Bound by Lies

by Rebecca Shea

  The two agents talk, then shake hands. The new one jogs up the cobblestone walkway that cuts through the middle of the yard.

  “Michael Hansen, Federal Marshal,” he announces himself and holds out a hand for me to shake. I reach for it hesitantly and shake it. “Nice to meet you,” he says, placing his hands on his hips and looking up and down the street. “We advise that during daylight hours, you stay inside, or at least restrict your outside time to the backyard.”

  “Seems a little restrictive,” I say, sipping my piping hot coffee.

  “At least until we can track Antonio Estrada and his associates, then you’ll have more flexibility.” His eyes stay focused on the street, his gaze darting from house to house, car to car, taking in every little detail of the neighborhood. I can tell he’s good at what he does.

  “So if I request to go somewhere during daylight hours, can that be arranged?”

  “It can,” he says, risking a quick glance at me. “We just need the details so we can arrange for proper security. We’ll need to know where, how long you plan to stay, those kinds of details so we can determine in advance what we’ll need to protect you while you’re out. This includes any kind of doctor’s appointments as well. If you could get us a list with dates, times, office locations, we’ll make sure the proper arrangements are made.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is there somewhere you need to go today?” He quickly looks me up and down, assessing my condition.

  “Nah, not today. But I would like to visit my mother’s grave. It’ll most likely be the last time I do that before I fully enter the witness security program. I shouldn’t need more than an hour.”

  He nods slowly. “That’s low risk, but I’ll run the details past the senior marshal and see to it that it happens.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him quietly, sipping my coffee again.

  “If there’s anyone else, or any other place you’d like to see, I’d also like a list of those people and locations. The sooner I get that, the sooner I can get them scheduled.”

  I think about it for a moment. “Father Mark from the church downtown. I think that would be it. My mother’s gravesite and Father Mark,” I say as the reality of everything settles in. I clear my throat, forcing back my emotions, and look to Marshal Hansen. “Any updates on my brother?”

  He turns his attention back to the street, narrowing his eyes on the man walking his dog. I’d laugh, but the dog walker could be an assassin my father hired for all I know.

  “Nothing new. It’s not looking good, though,” he says quietly. “Hoffman told me you’d like to see him, but his family is with him right now.”

  “His family? I am his family.”

  “Sorry.” He looks somewhat regretful. “I meant your aunt and uncle, and your cousins.”

  “Ashley and Adam are there?”

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t catch their names, but yes, a male and female.”

  “Thank you. Let me know if there are any updates.” I push myself up from the chair, suddenly feeling the drain of no sleep.

  “I will, and let me know if you need anything else.”

  I simply nod and lock the deadbolts behind me.

  I AWAKE WITH a start and feel an immediate pain in my stiff neck. Through hazy eyes, I catch a glimpse of the orange sky peeking through the metal slats of the conference room blinds. I fell asleep here?

  Blinking fully awake, I realize that I’ve been in this conference room since Agent Hoffman brought me here last night. Rubbing my eyes, I push myself up from the table and stand on wobbly legs. Opening the door, I peek outside and find Agent Hoffman on the phone at his desk. A woman walking by smiles at me as I run my fingers through my messy hair. I feel like hell. I probably look it too, in my denim shorts and Hoffman’s oversized sweatshirt.

  I stroll over to his desk, where he looks up at me, a phone pressed to his ear. He holds up a finger, gesturing for me to hold on a minute. One glance around his barren office and I can see there are no personal touches, except one picture tucked into the corner of his desk. It’s of him when he was younger in a football uniform with what looks like his parents. Otherwise, his office is devoid of any personal artifacts, only piled with stacks of files and a laptop computer.

  After ending his call, he spins in his chair and looks at me. “Good morning,” he says and rubs his temples.

  “Morning,” I respond, my stomach growling almost simultaneously.

  “Sorry about the sleeping arrangements. You fell asleep while I was making calls, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “It’s fine,” I lie. My neck is sore, and I’m exhausted.

