If I Had Two Lives

by A B Whelan

  I’m not surprised everybody is on pills in this country.

  Doug lowers his head and steals a glance at his friend, huddling underneath the blanket next to him, then looks back at me. “Please, put the gun down, and we can talk,” he orders me like I work for him; as if I were a homicidal maniac who can’t be trusted with a weapon. I’m a trained FBI agent, for Christ’s sake!

  I turn the Glock sideways, waving it up and down toward him. “What? This? You think I can’t control myself? You think I’d shoot your sorry ass and ruin my life? For what? For you?” I aim the gun at the center of his chest again, my eyes widening into a crazy gaze because it feels empowering to do so.

  I’ve done everything he’s ever asked of me. I’ve supported him through school, his career, his ups and downs. I gave him my heart. I stripped my soul naked in front of him. I allowed him to get close to me, to see me vulnerable, and he took advantage of my trust.

  Doug sits back on his heels. “May I get dressed at least?”

  I marvel at the transformation his face has gone through in the past few minutes, turning from white to bright red.

  He was so eager to prance around naked in bed with another man, he shouldn’t worry about being exposed now. He never has a problem with walking around at home with his cock hanging out.

  If I had the balls, I’d force him to parade naked down the hotel hallway for all to see. Isn’t that what he likes? To be the center of attention? To be looked at? Admired? I want him to feel as naked and humiliated as I do.

  Despite my nasty words and thoughts, I’m not a monster. I’m an FBI agent. I’m the keeper of the law. I holster my gun and nod at Doug, indicating that he has my permission to put on his clothes. Having a loaded gun in your hand is empowering. Not pulling the trigger—even more so.

  Doug swallows his next words, struggling to stay mute. Then he signals to Ethan, and they both slip out of bed, barefooted and nude. I step into the bathroom to spare myself the sight.

  I lock the door behind me, mourning my decade of trust I had in my boyfriend. I should have never let him get close to me. I was just as happy living alone before I met him.

  I wash my face with cold water, soak a hand towel in the sink, and scrub off my makeup. My stubborn mascara leaves traces of black around my eyes, turning me into an evil villain. Who am I kidding? I loved Doug, and I still do. He is my best friend. My lover. He is the one who knows more about me than anyone else in this wretched world.

  But it’s over now. Things will never be the same between us. Losing him is like losing a limb. I should have never driven here. It would have been better if I’d never found out the truth.

  My chest violently begins to shake, and I sit down on the edge of the bathtub and cry. What hurts the most is the realization that my boyfriend cared so little for me that he was able to use me as an accessory, a prop for his social life to hide his true identity.

  I rub my face with both hands, spreading salty tears around my face. Then I laugh out loud in desperation. It’s almost comical how this revelation brings other details about my relationship with Doug into focus. Tonight’s episode was the missing puzzle piece to finally put the whole picture together. There was always a lingering suspicion in the back of my mind that Doug was different. He has a borderline feminine obsession with his appearances—his hair, nails, and clothes always have to be perfect. Before he would touch me, he needed a few drinks and a bedroom clothed in darkness. I noticed those things. I contributed his shyness and lack of interest in sex to a difficult upbringing. I believed his passage from child to adult wasn’t paved with healthy sexual experiences and left him insecure in his own body.

  In light of recent events, I have a new theory. Doug’s two older brothers may have exposed him to inappropriate adult content early in his youth, leading him down a path of sexual deviance. Or maybe he was born this way, but his parents wouldn’t accept a gay son, so he learned to conceal his feelings as a child by any means necessary—even if it meant destroying someone else’s life.

  I drink water from the facet to put a stop to my speculating. My profiling has been off lately, and I don’t feel confident about my theories. I was utterly wrong about Meredith’s background, and my own boyfriend has been leading me on for years.

  If I knew Doug’s family, I could investigate his childhood and find out what led him to lie about who he really is, but I’ve never met any of them. Doug was estranged from his family way before I met him. I only have the childhood stories he shared with me—if they were real at all.

