But the vibe, the soul, of the neighborhood—it’s unmistakable. Even with my eyes closed, I would recognize this place. I remember this feeling, the warmth of the sun, shining down from the wide open sky. The sweet scent of freshly-cut grass. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees, the bright chirp of the birds.
You’re not here to relive your childhood, reminds a voice in the back of my head. You have a job to do. Answers to find.
My back stiffens.
Riley’s face perks up when I get out of the car. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey yourself,” I say with a smile. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long for me.”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I came to the neighborhood a little early. Thought I may as well pay my old folks a visit.” He nods in the direction of a house down the block.
“Yeah? How are they doing?”
“Good. Complaining about the rising price of crawfish. You know, same old.” He laughs and shrugs. “I think they’d be really happy to see you, if you wanted to stop by after…”
My head shakes a little too frantically, and the smile on Riley’s face falters.
“I wish I could,” I say, scrambling to recover, “but I can’t let anyone know who I really am. Remember, you weren’t even supposed to find out. But then again, you’re too smart for your own good.”
The grin returns to Riley’s face.
“Fair enough, I guess,” he says.
I turn to survey the street. “So where are they?”
Riley points to a modest cottage with a green stucco facade. A single old, tall tree bows over the house, scraping its branches across the slanted rooftop.
As I gaze at it, a hazy memory wafts to the front of my mind: my stubby young hands smacking against the bark, attempting to climb the tree. The creak of wooden chairs as my parents and the Benzes chatted pleasantly on the front porch.
“Do they know we’re coming?” I ask, turning back to Riley.
He nods. “I called them last night. I wasn’t sure what to tell them, so I just said you’re a student at Tulane Law. If they ask, you’re writing a case study about the Morrison trial.”
“Good thinking,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
I wait for Riley to start walking. But he hesitates, digging the heel of his sneaker against the concrete sidewalk.
“What is it?” I prompt.
“They weren’t too keen on meeting you, truthfully,” admits Riley. “But they agreed to it—under the terms that I accompany you. Since they know me. Friend of the family and all that.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. “I see.”
“I know you only asked me to arrange the meeting. But I hope you don’t mind if I come inside with you…because I already kind of told them I would.” He gives me a half-hearted apologetic smile.
I pause for a moment, processing this.
“Actually,” I say, “that works. They might be more willing to talk with you there.”
“Great,” Riley says, sounding relieved. His eyes twinkle. “Let’s do this.”
As we approach the house, the first thing I notice about the house are the bars on the windows.
“That’s new,” I murmur to Riley, gesturing.
He glances over. “Relatively speaking, maybe. They had those installed years ago. I was still in grade school.”
Curiouser and curiouser.
We mount the stout staircase up to the front porch. That’s when I notice it—the red, blinking light of the security camera. It’s half-hidden in the old tree, pointed directly at us.
I turn to murmur a comment to Riley, but he’s already knocking on the front door. He catches me looking at him, and he gives me an encouraging nod.
“You know some legal terms, right? Enough to pass yourself off as a law school student?” he says.
“Uh, sure,” I say entirely unconvincingly. Does the word ‘objection’ count? I think to myself.
A peep hole in the front door slides open. A pair of bushy, gray eyebrows fills the gap.
“Riley, is that you?” a gruff, tired-sounding voice says.
“Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Benz,” Riley says lightly, as if speaking with a pair of eyebrows is an entirely normal thing to do. “I’m here with my friend, the one I told you about.”
The peephole snaps shut. A moment later, the door creaks open.
The man standing in the doorframe is a little grayer and fatter than the Eric Benz I remember, but there’s no mistaking him. He eyes me beadily as I step across the threshold into the living room.
“My wife’s making some iced tea in the kitchen. Have a seat, she’ll just be a minute,” Eric mutters, swinging a distracted hand towards the plaid sofa.
He lingers by the doorway even after Riley and I have taken our seats, his eyes darting from the couch to the kitchen and back again.
“Kim and I had dinner with your parents just last week. They seem well,” Eric says gruffly to Riley.
“Yeah, they mentioned. I saw them this morning. Dad said to tell you that you still have his pressure washer,” Riley replies, grinning like it’s some kind of private joke.
Eric lets out a bark of a laugh, but he doesn’t say anything more. His fidgety hand scratches at his pant leg. I steal a quick glance around the room, at the faded wallpaper and the dusty television. Beneath me, a tuft of fluff escapes from a seam in the sofa cushion.
I had always harbored a suspicion that the Hawthornes had bought off Kimberly and Eric, written them a fat check to buy their betrayal. But if that were the case, wouldn’t the Benzes’ home be a little…well…nicer?
My gaze shifts to the pile of loose mail on the coffee table. There’s something here that catches my eye—a sheet of black eagle letterhead peeking out of a half-opened envelope. With a sharp intake of air, I realize that it’s the same insignia that I saw at the Hawthornes’ house.
But even now, I can’t shake the creeping feeling of familiarity. I’ve seen it before that trip to the Hawthornes’, I’m sure of it. And as I look more closely at the inky eyes and curved wings, something stirs in my memory—
“Kim!” Eric shouts suddenly, breaking the silence. My body jolts involuntarily in surprise. “You done in there yet?”
