by Unknown
“I—” I what? I’m a fake, a phony, and worse than you. “I lied too.”
He’s taken aback, but he can’t do much at this point. He’s still the one in the doghouse. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks again.
God, he’s going to divorce me. Not that our marriage is a hundred percent legal anyway. I lied about who I am. He has no idea who he’s married to.
“My ex. I ran. I left when he was out with clients one night. He’s looking for me.”
Jace doesn’t flinch, even if he wants to. “How do you know?”
I can’t even look him in the eyes and I concentrate on my water glass. “I spoke to someone back at home.” Say it, Tessa. “I never really divorced him.”
“Fuck.” Jace grabs his own glass of water on the table and downs it in one sip, then wipes the sides of his head with his napkin again. “You’re not my wife?”
“I am. But it’s a mess. I got the ID. It’s a real ID. It has the state seal. It’s legit. I just fudged some stuff.”
“Fudged?” His voice broke. “How do you fudge a state ID?”
“I have my ways.” I stop him right before he says Who did you fuck to get it? because I won’t forgive him if he says that. “Not like that. Not like what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not ‘thinking’ anything.” He places his hand on mine. “How bad was it? Who was he?”
I can’t tell him all the details. He already knows too much. He’ll dig.
“He was just an Asshole. One in a line of many. I didn’t really have a male role model growing up. Just the alcoholic wife beaters my mom dated. No matter how much I tried to model my life from the movies, it just didn’t work out. I’d go for the Edward Lewis, who saw the potential in the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. I ended up with the Mickey Knox character from Natural Born Killers. But this last one was a fucking Don Draper. Did everything right, from the outside. On the inside, it was horrendous.”
“This is the guy who tattooed you?”
“No. Someone else.” I rub my hands over my face. “Look, you got mixed up with a real piece of work. I grew up in backwoods small country. My life sucked.”
“Tessa, it’s not like that anymore. I love you.”
I’ve heard those words before. Usually before or after I got a right hook.
My tone is hushed. Thank God we’re not that close to the next table, but still. “I’m afraid. Of so many things. I couldn’t divorce him. He knew everyone and had tabs on me all the time. You know I don’t drive, and he loved that. It kept me housebound. He’d send neighbors by to ‘check on me’ and he’d send things to the house from his office that needed a signature, so he knew I was home. Most of the times it was just a blank piece of paper in a UPS envelope, but he needed to make sure I was there to sign. Called me at home ten times a day. I was a prisoner.” I sniffle.
“Why did you put up with that?”
“Because it was still better than the alternative. I went from bad relationship to bad relationship, since I was a kid. Sure, every guy in my life knocked me around. It’s just the way it was for me. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known. My mother’s boyfriends were horrible to her, and she just took it. My sisters used to date these pieces of shit too. Even my brothers used to rag on their women. So, with him, that Asshole, I thought it was my ticket out. He at least had a stable job. He wasn’t a trucker or bookie or drug dealer, like the rest of my exes.”
I pause to gauge his disgust, but he’s looking at me with softness in his eyes.
“I didn’t graduate from high school. I lied about going to RISD. I was a waitress at a grease pit when I met him. I lived in a shack. I already had a legal state ID with a different Social Security number, something I figured out how to do when I ran from the last foster home. I preferred to work for cash. I did whatever I had to do to get by. And before you ask, no, I was never a prostitute.”
He chuckles. “Well, you mentioned the Edward Lewis thing from Pretty Woman.”
“Hardy har.” I clear my throat and go on, quietly. “But yeah. Here’s this guy, in a suit, shiny watch, perfect hair, all that stuff. And he took interest in me. Now I know he saw me as a target, but I didn’t know that then. I thought he was rescuing me. The happy ending. He wanted to feel better about himself by telling me all the ways he saved me, probably because he was insecure about shooting blanks—thank God he never fathered a child. With me or anyone else. And you know what? I got the house, the dresses, the shoes, but when the violence started, well, I was already used to being hit by others, so yes, I stayed because at least this time he provided for me.”
