True Evil_A fast-paced psychological thriller that will keep you hooked

by Julia Derek

  “I’ll bring the screenplay with me then,” Jackie continued.

  Relieved, I exhaled a quiet breath and smiled. “Really? Yes, that would be great. Let me go print a copy for you right now. Can I get you some more soda water to drink? Maybe something to eat?”

  “Another soda water would be great. Where is the ladies’ room?”

  “There is a bathroom right there,” I said and indicated a door near the office entrance. “I’m soon going to have to use it myself.”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, why don’t you go before me? I may take some time in there. Um”—She looked suddenly embarrassed—“I may take a while. I suffer from, um, a mild case of, um, constipation.”

  “Ah,” I said, feeling slightly nauseated at the thought of Jackie doing number two in my bathroom that only I used. But I couldn’t tell her no. That would seem very strange. I guess second best is for me to use it before her at least, I thought grimly. I could always have it scrubbed down and disinfected afterward. Who knew what diseases transsexuals had that were contagious? “Okay, I’ll go before you then. I won’t be very long.”

  “Oh, take your time, dear,” Jackie said. “It’s not an emergency. It rarely is for constipated people. Please do take your time.”

  I got to my feet and gave her a close-lipped smile. I would take my time. All that talk about constipation was making me ill. I needed a few minutes to get my bearings back.

  39

  Shane

  “You saw it, but you didn’t take it?” I stared at Steve, who was sitting on a kitchen chair, shocked to hear how badly our crucial mission had ended. He had just returned from his visit to my mom’s house. Everything had gone according to plan until the very last moment—when Steve was supposed to stick Mom’s journal in his Louis Vuitton tote bag but hadn’t.

  He sighed despondently and ran two hands through his shaggy hair. “Yes, that’s right. I saw it, but I didn’t take it. I’m sorry, I really, really tried my best. I almost didn’t get a chance to hide the fact that I was snooping around in her study, for Christ’s sake! She could tell I was up to something. It was written all over her face and she was not happy about it. I can assure you that she didn’t buy my explanation.” He tsk-tsked and gave a wry grin, adding as if to himself only: “It was pretty lame, so I can’t really blame her. But it was the best I could do considering the circumstances. She took me by complete surprise.”

  Pacing Steve’s living room, I pictured my mom in her office with Steve-as-Gloria and spotting him going through her desk in search of stash spaces. He couldn’t count on getting another chance to do it, so he’d known he’d better get his hands on the journal while she was in the bathroom. And he almost had. When he had gotten to the third drawer, he had run into a fake bottom. He had been able to quickly move all the stuff in the drawer and pull out the bottom plate. And there it was, an old, blue, leather-bound journal with a lock on it. But at the same time as he had laid his eyes on it, he heard the lock in the bathroom suddenly scramble. Mom was on her way out.

  He’d tried grabbing it, but it was stuck somehow. He’d had no choice but to stick the fake bottom back in place and toss the stuff that had been in the drawer inside it, hoping he’d get a second chance to get his hands on the journal. He had closed the drawer just as Mom had come out of the bathroom. She had looked at him with a funny expression, as he rambled on about how beautiful he thought her desk was. The mahogany was one of a kind! Where had she bought it? Could she tell him?

  Curtly, she had explained that she didn’t know where the actual material had come from, she’d had the desk custom-made for her. She would be more than happy to ask the designer, though.

  After that, she had told him that she needed to get ready for another meeting, a not so subtle hint that she wanted him the hell out of there. Previously, she had claimed to be free the entire night. She told him she would messenger the screenplay to him so he’d have it by tomorrow. Then she’d asked him for a business card with an address. Of course he didn’t have any of those. He’d been forced to pretend like he was out but that he could write down his home address for her to use.

  With her glaring at him, he had scribbled an address on a piece of stationary, put it on the desk, then grabbed his tote bag and left the penthouse.

  When she didn’t say goodnight in return, he had known she had somehow figured out he was full of shit.

  I plopped down on an armchair facing Steve’s chair.

