by Holly Hart
Lily
“What are you doing with my phone?”
Neil hands it over, looking guilty. “Sorry—you had a text notification. Thought it might be....” He shrugs. “An M. Sawyer says, uh...they’re all behind you?”
“All behind you with what?” Wayne goes for my phone. I brush him off more roughly than I’d dare, any other day. Neil’s checking his own messages again, every line of his body broadcasting tension.
“You talked to him this morning? And he seemed fine?” He tucks his phone away with a frown. “Not worried, or—how should I put this?—paranoid?”
He seemed sad at the thought of leaving me. Cheered at the prospect of exploring Seattle together, while I’m up there recording the new album. And he tried to make me eat a bite of some strawberry-chocolate-syrup-cream disaster. Paranoid? “No. We had breakfast. Talked about...how Frasier wasn’t really filmed in Seattle. Nothing earth-shattering.”
Neil stares at me like he’s not seeing me at all. “Did he mention anything about, uh...newfound enlightenment? Religious awakenings, since the crash?”
“Religious...what...?” A vivid memory flits through my mind: the sunset in Brandon’s eyes; his hand on my hip—Ride me, Satan! I snap my mouth shut on a thoroughly inappropriate laugh. “He doesn’t seem the type.”
“So he never mentioned the Children of Greener Pastures? Maybe going out to their compound?—taking you with him?”
I shake my head, bewildered. It’s like we’re talking about two different people. “He talked about taking me to Vancouver. Showing me the donut shop where his house used to be.”
“It’s just, he sent this huge donation from our corporate account—I’ve got the board down my neck, wanting to know why we’re suddenly financing doomsday cults. And when I tried to raise the subject, well....” He loosens his tie. Pops his collar. A fading ring of bruises wreathes his neck, two distinct thumbprints under his Adam’s apple.
“Brandon did that?” I don’t believe it. It took a good three or four punches to get him to hit Wayne back. Wayne: he’s behind this. Somehow, he’s behind this. I can see it in the way he’s stalking about the room, eyeing me like a buzzard.
“I know it’s hard to believe. He’s not a bad guy—he’s the best. Or he was. Maybe he hit his head, or he’s having some kind of dissociative, uh...episode—something’s going on.”
Something’s going on, all right. “Why didn’t you have him arrested? If he’s so...if he’s running around choking people, hauling strangers off buses?”
Neil sinks down on the bed, elbows on his knees. “I called the cops. As soon as it was safe. They’ve been looking for him, but.... Do you know where he is? Anything would help—any clue, at all.”
Probably on his way to the airport by now. I press my lips together and keep quiet. For all I know, that’s not even his best friend on the bed. The video looked real enough, but nothing else adds up.
“I’m truly sorry to put you on the spot like this.” Neil glances at his watch. “I’ve got to make a phone call. If you think of anything, no matter how small....” He backs into the bathroom and shuts the door. Wayne heads for the coffee machine, casually shouldering me on his way past.
What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Brandon
“Just wanted to say it’s been great working with you.”
“Neil?” I can barely hear him over the sirens. They’re coming this way, turning onto the bridge. I turn away, cupping my hand over my ear. “Say again?”
“How’s the view from up there? Long way down?”
“What? Long way—hold on.” My ears are ringing. “It’s loud as hell out here. Can you call back in, like—”
The sirens are practically on top of me. I move away instinctively, flattening myself to the railing. Two police cars roar up the incline, angling toward me, filling my field of view, and—
“Fuck! He’s going to hit me!”
I dive to the side, almost dropping my phone. Tires screech, and the wailing cuts out—bare inches away. Close enough I can hear the crunch of a tire on a stray pebble, the tick of a hot engine. I scrabble to my feet as four cops spill out, crouched down, weapons drawn. My stomach clenches.
“Neil, I’ve got to go. There’s—”
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Have fun.”
The line goes dead.
