by Whitney G.
Michael
Now
The day of the gala
“We’ll never get that deal with Nike off the ground if he keeps dragging his feet,” Meredith’s Aunt Catherine is currently taking a call outside her office door.
She’s been standing out there for over twenty minutes, berating one of her highest-paid agents over the phone. According to her staff, she prefers to take her early morning calls in the hallway, hours before the first team member arrives.
She’s told them that she does this because it’s the time of the day that’s most “quiet and humbling,” the time when she and her “beloved” sister used to chat on the phone. In reality, it’s the guilt.
She called the hit on Meredith’s mother from her office phone at exactly seven thirty-eight in the morning, and she hasn’t been able to step into the room a minute before that, ever since.
“So, can you please tell him that twenty million is a damn good offer, and when he makes it to Tiger Woods’ level, I’ll happily return to the table and renegotiate on his behalf?” She ends the call before getting a response.
She pushes the unlocked door open and hits the lights, and the moment her heels clack against the marble floor, I swivel around in her desk chair to face her.
“Good morning, Catherine,” I say. “How are you today?”
“I’d be a lot better if you weren’t in my office without permission, Michael.” She sips from her coffee mug. “Then again, are you here because you need someone to talk to about Meredith?”
“Not in the slightest.” I smile. “I talked to Meredith a few minutes ago…She looks pretty good for a woman who’s supposed to be dead. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about her dad paying someone to get that done, would you?”
Her face immediately turns white, and she drops her coffee mug to the floor, shattering it to pieces. She starts to head to the door, but it shuts and locks before she can reach it.
“She’s alive and well,” I say. “Just in case you want to pretend to give a fuck for five seconds.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Michael,” she says, looking at me. “And I’m not sure what ‘sick and twisted’ game you’re trying to play, but I’m not here for it at all.”
“Okay, then.” I lean back in the chair. “Well, perhaps you’re here for the hit you took out on your own sister two years ago, then? Now that I think about it, Trevor didn’t give you the discounted referral rate for bringing Mr. Thatchwood to us. I’ll have to cut you a late check for that. We appreciate our repeat customers.”
“What? How did you—are you? I mean…No, it’s…” She turns around and pulls at the doorknob again, trying and failing to yank the door open.
“It’s locked,” I say, as she pulls a set of keys out of her pocket. “And the locks were changed last night. Hence, why I left the door unlocked for you, your keys won’t work.”
“I can…” She takes forever to face me, and her eyes immediately go to the gun that’s now sitting at the center of her desk. “I can explain all of this. It’s not what you think it is.”
“I would hope not.” I cross my arms. “I’m listening.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way…I just—It’s hard to explain. I didn’t mean her mother any harm.”
“That’s the entire purpose behind hiring someone like me, is it not?”
“No, no. I’m not that type of person, and I had no idea that you were… If you’ll just listen…”
I wait on the typical, ‘I’m sorry, I’m human garbage,’ line—some type of remorse, but all she does is babble about herself. About how she must be dreaming and has no idea what I’m suggesting.
I’m still easily amused by these types of people. They honestly think that giving me a list of good deeds means a goddamn thing.
“Stop talking,” I say, cutting her off as I stand to my feet. “I’ve heard enough.”
“I love Meredith.” She looks at me. “I have since she was a little girl, and I loved my sister, too. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I—”
“If you say another word…” I pick up the gun. “You’re not going to leave this room. If you listen, I’ll give you that chance.”
She nods, and her face pales all over again.
“You’re not going to Thatchwood’s victory gala tonight.” I take a few steps forward. “You’re not going to tell him I was here. You’re going to sit here in this office, all damn day, and you’re going to spend every minute signing all of your firm’s escrow money to Meredith’s offshore banking account. You’ll sign away all of your personal money as well, and when you get done, you’re going to walk out of this office, right into the closest police precinct and tell them exactly what the fuck you did to get rid of her mother. Are we clear?”
She doesn’t answer. She just stares at me as if I’ll give her a bit of sympathy.
Never.
“Are we clear?” I repeat, and she nods—letting tears fall down her face.
“Good. In the meantime, don’t try to contact anyone—not the police, not your staff, not even her fucking father.” I narrow my eyes at her. “I’ll know if you do.”
I put the gun away and point to her desk. “I’ve left the paperwork for you, and I’ve sent a mass email from your account. None of your employees will come in today, and according to your email, you’ll be going on a long vacation. Effective immediately.”
She looks more stunned about that news than anything else I’ve said.
I motion for her to start walking to her desk, wait for her to take a seat. The moment she picks up a pen, I leave the room and make sure that the door remains locked. Then I walk down the hallway and join Meredith in front of the main elevator.
“That was good.” She smiles, looking impressed, and a little too happy—like I used to be in the beginning. “I think I can do the same tonight…”
“You’ll have to,” I say. “Just keep your emotions out of it, and stay calm.”
“Do you think she’ll turn herself in after she transfers the money?”
