Empire of Lies

by Whitney G.

  “How terrible of an existence.” His voice is flat. “When this is all said and done, I can guarantee that you’re going to see how much I’ve helped you.”

  “I’d rather see it now,” I say. “If that’s so true, I’d rather see it now.”

  “I’ve told you…” His voice trails off for a few seconds. “Once you beat me at a chess game or two, I’ll consider answering whatever questions you have. You’re getting quite good at it.”

  “I’d rather play twenty-one questions instead.” I swallow, stepping back against the granite countertop. “I feel like that’s only fair, since it’s not an automatic win for you.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Is that okay with you? Can you attempt to tell me some of the truth by playing twenty-one questions on my terms, instead of yours?”

  “You’re already down to nineteen.”

  “Are you aware that you’re going to prison for this? That I will testify at your trial, regardless of the fact that I once loved you?”

  “You still do.” He smirks. “Eighteen.”

  “That’s not how this game works,” I say. “I ask a question and you answer. Then you ask a question, and I answer.”

  “I don’t have anything to ask you.” He runs his fingers through my hair, igniting every nerve in my body, making me react against my will. “I know all the answers already…”

  Silence.

  “Don’t touch me.” I push his hand away. “Since I’ve decided that I can’t trust a single word or fact you’ve ever told me, what’s your real name?”

  His lips turn up into a small smile, but he doesn’t let it stay. “Michael.”

  “Are you really an only child? Do you have any other family members?”

  “No one that you’ll ever get to meet…”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I glare at him. “Why would you ever lie to me about something as simple as that?”

  “I wouldn’t waste the remainder of your fourteen questions on silly things like this, if you want to get anywhere.”

  “I know how to keep count,” I said. “At what point did you decide to become a fucking liar instead of the man I fell in love with? Was this all part of some twisted plan from the beginning?”

  He doesn’t answer either of those questions. He just narrows his eyes at me. We’re still standing toe to toe, the tension between us as thick as ever.

  “For the record…” I say, debating whether now is the right time to say this. “I fell out of love with you the moment you brought me here and threw away the keys.”

  “I never threw away the keys,” he said, his voice menacing, yet soft. “I’m just keeping them from you, for a reason you can’t yet see.”

  “I was trying to pick a metaphor.”

  “Then try to pick a better one.”

  “I fucking hate you. How about that one?” I pushed a fist against his chest. “I hate everything about you. I’m no longer attracted to you, I no longer want you, and it’s in your best interest to just let me go.”

  “That’s not a real question.” He ignored my fist hitting him again. “I think we should just pause this game at eleven.”

  “So, you can regroup and get more of your fucking lies together?” I shake my head, decide to ask the only question that actually matters. “Are you ever going to let me go?”

  “You know what?” He clenches his jaw and presses his forehead against mine. “I don’t appreciate being called a fucking liar, Meredith.”

  “That’s not the answer I’m looking for.”

  “I don’t think you know what you’re looking for,” he says, his lips nearly brushing against mine. “That’s your main problem. You have no idea what’s going on around you.”

  Before I can fire back, his lips latch onto mine and his hands grip my waist. My arms instinctively wrap around his neck, and I can feel his cock hardening against my thigh.

  I shut my eyes as his tongue darts against the crease of my mouth, demanding immediate entry.

  Giving in without thinking, I arch my back against the counter—moaning as he kisses me so deeply and roughly, that I completely forget what the hell we were arguing about. Then I suddenly remember what it’s like to be touched by this man, completely owned and pushed near the edge by a single kiss.

  Fuck…

  Whispering my name, he slides a hand under my shorts—slipping two of his fingers against my soaking wet slit.

  “Your pussy is pretty fucking wet for someone who’s no longer attracted to me,” he says, biting down hard on my bottom lip. He teases my clit with the pad of his thumb before jerking his hand away.

  “Who’s the fucking liar now?” He steps back, leaving me breathless and wanting. He looks me up and down with a scowl—as if he’s the damn captive. Then he grabs his coffee cup off the counter. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “I can guarantee that I won’t be here waiting.”

  “You’re plotting to get away again?”

  “If at first you don’t succeed—”

  “You’ll fail and fail again,” he says, walking toward the eight-car garage. He looks over his shoulder. “If it’s any consolation for your wasted time, I’ll always find you, Meredith. Always.”

  Michael

  Now

  One day later

  This woman is out of her goddamn mind…

  I stare at the live security camera footage of the living room, watching as Meredith attacks the floor to ceiling windows with a fire poker. She runs back several feet, takes a few deep breaths, and then charges forward with the poker aimed at the perfect angle for damage.

  Sweating and screaming in utter frustration, she falls backward onto the rug once the poker fails to pierce the glass, but she doesn’t stay down for long. She charges at it again and again, repeating the exact same thing she’s tried with the crowbar, the metal base of a lamp, and a wooden table leg.

