King Size

by Lexi Whitlow

  “Avery!” Gerard Heath shouts. “What in the name of God are you...”

  I look in Avery’s eyes and trail my finger along her jawline. “Let’s get you home. Put you to bed.”

  She nods.

  Then Heath does something only very stupid men do. He put his hands on me – and on Avery. I look down at the guy’s bony fingers wrapped around my girl’s arm, then at his claw wrapped around mine, as if he’s trying to separate a couple of errant sixth graders at the Sadie Hawkins dance. I do what I’ve wanted to do to someone for quite a long time. I give him a solid shove, sending him tumbling into a row of folding chairs against the curtain walls.

  “You keep your fucking hands off Miss Thomas,” I say without veiling the threat. “Or I’ll rip them out of their sockets.”

  Three campaign staffers and an intern are standing just feet away gawking, while Heath scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t have sense enough to cease talking.

  “You and Avery cannot be seen like that!” He preaches. “You’ll destroy this campaign. We’re fifteen feet from the main stage and you have no idea who’s peeking through these curtains. The press corps is just on the other side of those temporary walls.”

  “Gerard, no one saw...” Avery protests, her voice cracking.

  “I saw!” He barks at her. He points to the loitering staffers. “They fucking saw!”

  I am about to step forward and give Gerard Heath something more interesting that other people’s opinions to think about, when I feel Avery’s grip on my hand slacken. Before I can turn, she slumps into me, her eyes rolling backwards, her lids fluttering. I catch her – the full lifeless weight of her – and together we drop to the floor.

  “Avery,” I whisper, touching her face, reaching a shaking finger under her jaw to find her pulse. It’s weak but steady. Dried sweat salts her brow. Her skin is hot.

  Before I even know what I’m doing I shove my jacket under her head for a pillow against the bare concrete floor, lift her knees up and cross her arms over her chest to increase blood flow to her core. She’s breathing normally, but she’s out cold.

  “Avery. Speak to me. Wake up.” I beg her, stroking her cheek anxiously.

  In just a few seconds the room crowds with people, all crushing in around us. Heath is on the phone calling 911.

  I pinch the skin of Avery’s forearm between my fingers. It lingers, peaking, before slowly sliding flat again.

  “She’s dehydrated,” I say to no one but myself.

  “What’s happening?” I hear Evelyn Thomas’ voice above and behind me. “Oh God, Avery. What’s wrong? What’s wrong with her, Maddox?”

  “She’s sick as shit and dehydrated. She passed out.” I spit at her. “Her blood pressure probably crashed from dehydration. She’ll wake up in a minute, but she needs to go to the ER for fluids and electrolytes.”

  “I already called 911.” Gerard Heath says to Evelyn. “EMTs are on their way.”

  Evelyn crouches down beside us on the floor, balancing on her pointy heels. Her expression is inscrutable. I can see neither concern or empathy, but neither can I see disdain – which is her most common visage. She reaches out and with the back of her hand, cautiously touches Avery’s forehead.

  “Take her to the ER.” She instructs calmly. “Find out what’s wrong with her and get her treated.”

  Then without blinking, she stands up and with great flare begins shooing people out of the room.

  That woman is an icicle. The idea of her thumb on the button of the nuclear arsenal is terrifying.

  Avery’s lids flutter and her fingers move inside my palm.

  “Wake up, baby. You’re okay,” I whisper to her over the sound of the audience just beyond us, rising in applause to greet the next speaker.

  Her eyes open and she looks up at me, dazed.

  “You passed out,” I say. “You’re really dehydrated.”

  She tries to sit up but I hold her in place. “Very slowly.” I instruct her. “If you feel dizzy again, put your head down.”

  In another moment the EMTs are with us, checking her vitals. Her blood pressure is low, as is her blood sugar, and she is – as I observed – dangerously dehydrated.

  “This will help a lot.” One of the EMTs says, shoving a bottle of ice-cold Gatorade into her hand. “Chug that, then another one. You should still go to the ER and get checked out.”