I swallow and lick my lips. Behind me, the Colorado river murmurs in its banks. Too high to jump. Whatever this is—
“Sir! I’m going to need you to step away from the railing, hands over your head.” She’s advancing on me, one of the cops—hands out, palms open, like I’m a dangerous animal.
I raise one hand. My phone’s in the other, still pressed to my ear. “I—”
“Sir! Both hands over your head! I’m not going to tell you again!”
I reach for the sky and step forward, almost tripping over the curb. “Listen, I’m meeting my girlfriend. She’ll be here any—”
“That’s far enough.”
Sunlight glints on metal. They’re fanned out across the bridge: three cops, eyes trained on me. Three guns pointing my way. Three barrels staring me in the face. One of the cops adjusts his grip.
I could die right here.
I stand frozen and unresisting as the senior officer approaches me, plucking my phone from my hand—“Going to hang onto this for you, okay? Promise you’ll get it back.”
I nod, mouth too dry to form words. I’m being arrested?
“Now, this is for your safety—hold your hands out in front of you, palms up.”
My hands? Surely, she’s not going to—
“Sir! Your hands!”
I lower my arms, stiff and jerky. She slaps the cuffs on me, too hard, too tight. Next thing I know, her hand’s on my head, and I’m stumbling over my own feet, bound hands helpless to cushion my fall. I sprawl, breathless, across the vinyl. Smells like puke back here—puke and piss and old Big Mac meals. I lift my head, pushing myself into a sitting position. One cuff’s tighter than the other, digging into my wrist.
“What—?”
“Mr. Shaw, right? Brandon?”
“Yeah—I—”
“Sir, you’re okay. We’re going to get you some help—that sound good?”
Help? For...what the fuck did Neil do? Did they think I was going to jump? From here? I might break a bone or two, but if I wanted to end it all, I could think of—“Wait—what are you—?”
“Stay back, sir.” She slams the door, locking me in. Moments later, the siren kicks in. The car swerves me off balance, and before I can catch myself, I’m staring at the ceiling, listening to the engine roar as we gun it off the bridge. This time, I stay down. It’s making me sick, lying flat, skyline speeding by overhead—but the way she’s taking those corners, sitting up’s going to get me a concussion. I breathe deep and concentrate on staying calm.
When the ride ends, it’s not in front of a police station, but a hospital. I’m not hurt, so...Neil’s having me committed? Cold horror pools in my gut. I want to flatten myself to the seat. Insist I don’t belong here. Demand I be arrested instead—anything but this—but that won’t look good.
I swallow my panic as I’m herded out of the car and led inside, shivering at the sudden drop in temperature. That hospital smell—I hate it. Reminds me of appendicitis and Alzheimer’s wards, skinned knees and broken ankles: life’s shittiest moments. My high school girlfriend even dumped me in a hospital, after a disastrous prom night.
I have to get out of this.
I hold up my cuffs. “Could you loosen these some? They’re digging into my wrists.”
She pushes my hands into my lap. “Stay calm, Mr. Shaw.”
“I—”
“I’m going to grab us some insurance forms while we wait for the doc. Won’t be long.”
I shift awkwardly on the hard plastic seat, graceless without use of my hands. Surely they’ll uncuff me to fill out the forms—what am
I going to do? Make a break for it? Strangle myself with my bare hands?
With nothing to do but worry, I start counting backward from a hundred. All I need to do is stay cool. Stay cool and be honest. I’m obviously not suicidal. I have Lily’s text to prove it: Come meet me – Congress Ave. Bridge – Got a surprise for you.... <3
This’ll all be over soon.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lily
“What are we waiting for?”
I’m getting uncomfortable. Hell, I’ve been uncomfortable since Neil came back from the bathroom. Now, I’m well on my way to freaking the fuck out. Neil’s just sitting there, tapping away on his phone. Wayne’s alternating between pacing and staring, whistling snatches of Brightsky the whole time. Working my last nerve.
Neil looks up. “Huh? Were you talking to me?”
“Yeah. What are we doing?”
