Beautiful Lies

by Heather Bentley

  My entire body is shaking violently, and my vision is too clouded with tears to make out any more of the crime scene photos. I clean off my face with my sleeve and reach for the next items in the stack. There are two bus tickets to Las Vegas. Vegas? We were going to Disney World. Why would we need bus tickets to Vegas?

  Shaking my head in confusion, I grab the next item, another photo. As I bring it close, I’m met with an image of my mother from years ago, looking elegant in a beaded gown, standing next to Father, neither wearing a smile on their face. The photo was clearly taken in the 80s because the dress is … I begin to pull so tightly on the photo I expect it to rip down the middle. That’s because my mother is wearing a gown constructed of green, black, and silver beading, strapless with a high slit. The dress Becca wore to the gala. The dress that pulled at my memories. But how in the hell would she get my mom’s old dress? And more importantly, why?

  I’m tempted to stop what I’m doing to call Becca and demand an explanation when my eye catches on something that looks like a manuscript. I pull the stapled stack of papers forward and see that they’re transcripts of some sort, and as I begin to read through them, it becomes clear that they’re transcribed from recorded telephone conversations. Pages and pages, with random sentences highlighted in yellow. I focus in on just those passages and begin to absorb their true meaning.

  “I’m going to leave. I just don’t know when.”

  “I don’t care about the money. I’ve put enough aside for a new start.”

  “I can’t let Christina spend another day in this hellhole.”

  “Because I’m her mother, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her.”

  “He leaves on business Monday. This is it.”

  She wasn’t taking us to Disney World. She was taking us away from here.

  “We were getting out,” I whisper to the empty room.

  Two slips of thin, white paper fall from within the pages of the transcripts. I lean over to pick them up off the floor and see that they’re receipts of some kind. When I flip the first one over, it reads: “First National Bank. Withdrawal. $25,000.00.” It’s dated two weeks prior to my mother’s death. The second is identical to the first except for the date. It’s marked the day she was killed.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  My father killed my mother.

  He fooled everyone into believing he loved her when all he loved was controlling her. She was going to leave him. We were going to leave him, but he had her killed before she could. No. He killed her. That son of a bitch. He planned this. He paid for this. He may as well have pulled the trigger himself.

  I stare across the elaborate space, but see nothing. Nothing but red. I rise from the desk chair and pace the length of the office, pulling at my hair and violently shaking my head while trying to make sense of what I’ve learned. But there’s no making sense of something as heinous as murdering your wife while your daughter sits in the back seat with an unobstructed view of her mother’s final moments.

  Without direction or thought, I yank down book after book.

  Pull.

  Tear.

  Throw.

  Pull.

  Tear.

  Throw.

  It’s not enough. I move down the expansive wall of valuables and pull a heavy sculpture from the shelf, lifting it over my head and propelling it into the oversized, original work of art that covers half the wall, ripping the canvas down the middle and cracking the sculpture as it hits the floor. I attack the canvas, pulling and shredding it until you can no longer make out the priceless image that once was, then move on to the equally large piece next to it. I clutch and pull at the frame, full force, until it rips free and crashes to the floor. I waste no time in throwing all of my weight into stomping and kicking and flattening it’s frame with my feet, then dropping to my knees and slashing the canvas with shards of wood and screaming through the pain as I go.

  I stand and spin around maniacally before taking two steps forward to kick over a side table and flip over a chair. I don’t wait to watch the antique lamp crash to the floor as I desperately search for more to destroy, but my rampage comes to a sudden and early end when I’m squeezed tightly from behind, my arms pinned to my sides. I can’t break free, no matter how hard I kick and scream.

  “Easy, Chrissy. Easy.” I continue to fight back, because, fuck no, I will not take it easy. I will never again take it easy.

  I’m so out of my mind, I can’t even process who has me. All I know is, I’m not finished. I twist and flail, but the grip on my body only tightens, as I hear the voice again. “Enough. Stop, Christina! Stop! You need to stop.”

  Max is breathing heavily in my ear, his arms straining to maintain hold as I continue to fight. But he doesn’t give up, holding me close and restraining me for as long as it takes.

  Finally giving in, I stand pinned in Max’s arms and take in the mass destruction that surrounds me. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage in what felt like a few short minutes. But I don’t see destruction and dollar signs. All I see are the photos and withdrawal slips that still sit on the desk, including my mom’s highlighted words that replay over in my head. “I will do whatever it takes to protect my daughter.”

  “He killed her, Max. He killed her. He killed her. She wanted to leave. To take us away. So he killed her.” I’ve lost the fight that surged through me just moments ago as my body begins to rack with sobs. Max turns me in his arms, holding me tightly to his chest as I continue to break down. I dig my fingers into his back, trying to find some way to claw myself out of this living nightmare. This hellhole. But I can’t. I’m drowning because I feel like I’ve lost her all over again, and it hurts more the second time around. With an arm supporting my head and another at my back, he takes my weight as I silently sob into his shoulder.

  I have reached my breaking point. They have taken everything from me that they can. My cherished mother, the men I loved, my sense of self-worth and the ability to honestly love and be loved.

