Becky: I’m okay <3 Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.
Justin: Don’t worry about it <3
Becky: I need a favor.
A HUGE favor.
Justin: Whatever you need.
Becky: I need a ride to the airport.
Justin shook his head and squinted at the screen.
Justin: What? :O
Becky: My flight leaves tomorrow morning, already got a ticket. I have to be at the airport in 3 hours.
Justin: Where are you going?
Becky: New York.
Justin: I don’t understand.
Becky: It’s a long story.
I’ll tell you on the way.
I really need your help.
Pleeeease . . .
Justin got out of bed at once and typed while putting on his jeans.
Justin: Where should I pick you up?
***
Luckily for Becky, even though Uncle Jake had initially insisted she sleep in his comfortable bed in the only bedroom, after a few pleads, he allowed her to stay on the living room couch instead so she could watch television and distract herself. She texted the address to Justin and got ready to leave as quietly as possible. She left the television on, with the volume low, to cover the sound of the key turning and the door being shut – and it worked. She entered Justin’s car, and the pair drove away in low gear with no headlights. Nevertheless, Becky knew she had to hurry. If Uncle Jake woke up and saw she wasn’t there, he would know just the place to look for her.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come inside with you?” asked Justin. They were parked in front of Becky’s house, her childhood home, the only home she had ever known. She felt as if she had matured ten years in a single day. This house represented the naiveté that had been robbed from her. The perfect life of the Mitchell family, embodied in the impressive house with the red front door and the white picket fence – the suburban fairy tale – had vanished into thin air. Now she looked at this house and only saw the lie that had enveloped her life all these years and the loss of the people dearest to her heart – even though she had never really known them. Tears flooded her eyes.
“Yes, don’t worry,” she sniffled. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
Becky left the car and crept up the steps to the front door. She stood in front of the familiar door and held the handle. Instinctively, she reached for her key, but then sadly realized she had no use for it anymore.
Becky pushed the door open and hurried inside in hopes of going unnoticed. She tiptoed in the house she had loved so much, knowing this could be the last time she would set foot in the place. She tried not to make too much noise, even though she knew no one was there – force of habit, perhaps, along with the harbored fear that one of the police officers might still be around. She did not want her plan to be derailed at the last minute, forcing her to go back to Uncle Jake.
She went swiftly up to her room to pick up a few essential items. Becky knew she needed to get more money because she had spent almost her entire savings on the overpriced, last-minute plane ticket. Although she knew where her mom had kept some reserved cash for emergencies, just like this one, a rush of guilt ran through her for taking the money without permission – even though there was no one left to ask.
Becky went downstairs. On her back hung a backpack with a few clothes, a toothbrush, some money, and the old photo album she had found in her parents’ bedroom. On her way out, she took one final look at her now former home. A wave of memories flooded her. The squeaky stair that always got Brandon caught while sneaking in past his curfew; the “ancient” Persian carpet that her mom used to tell her she’d found in a magical store and that had once belonged to Ali Baba – until one day Becky spilled some grape juice on it and in an effort to ease her guilt, her mother had to admit that she’d bought it on sale at Walmart; the lacquered wooden table on which was placed a vase with the flowers her father had brought her mother every Friday after work, all the way up to this past weekend; the living room sofas she had bounced on so many times while having pillow fights with Brandon.
On the bookcase on the right side, above the lower shelves that held the family photo albums, lay dozens of books: mystery, art, and history. Her father would read the mysteries, whereas her mother used to read about art and history. On the mantel, above the fireplace, sat a family portrait from last Christmas, framed in gold. She remembered how her parents had surprised her with a brand-new iPhone; she immediately crowned it as the best Christmas present of all time. Who would have ever thought it would be their last Christmas together? And that this would be their last photo as a happy family? On the wall behind the photograph hung an oil painting of a heavenly garden inside a great eye. Becky remembered this painting ever since she was a little girl. In the center, poised a nude woman, handing her equally-bare lover an apple – Adam and Eve. Her father had always joked that someday he would replace this old, dull painting with something cooler, like a poster of The Godfather, but to her, it was nothing but dull. Even as a kid she had found herself mesmerized by its vivid colors and clear brushstrokes. Besides, she knew with absolute certainty that her mother, who had adored this painting, would never have let her father pull off something like this. Strange to think that this might be the last time she got to look at it; another broken memory of what she’d had and now was hopelessly gone forever.
On her way out, Becky walked over to the table and sadly took out the flowers out of the vase; she didn’t want them to wither away there. She turned toward the front door and mumbled a quiet “Goodbye” as she closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER 12
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ray Helborgen’s narrow, snakelike eyes flashed in fury.
“Exactly what you heard. You killed the only person who knew where your money is,” Max answered rigidly, opening wide his glistening eyes. “You killed my wife.” The despaired look turned in mere seconds into a hateful glare, with his wife’s killer standing just a few inches from him.
“What’s this got to do with her?” demanded Ray.