“Oh. Sorry. Waiting for an update. The cops spotted someone....” He sets his phone aside, at last. “Actually, put on the news.”
Wayne reaches for the remote. The TV flickers on. Behind me, Neil exhales sharply.
“—in downtown Austin. In a bizarre turn of events, a Canadian tourist, identified as CEO Brandon Shaw, apparently attempted to take his own life by jumping from the Congress Avenue Bridge, but was successfully talked down by—”
“Isn’t that the bat bridge? I’ve heard of batshit insane, but—”
“Shut up!” Neil thumps his fist on the table.
“Touchy.” Wayne flops back in his chair. What I wouldn’t give to smack that gap-toothed grin off his face....
“—attempt comes after a series of professional blunders, according to sources close to Mr. Shaw. But it’s possible his crisis stemmed from a more personal loss: the Cessna involved in the Red Acres Ranch disaster, just over a week ago, belonged to Shaw Multimedia. Mr. Shaw was scheduled to be on the doomed flight, but reportedly begged off due to illness, at the last—”
“That’s not right. He—”
Neil gestures for silence.
“We’re just getting this, from the scene—bystander footage of Mr. Shaw being taken into custody. Looks like he’s going quietly, uh....”
Brandon’s backed against the railing, hands in the air. He opens his mouth to say something, but the cops are shouting over him. Ordering him away from the edge. He goes without a fight, holding out his hands for the cuffs. There’s guns on him, at least three of them—all that firepower for a suicide? And he doesn’t even look agitated. Just scared. Confused.
“Looks like all’s well that ends well.” The anchor smiles as Brandon’s pitched headfirst into the back of a cop car. “Think that’s a first, for the Congress Avenue Bridge—it’s really not that high.”
“Good point, Michelle—but the river’s pretty deep. Suppose it’d come down to how strong a swimmer he is. Fortunately, we won’t have to find out.”
The newscast moves on to sports. Wayne kills the TV. “Sure picked a winner this time, Lil.”
Neil heaves a deep sigh. He’s rubbing his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days. “This isn’t good.” The bed squeaks as he shifts his weight. “Look, uh.... I know this is a lot to ask, and truth be told, I’m not sure where to start, but—”
“You want us to testify against him?” Wayne’s practically rubbing his hands together, like the bug he is.
“No!” Neil turns away from Wayne, focusing on me. “I need you to...help me help him. My hands are tied: we work together, and, uh, there’s a lot of moving parts, but what it comes down to is a conflict of interest. I can’t go out there and defend him. But there’s nothing stopping you.”
Defend him—I can do that. “What do you need me to say?”
For a long moment, Neil doesn’t say anything. He’s chewing his lip—nervous, or deep in thought. “I’ll need you to play up the mental illness angle. The shock of the plane crash, post-traumatic stress—anything strange you’ve noticed, anything....” He grabs for his phone again, picking at the volume control instead of thumbing it on. “Thing is, he’s got himself into some muddy legal waters. He could end up losing everything, if he’s found criminally negligent. But if he’s sick....”
I blink. I’m supposed to...go out there and lie? Apart from the video, nothing about Brandon screams instability. Nothing even whispers it.
“I’m not sure I can do that. I haven’t seen anything—he seems normal to me. And without knowing what I’d be covering for—these muddy legal waters you’re talking about—there’s no way I can—”
“She’ll do it.” Wayne leans forward, almost eager. “Or I’ll do it, while she stands and looks pretty. Don’t make no difference to me.”
“I’m not going to—”
“You can do this press conference, or you can do one where we announce Maidenfang’s new drummer. Your choice.”
“What’s he doing, paying you?”
Neil looks up, startled. “Young lady, I—”
“Ain’t no one payin’ me. I’ve just had it with you layin’ down the law, like your shit don’t stink. You’ll get up there and play the victim—poor, innocent Lily, seduced by some violent fruitbat—or you’ll kiss Mark goodbye. What’s it gonna be?”