  “Emilia, I found somewhere for you to stay,” he says, his eyes shifting between me and the hallway behind me. “It’s safe. There’s twenty-four-hour protection—”

  “Where?” I interrupt him.

  “Here in Phoenix. I assumed you’d want to stay at least until we got some news on Sam.”

  “Where, though?” I press. I can’t imagine feeling safe anywhere at this point.

  He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, and I have a feeling I’m not going to like the answer.

  “With me, Emilia,” a husky, faintly familiar voice says from behind me.

  I jump and turn slowly. My stomach drops as I’m greeted with my own hazel eyes. “With you?”

  “Yes. Agent Hoffman called me last night and I agreed. I think we have some things to catch up on.”

  It takes a moment for everything to sink in, but even after a moment, I still can’t believe it. They want me to go stay with my father? My father who abandoned me? My father who rejected me? My father who’s really never been a father at all? And they think I should trust him?

  “You want to catch up now?” I finally say, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “Don’t you think it’s a little too late?”

  He sighs loudly and looks at Hoffman.

  “Emilia,” Hoffman says, trying to reason with me. “We don’t have anywhere for you to go where you’ll be safe. You’re free to walk out of here right now, but you’ll be a sitting duck and you know it. Saul got to Sam, and we believe you’re next. This is our only option for you, and I suggest you take it.”

  I blow a puff of air through my nose and drop my head. I should be ecstatic. I should be jumping at this opportunity. But the open wound in my heart from his initial rejection blinds me from believing I’ll ever truly know him.

  Still, I nod. “Okay,” I say quietly.

  Both my father and Hoffman visibly relax when I agree.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in the backseat of an unmarked police car and being escorted to my father’s house. He’s next to me, staring out his window. His knee bobs up and down nervously, and he runs his hand up and down his thigh—over and over.

  It takes us less than ten minutes to pull into the gorgeous neighborhood my father calls home. I recall each perfectly manicured lawn and the exquisite ranch-style homes as we weave through the winding streets. Being here brings me back to my first few days in Phoenix. It’s hard to believe how drastically my life has changed since then.

  Another car with additional security pulls up in front of the house while we pull into the driveway. Two agents exit the car at the curbside and sweep the house before we’re given the all clear to enter. Reluctantly, I follow my father up the familiar stone sidewalk, then pause on the front porch.

  A sense of sadness overcomes me as I remember the last time I was here, the rejection and hopelessness I felt.

  My father holds the front door open and watches me as I hesitate to cross the threshold. His head drops slightly as I finally enter his home. I’m greeted by modern marble floors in shades of white and grey. Everything is clean, modern, and neutral. Giant vases full of bare branches sit in corners. Mirrors and paintings fill the walls, and light grey furniture sits atop oversized throw rugs. The place looks like he had a professional decorator. Everything is pretentious, just like my father.

  After a long mome
nt, he finally breaks the awkward silence. “So your room will be down there.” He nods down a long hallway off the living room. “Second door on the right is the guest room.”

  “I don’t really have anything to unpack,” I admit, a flush crawling over my face. I find myself once again embarrassed by my lack of belongings. Bitterness simmers just beneath the surface when I see how much my father has and how my mom and I had nothing.

  “We’ll get you some clothes,” he says quietly, just above a whisper.

  “I’ve got some at the house, I just have to get them.” We stand in awkward silence again, and I finally turn toward the hallway. “I think I’m going to go rest, if you don’t mind. It’s been a really long night.”

  “Sounds like a good plan. Maybe we can talk when you’re more rested.” For the first time since he waltzed into the ATF offices, my father looks me in the eye, but I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know if the emotion I see there, the hope in his eyes, can be trusted. He left me. And my mom. He left us both. I don’t know him. My father is a stranger.