  “Well, at least we know it definitely exists now and where it is,” I pointed out, resigned at last to the outcome. “That’s something. We’ll just have to come up with another ingenious way to get hold of it.” Whatever the hell that could be, I mused miserably. I didn’t let my thoughts out in the open, though; I could tell Steve was feeling terribly guilty as it was. No need to rub it in. I smiled at him. “I guess we should be happy that you wore your Gloria outfit at least. That way Mom won’t know who you really are. Trust me, if she did, she’d want to do something really bad to you. She does not like it when someone plays her for a fool.”

  Steve’s eyes widened and his face paled a shade. “What if she does figure it out? What will happen then? You think she’ll kill me?”

  I couldn’t lie to him; the truth was that she might. “Maybe. That’s why you should make it as hard as possible for her to figure out. Like, if I were you, I wouldn’t do that drag show in Chelsea for a while. Maybe never again. She could probably tell you weren’t a real woman.” I chuckled at the thought of her laying eyes on Steve-as-Gloria. She must have been so confused at first. “Now that I think about it, it’s actually pretty impressive that you got as far as you did with her…”

  “I told you I make a great broad.” He smiled, looking a little more relaxed, which made me more relaxed.

  “You sure do. I wonder what was going through her mind when she first laid eyes on you.”

  “She probably thought I was a transsexual. There are so many of those these days. People typically assume that.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Pretending to want to do her movie was genius,” Steve commented. “She was all over it. You could tell she got carried away by all the compliments I gave her.”

  “Yeah, she sure does love to be flattered.” It was I who had thought of the idea that we should have Gloria want to do Born Evil. Stroking her already inflated ego was an efficient way to get her to lower her guard. And, boy, had she lowered it. Too bad the journal had been stuck in the drawer.

  I extended my legs and put my hands behind my neck, stretching my chest that was sore from heavy bench presses. “So how do we get our hands on the journal? Any ideas?”

  Puffing out his cheeks, Steve blew out a long breath. “Not off the top of my head, unfortunately. But I promise you I’ll try to think of something. Surely, by this weekend, I’ll have figured out something good. Definitely by Sunday.”

  I closed my eyes and thought about what Steve had just said. But I promise you I’ll try to think of something. Surely, by this weekend, I’ll have figured out something good. Definitely by Sunday.

  I was supposed to meet up with Ariel this Saturday afternoon. I sincerely hoped Mom wouldn’t try to do something to set me up for his murder that afternoon.

  I opened my eyes and laughed. Okay, now you’re getting ridiculous, Shane. You don’t even know for sure that she’s trying to set you up for his murder. For all you know, she has something else in mind for you. It may be worse, but at least you’ll be okay when you see Ariel this Saturday.

  Closing my eyes again, I allowed myself to relax. If we could get our hands on the journal by early next week, I’d be fine.

  40

  Jennifer

  I was on my sixth glass of chardonnay that evening, finally feeling like I had been able to take the edge off of my ever-growing fury. The fury that had filled my veins when I had checked my phone as I was about to use the toilet in my office bathroom. By habit, I had brought the device with me, and it had
gone off just as I had been about to relax my private parts to be able to pee.

  I reached for it where I had placed it on the marble floor beside me. Who was texting me? I had never been able to wait to find out, and today was no different.

  My private parts stiffened right back up the moment I discovered the text was from Larry Levy, saying: I don’t know anyone named Jackie O’Neill.

  I stared at the short text, reading it over and over. It was in response to my sending him a thank you note for referring my screenplay to his good friend Jackie O’Neill. There was suddenly an explanation for the uneasy sensation that had been lingering inside me all day, so faint it had barely been noticeable. I had brushed it off by blaming it on having slept poorly the night before. Then, talking about my screenplay, listening to Jackie O’Neill praising me had been so intoxicating that it had completely drowned out the unease. Until I received Larry’s text, that is. In that moment, it returned with a vengeance, twisting my innards painfully. And I doubted it had anything to do with growing ulcers.

  Using rapid fingers, I typed in a reply for Larry: You’re saying the person who wants to buy you out doesn’t exist? She isn’t the real estate broker who sold you your Hamptons house?

