahead. “So you can lie to Vannini.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After ten months stuck in a claustrophobic cabin, driving down Aspen’s picturesque West Main Street had the same body-shock effect as seeing the front page of that tabloid. Lock’s heart drummed against his ribs while inconsequential memories flooded through him. Over on the left was the Aspen Pub, a dive he’d frequented when he was a newbie on the team. Maxi’s, Tiffany’s favorite store was down that street. The Works, his favorite deli, had a line out the door—no surprise there. Maybe he’d hit that after dropping Jordan and Leo off. His mouth watered just remembering the taste of their famous six-inch, all-meat Construction Works combo.

  He drove at parade-route speed given the spring break traffic, glancing left and right, letting the memories roll on through.

  “Oh shit,” his brother muttered, pointing down the block.

  Good thing he’d braked for a traffic light at that instant, because his limbs turned to wet noodles. Two blocks away, beginning at the Aspen Street intersection, media vans topped with mammoth satellite dishes lined both sides of the road, bumper-to-bumper. Cops stood at every intersection as far as he could see, all frantically coordinating the spring break traffic through the media snare. This was all for him. All for Monday. The vultures waited, and suddenly his lungs couldn’t fill with oxygen.

  “The courthouse is still four blocks away,” his brother said stupidly.

  “It’s the crime of the decade.” It was pretty clear by Jordan’s sarcastic tone that she was still hugely pissed. Deservedly. He had no clue why he’d all but heckled her story. She’d been so brave to tell it.

  The light turned green, and he forced his foot from the brake to the accelerator, stunned at the scene they drove toward. When Parker had tried to prepare him for the media circus, Lock never imagined this. How in the hell would he avoid them all afternoon? Beads of sweat formed on his temple. All it took was being recognized by one person to set off a paparazzi riot.

  As the station wagon reached the beginning of the satellite van gauntlet, he nervously adjusted his mirrored sunglasses and scrunched into the stiff collar of his jacket. What a boneheaded move to shave his beard this morning.

  They drove in the traffic convoy past the cops and vans and jaywalkers, their pace so slow he rarely tapped the accelerator, just let the car roll and brake, roll and brake. Everywhere he looked, even down side streets, hungry journalists waited for him.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, “it’s like seeing thousands of Jordan Sinclairs.”

  The second it came out of his mouth, he felt like a shit. She stiffened beside him but didn’t speak. He really should apologize. For that remark, for dissing her childhood story… But then he remembered her tabloid betrayal and decided he was justified to piss her off too.

  On the other hand, the reason they were even here was because of her plan to trick Vannini
into spilling secrets during the interview. Shit!

  Mad as he wanted to be at her, she had him by the balls. He needed her help and wanted her body. Of all the fucked up things to happen to him in his life, this little fire-breather messing with his heart topped the list. Facing murder charges came in a close second.

  It took three minutes to inch down another block, and this time he exhaled a silent sigh of relief. The only good thing that came from the media vans blocking the quaint shops was that he’d just slipped past the Avalanche bar without Jordan seeing the forest-green sign arched above the doors. A few seconds later she leaned forward, eagerly pointing out a sign high up on a streetlamp post.

  “Look, there’s the arrow for the St. Regis.”

  He ignored the impulse to inform her that he knew every street, shop, pub—hell, every back alley Dumpster in this town—blindfolded. He hung a right on South Mill Street, heading straight for the foot of Aspen Mountain. The day was so clear he could see the snow-topped roof of the red-brick resort four blocks away, looming majestically at the base of the mountain. For some reason media vans didn’t line this street, but a mass of tourists and skiers milled about, slowing him further. All of them seemed to meander toward the slopes, and his gaze strayed there.

  The blizzard had transformed the runs into pure perfection—thick, powdered glory. An indescribable sense of loss seeped through him as he studied the throngs of skiers and snowboarders zigzagging down the wide runs without a care in the world. God, he missed that life.

  He tore his eyes away from the mountain and turned onto Dean Street.

  “Wow,” Jordan breathed, as they halted in front of the massive gold-and-glass doors. Cops stood near the entrance, eyeballing everyone heading inside. No way was this a bodyguard thing for Vannini. Some important guest was making sure the media stayed away.

  Lock waved away the red-vested valet racing up, and glanced over at Jordan, torn between his need to hide from the cameras and his concern for her wellbeing. Vannini was a snake. She shouldn’t be alone with him.

  “Leo can take the car, and I’ll wait in the lobby for you.”