  A series of gentle knocks raps on the door. “Are you okay in there?”

  “No, I’m not fucking okay, Doug!” I yell.

  No answer.

  I hear receding footsteps.

  “Fuck!” I scream, punching the tile on the wall. The pain comes fast and hard. I put my throbbing knuckles under a cold stream of water. I take a few deep breaths and dry my hands and face with a towel.

  By the time I muster the courage to exit the bathroom to face Doug and Ethan, I feel empty. The life has been sucked out of me.

  Doug is standing by the window, gazing at the lit-up sparkling pool on the ground floor.

  Ethan is leaning against the desk, his arms folded.

  I can’t even look at them. I set my gaze on the carpet and start chewing the inside of my mouth.

  “Vic—” Ethan begins, but I stop him right here.

  “I need to talk to Doug alone,” I say as maturely as I can manage.

  Ethan runs his hand down his bushy beard and pushes away from the desk. “I understand.”

  When the room’s door shuts behind me, I shudder.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  Doug can’t look me in the eyes either. We both keep glancing at each other, then snap our eyes away, searching for something neutral to look at.

  “Nothing is going on Vicky. I promise.”

  “I don’t need more lies. I want to hear the truth.”

  “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know what happened tonight. Honestly. We got back to the room after the convention, high on adrenaline and drunk. It was … well … we were … I don’t know. The whole thing seems surreal.”

  I don’t respond. Doug needs to sweat this one out without my help.

  “We had some drinks. I ordered pay-per-view. It was stupid.”

  “You watched porn with your best friend?”

  Doug’s shoulder slump. I don’t see the successful businessman in him anymore. He’s a lost little boy, desperate for approval.

  “It started out as a guy thing. I don’t know … Please don’t make me say it out loud.”

  I scoff. “Oh, you want me to make it easier on you? If you think it’s tough to talk about, guess how I felt seeing it?”

  Doug looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot. His hands are shaking.

  There is nothing else to talk about. There is no point in stretching out this heartbreaking and humiliating conversation for either of us. I reach for my purse lying on the floor where I dropped it.

  “I’ll be in San Marcos for a few days. I need you to be out of the house by the time I get back.”

  Doug doesn’t object. Silence escorts me from the hotel room, and I feel so lonely I could die.

  I encounter Ethan in the hallway by the elevators, crouching by the door.

  “He’s all yours,” I tell him.

  He jumps to his feet. “Vic, wait!”

  I hand him the bottle of champagne I brought for Doug and me. “Some detective I am, huh?”

  “Vicky, come on!”

  “Don’t let me ruin your night,” I say and step into the elevator.

  It’s after midnight when I arrive at the hotel in San Marcos. My head is buzzing and I feel numb. The scariest thing is that I can’t recall driving here. I know I was on the freeway—I had to be—but not much else has registered in my mind for the past hour.

  I take the stairs and drag myself to the fourth floor. I quietly enter the room
like a lifeless ghost. If I wake Anaya, I’ll have to explain to her why I’m back early, and I’m not feeling up for it.

  I set down my purse next to the TV and slip out of my shoes. As I tiptoe to the bed, I trip on a pair of shoes and fall on top of my roommate. She turns on the nightstand lamp and brightness spills onto her bed, illuminating the startled face of Agent Brestler pointing a gun at me.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” I blurt out, looking Anaya in the eye. “Has this whole world gone mad?”

  I can’t deal with this right now, so before my partners attempt to engage in a lengthy explanation as to why they are sleeping naked in the same bed, I grab my shoes and purse and storm out of the room, letting the door slam behind me. The sound echoes down the long, empty hallway and chases me into the elevator.

  At the reception, I get myself another room. But before turning in for the night, I buy myself a bottle of rum and a six-pack of Coke at the small convenience store in the lobby. I can’t even bear to look at the bed in the room. I climb into the bathtub instead, where I drink and cry and drink and laugh. There’s no rational way to handle this night, so I decide to ignore it by drinking myself into oblivion.