“What was it that made you leave?”
I swallow hard. “He smashed a mug into the side of my face with all his strength. The previous broken bones we were able to better explain away, but I knew he was going to kill me.”
Jace winces. “Jesus. Wasn’t that right before Damon—” He doesn’t finish the sentence because he doesn’t have to.
I nod. “Yes, and then there was you. It all happened so fast. So, so fast. And I know he’s looking for me. I’m afraid he’s going to find me.”
“Look at me, Tessa,” Jace says, and grabs both of my hands. Our eyes meet. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m going to protect you at any cost.”
I know he wants to. Jace means well, but what could he really do to protect me from my past?
30
JACE
Jace waited anxiously for the phone to light up with Robert’s number, even though he’d told him it would be a few days before they found out who Bella Johnson really was. He couldn’t believe he’d been duped—so desperate to prove his side that he’d fallen prey to a vulture.
Looking online, the articles from real reporters now spread past the city rag and the county news pages. There was statewide coverage in New Jersey. Fake Bella Johnson had been his only hope, because the other articles were savage, and so were the comments.
For his mental health, which was never a problem in the past, he needed to stop reading all the shit that was said online about him.
The doorbell would ring on occasion, and Candy would bark, but Jace knew better now. If he didn’t recognize the person on the stoop immediately, he didn’t open the door. He’d been relegated to sitting upstairs in his bedroom with Candy, so she wouldn’t get so anxious whenever there was a noise outside. He drew the shades, turned on the TV, pet his dog, and wondered where his wife was. Every time he opened her closet door, he cried. Her perfume smell still clung to some garments that hung, and every time it hit his nose, he’d remember her smile or her crazy hair days, her cooking or her determination. Her side of the sink still had her hair dryer and curling iron and makeup. Like she’d walk in at any second and need a shower and a little grooming. It was what he prayed for.
The cops still had her hairbrush.
Jace texted Gwen, asking her to come over to sort through her things. Maybe she’d spot something that he couldn’t see.
Her reply text was cold.
Yea, thanks, but no. I believed you last week but now I don’t know what to believe anymore. You were screwing around on her, weren’t you? Don’t contact me or Nick.
He was about to tap back a reply but decided against it. It wouldn’t help. It would be seen as aggressive, even if he just wrote Thanks.
Then, the damn doorbell rang again. Jace went into the bathroom and looked out the window facing the front of the house. A cab was parked outside next to the sidewalk. He cautiously walked down the stairs and through the window next to the door, he saw a familiar face. He wasn’t sure what the point of the visit was, though, so he only opened the door a sliver.
“Hey,” Jace said. Relief.
“Jace. You poor thing. Do you mind if we come in?”
Okay, they weren’t there to jump down his throat and accuse him of being a killer. It was going to be a good visit.
Jace opened the door wide and welcomed Hobart and Pearl into his home. Pearl immediately
flung her arms around him. “You poor dear. We don’t believe what they’re saying about you.”
Her eyes filled with tears as Jace shook hands with Hobart, who also came in for a hug.
“We know you wouldn’t hurt Tessa,” Hobart said.
Jace led them inside to the kitchen. Hobart had an aluminum tray in his hands, and he placed it on the counter.
“This is some fried chicken and hoppin’ John,” Pearl said proudly. “I made extra last night to bring today. We know you can’t leave and assumed you haven’t been eating, but my cooking will have you busting your belt. Sit, sit,” Pearl commanded, in Jace’s kitchen. “Where are your dishes?”
“Thanks, Pearl, but you’re a guest. Please, let me,” Jace said.
She shook her finger at him. “You best get your butt in that seat next to Hobart.”
Sometimes, Jace forgot that women of her generation were raised to be accommodating. His own mother was the same way—cooking and cleaning, serving and tidying. He didn’t want Pearl to feel insulted, so he pointed to the cabinet where the dishes were and put his butt in that seat as she demanded.