My hand wanders to Brandon’s choker, heavy and comforting at my throat. I can’t betray him. But I’ve known Mark all my life.
“I’m not saying anything. I’ll stand there—you can say what you like. But don’t expect me to—”
“Great. You hear that?”
Neil half-rises, like he has a mind to follow me out of the room.
“Let her go. You heard her—she’s not gonna be any help, anyway.”
I step out into the hall, blood rushing in my ears. There has to be some way out of this. Schenck, maybe: if anyone can weasel me out of this, it’d be his slippery ass. I scroll through my contacts till I hit his number.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Brandon
“It sounds like you’re telling two different stories.”
I hunch my shoulders, fighting back frustration. It’s like he’s trying to misunderstand me. Dr. Furstenburg—Dr. Worstenburg, more like. My breath whooshes out of me in a defeated sigh. “What do you mean, two different stories?”
“Well, I’m hearing one where you’ve got this, uh...hostile takeover situation back home, and you’re here to lie low while your friend investigates. Is that right?”
Close enough. I nod.
“And then, there’s this second narrative, where your plane goes down, you get swept up in a whirlwind romance, and you end up on the bridge, waiting for your girlfriend? Who never shows?”
“Lily Walker. You can check my phone. She texted me right before.” We’ve been over this. Three times, by my count.
“And this is Lily Walker from Maidenfang? The singer?”
“There’s pictures of us together. All over the gossip pages. You can look for yourself.” It’s getting harder and harder not to yell. It’s getting dark out. I’ve been stuck here for hours, shunted from one waiting room to the next, poked and prodded, questioned—it’s getting old.
“Okay, Mr. Shaw—we’ll get to that in just a minute, but first, uh... I did speak to the police, before commencing this interview.”
“Okay?”
“So you might have an idea what I’m going to ask next?”
Not even the scintilla of one. I shrug, exhausted.
“About the plane crash? How you handled that?”
“I went back to my hotel—the Four Seasons. Got a doctor to look at me—Dr. Gable, I think. You can check on that, too. Called Neil—that’s Neil Parker, from work. Took a shower. Is that what you mean?”
“I’m referring more to the content of that phone call. I’m told you were quite distraught?”
I stare, at a loss for words. Was I? I remember being tired. Desperate to lie down. If anything, Neil was the one who seemed rattled.
“I’d like to explore your reasons for concealing your involvement in the crash.”
“Concealing...I....” I close my eyes, gathering my wits. “What do you mean?”
“Your insistence you weren’t on the plane, even after evidence revealed you were—what was your reasoning there?”
“Wha—I...what? The police said—Neil said that?”
“Mr. Shaw, what do you remember of the days immediately following the crash?”
“Everything!” I can’t help it—my voice is rising, fists clenched in my lap. “I remember all of it. You can check with the NTSB—I left four messages. Five, including today. I absolutely did not try to dodge any investigation, nor would I—”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to sit down.”
I’m not fucking standing! I’m barely leaning forward! I flop back in my chair, despairing. This isn’t going well.
“Breathe with me: in...two...three...four....”
This isn’t happening.
“And exhale.”
It’s all I can do to keep my eyes from rolling.
“Feeling better?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“Mr. Shaw, I need you to think back: today, on the bridge, was that your first attempt to take your own life?”
“I was there for a date. Like I said. My phone—”
“The text from Lily Walker. I’m sure the police are looking into that. But for the moment, I need you to focus on the question: had you made any prior attempts on your life? Thinking back to the day of the crash?”
The day of the... Is he suggesting I brought down the plane?
“Mr. Shaw?”
“What are you saying?”
“Remember, everything between us stays confidential. Doesn’t leave this room. I can’t even tell the police, unless I believe you pose an immediate danger to yourself or others.”
“We had a hydraulic failure. The pilot lost control. I never left my seat. None of us did.”
“And before the flight?”
“What, you think I....” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. He thinks I...what? Tampered with my own plane? Where are the hydraulic lines on a Cessna? I’m guessing not under the hood.