  25

  It’s ten o’clock in the morning when I step out of the hotel building and into the blinding sunlight. I light up a cigarette as I head to the parking lot. Anaya texted me two hours ago to meet her for breakfast in the hotel restaurant, but I was still out cold and missed it. I can’t say I was to upset about it.

  Brestler’s car is gone, but Anaya’s is still in the parking lot. She is leaning against the driver’s door, covered by the shade of an olive tree. “Got my keys?”

  I search for them in my purse then hurl them at her.

  She catches the bundle of keys and hanging trinkets in the air then she opens the doors. “Since when do you smoke?”

  “Since today. Got a problem with that?”

  “What’s with the attitude?”

  “I guess you could say I had a rough night.”

  I open the door on the passenger side, put out my cigarette on the asphalt, and take my seat next to my partner.

  Anaya fiddles with her keys. “Look, Brestler and I … it’s nothing.”

  “None of my business,” I say as I rummage in my purse for a piece of chewing gum.

  “I understand, but I wanted to apologize for making you feel uncomfortable last night.”

  Hold yourself together, I warn myself. Please don’t cry.

  “Look, we are all adults here. Don’t worry about it. How about we get some coffee and talk about our case?”

  My request dangles in the air between us like an invisible barrier. It’s quiet in the car. I can hear Anaya’s nervous breathing.

  I look at her to see what’s causing the delay. She is watching me with her big brown eyes.

  “Yeah, sure. Let’s grab some coffee.”

  We pass two Starbucks buildings on our way, but Anaya is driving with a purpose. She eventually pulls into the drive-thru lane of a local coffee shop. The line of cars is long. I know I won’t be able to escape the conversation. It’s fine. I’m not mad at my friend. I’m angry with myself for being so blind and stupid.

  “Where’s Brestler?”

  “He went in early to the control center. We’ll meet him there.”

  “Any new developments since yesterday?”

  “The fingerprint technician left a message on Brestler’s phone this morning. He matched all the prints lifted from the condo to Meredith, her daughter, and the manager of the building. Not one unidentified print was found. His supervisor hasn’t finished reviewing the results, but I won’t get my hopes up.”

  “How about the jacket? Did they find any saliva on it?”

  “I haven’t heard back anything.”

  We order our coffees and drive to the San Marcos Police Department. The closer we get to our destination, the stronger my desire to see my mother is. I could sit around all day in an office, waiting for the results from the forensic lab or I could untangle the bundle of lies and secrets my family has laid out before me.

  I vote for the latter.

  I Google search for a rental car. Then I ask Anaya to drop me off at the nearby Enterprise office.

  “Why do you need a car? You aren’t still mad, are you?”

  I sigh. “No. It’s nothing to do with you and Brestler. Remember the phone interview between the Bureau and my parents you overheard?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need to get home and clarify a few things with my family.”

  “What about our investigation?”

  “Unless a new lead turns up or a piece of trace evidence shows promise, there’s not much I can do here right now. You and Brestler got this. You don’t need me.”

  “Don’t be like this, Vicky. Of course, we need you.”

  I pull the band from my hair and redo my bun. “That’s not what I meant. I’ll come back as soon as I can. I have to tie up some loose ends with my mother … in person.”

  “No problem, take my car. I can hitch a ride with Brestler.”

  I break into a peal of laughter. Anaya snaps her head toward me, eyeing me as if I’ve gone mad.

  “Sorry, those words meant something entirely different to me yesterday, then today.”

  Anaya’s full pink lips widen, and she joins in my laughter. “Oh, shit. I’m going straight to hell, aren’t I?”

  I touch her hand. “No, you’re not. FBI agents are human too. Right?”

  Our bout of laughter slowly dies down, and the serious air between us returns.

  “What happened last night? Why did you come back early?”