“Jace,” Hobart started. “What’s going on?”
Jace told Hobart and Pearl everything, everything that he knew, from beginning to end as Pearl heated up the chicken. He cried again, and so did Hobart and Pearl when Jace told them about how they met, about Damon.
“This is my fault,” Hobart said. “If that bastard Damon took her or did something to her, I’ll fix him. I’m the one who took her there that first night.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Hobart,” Jace said. “How were you supposed to know that the bartender was an asshole?” His head swiveled to Pearl, preparing food on the plates. “That smells fantastic. Excuse my ignorance, but what is hoppin’ John?”
Pearl clapped. “First timer! This is my momma’s momma’s momma’s recipe. Straight from the old South. I use bacon instead of sausage or fatback, and I use a little vinegar. Just a drop, but it makes a difference.” She put a plate in front of both of them, then prepared one for herself and joined them at the table. Before Jace picked up his fork, Pearl took Jace’s and Hobart’s hands and closed her eyes, murmuring, “Lord, thank You for this food. Bless my family and my girls and Mr. Jace Montgomery, and please hold his dear wife Tessa in Your arms until her safe return.” She opened her eyes and nodded. “Go ahead, now.”
They stayed for three hours. Hobart was more forthcoming about a few things. Jace didn’t know what Tessa’s first few days were like when she got to New Jersey. He assumed she’d always been in the hotel where she was when he met her. He didn’t know about the Empire Motel, and what happened there, and how Hobart had to pull a gun too.
As they left, Hobart and Pearl promised to be there for Jace if he needed anything.
“Thanks for bringing dinner,” Jace said, then rubbed his stomach. “You were right. I didn’t know how much I need a home-cooked meal.”
“You call us anytime, baby,” Pearl said. “Anything you need.”
“Thanks. It really means more to me than you know.”
After another hug, Jace closed the door behind them. In a better mood, he should’ve tried to end the day on a high note. But he didn’t. He opened the computer to a new headline:
MURDERED VALLEY LAKE WOMAN ROSITA MORALES SIX WEEKS PREGNANT.
MORE CHARGES PENDING
31
TESSA
Jace told me he needed to talk to me about something important tonight, so I’ve had swimming fish in my stomach all day. To be honest, I haven’t felt a hundred percent right in a few days anyway. I probably caught a bug from that woman who was openly sneezing all over the produce section at the grocery store last week. Still, there was something in Jace’s voice that was insistent. I know he’s been busy this week trying to land a major builder for financing a new town center. It’s nearly five-thirty, and my nerves are getting the best of me.
When his car pulls into the garage, Candy starts to bark, as usual. He comes inside and he kisses me hello and smiles, so I assume he’s in a good mood and whatever he needs to talk about so desperately is no big deal.
“How was work?” I ask. “Any news yet on the bid for the town center?”
“No, nothing yet. Me and Trey and Rosita have to take them out this Thursday night after work. Hopefully it’ll help make the decision. Could be a nice bonus come Christmastime. I’d like to get you a proper diamond.” He taps on his own wedding band and smiles. “What’s for dinner? You want me to throw something on the grill?”
“I was planning on making tacos.” I open the refrigerator and scan. During these months, Jace always likes to have hamburgers or hot dogs on tap, just in case he wants to grill. He loves barbecuing and we probably only have another month or so until the weather turns. “We’ve got some burgers, but we’re out of buns. We’ll have to make a quick run to town; we can be there and back in ten minutes. Or I can just make the tacos.” Or you can just tell me what’s bothering you. Either/or.
“Sure, tacos sound good. We can grill Friday. I’ll pick up buns on my way home from work.”
So accommodating, all the time. “Great.” I grab a pan out from under the kitchen island. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh. Yeah. Do you want to sit down for a sec?”
Crap. “Sure.”
“Hang on. I have to grab something.” He runs back into the garage, and I hear trunk open and then slam shut, and he comes back inside with a canvas bag.