  Today’s escape attempt is by far the most entertaining—especially since I’ve had every window reinforced with steel. Last week, she attempted to get away by starting a fire in the indoor pool area. (It took her five hours to realize that the room—just like every other room in the house, is practically fire-proof. The sprinkler system is wired to turn on if it senses the slightest temperature change.) And yesterday, she attempted to rile up a group of readers on Goodreads.com for escape. The thread so far has over two thousand comments and not a single person believes her. (They’ve turned her plea for help into a controversy with its own dedicated hashtag: #FakeAuthorGate)

  She’s a fucking fighter. I have to give her that, and a part of me wishes that we had met under different circumstances.

  Then again, I would’ve never reached out to her again, if she’d been a mere one-night stand. She would’ve been a distant memory the moment we reached our climaxes and said our goodbyes.

  “Mr. Anderson?” A female voice interrupts my thoughts. “Mr. Anderson?”

  I turn off my cell phone and roll down my car’s window. “Yes?”

  “Um, are you planning on coming inside the station to talk with the sergeant, or do you want him to bring everyone out here?”

  “I’ll be in a few minutes.” I roll up the window, expecting the young redheaded officer to walk away, but she simply stands there. Blushing and staring at me like a high school crush.

  Sighing, I lean over and lock my phone in the glove compartment. I pull down the visor and take a quick glance at my reflection. The red eye drops are definitely in effect, and I look like I’ve been crying all night.

  Stepping out of the car, I follow the redhead’s lead into the station. I expect her to lead me to the interrogation room, but she shows me over to a desk.

  “I know that since your wife is gone, that you probably haven’t had any real intimacy in weeks…” She picks up a foil covered pan and holds it out to me. “So, I took it upon myself to make you the most intimate treat of all: a cherry chocolate pie. I’m also including my phone number, just in case you nee
d someone to cry to late at night. I’m also willing to come over, if a phone call won’t do.”

  I blinked. “Is the sergeant coming now or later?”

  “A man who looks like you should never sleep alone.”

  “I’m insanely devoted to my wife.” I actually mean those words. “I would never cheat on her.”

  “If she’s dead, it’s not cheating.” She lowers her voice, and slowly bites her lip. “You can’t make love to a cold corpse.”

  “No, but I’m tempted to turn you into one, if you don’t stop flirting with me…”

  “Huh?” Her eyes widened. “What did you just say?”

  “Over here, Mr. Anderson.” Sergeant Ware finally shows up and saves me from saying something much worse, and the redheaded officer storms away with her unwanted pie.

  “Officer Sheffield takes it upon herself to bake pies for most of the men who are in your unfortunate position,” he says, sighing. “She thinks a home-cooked treat will somehow make you forget about things for a few minutes. Don’t take it personally. Between you and me, you’re not missing much of anything.”

  “I already assumed that.”

  “Right. Well, I’ll take you to the room for now, and leave you there for a bit before presenting a few things to you.”

  He leads me down a long hallway and into a small grey room, where Meredith’s father and aunt are sitting at a square metal table.

  I stop at the sight of her aunt pressing a handkerchief against his eyes.

  “It’s okay, Leo,” she says, her voice cracking. “She’ll turn up soon. I’m sure of it. Don’t cry.”

  I clench my jaw and resist the urge to strangle him on the spot.

  “Good to know I won’t be alone to hear whatever news they have,” I say, forcing them both to look up at me.

  “Hey there, Mike.” Her aunt says, giving me a weak smile. “You did say that I can call you, Mike, right?”

  “Michael will suffice.”

  “Sorry.” She presses the handkerchief to her own eyes. “Mr. Thatchwood and I were just talking about you.”

  “I bet.” I look at her father. “I noticed a commercial from your campaign on TV yesterday…I could’ve sworn Meredith said that you’d dropped out of the race.”

  “Well, that was before all of this,” he says. “I decided to stay in to give me something to keep me going, you know?” He lowers his voice. “I’m up in the polls due to people giving me the sympathy vote, so it’s nice that something good will come from this tragedy, right?”

  I don’t answer that.

  “If you’re ever in need of any investors for your little nightclub, I’d be happy to reach out to some of my top donors and let them know,” he says. “Family has to stick together in these tough times.”

  My “little nightclub” brings in millions of dollars every weekend. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’d like you to stop listing her last name as Thatchwood when it’s Anderson. That’s what you can do for me.”

  “The press responds better when it’s a known name.” He looks genuine. “I mean, everyone in New York has run across something I own or branded at some point in their lifetime. You only own one club, you know?”

  I almost tell him that half of the businesses that he thinks he owns are indirectly tied to me and my brother, but I hold back and say nothing.

  Sergeant Ware returns to the room seconds later, armed with a thin manila folder. Avoiding eye contact with us, he takes a seat.

  “Last night, my team followed up on a certain bit of evidence,” he says, pulling out pictures of an open trunk. “As you know, strands of hair and blood were found in the back of an abandoned Honda eighty miles outside of the city.”

  I still can’t believe it took them this long to find this shit. I parked that car there a month ago.

  “We rushed everything to the lab to test it and um…” He swallowed. “It’s a definite match for Meredith’s DNA.”