  At Anaya’s question, a flood of memories washes away my upbeat mood, and I feel the long fingers of disappointment and sadness wrapping around my throat. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Anaya shoots me a sharp look. “Try me.”

  As I stare at her, my eyes start twitching and begin to blur with tears. “I can’t talk about it. Not right now.”

  We pull into a shady parking spot in front of the police department. “Did the bastard cheat on you?”

  I don’t reply; my gaze is unwavering.

  “He did? Bloody hell! What a rotten-faced marabou stork! Narcissist peacock.”

  Anaya is livid. Her anger is intense. I suspect she lives by her own unique moral compass. She’s upset about Doug cheating on me, yet she sleeps with Brestler—a married man with children.

  “I can’t do this right now. I need to get to Temecula.” I blow my nose in a used tissue I find in my purse. “Are you sure you’re okay with me taking your car? I should be back by the end of the day.”

  “Yeah, go. No worries.” She hurriedly gathers her personal belongings and steps out of the vehicle. “I’ll call you if we find something.”

  I search my purse for my phone. I’ll need it for navigation. My fingers slip over a Ziploc bag and my altercation with Tyler at Morongo Casino rushes back to me. I pull out the palm and fingerprints I lifted from my car secured in a plastic bag.

  “Do you think you could drop this off with a fingerprint analyst? See if they can get a hit on these prints?” I hold out the package for my partner.

  She takes the bag and inspects it in the sunlight. “Looks like an improv. You lifted it?”

  I nod. “I used my eyeshadow.”

  “Do I need to know where it came from?”

  “If we get a hit, I’ll tell you. Could be something, could be nothing.” I slip over the middle compartment and into the driver’s seat. “And hey, could you put a rush on it?”

  Anaya's face turns serious. “I’ll see Brown about this. He probably has more pull around here than I do.”

  I close the door and turn over the engine, but before I drive off, I roll down the window. “If we keep this up, I’ll owe you a huge debt I’ll never be able to repay.”

  Anaya bends down and looks straight at me. “I don’t keep tabs, do you?”

  26


  Four familiar cars are parked in the driveway of my parents’ home when I arrive at their house. Fred’s navy-blue Prius Prime is dwarfed by Heather’s red Ford 150, a permanent exhibition of the power struggle for Dad’s attention between the two of them. I pull in behind my father’s silver E-350 Mercedes glistening in the summer sunlight. A family reunion is not what I expected, and it takes two cigarettes to help me work up the courage to face the music and go inside.

  My mom knew I was coming home because I called her from the road, so this feels like a setup.

  I haven’t talked to Fred in ages. I don’t call him, and he certainly doesn’t lift up the phone to check on me. The day I left home, our relationship was reduced to Christmas cards and occasional Thanksgiving dinners. Fred is years younger than me, but it wasn’t the age difference that kept us from growing deep sibling roots, it was our history together. As the oldest child in the family, I was always told to let things go, be the bigger person, make peace no matter who wronged who, and Fred knew how to play the game and get me into trouble. I was the child who had to learn about responsibilities early in life, while Fred was Mommy’s boy. He never had to put in the hard work, yet enjoyed all the benefits.

  We don’t have a thing in common. We don’t even look alike. Fred is nearly two heads taller than I am and has a hump on his upper back from hunching over his phone all day. His torso is like a barrel. His arms and legs are slim, but he doesn’t have an ounce of muscle on him.

  He was born before Susie was kidnapped, so he was spared the drama that followed that devastating night, though he suffered the consequences all the same. Mom never let him out of her sight nor allowed him to do anything where he might injure himself. Now he can’t even change a lightbulb in his house, for which his wife, Sherrie, complains incessantly.

  I’m closer to Heather; I always have been. Common interests bridged the five-year age difference between us. When we were younger and single, we used to go out together a few times a week to grab a drink, and we would call each other daily to report on our lives working in the men’s world. We don’t talk as much as we used to, but I follow her on Instagram.