  In ten minutes Avery is almost back to her old self. She’s on her feet and making light of the whole incident, but she still looks pale to me.

  “I’m taking you to the ER,” I say.

  “I just want to go home,” she insists.

  “Do what he says, Avery.” Evelyn states, backing me up – for once. “You need to make sure its not more serious than just the flu.”

  Once in the car, Avery continues to argue the point. I’m not entirely convinced that she wouldn’t be a lot better off at home in her pajamas, slurping chicken soup and drinking Gatorade, than she would be waiting for hours at the ER, just to be told to go home, get some rest, and eat chicken soup.

  “Okay,” I say. “But I’m staying with you.”

  She cuts her eyes at me, confused. “Okay?” She asks, astonished that I relent so easily.

  I nod. “But I’m staying with you. I warm up a mean bowl of canned chicken noodle soup. I said I’d take care of you. I meant it.”

  Back at her place, I make good on my promise. I tuck her in to bed and then bring her a warm bowl of soup and a stack of buttered saltines. She looks a lot less green than she looked an hour ago. The color is returning to her face, and her mood is improved.

  “Your mother was a real shrew tonight.” I observe. “You never should have been there. They’re wearing you down, and I’m sick of seeing you take it, day after day.”

  She slurps her soup without responding.

  “Do you remember me kissing you tonight, at the bottom of the steps?”

  She nods. “Yes. That was very brave, and very reckless.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But it was a declaration. I love you Avery, and I’m sick of fighting it, sick of hiding it, and sick of your parents trying to force you—”

  “Maddox, we’ve been over this ground a thousand times,” she says, defeat filling her eyes.

  “Come away with me,” I say. “I’ve got some cash put back. I’ve got good friends who will help me get started with something else, somewhere else. Let’s just go.”

  Avery pushes the tray away and sits back on her pillow regarding me with a dark concern. When she opens her mouth to speak, her words surprise me, and give me hope.

  “The only reason I tried to end it with you – to make you take the money – was because I realized I was in love with you and have been forever. I was trying to protect you – from them. I don’t think you know what they’re capable of. And when you said you wouldn’t give us up, I didn’t have the strength to push you away – to be cruel to you the way I needed to be. I care about you too much.”

  “Then let’s just both admit that we want to be together, and give each other credit for being able to face the risks. Come away with me Avery. I can’t give you mansions on Nob Hill or C-Span, but I can give you something better, if you just give us a chance.”

  “I...” She starts to say, and then I see her face tighten. Her color drains, and all at once she’s up and bolting to the bathroom. I follow and manage to pull her hair away from her face before she looses the entire bowl of soup I made for her into the toilet.

  “Oh, baby. You’re so sick.” I croon, rubbing her back while she heaves and spits, hugging the bowl.

  The retching continues another twenty minutes before she feels safe enough to get back in bed. I make her chug another Gatorade, then I kiss her goodnight, turn out the light, and go to the living room to check my messages.

  It’s thirteen days since I wired the money to the hacker, and I’ve been waiting and watching for his promised report. I fire up my laptop, launching the VPN, and for the first time since
we initiated the project, I have a message from him:

  David Jones: Pleasure doing business with you. See attached file.

  I download the documents and begin reading the Executive Summary. It states,

  Source Number: 510-555-1468; Registered to Avery Elizabeth Thomas

  Investigation Number: 650-555-1312; Registered to Duane Robin Abbot

  Summary Conclusions:

  The photos and text sent to the source number on March 16, originated from a private cell phone number registered to Duane Robin Abbot, of 1620 Hummingbird Lane, Apt. 203, San Francisco, California. Mr. Abbot is a 29 year-old graduate of George Washington University, with a BS in Political Science. He graduated from Torrance High School, Torrance, CA, with a GPA of 4.2 (High Honors), and was appointed as a United States Senate Page by California (then junior) Senator, Evelyn Thomas. He served in that capacity throughout his undergraduate tenure at GWU. After graduation from college, Abbot applied to several graduate programs but was denied admission. Two years after graduation from college, Abbot was arrested on a simple assault charge. He plead to a lesser charge and was released on one-year probation. Six months later he was arrested on a charge of assault and battery on a female. He was tried and served seven months in the L.A. County Jail. After his release, he worked for a period as bar tender at various establishments around Los Angeles. Six months ago, Mr. Abbot moved to the Bay Area, where he appears to be working in some capacity with the campaign of Evelyn Thomas For Senate.