“Not at all.” I tap my phone’s screen to make sure that Trevor is already transferring the money for us. “These type of people never do, Meredith. She’s not going to transfer any money, and in
a few minutes, she’s going to call your father.”
“Why? You just threatened her with a gun and warned her not to.”
“Doesn’t matter, I didn’t shoot.” I trail a finger along her bottom lip. “She’ll do it anyway. Then a certain someone will have to show her and me that this legacy taking business is serious. Well, if she is serious about it, that is.”
Silence.
Within minutes, my cell phone buzzes, and I take a step back to answer it.
“Mr. Leonardo Thatchwood’s office,” I say, changing my voice. “This is Henry—Rachel’s out today. How may I help you this morning?”
“Connect me to his private line at once. It’s an emergency, and I need him. Now.”
“Hold on, please.” I hit the mute button and look at Meredith. “What do you want to do?”
Suddenly livid, she turns around and heads down the hallway with me at her heels. She pulls a silver tin of sleeping gas from her purse and slides it under her aunt’s door. Adjusting the settings on her phone just like I showed her, she lets out a breath.
“Since she can’t follow simple instructions…” she says, waiting until the tell-tale sound of her aunt’s body hitting the floor sounds. “She’ll need to spend the rest of today locked in the back of a trunk until we need her again.”
I smile. “Good girl.”
Meredith
Now
Later that night
I’m standing in the ballroom kitchen in the Chrysler Building, dressed in an oversized black hoodie and jeans. For the past hour and a half, I’ve watched well-dressed men and women dance under the glimmering chandeliers without a care in the world.
They’re all here to celebrate my father’s
campaign victory, to bask in his presence as he thanks them for giving him their votes.
They have no idea how corrupt he really is, and I can’t blame them. By following Michael’s instructions on extensive research, I’ve just discovered the truth for myself, and it hurts like hell.
On the outside, Leonardo Thatchwood is a quintessential “rags to riches” story, New York-style: A boy grows up poor, vows never to go hungry again, and slowly buys up small properties—eventually becoming one of the leading real estate tycoons in the city.
At least, that’s how his story is usually printed in the papers, and that’s the shortened summary that appears in all of the party’s “Thank you for Coming” pamphlets tonight.
Underneath that glittering story is the gritty truth, though. The parts of the story he doesn’t want anyone to read.
He didn’t earn any of his wealth; he stole it. A natural-born scammer, he started multiple companies under different names that promised elderly people life insurance. (When they died, he cashed out their savings and never shared a dime of the money with their families) He opened Pay Day loan pop up shops, and charged ridiculous interest. And when those things weren’t enough, he just stole money outright, once going so far as to date a bank teller and robbing her drawer.
He’s always been willing to ruin anything—or anyone, that’s dared to get in his way.
A modern-day Jay Gatsby, he’s lied his way to the top for the first ten years of his career—making investors think he was wealthier than he really was.
He has a long list of secretaries whom he’s fucked and abandoned, paying for their silence with his newfound wealth and moving on to the next, without a care in the world. He told my mother that he’d changed, that he wanted her and only her, but he never did.
And he’s gotten worse.
Ten of the women at this party tonight have graced his bed in the past week, and he’s made it more than clear that he can’t be seen with them in public. That he’ll never be able to offer anything more than sex and the occasional Chanel bag.
Why my aunt would ever waste her time sleeping with him, whenever he’s not with his other mistresses (or why she ever betrayed my mother), is anyone’s guess, but I do finally know why he wanted to have me murdered.
The research doesn’t lie…
The band onstage strikes their final note, and they announce that they’ll be taking a short break. My dad’s campaign manager steps behind the podium and introduces himself, then he smiles and begins giving a long list of adjectives to describe my father. None of which actually fit.
Honorable, inspiring, self-made…
Minutes later, my father takes the stage in a black bespoke suit, and the room erupts into an applause so deafening that it drowns out the clattering in the kitchen. Behind him, a massive screen comes to life. It shows bright and tear-jerking images of him being a ‘good person’, images of him smiling and being the perfect candidate.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” He smiles and looks around the room. “Thank you all so much.”
He holds up a hand to calm the clapping, and they settle into their chairs.
“I want to thank you all for your incredible support of my campaign,” he says. “As you know, I almost dropped out due to—” He pauses, choking up and pulling out a handkerchief to wipe away a fake tear. “Due to the loss of my beloved daughter, Meredith, but your unwavering support kept me going.”
Stepping out of the kitchen, I move behind a waiter’s tray and take several deep breaths as he continues speaking.
“Meredith would’ve been so happy if she were here tonight.” He smiles and looks up to the ceiling, earning a soft round of applause. “This one is for you, Mer. I hope you’re up there watching me, and I hope you’re proud of your old man. I love you.”
A much louder applause fills the room, and he clears his throat. “For the people of New York, I promise that you won’t regret electing me to this position, and I want you to know that this is only the beginning…”
Keeping my head down, I double-check to make sure that my ear-pods are working, and I wait for him to finish his short, self-serving speech. (The word “I” is in it three hundred times)
It’s time to take him down.