“She hid the money and never told me what she’d done with it,” replied Max in a chocked voice. “You can only dream about it now.”
The mobster lowered his gun slowly. He stamped his foot in frustration on the floor and yelled, “Damn it!”
His voiced echoed in the empty space.
Ray turned to Max and aimed his weapon once again, an evil grin spread across his face.
Max tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He knew this was going to be the very last moment of his life.
Helborgen’s right finger caressed the trigger but didn’t squeeze. “One day,” he eventually blurted.
Max looked at him with a puzzled look.
“You’ve got twenty-four hours to prove you’re not completely useless. One day to find me my money. Maybe that’s what will convince me not to castrate you slowly and painfully before I kill you.”
Max knew he didn’t stand a chance. After stealing this tainted money, he didn’t want his greed to ever take over him again. That was the reason why he wanted Emily to hide the money in the first place; he didn’t want to have any access to it. And honestly, life had been good without it. The Witness Protection Program had given him a clean slate to start over, but it had also taught him a lesson in humility. He might not have been as rich or successful as he had been in his former life, but he was happy.
This money was supposed to be a safety net for Emily and the kids in case danger reappeared. But the nightmare came true, and the money didn’t help at all.
He didn’t care about dying as long as Becky was safe. She was all that was left to him in this world.
He closed his eyes and sighed, “Whatever you say, Helborgen.”
CHAPTER 13
September 13, 2013. Somewhere along the highway
Justin was about to merge onto highway I-44 West, heading to Tulsa International Airport. As he was slowing down for t
he upcoming exit, he heard Becky humming to the song playing on the car radio.
“. . . I’ll go wherever you will go,” Becky sang the lyrics of the famous song by The Calling, which she interpreted as destiny. In those moments, Justin felt a strong connection with the words of the song. He began singing along with her, and his low baritone voice harmonized with her crystal-clear one. Becky caught him sneaking glances at her but pretended not to have noticed. She looked out of the window, her lips still moving to the words of the song.
They arrived at the airport at dawn. Grayish clouds were being swallowed by the dark sky, with only a few stars remaining, twinkling above.
“We’re here,” said Justin, staring at a distant point like a zombie.
“We’re here,” replied Becky in a quiet manner. Tears trickled down her cheeks. She sniffled and made Justin turn his gaze toward her.
“Becks,” he said softly, leaning toward her, “are you sure you want to do this?”
“I have to,” she answered through her tears, “this is my family.”
Justin still found it hard to grasp everything Becky had told him. The Mitchells were his favorite neighbors, and now only Becky was left. He could not imagine how she felt right now.
“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked all of a sudden. He didn’t care about anything, just the sixteen-year-old girl he had known and loved his entire life.
“I wish.” Her smile mixed with her tears. “But it’s something I have to do on my own.”
“I understand,” he said in his southern accent and kissed her lightly on her lips.
Becky pulled away and looked into his eyes, letting the warm shades of brown encircle her. She moved closer and kissed him determinedly.
“No matter what happens, I’ll always be an Oklahoma girl.”
At 5:49 a.m., Becky was already on the plane, sitting tensely in her seat. The plane was scheduled to take off in ten minutes to Fort Worth International Airport in Dallas, where she would have to wait patiently for the connection flight to New York. By the time she landed at JFK, it would be 3:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. Only seven more hours and she’d be in the Big Apple.
As a matter of fact, Becky had no idea what she would do once she arrived. She had an address, found in her mother’s old acceptance letter to Columbia University, but who knew if her grandmother still lived there. And even if she did, was she just planning to appear on her doorstep uninvited? If she was born after her parents had entered the Witness Protection Program, it could be very possible that her grandma didn’t even know about her existence. And how would she be able to tell her about the tragic fate that had befallen her mother – she grimaced in sorrow – and about what had happened to her brother, the one grandson she did know? Brandon’s condition might be stable for now, but she would never forgive herself if something were to happen to him and she wasn’t there by his side. He was the only family member who hadn’t lied to her – Becky sniffled and tried to hold back the tears – the only person in the same boat as she. How could she just get up and leave? She closed her eyes and let the drops of sadness pour. Was it a big mistake to leave him like that? Perhaps she should have waited until he recovered before embarking on this obscure journey for answers, with no idea when she would return?
Suddenly, seven hours into her destination seemed like too short a time to answer all these questions.
CHAPTER 14
September 13, 2013. Manhattan, New York
On her way to the crime scene, Rob warned Sharon that the press would sink their teeth into this case like a pack of hungry wolves.
The victim, Tracy Navarro, only twenty-two years old, was a well-known call girl. A few weeks earlier, she had revealed her Little Black Book and caused quite a stir in response to the disclosure of the names, among which were important high-ranking men in New York. According to rumors on the website that published the story, Tracy had received a small fortune in return for her cooperation. Since then, she had become the hottest interviewee in the area. One of the famous tabloids even reported that her name searches had multiplied since the publication of the story, and that she had even been offered a role in an independent movie scheduled to be in the theaters by next year.