  His cell GPS signal has been mapped to locations and dates related to campaign events, as well as appearing (on multiple occasions) at the coordinates of the campaign headquarters. In addition, his cell GPS signal has been mapped to locations and dates proximal to the source phone number, indicating that the owner of the phone number 650-555-1312 was present, observing the source, and tracing her movements.

  Mr. Abbot has a combined credit score of 212, and has defaulted on two medical bills, an auto loan, and multiple credit cards. He drives a late model BMW coupe, black, California license plate number GCF-1875, registered and titled in his name (no loan).

  Since arriving in the Bay Area, Mr. Abbot has received deposits into his personal checking account in the amount of $215,000.00. These funds map precisely to debit transfers from three different Evelyn Thomas for Senate campaign accounts. (See attached documents at end of report, entitled “Item 13: Questionable Campaign Expenses”.)

  They hired a convicted criminal to stalk and then assault their daughter. What kind of people do that?

  I have to think. Should I tell Avery? Should I confront her parents? What do I do with this?

  I have to get Avery away from these people.

  Chapter 21

  Avery

  Mornings are the worst. I wake with a dry mouth, and the and an awful taste of metal I can’t get away from. The nausea is just as bad now as it was last night. I think I might really be sick with something more than the flu, as this has gone on too long to just be a bug. It comes and goes, but over the last week, it mostly just comes without going.

  I expected Maddox to be here with me when I woke up. He said he was staying, but I guess he went back to his place some time during the night. He does that, just to keep up the public pretense that there’s nothing going on between us.

  Oh, the things he said last night. He said he loves me. He wants me to go away with him. If only it was that simple. It’s not. My parents would kill me. At the very least, they’d never speak to me again. As difficult and misguided as they often are, I believe in their own way they only want what’s best for me.

  Thinking of what’s best for me, I decide to do a little research to see what kind of dreadful illness I have that’s causing these waves of puking fits. I fire up my laptop and Google “causes of nausea”. About a thousand different pages load in the results. I click the first one that doesn’t look like spam.

  Chemotherapy?

  Nope. Not unless someone is slipping it into my coffee.

  General anesthesia?

  No.

  Intestinal obstruction?

  God. I hope not.

  Migraine?

  Not since I stopped smoking weed.

  Morning sickness?

  Morning sickness? Oh Good Lord. Oh no…

  No. That can’t be it.

  Nope.

  I have to think. When was my last Depro-Provera shot? When is my next one scheduled? I have an appointment card in my billfold. I find my purse and scrum around inside, looking. Finding it, I thumb anxiously through a random collection of receipts, business cards, folded bills and notes. My gynecologist’s card is pink. I find it, and my heart sinks.

  I missed my appointment. I completely forgot it. I should have gotten my shot almost six weeks ago.

  I need to stay calm. I need to figure this out. I need to take a pregnancy test and either confirm it or rule it out, before I completely melt down.

  A baby? I reach down and place my palm on my belly. There’s a tautness there, down deep inside. I thought it was just a pulled muscle or something from all the heaving. Could there be…? Do I have a baby growing inside me?

  I don’t bother to shower. I just pull on jeans and a t-shirt and run a comb through my hair. I’m going to go to the drug store and buy a home pregnancy test. I’m not going to think about what any of this means until I know – for sure.

  Keys and purse in hand, I head out into the kitchen, and that’s when I see the stack of papers on the kitchen table with a handwritten note from Maddox on top.