  His reply came in mere seconds: I can assure you she is not the person who sold me any property. For what it’s worth, I HATE the Hamptons. She’s fucking with you, Jen.

  I typed back a quick thank you, then pulled my pants right back up and hurried back into the office.

  The first thing I saw was the ugly transwoman going through my desk. It took all I had not to yell at her, tell her to get the fuck out of my house, now that I knew she was a complete fraud. Somehow, I managed to find my composure, though. Thank God. I’ve never respected anyone who doesn’t have full control over their emotions. If I ever acted like an unstable nutcase, revealing what went on inside me, I would have to kill myself. On principle.

  I had calmly indicated that I needed her to get out of my house and for it to happen immediately. She had picked up on my cues and left shortly after having left her home address that I had no doubt was fake. Then I had headed over to my desk and looked it over. She must have been after something in or on my desk. What could it be?

  I scanned the top, not finding anything that looked out of place. Was it something in the drawers then?

  I pulled open each drawer and scanned its contents. When I reached the third, I could instantly tell that she had been rooting around there. Nothing was the way it should be.

  Reaching for the fake bottom, I pulled it off, holding my breath all the while. The only reason I could think of for Jackie’s presence in this drawer was to get her hands on my journal. All the stuff in the drawer scrambled to the soft carpet underneath as I flipped it around. When I spotted the old, blue book in its usual place, I allowed myself to relax. I took it out to see if she had picked the lock. No, I quickly decided. The lock was fully intact. No harm had been done.

  I removed the drawer from the stash space and put it on the desk. I needed to find another place to hide it. Not that I thought that Jackie would ever appear in this room again, but one could never be too careful. Maybe someone else would. Someone else who knew Jackie.

  Squatting down, I picked up all the items that had fallen out of the drawer and put them back. I was deep in thought. There was no question in my mind that Shane was involved in this spectacle. Besides Ariel, he was the only person who had intimate knowledge about what Born Evil was about and how disappointed I had been when Larry Levy had pulled the plug on the project. Except for my friend Beth and Ariel, Shane was the only person who was aware of my journal. The only other living person. Peter had known about it, too.

  Since Shane was the one with the strong revenge motive, I could only conclude Jackie was his friend, not Beth’s or my husband’s.

  I emptied the wine glass when it struck me just how close my son had been to getting his hands on the journal. He was clearly actively working to destroy me the way I was working to destroy him. Part of me couldn’t help but be impressed by how skillfully he had managed to deceive me. I chuckled to myself. He had figured out a great way to get close to the journal, almost managing to snatch it from me.

  He sure was his mother’s son. If he had been able to get the journal, chances were he’d be able to deduce how I was planning on setting him up for murdering Ariel. I had jotted down several notes in regard to the process. I had mentioned anthracyclines and heart attack from stress. Meet at the warehouse. Call Shane and tell him Ariel had taken Sophie to make him pissed. I had also mentioned that Ariel wouldn’t notice that he had ingested the drug, because it had no other real side effects except for a temporary weakening of the heart muscle. Perhaps minor nausea and fatigue, but those weren’t serious enough to worry about. The only thing I hadn’t mentioned was Jordan. I didn’t want to include him in my journal. He wasn’t important enough. The guy was great in bed, but he made too many mistakes. For example, he forgot to bring Ariel’s watch that he was supposed to plant in Shane’s apartment the first night Shane had dinner with us in the penthouse. How could he have driven all the way over to Astoria, having forgotten to bring the watch? Thank God, the planted evidence wasn’t really needed.

  All I had said that even suggested there was another person involved was that a Mr. X would help me get the anthracyclines. Mr. X could be anyone. I didn’t suggest anywhere that Mr. X was also the man in the sex scenes I had written. Later, I would use all those notes as I wrote the scene and rated the murder.

  I leaned back into the sofa and inhaled deeply. Saturday afternoon, the time for their final meeting, couldn’t come soon enough.