“What’s that?” I ask.
He places the bag down on the table, and it thuds. “Well, I’ve been thinking about what we talked about last month. About your ex. About how you think he’s after you.”
“I don’t know if he’s still looking for me.” I never should’ve cut contact with Maribel as abruptly as I did. “I think it’s better that I just cut ties and move on with my life. Holding on to the past isn’t healthy.”
“Right. I mean, do you still want me to talk to Evan to have him look into rearranging our . . . stuff? Making the marriage legal and getting your ID straightened out?”
“Yes, of course, you know I want that. But I’m just afraid once we start that, he’ll know where I am. If my name becomes part of public record.”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He taps the bag. “Remember I told you I wouldn’t let your ex hurt you?”
“Yes.”
He places his hand inside the bag and out comes . . . a gun. A fucking gun. I leap back on my seat, my hands covering my face like I’m watching a ghost jump out from the closet and scare someone in a horror movie.
“Get that away from me!” I scream. Just seeing the barrel of a gun makes my skin crawl. It’s the worst type of post-traumatic stress disorder. You have a gun pointed at you when you’re young, this is what happens.
“It’s okay Tessa. I know how to use it.” His hands are on it, and he picks it up.
“Don’t point that thing at me!”
“I’m not! I would never. It’s not even loaded. Look.” He pops the little spinner thing, whatever it’s called, out and shows that there are no bullets in it. “See?”
My heart is beating so fast I fear an imminent heart attack.
“Jace, get that thing out of the house. I don’t want that anywhere near me.”
He sighs. “I promised to protect you.”
“Then get an alarm system. Get cameras.” I look at Candy, who is watching our interaction, bewildered, tilting her head back and forth. “Get another dog. A pitbull. I’ll take tae kwon do. Just no guns. How did you even get a permit for that?”
His face tells me everything I need to know. He doesn’t have a permit. It’s an illegal gun. Street shit, scraped off serial number, probably already used for another murder. And it’s in my house.
“How could you?” Tears fall from my eyes, and I don’t want to be around him right now. “I’m going for a walk.” I stand and head to the door.
>
“Tessa, wait!” he hollers, but I keep going. The door already slammed behind me.
The air outside is stuffy for mid-September. Indian summer. It’s not like I can run away, even though running is the only direction my feet know to go. Instead of walking out of the neighborhood and into town, I turn in the other direction and go to the woods behind the house. The leaves have started to fall and crunch under my foam shoes and between my toes. I whack at twiggy branches as I follow a natural path down to the lake.
I have to step around random kayaks and canoes, leftover from the summer. It’s a safe town (as long as Drew isn’t here), and no one has a fear of their property being stolen. It’s understood between everyone for miles that they can leave their stuff unattended. The lake is a popular fishing spot and there’s a small dock that the city maintains, and people usually launch their small boats from it.
When I get to the dock, I remove my flip-flops and sit, my legs dangling from the side. I’m facing west, and the sun is setting, which is beautiful and turns the sky pink in front of me, which makes the smattering of clouds look like cotton candy. My toes don’t hit the water, although they threaten to with the few inches of space. I look down and see my reflection.
My horrified expression.
Calm down. You’re safe.
It’s quiet, and the only sounds are the bloop-bloops of the fish that come to the surface to investigate for algae or tiny minnows to eat. They’ve likely gotten used to fisherman dropping bread to attract schools of fish to hook for dinner.
Jace doesn’t know about the times I’ve had guns pulled on me. I’ve tried to shield him from the past horrors of my life, but if he knew about them, he would’ve thought twice about bringing a gun into the house. It’s a scare tactic to assert power over someone, and I don’t want Jace to be that person in my eyes. Even if he’s doing it for me.
I wait for almost an hour, trying to calm down, as the sun sets behind the trees, now making the sky a fiery orange. I’ve talked myself into not hating Jace—he really thought he was doing the right thing, and I love him for that—but I still don’t want that thing in the house.