  When I finally regain my composure, Max moves to the desk, sorting through the catalyst for my meltdown. As he makes sense of it all, his body stiffens as his chin falls to his chest and his face constricts tight in pain. I meet him across the desk and begin to gather the papers and photos and gently place them back in the envelope. We both release a sigh of relief when they’re safely out of sight. Staring around at the carnage I’ve created, gripping the envelope to my body, I take in one last look. Because nothing has ever been more clear to me in my life …

  It is time to go.

  Max watches me as I sprint from one end of my room to the other, quickly throwing items in my bag. I zip up the first duffel bag and toss it toward my bedroom door. When I grab the second empty duffel bag, I head to my closet and lift the hidden panel, exposing the five packing cubes filled with row after row of hundred dollar bills. If Max is surprised, he doesn’t show it.

  Instead, he squats down and takes each package from my hands, efficiently stacking them in my bag. “You left your cell phone in the car. CJ’s been blowing it up. You should call him and let him know you made it back okay.”

  I sit back on my heels and watch Max pack the last of the money. “You mean Christopher James Whitford the fourth?” I begin to laugh until I laugh so hard I drop my head, cover my face and cry. Because in the midst of learning that my father killed my mother, I had completely forgotten about CJ. My tears slow and I say under my breath, “What I’d give for CJ to be my worst problem right now.”

  I force my eyes shut before I turn my wet face back to Max. “The funny part is,” I watch as he zips the duffle bag, “I was looking for proof that my family had used CJ to hurt me again.” He looks at me with pity as I grimace in pain and whisper, “I was so wrong, Max. It was so much worse.”

  Max stands, silently, and holds a hand out to me to help me stand. He’s witnessed all the levels of my family’s dysfunction over the years, and even he is speechless.
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  We each grab a duffel as I lead the way to the garage and Max throws them in the trunk. He asks, “Where exactly are you going? What’s your plan?”

  “First stop is to talk to Becca. I need to know how she’s involved. And the next is the bus station.” I know what’s coming and can’t yet bring myself to look at him.

  His words are hesitant. “And after that?”

  I force my eyes to his and fight the sadness my words will bring to both of us. “After that, we say goodbye.” I use every muscle in my body to not react to the loss of Max on top of everything else, but he knows me well enough to see through the false strength and pulls me into his arms.

  He places a kiss on my head. “Love you like crazy, Chrissy.”

  “Love you too, Max.”

  When we finally let go, he opens the front passenger door for me.

  On the way to Becca’s apartment, I try calling her again and again, only to get voicemail. Since it’s late, her ringer is probably off, so I’ll try knocking … or pounding, which is more likely.

  A cab pulls up to Becca’s building just ahead of us and takes the only open spot.

  “Just wait for this cab to leave, then I’ll move up,” Max instructs. I’m not even paying attention to what’s in front of me, when I hear him say under his breath, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  The calmness of the car has subdued my emotions, so I barely process Max’s words. When I follow his line of sight, I suck in a breath. “What. The. Fuck.” Because there, on the sidewalk, kissing and groping as the cab pulls away, is none other than Becca … and Father.

  You can hate me.

  You can be jealous of me.

  You can lie to me.

  You can manipulate me.

  You can murder my mother.

  But you cannot, you will not, break me.

  It was in that moment that I turned my back on my life and became Sara.

  Present Day

  “Christina?”

  Before I even turn my head, every hair on my neck stands up at the same time my stomach drops. I vaguely hear a glass shatter as I force myself to turn towards the voice, even though I already know who it is.

  CJ.

  He’s standing in Al’s in the middle of Bumfuck, USA looking beautiful, just like I remember him. I allow myself a moment to absorb the man before me. His dark blond hair is a little longer now—not the clean-cut look I remember, but definitely hair I wouldn’t mind running my fingers through. Thick scruff covers his face from not shaving for a few days, at least. He’s dressed in a gray polo and dark jeans that I can’t help but notice fit him especially well, but the sight of this gorgeous man is instantly clouded as memories of that night flash through my mind and a familiar pain spears my chest. Because I can feel what’s coming next. What I have fought with everything I have to forget these last few years. The anger. The betrayal. The humiliation. The heartbreak.

  “Sara?” Witnessing my reaction, it only takes Hank a fraction of a second to put enough of the pieces together before he’s off his stool, turning, full-force, on CJ. “Who ’n the hell are you and what’d you do to our girl?” Hank has a fistful of CJ’s shirt, waiting for an answer. He doesn’t hesitate to pull back a fist, ready to fire straight into CJ’s face if he doesn’t come up with an acceptable answer, and soon.

  “Nothing. I swear to you, nothing.” His eyes widen in confusion and mild fear. “Christina, please.” He looks at me for help, but Iggy suddenly joins in, flanking Hank’s side.

  “All right guys, enough.” I watch both of them sharply, until they back off from CJ and take their seats back at the bar.

  I carry on as if this is a common, everyday occurrence, pouring drafts for Hank and Iggy, and checking on my remaining customers. From the outside I may look unruffled, but on the inside, the cobwebs are starting to fall away and old synapses are beginning to refire.