“Coming, coming,” calls back Kimberly’s scratchy voice. “Sorry I took so long, I couldn’t find the lemons.”
She shuffles into the living room, holding a tray containing a pitcher of tea and four tall glasses. Each glass is filled to the brim with ice. She sets the tray down squarely on top of the mail, and proceeds to fill each glass.
“So how can we help you, Miss…” Kim’s voice falters as she hands me my drink. “…what did Riley say your name was?”
“Sophia,” I say, accepting the drink. I take a sip; it’s cold and sweet, and somewhat familiar, like something from a half-remembered dream.
“Sophia,” Kim repeats thoughtfully. She peers at me inquisitively over her half-rimmed glasses. “Are you from New Orleans, Sophia? Do you have family here?”
“Nope,” I say quickly, hoping that I can quash whatever suspicions that may be budding in Kim’s mind. Moving onto safer topics—relatively speaking—I say, “I really appreciate you agreeing to meet with me today. I promise I won’t take too much of your time. I just had a few questions about the Morrison trial. I understand you were friends with the couple.”
Kim and Eric’s faces harden at the mention of my last name. I notice Kim’s eyes drift warily to her husband.
“We were,” says Eric gruffly, “before we realized what they really were.”
“And what was that, exactly?” I can’t help but ask. My voice is thin and strained.
Eric stares back at me with wide, woeful eyes. “Criminals.”
Lies, I hear the small voice in the back of my head cry out. I can feel my body begin to bristle.
A hand reaches out and finds my open palm. Riley’s fingers give my hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
I look up and see the soft concern wri
tten on his face. I know he wants to say something, to make things better, like he always does. It’s his nature.
But he’s too caring for his own good. Or mine, for that matter. If he says anything in front of the Benzes, my cover is blown.
I hastily turn back to Eric, determined to get through this interview before either Riley or I manage to mess it up.
“And how did you find this out?” I ask.
Eric Benz wrinkles his brow at me, confused. “What do you mean?”
“How did the two of you come to discover the Morrisons’ indiscretions?” I ask. “Did you stumble onto their crimes? Did they tell you directly? What was it?”
I wait for a response from Eric, but it’s Kimberly who speaks.
“It was an accident. They invited us over for dinner, and we arrived a few minutes early. We were all good friends, so typically we just let ourselves in. And that’s when we found it.” Her voice is clipped and monotone, the sound of someone who’s rehearsed a line too many times.
“Found what?” I find myself leaning forward.
“Cash,” says Kimberly. “A lot of it, scattered all over the living room. Hundreds of hundred-dollar bills. Or maybe more. It was too many to count.”
I raise a doubtful eyebrow. That can’t possibly be true. If my parents had left piles of cash laying around the house, I certainly would have noticed it.
But of course, I don’t say this to Kimberly. Instead I continue, as if I believe her: “You testified that you know for certain that the Morrisons were engaged in confidence schemes. Did you have any hard proof of this? Real proof, I mean, besides seeing the cash at their home?”
Eric grimaces at me. “Why else would they leave all that money in their house, if it wasn’t crime?”
“But that isn’t proof of everything,” I insist. “If they really did have cash laying around, there could’ve been a hundred reasons. You don’t know where it came from. Maybe they had some reason to empty their bank account, for example.”
Or maybe it never happened in the first place, I add silently.
“If?” Kimberly repeats irritably. “There’s no ifs about this. What we told you is the truth.”
“Sophia doesn’t mean anything by it,” Riley says, trying to smooth over the situation.
“No, actually—I do,” I say, sliding my hand away from Riley’s. I know he’s just attempting to help, but I can already tell I’m getting nowhere. The Benzes are too stubborn—or scared—to tell me the truth on their own. It’s time to try a new approach.
I look at them each in turn, trying not to feel guilty about the flabbergasted expressions on their faces. Eric’s bushy eyebrows have nearly disappeared into his hairline.
“I think there’s more than you’re letting on,” I tell them flatly. “And I think the Hawthornes have something to do with it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Eric growls.
But there’s a nervous twitch in his eyes that tells me otherwise.
“What did the Hawthornes do?” I press. “Did they blackmail you? Threaten you? Or did they buy you off? Write you a check in exchange for your silence?”
But their faces are impassive. They press their lips closed, unwilling to give me any answers.
“Right,” I say slowly, searching for ideas. “Maybe the check didn’t come through them directly. Maybe it came through their company, Hawthorne Corporation. Or Hawthorne Ventures? I’m sure they’ve got ways of keeping your kinds of arrangements quiet.”
They just look at me blankly.
I try to recall the details from my research, hoping that something will prompt a response from them. “Maybe it has something to do with Mrs. Hawthorne’s art gallery?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Riley turning to me with an expression of bewilderment. I know it’s a shot in the dark, but worth an attempt.
But still, no response. Figured as much.
I try one more time. “Or maybe it came through someone named Robinson?”
This gets a reaction. Eric and Kimberly both become instantly, visibly frightened. Their eyes open wide in terror.