  “Good Morning Ave,

  I hope you’re feeling better. I made coffee. It should still be fresh. After you’re awake, please have a look at the report I left here for you. I wish I could have waited to give this to you face to face, but I need to talk to your parents about it – NOW. I plan to be back before you even wake up, but if not, please, please, please don’t leave the apartment. I’ll be back very soon. We’ll talk about what to do.

  I love you more than anything.

  – Maddox 7:30 a.m.”

  I check my watch. It’s almost noon. I can smell the stale coffee. It’s long since gone cold. The scent turns my stomach, but some other feeling raises a chill at the base of my neck.

  I slide Maddox’ note aside and lift the first few pages of the hefty document he’s left. I start reading.

  The photos and text sent to the source number on March 16, originated from a private cell phone number registered to Duane Robin Abbot,...

  My knees go weak. I have to sit. My head spins.

  This can’t be right.

  I remember Robin. He worked for my mother in D.C. when I was just a kid. He would have been cute if he hadn’t been such a sycophant.

  Yeah, that was Robin in the bar that night. Amazing I didn’t recognize him. But then I never paid him any attention before, either. A moment before he knocked me out he said something like, “It is you. Isn’t it?” like he knew me.

  He used to work for my mother. No. He still works for my mother. And they paid him to follow me? They paid him… And he… He took those pictures of me… He was at the Fairmont… They knew what he did, and he was still at the Fairmont, and they let him send me those photographs.

  Oh my God. My parents did this.

  Suddenly I feel very calm. The nausea is gone. Clarity; that’s what this is. It’s the stillness and focus I summon in the moments before I have to step out into a crowd and work it, or before I take the stage to deliver a speech. Inside this bubble of clarity, I know myself. I know what’s real, what’s imagined, and what’s completely false.

  I flash on my mother’s dead eyes and cold smile. False.

  My father’s iron-clad, take-no-prisoners determination. False.

  Maddox. He’s authentic. True and loyal, and he’s very real.

  God, I’ve been so blind, for so long.

  I retrieve my phone from my purse and dial his number. It goes to straight to voicemail. I leave him a message, explaining that I’v
e read enough of the report to understand. I say I love him, and yes – we’ll go away together.

  I decide to wait for Maddox to return before going out, as he asked. I spend the time reading through the details in the report, and what I discover chills me ever more profoundly, convincing me that my parents aren’t just reckless and uncaring – they’re genuinely dangerous.

  I expect Maddox to be back anytime, so after an hour, I’m worried. I call him again, and once more the call goes straight to voicemail.

  He went to confront my parents with this information. What was he thinking? If they’re willing to have someone with a violent history follow me and attack me – just to try to scare me into submission – what will they do to him? What are they really capable of? What depths will the desperate go to in order to keep their secrets?

  Maddox is in danger, and so am I.

  I try to call him again. No answer. Something is terribly wrong. He should have been back hours ago. I realize I need to leave before my parents catch up and realize I know what they’ve done.

  I quickly pack an overnight bag and head toward the door. Just as I’m about to open it, my phone rings.

  Maddox!

  I check the caller ID before answering and see – to my horror – that the call is from my mother.

  Do I answer? Do I just let it go?

  No. Answer it. She’ll be freaking out by now. Play dumb and calm her down.

  I swipe to answer, and put on my best sickly voice. “Hello.”

  “Where are you?” Evelyn asks me, her voice brittle as tin.

  “In bed.” I lie. “I’m still sick. I’m so sick.”

  I hear her sigh. Is it relief? “Stay in bed,” she says, contriving a sympathetic tone. “I’ll stop by in a little while and bring you some hot and sour soup. Just get some rest.”

  “Okay,” I say dreamily. “I will. I’m not getting out of bed until I have to throw up again.”

  “I’ll be there very soon,” she assures me.

  “Okay.”

  I grab the report from the kitchen table, shoving it in my bag with my laptop and clothes.