  When CJ doesn’t move, I nod to an empty stool and pour him a beer. “That’ll be two-fifty.” It takes him a moment to register what I’m asking for. I lean against the bar, watching him scramble for his wallet and finally laying down a twenty. I take it and put the change in my tip jar.

  “Why are you here, CJ?” I ask casually, keeping my focus on wiping down the bar. Because that’s the billion dollar question.

  When he doesn’t answer, I give in and finally look his way. “I’ve been looking for you since the day you left. I can’t believe I finally found you.” He breathes that last part with true astonishment. As if he’s sure I’m going to vaporize at any moment. “I’m here for you, Christina. I’m here for you.”

  The heartache clear in his voice hits me with a strong wave of regret at having ever left him. I’ve thought of him so many times since that night, and I’m finally able to admit how wrong it was to run from him. It’s time to let him know I didn’t leave him. I left that life. And unfortunately, when I was forced to make that decision in Father’s office, that meant leaving him, too. I have so much to tell him, I don’t know where to begin.

  He leans his broad chest on the bar and whispers, “Christina, is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Before I can agree, Hank interrupts, “Darlin’, why don’t you introduce us to pretty boy here.”

  I shine a wide smile on CJ as I answer. “Of course, where are my manners? Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Mister Christopher James Whitford the fourth. Heir to the Monument Spirits fortune.” CJ cringes a little at that last part, but I give him a wink and continue. “Iggy, you know some of that fancy liquor we keep locked up on the top shelf?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, you have this man right here to thank for that.” I tilt my head CJ’s way.

  “No shit. You like one of them billionaires?” Iggy asks, excitedly.

  “No, I’m not a billionaire,” CJ mumbles.

  “Do you have a private plane?”

  “Well, yes. But that’s because …”

  Iggy cuts him off. “Do you have one of them Ass-ton Martins?”

  “Yes,” he answers, slightly embarrassed.

  “Do you belong to a fancy pants golf club?”

  “Well, technically yes, but …” He’s interrupted again.

  “Do you have a private island?”

  “No, no private island. Enough?” He asks, his frustration evident.

  “What kind of billionaire doesn’t have a private island? Gheesh. That’s bullshit.”

  “I’m not a billionaire.” He forces the words out through gritted teeth and hangs his head between his arms that rest on the bar. I watch as his back rises and falls in long breaths. I hate seeing him like this, defeated and hurt, all because of me. I give him a fresh bowl of pretzels as an excuse to get close to him, leaning over the bar to whisper, “That’s okay, I don’t like private islands, anyways.” His returning smile warms my chest, reminding me of one of the many things I missed about him.

  With the remaining customers gone and the money placed in the safe, there’s nothing left to do but go home. The question is, where do we go from here? I ask, shyly, “So, are you staying in town?”

  “You mean the only motel in a twenty-five mile radius? Then, yes.” He laughs a small, sweet laugh that pulls at my heart.

  He looks at me intently, studying me like I did of him earlier. There’s still so much to talk about, but now that he’s here, I need him near me. “CJ …”

  “No, don’t say it.” He pulls a strand of loose hair from my face. “As much as I want to say yes to what I hope you’re thinking, I’m staying at the motel. We need to talk before anything else can happen. I’ve waited this long, I can last a few more hours. But that’s it, Christina. Come morning, I talk. And you will listen.”

  Hank and Iggy walk out of the bar after us, Iggy locking up when I hear him ask Hank, “Who ’n the Sam hell is Christina?”

  The following morning, I enter the diner to the sounds of Moises singing. I’m not even paying attention to the words today because I know what I’ve got waiting fo
r me, and I am not looking forward to this conversation. I glance out, see every table and stool thankfully set and ready for the morning rush, then start the coffee. I’m going to need it.

  The first pot finishes just as I hear the front door open. I grab it, throw my bag over my shoulder, and head toward the corner booth.

  Those around me would think I’ve spent the last few years going through the motions of life. Work, sleep, repeat. But that’s not at all true. Because I’ve spent everyday working on myself. Discovering what it means to truly be a sincere, kind person. The type of person I want to be and the only type of person I have room for in my life. It’s time to be honest, not just with CJ, but with all of the important people in my life.

  I take my seat across from Hank. He gazes out the window as I pour us each a cup of coffee. He continues to look away as he speaks. “I always knew you were running from something, honey. If I had known it was Richie Rich, I would have kicked your ass out and sent you back home.”

  A jab of pain hits my chest at his words, at the fact that he thinks I’m capable of running away over something as trivial as a break-up with a rich boyfriend. I reach in my bag and pull out the large envelope that hasn’t seen the light of day since I arrived in town and hid it safely away. With great care, I empty the contents onto the table and twist the photos so that they’re facing Hank.

  Keeping my focus on the pile that divides us, I push forward the picture of my mom in the sequined gown and begin. “When I was seven, my mom was killed in a random carjacking. I was in the back seat.” I push forward a crime scene photo. Then another.

  Hank’s eyes widen at the photos of my mom’s lifeless body on the pavement. I go through the story, as if I’m telling just that, a story, a piece of fiction. As I continue, I watch Hank pick up and examine a photo. Then another. And another, never speaking a word.