“Over here, Davis,” called Rob in an irritated tone. His charcoal-black hair was slightly disheveled from the cool morning wind, revealing his graying temples. Usually, he did not make a habit out of visiting crime scenes – that was the detectives’ jobs rather than the Captain of Midtown South Precinct’s – but this was a high-profile case, and he knew he should make his presence known.
Sharon marched over to him quickly, ignoring the scowl his dark eyes were sending her way. “Anything interesting found at the scene?” she asked, giving a cursory look at the body.
The dark-haired girl lay silent on the filthy sidewalk in the side alley, not far from the nightclub where she had spent the previous evening. Her tight mini dress left very little room for the imagination; now slightly pulled up, it revealed her lush body and tanned thighs. Her fingernails were polished hot red matching the color of her dress. A gold bracelet with red garnet gemstones decorated her left ankle. The contents of her purse were lying on the ground and contained hot-red lipstick, some condoms, and a driver’s license. Any sign of cash or credit cards was long gone.
“At first glance you can tell she’s been dead for a few good hours, which puts the time of death sometime last night,” deduced Rob. “But it seems that by the time we were called over here, someone else had already paid a visit to our crime scene.” He glared at the emptied purse. “There’s no evidence of assault. It’s probably an overdose, but we’ll have to wait for the autopsy and toxicology results to verify the cause of death for certain.”
Sharon knew it didn’t change much. Tracy Navarro wasn’t just another streetwalker, rather, she was the prostitute these days: a young woman who had managed to cause major embarrassment among some of the most powerful and influential men in the city. If any one of them wanted to prevent the publication of their name or avenge themselves, this would be the perfect time. It didn’t matter what the coroner finds, the press will spin it into a story of murder ignited by revenge, because that’s what sells. In the eyes of the public, she would always be remembered for being murdered because of a little black book.
“Who found her?” she inquired.
“The night-shift employee at the liquor store came early this morning to get his bike and saw her,” said Rob. “He swore he didn’t touch anything and that her purse was already cleaned out when he got here – which isn’t very surprising in this part of town,” he added.
“So, someone already took his testimony?” she clarified.
“Yes, Davis.” He cleared his throat. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
Sharon realized she was not going to like the following sentence.
“I don’t have to explain why you’re here,” he continued.
“Because I’m your best detective.” She chanced a teasing glance at him.
“That’s right,” confirmed Rob, “and you also happen to be Miss Congeniality with the journalists. The press will be here any minute, and they would like to hear some answers.” He paused and stared at her. “Answers we still don’t have.” He cleared his throat again. “We thought maybe you could keep them calm.”
“We?” she asked indignantly.
“Sorry,” he gave a resigned shrug, “orders from upstairs.”
Ever since Sharon had solved the Sleeping Beauties serial murder case, which had terrorized the beautiful women in the city for three long years, she became a local hero. Of course, her dreamy features and perfect figure didn’t hurt. Also saving the life of Gloria McIntyre, the famous supermodel, had probably contributed to her rising popularity. The murderer turned out to be a murderess, who had disfigured the beautiful faces of her victims and scattered their bodies in garbage bags across town. Sharon had been the only one who had dared to investigate the successful magazine
editor, Kelly Danes, despite her close ties with the political elite. Sharon had exposed a web of sophisticated lies, carefully woven for twenty years, and discovered that the famous model was in the killer’s sights because of a dark secret from her past . . .
Of course, once such a famous persona entered the affair – that was already as hot as it got – the publicity dimensions grew even bigger, and so did the interest in the beautiful cop who had managed to accomplish what no one else before her could. The story of the young yet determined detective who had stood up to her commanders, almost losing her own life during the relentless pursuit until she finally captured the vicious criminal, turned Sharon Davis into an overnight hero – and the most popular cop in New York. Two months after the case was closed, she was listed as one of the city’s most eligible bachelorettes even though she was already dating Chris at that time.
Sharon received dozens of offers, from The New York Times to the New York Post, for cover stories and in-depth interviews, but she always declined. She didn’t like the spotlight. That was also the reason she’d declined the police commissioner’s tempting proposal to become the new spokesperson of the New York Police Department, or as he put it, “The new face of the NYPD.” The commissioner had wanted to take advantage of the momentum in which the NYPD finally received some positive press – rather than the usual barrage of criticism – and saw Sharon as the perfect candidate: beautiful, eloquent, and already loved by the press. The young, brave detective was the only one who had been able to solve a complicated, even scandalous affair that had bothered the people of New York City for quite some time.
The new job title was accompanied by a substantial benefits package: a raise and plenty of perks, including her own private office and a business expense allowance. In return, however, Sharon would have had to relinquish her position as head detective in Midtown South Precinct’s homicide division. She’d still be able to tag along on cases because it would look good for the press, but she could never be in charge of a case. It wouldn’t be her job anymore.
The False Mirror Page 4