“How do you know about Mr. Robinson?” Kimberly says in a hushed voice.
“Tell me about him. Who is he? How do you know him?” I ask. The words tumble out quickly, eagerly.
Kimberly’s hands begin to tremble. She shakes her head frantically.
“It’s okay,” Riley tells Kimberly in a soothing voice. “You can trust her.”
Her face contorted in anguish, she looks up at Riley, then back at me. She’s silent for a few minutes, wringing her hands. Finally, she speaks in a quiet, strangled voice. “He said that if we ever talked, he would come back.”
“What did Mr. Robinson do to you?” I ask, leaning forward.
“It’s not what he did. It’s what he will do. It’s what he threatened,” Kimberly says. Tears begin to bead at her eyes. She turns to her husband and reaches for his hand; he takes it and squeezes it tightly. “A man like that, you don’t doubt him when he says such terrible things.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Things he’d do to the house. Do to our family,” Kim says, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her wrist. “He said that if he needed to, he’d pay us from ‘the second account.’ Whatever that meant. Honestly, from the sound of it, I didn’t want to know.”
“Kim, careful,” Eric warns her in a low voice. Kimberly gasps. She quickly covers her mouth with her hand, realizing that she’s said too much.
I watch them both, my mouth hanging open. Over the span of a few mere minutes, everything has suddenly become clear. The unwavering obedience to the Hawthornes. The years of silence. The bars on the window and the camera at the door.
It wasn’t greed or spite that turned Eric and Kimberly against my parents, I realize.
It was fear.
“It’s going to be okay,” I reassure them, feeling guilty for having previously assumed the worst about them. “The Hawthornes will pay.” After my phone call yesterday with Miranda, I’m absolutely certain of this; I can feel the retribution coming, like a thunderstorm hovering on the horizon.
I watch Eric drape a comforting arm across Kim’s shoulders before pulling her into a hug. I wish that I could ask them more questions about Mr. Robinson, and about the strange black eagle insignia, but they look too distraught to continue. I know that this is all I’m going to get from them today. I’m lucky that I’ve gotten this much.
I rise from the couch.
“I’m going to help you,” I promise them. “I’m going to help make this right.”
Riley and I say our good-byes, and then quickly leave the Benzes to their privacy. Riley’s expression is dismayed when we return to the bright sidewalk. I reach into my purse in search of my phone, eager to send off a text message to Miranda to tell her what I’ve learned.
As my fingers wrap around the hard plastic case, it occurs to me that she might scold me for this. Don’t get distracted, she might say.
But then again, I don’t think either of us bargained for anything like Mr. Robinson. A dark sensation grows in my gut, hot and heavy, like scarred metal. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m venturing into dangerous territory.
I turn on the screen. I need to tell her.
“I can’t believe this. All these years and I never knew,” Riley says, running an anxious hand through his hair.
But I hardly notice what he’s saying. There’s a text message waiting for me on the screen.
And it’s not from Miranda.
Let’s discuss the contract tonight. My place, eight pm sharp. Thomas will let you in. Go directly upstairs and take off your clothes. You will kneel and wait for me there.
“Do you really think you can help them? What are you going to do?” Riley is asking.
I look up. “What I have to.”
4
The door creaks open.
I am kneeling on the floor, naked, as instructed. My knees are spread op
en slightly. My hands are crossed behind my back. During our first training session together, Liam said that this was supposed to be a reverent pose. My mind was to be calm, my thoughts focused entirely on him.
But now, though my back is straight and my eyes are cast obediently downward, my thoughts are a swarm. My mind keeps leaping from question to question. Eric and Kimberly. Mr. Robinson. The second account.
A pair of oxfords enter my field of vision. They’ve been polished so impeccably that I can nearly see my reflection in the black leather.
Liam’s hand reaches down to brush a strand of hair from my eyes, tucking it beneath my ear. His fingers find my chin and tilt it gently upward.
My eyes find his pale blues, which are tired-looking yet glittering with anticipation. A shadow of a smile plays across his lips. There’s a dark stubble on his cheeks, lining the sharp angles of his jaw and accentuating his high cheekbones; he must have neglected to shave this morning.
I briefly wonder if his tired appearance has anything to do with last night’s event with Mr. Robinson, whatever it was.
“Sophia, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of my chin. His other hand comes down to my head, raking his fingers pleasantly through my hair. There’s a restrained kind of urgency in his movements.
“It’s only been a day, Sir,” I say.
“Well, it’s been a long one,” he replies. With nimble fingers, he begins unfastening the buttons of his cotton shirt, exposing the muscles in his sloping shoulders, then his bare chest, followed by the tight ridges of his abs. He tosses the shirt to the floor, revealing a purple-yellow bruise on his bicep.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask hopefully, eyeing the bruise.
He takes my hand and brings it to the gleaming metal buckle of his belt.
“I didn’t invite you here so I could talk about my day.”
I can hear it, underneath the roughness of his tone.
The quiet desperation.
The urgency of his desire.
I thought we were going to discuss the contract, but apparently the plan has changed. Whatever he’s done last night, there’s only one thing now that will ease the tension of his body.
Hush Hush #2 Page 3