  Her father sucks in a few breaths as if he’s about to have a panic attack, and her aunt starts to cry like the world is ending.

  There are no tears falling from her eyes.

  “We’re having our crime scene unit run tests on the entire vehicle to see if we can find some fingerprints to run through the system, and the blood we found isn’t enough for alarm yet. There’s still hope we’ll find her alive. We also know that whoever has done this, isn’t as smart as we are, and they probably left something behind.”

  I didn’t. I’ve never left anything behind at a staged scene, and at the rate that their investigation is going, I’m twenty years ahead, and I won’t be able to take Meredith to stage two of my plan for another two months.

  “Do any of you know if she had any friends in Connecticut?” he asks. “The backseat was littered with Burger King receipts from there.”

  I mentally vanish from this conversation and put on my best “utterly devastated and at a loss for words” face. Me coming here is officially a waste of my time, and I decide to call in another tip to The New York Times tonight to accelerate this sloppy, half-assed investigation.

  When the sergeant’s lips finally stop moving, he stands up from his seat. “I’ll leave you three alone. If you have any concerns or other questions, I’ll be right across from you in my office.”

  For several seconds, neither of us says a word. I look at my watch and try to think of an excuse to leave, but her father beats me to it.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Michael,” he says, reaching over and grabbing my hand. “So very sorry.”

  What the fuck? “Meredith hasn’t been confirmed dead. She’s still missing.”

  “Yes, well…” He shakes his head. “I’m holding out as much hope as I can, but I’ve always been a bit of a pessimist, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s true,” her aunt chimes in. “I’m the one who is trying to keep the hope alive.”

  “She really loved you, you know?” He smiled. “Even though we were just now getting closer, you were the first thing she brought up every day we met. With any luck, they’ll find her—dead or alive, I just want closure.”

  “I’m sure you do…” I can’t hold a straight face anymore, so I stand to my feet. “Can you two excuse me? I have somewhere I need to be.”

  “Absolutely,” they say in unison, and I get the hell out of there.

  The moment I make it to the parking lot, I pull out my phone and check on Meredith. She’s no longer in the living room, and all of the other cameras are showing an empty house.

  Confused, I rewind the video until I can see her writing a note at the dining room table. She leaves the sheet in perfect view for the cameras to see it, and then she ventures upstairs and into the one place where I don’t have any cameras. Her bedroom.

  I zoom in on the note to catch a better view.

  I’m running the cameras on a loop. Get ready to find me.

  I smile. There are secondary cameras in the ceiling. She isn’t going anywhere.

  Putting on my black leather gloves, I speed onto the road and command my car to text Trevor.

  Me: Off to handle the therapist. I’ll call when I’m done.

  His response is immediate.

  Trevor: Thank you. (9 more to go.)

  Michael

  Now

  Every child therapy office that I’ve ever visited is designed in the exact same way. There are open windows in the lobby, bright and cheery colors on the walls, and toys that clutter every corner in the waiting room. There’s also a Mickey Mouse printed on at least half of the tables, as if a fucking Disney character is capable of helping to soothe someone’s pain.

  Dr. Holden McAllister’s office, the top child therapy center in New York City, is the complete opposite of those places. Situated on the top floor of a gleaming grey building on Billionaire’s Row, the rooms are all painted in dreary shades of pale beige. There are no bright and cheery colors on the wall, no toys to keep patients calm while they wait, and the only Disney Characters in sight are the ones t
hat you may catch a glimpse of on a Times Square billboard.

  Every time that I’ve managed to step inside this building to handle him, I’ve turned away at the last minute. I’ve always pushed his name further down my personal list since I don’t want to relive any of the things I used to tell him. The things he refused to believe, but knew damn well were the truth.

  Today won’t be a turnaround day.

  I’ve let him live enough of his life.

  I slide a pair of black shades over my face and make sure my leather gloves are secure before taking the elevator up to the fifty-first floor.

  “I’m sorry, sir, our office is closed,” the receptionist says as I step off the car. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow. If you’d like, I can take down your name and email address.’

  I stand still and make out what type of person she is in five seconds.

  Too eager to communicate. Wired on something other than coffee. Stupid.

  She’ll definitely remember my face when the police find Dr. McAllister dead and ask for potential suspects, so the front entrance is out of the question.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Looks like I’m on the wrong floor. Where’s the gym?”

  “Ah, I figured. This happens all the time.” She smiles. “Right below on the fiftieth floor.”

  I give her a fake smile in return and take the elevator a few floors down. I find my way to the emergency stairwell and wait for half an hour before heading back up to Dr. McAllister’s office.

  I move from room to room and disable every camera and security feature. I double-check to make sure that no other employees are here, and then I stop dead in my tracks when I reach the patients’ waiting room.

  Everything in his office is exactly how I remember it in my nightmares. The hard-plastic chairs that surround a shaky metal table, the rug that serves as an inkblot test, and the “Wall of Forgiveness” where each patient gets the “honor” of letting go of people who’ve hurt them in the past.