  I simply nod in response and escape down the long hallway to the second door on the right. Closing the door behind me, I turn to see a large wooden bed covered in a white and grey chevron print comforter and draped in a sheer canopy. I eagerly kick off my shoes and sink into the fluffy bedding. An air conditioning vent directly over the bed blows cold air directly at me, and I pull the covers back on the bed and slide in. The combination of cool air and comfortable bedding allows me to fall into a peaceful sleep.

  THE CLICK OF a light wakes me, but the first thing I notice is that the room is still dark. I must’ve slept all day. A glance out the window shows me the sun is down and only a sliver of light is coming from an attached bathroom. I swing my feet over the side of the bed to see a shopping bag on the desk. Turning on the desk lamp, I peek inside. There’s a stack of clothes, all new, still with the tags on them. I open a shoebox next to the bag and pull out a pair of Nike tennis shoes in size nine and a half. My size.

  I nervously open the bedroom door, twisting the handle slowly, wondering where my father is. It opens with a small creak, and I cringe as I step out into the hallway. I pause in front of portraits in large frames that line the walls of both sides of the hallway. They’re of a girl and a boy who look to be in their early teens. Both blonde-haired and fair-skinned, and my heart starts racing. I have siblings? Their photos represent a life I never had, luxuries and designer clothes and vacations in the Caribbean. Tears sting the back of my eyes in jealousy when I hear him speak.

  “Jeffrey and Josslyn,” he says from the end of the hallway. I have to swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Jeffrey is thirteen and Josslyn is twelve.” He moves slowly down the hall toward me. “This was taken on vacation last year.” He points to the white sand in the picture, and I chew on my lip and turn to move past him, but his large frame blocks my escape.

  “Mind if I get some water?”

  “Help yourself; kitchen is just around the corner.” He steps aside and lets me pass.

  In the kitchen, I’m greeted with an amazing aroma. A large pan sits on the stove, bubbling with red sauce, and my stomach growls as I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of water.

  “Hope you’re hungry,” my father says as he rounds the corner. “The spaghetti sauce is almost done and the meatballs are in the oven.” He pulls a handful of pasta from a container on the counter and tosses it into another pan. There’s a long, rectangular dining table just off the kitchen and only two place settings.

  “You’ve been very quiet,” he says, stirring the pasta carefully in the boiling water.

  I twist the cap on the bottle of water and sip it while eyeing him.

  “I assumed I was going to be yelled at.” He lets out a half laugh and glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “What good would that do? You made it very clear the last time I was here that you wanted nothing to do with me.” My tone is devoid of emotions and I’m proud of myself for this. I don’t want him to see how vulnerable I really am.

  He sighs loudly and sets the pasta spoon on a spoon rest. “Emilia, I’m very sorry for that.”

  “For what? What you said? Turning me away? Abandoning me and Mom before I was even born?” My entire body shakes as my anger simmers at the surface. He maintains eye contact with me and lets me speak. “For some reason, I don’t feel like you’re really sorry at all.”

  “Emilia—”

  “No. Give me a minute to say my peace.” I take a cleansing breath. “Why now? Why did you agree to this? You didn’t want me before.”

  He exhales loudly and rests his hands on his hips. His head falls forward, and I notice how much grey hair he has. Lifting his head, he looks directly at me. “I’ve always felt guilty. Every single day. I buried my guilt in work. I worked my ass off to be the best lawyer in Phoenix. I promised myself I’d provide my family everything I never gave you—and you know what good that did? It didn’t do shit for me.” I can see the regret in his eyes and the hurt in his voice. “I’m alone in this house while my wife—excuse me, ex-wife—is asleep in another man’s bed, living with my two kids in a house across town, because I failed everyone. I failed every single person I’ve ever cared about. You. Gretchen, Jacob, and Josslyn.”

  His hands shake as he speaks, and he turns quickly to pick up the spoon. The room is quiet while he stirs the pasta. He tosses the spoon in the sink and dumps the pan of noodles into a colander, then grabs a pair of potholders and pulls a pan of meatballs from the oven and dumps them into a glass bowl. I remain frozen, watching him move quickly around the kitchen.