  41

  Shane

  I went to lift some weights at the local gym on Saturday morning. While I had been able to sleep better lately using the potent drug Dr. Navarro had given me, I didn’t feel great. Not rested at all. I’d spent the night dreaming of Sophie. She had spoken to me, telling me that she did exist and not to believe my neighbor. She had been kidnapped right after she had called me from California and was kept prisoner in a small, dark room. She needed my help to get out of there.

  I had awoken with a start early in the morning, still hearing Sophie’s voice imploring me to help her. Still seeing her face, seeing her in pain. It was scary how real she had seemed.

  I didn’t manage to fall back asleep after that, but not for lack of trying. I’d stayed in bed for another three hours, tossing and turning, before I finally gave up and went to have some breakfast with lots of strong coffee. This morning I had definitely needed that extra pick-me-up caffeine gave me.

  I walked in to the weight room and claimed an empty bench press. Lying down on the padded bench, I grabbed the weight bar and did several quick chest presses to warm up.

  As I had feared, Steven hadn’t come up with another ingenious way to get to Mom’s journal in the last couple of days, and neither had I. He kept telling me to chill out, that by tomorrow he would have come up with something. Only problem was, that might be too late. I was more anxious and paranoid than ever, worrying about what Mom had in store for me. In just a few hours, I would meet with Ariel and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I didn’t want to cancel, though; on the voicemail message he had left me to confirm, he had sounded eager to get together.

  I didn’t want to rock the boat, do anything to diminish that eagerness. Who knew if he changed his mind? I couldn’t risk that. No, I had to go today. I’d feel better after a workout. I’d do some cardio after the weights to get the endorphins kicking.

  I spent forty-five minutes pushing and pulling weights as heavy as I could, then I was ready to move on. Jorge, the guy who told me about local bars where they didn’t card for alcohol, appeared as I was heading for one of the empty treadmills. On the short side but wide and bulky, he had olive skin with arms covered in teal-colored tattoos. He was wearing yellow athletic shorts and a black sleeveless shirt.

  “Hey man,” he said and we greeted each other us
ing fist bumps and man hugs. I had gotten to know him pretty well lately, and it turned out that he even knew Steve. “What are you working on today?”

  I told him I was doing chest, triceps, shoulders and abs, and that now I was about to do some cardio.

  “What about you?” I asked him.

  “I came to do some boxing, but my sparrer couldn’t make it today,” he replied, looking miffed. “He just told me. Do you box?”

  I shrugged a shoulder; I did do some boxing while in juvie. “Sure.”

  He lit up. “How about you sparring me for a few minutes? I need to work on my right uppercut and left cross.”

  Why not? I thought. Running on the treadmill was pretty boring and I could use some distraction. Jorge talked a lot and was a nice guy. I should help him out.

  “Do you have gloves for me?” I asked him.

  He grinned at me. “I have everything you’ll need. Come on, let’s head over to the boxing area and I’ll get you set up.”

  As I followed him across the gym, he told me about his latest girlfriend and what a monster she was in bed. I kept asking him questions about it so he wouldn’t ask me about what was going on with me and chicks. It would be embarrassing having to admit how pathetic I was, still a virgin.

  It didn’t take long before my hands were wrapped and I had gloves on. Jorge’s hands were already wrapped, so he put on his own gloves when he was done with me. He motioned for me to follow him into the ring.

  “You box without headgear?” I asked as I went under the red ropes.

  He waved a glove in the air. “Not typically, but we don’t need it for this. We won’t go that hard. You’ll see.”

  “Okay.”

  We got in position and brought our gloves up to our faces, both of us crouching slightly as we shuffled around. I let him get in some mild punches on me before I gave him some in return. It didn’t take long until we got into a good rhythm, exchanging jabs, crosses, hooks, even some uppercuts. We danced around in the ring as though in trance, attacking and retreating. The hard work made me sweat and I could soon feel those endorphins developing, flowing through my blood, lifting my spirits. Our fight got more and more intense. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed boxing. As I got in a cross punch on Jorge, I made a mental note to make it into more of a habit. It was such a great workout. I was so glad Jorge had asked me to spar him.