Right after the crowd gives him an undeserved ovation that lasts far too long, he steps down and begins taking pictures with his donors.
Pulling out my phone, I call the number that leads to Michael’s newest burner phone.
“Yes, Meredith?” he asks.
“Tell Trevor to play the tape now.”
“Done. See you soon.” He ends the call, and my heart races against my chest. I’ve rehearsed for this moment hundreds of times, played the role inside and out, and now it’s time to see if my father is still as good of an actor as he thinks he is.
The screen onstage turns on again, and more images of him on the campaign trail begin to play. The crowd becomes transfixed by a short video of him purchasing a jacket for a needy boy in the park.
They give him more applause. More cheers.
As another feel-good clip plays, I dial the number that’s linked to his emergency line and watch as his secretary picks up the cell phone.
“Mr. Leonardo Thatchwood is unavailable at this time,” she answers, her smile unwavering. “How may I assist you?”
“It’s an emergency,” I say. “Please give him the phone now.”
“Miss, I’m unable to do that without knowing who you are and what you need from him. If you tell me how you got this number, or what’s going on—”
“It’s about his daughter, Meredith,” I say, cutting her off. “The police have found her alive. I think it’s a miracle…”
Her eyes widen, and she leaps out of her chair. She rushes across the ballroom, pushing her way through all of his suits and supporters, holding the phone out to my father.
She’s mouthing, “Take this call right now,” and he’s giving her an annoyed smile, since he can’t show any emotion other than happiness for the cameras.
“Yes?” he answers. “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to right now?”
“It’s me, Dad.” I keep my voice firm. “Meredith. You know, the daughter you paid to have murdered a few months ago.”
His face turns ghost-white within seconds, and he struggles to pose for a photo with the founder of an elite prep school. “Who is this really?” he says, forcing a smile again. “I’m not interested in playing any games right now.”
“No one is playing games, Dad,” I say. “Don’t you recognize my voice? Then again, since we haven’t spoken in a while, I guess you’ve forgotten…”
He swallows and stands still, and the screen behind him suddenly stops playing nice videos. Now it’s playing the start of the video I first saw in route to Mexico—him sitting down in front of the flower shop guy.
It’s not as grainy as it was before, though. Now, it’s perfectly clear.
It’s the extended version of the film, and the pleasantries are exchanged first.
“Mr. Thatchwood,” Flower Shop guy says. “Pleasure to see you again.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Alex.” He looks over his shoulder. “Crazy weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Crazy indeed…”
“Why did you want me to meet you here?” My dad checks his watch. “I have a really busy campaign schedule.”
“It’s protocol,” Flower Shop Guy says. “Making sure we’re on the same page before we take things any further.”
“I paid you the deposit. We’re definitely on the same page.”
Paling, my father looks up at the screen as this scene plays. Since he knows the ugly, revealing words that are soon to follow, he quickly pushes his way through the crowd, rushing his way toward the back of the room.
“Once we do this, there’s no going back,” Flower Guy says, right as my father makes it to the door.
“I know. I don’t want her to suffer, though. Nothing too hurtful okay?”<
br />
The crowd sucks in a collective gasp, and the room suddenly becomes silent. A few women in the audience shout in disbelief, and my heart drops all over again like I’m hearing his hurtful words for the first time.
He keeps the phone up to his ear, taking the small spiral staircase down to the other ballroom, to the hidden elevators where he can escape.
“You’re missing the best part of the film,” I say. “The part when you say that you want me, gone-gone.”
“I still do.” He hisses. “Now, more than ever.”
I swallow, keeping calm like Michael taught me. Not showing any emotions, ignoring the heavy ache in my chest. “Because you honestly think that I was a liability to your stupid ass campaign? That murder was the best way for you to win?”
“I wanted you gone because you’re a cunt just like your mother.” His words are slow and searing, the first ones that slip under my skin. “You only care about yourself, and you’re completely ungrateful for the lifestyle I’ve provided for you. You’re willing to embarrass me to no end, willing to cost me everything.”
“I’ve never done anything to hurt you,” I say. “I hated you at times, but—”
“What did you do to prevent the guy I hired from doing his damn job, huh?” He cuts me off. “Fuck him just like you’ve fucked all of the other customers in Club Swan?”
“I never fucked any of those customers!” I can’t help but yell. “It wasn’t like that at all.”
“What was it like, for you, then?” It’s not a question; he keeps talking. “Because I can tell you what it was like for me. Night after night, fielding calls from news reporters who wanted money to hide your filthy little secret from the papers and prevent it from embarrassing me.”
“Is your ego that fragile? Is my personal life really that detrimental to yours?”
“You cost me a five hundred-million-dollar deal last year, Meredith.” He hisses. “Disney walked away from my pending deal of a lifetime because one of their lead executives saw the daughter of a so-called ‘family-man’ twirling around, damn-near naked, onstage.”