  “Here.” He hands me the bowl of meatballs. “Set these on the table and have a seat.”

  Like a little girl doing what her father asks, I follow his orders. My heart beats wildly in my chest as I take a seat along the long side, leaving the seat at the head for him. He sets a bowl of pasta down along with a pan of steaming hot pasta sauce. Small bowls are filled with salads next to our plates on the table.

  He slides into his chair and looks at me. There’s such pain in his eyes that I want to believe that he feels guilty, that maybe he did want me. His lips are twisted as if he’s holding back his words. “Please, serve yourself,” he finally says. We fill our plates with pasta and eat in silence other than the sounds of silverware hitting the china. My stomach twists and turns nervously, but I devour the delicious meal.

  “You were hungry?” He observes my empty plate as I finally move on to my side salad.

  “I was,” I admit. “It was delicious.”

  “Thanks. It’s the one meal I can cook.” He cocks a half smile at me. “You shouldn’t wait so long between meals. Your baby needs the nourishment.”

  My hand stills when he says that. I set my fork down and look at him. “So what else did they tell you about me?”

  “They, meaning the agents trying to bring down your boyfriend’s family business?” He raises his eyebrows at me.

  “You have no right to judge me,” I sneer at him, twisting the napkin in my lap.

  “I’m not judging you. I promise. I removed myself from the case as soon as Agent Hoffman delivered the news about our connection. Emilia, that family wants me dead. They were using you to get to me.”

  “Alex wasn’t using me. He didn’t even know about the connection.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Emilia. What’re the chances of all the girls in the world for him to fall in love with, it just happens to be the daughter of the judge presiding over his father’s trial?”

  My stomach twists again because he’s right. What are the chances? But my gut tells me Alex wasn’t lying.

  “He didn’t know,” I say, my voice meek in defense.

  “Maybe he didn’t,” he admits in defeat. “But when I removed myself from the case, Agent Hoffman informed me of everything. I was shocked, that’s for sure. I thought when you left here, you went back to Illinois. Emilia, I didn’t know how bad it was there, I
promise.” He pulls a crystal glass from the table and sips his water. “They told me everything. How Alex was shot, but not before he turned over everything he had on the business. They explained you stumbled upon Agent Cortez and fell right into their agenda, the connection between Cortez and Alex, you being pregnant. Honestly, I was shocked at all the connections. You found yourself right in the center of a very tangled web.”

  I nod my head slowly as everything begins to sink in once again. Silence fills the space between us. I shift in my chair when my father finally speaks again. “Are the clothes okay? I wasn’t sure what to get you, so we opted for comfort. Everyone wears yoga pants and tank tops.” He smiles at me, a glimmer of hope in his eye.

  “Who’s ‘we’?” I ask curiously. “And yes, they’ll be just fine. Thank you.”

  “Gretchen picked them out. My ex. I called in a favor. She loves the mall, so this was something she could actually help me with. And since you’re pregnant, she thought comfortable was the way to go.”

  “You didn’t need to do that, but I’m very appreciative.”

  “I wanted to. She was hoping to meet you, but we’re not as friendly as I would like to be, and she didn’t want to wait around until you woke up. She’ll stop by in the morning. She assumed there were toiletries you’d want or need, but didn’t want to guess on what brand you wanted. She said she was glad she could help.”

  I have to swallow hard before I ask. “You told her about me?”

  “I did. A long time ago.” He pauses, lost in thought. “We never told the kids, though. I didn’t expect to ever see you again, and…”

  “And what?”

  “And I didn’t want them asking questions.”

  “Why? Are you embarrassed of me?” I don’t know why I asked that, but it’s something I’ve always wondered. Is he embarrassed that I’m his bastard child?

  “No. Never. I’m ashamed of myself,” he says quietly. “I’m so sorry, Emilia. I can’t take back the last twenty-one years, but I can apologize for my actions,” he says, his voice trembling.