Echo

by E. K. Blair

  “Stay.”

  “Why?” I breathe.

  “I don’t know why. Just don’t go back to the States just yet.”

  He pushes off the bed and walks to the door. I’m sad when he leaves—lonely and empty. His scent looms in the air, and I take a deep breath to capture him in my soul. Lying here in the dark, I feel haunted by the demons I just released.

  And now he knows the fallacy of it all.

  As for me, I’ve just sliced through my deepest scar tissue and reopened the wounds of desecration.

  I battle with my heart to shut down, to turn into the machine that protects me from that which is destined to destroy me. Between the memories that just rebirthed inside of me and the loss of Declan’s presence, the mass of emotions is too much for me to even think about right now.

  So I cloak myself in armor and delight in stupor.

  I WAS OFFERED a plea deal when my attorney came to see me yesterday. Since my part in all this was simply being a man of the books—the white-collared crook—they want me to rat out the bigger names to the operation. The thing is, I don’t have many names. The men that do the runs are worth a lot more to the Feds than I am, but I’m not privy to that side of the business. The one name I am privy to is the one I know they want the most.

  The king of the cartel.

  But to cross paths with him would be a death sentence. I’ve learned that lesson. So I played dumb, kept his name shrouded in my arsenal. If I nark, I’m a dead man. It’s much safer for me in here—locked behind steel and iron.

  No one messes with me much. Money buys safety, and I’ve got an endless source and people on the outside that make sure the steady stream keeps flowing. What isn’t available to me is being taken care of by Lachlan, whom I’m now calling.

  The guard keeps watch outside of the laundry hall where I now work four days a week, earning a pitiful eleven cents an hour.

  “Cal,” he greets when he finally answers. “How are you?”

  “How the hell do you think I am? Did you take care of the money?”

  “Yeah. All done. There was an event recently that was held for the charity, so it was easy to filter into the accounts.”

  “And Declan?” I ask.

  “What about him, sir?”

  “Any suspicions from him?”

  “No. He’s been distracted these days.”

  “How so?”

  “A woman. Elizabeth Archer. She appeared in town recently. He’s been having me follow her.”

  I don’t bother to ask why. Time isn’t my friend at the moment, but I can only guess that boy will probably forever be fucked up when it comes to trust. He never told me anything about the shooting—who did it or for what reason. But I know it all boils down to Nina Vanderwal. All he told me was to feign his death to her if ever we should cross paths and that he wanted me to keep my distance from him. I agreed, and he disappeared back to Scotland to live in that estate he bought years back. I can’t figure that kid out or why he wants to wallow alone in practically the middle of nowhere.

  I’ve yet to have anyone make contact with him, and as far as I know, no one has. He’s unaware that I’m sitting in jail for crimes he knows nothing about. Crimes I’ve been committing since he was a little boy.

  “She’s staying in town close to him,” Lachlan adds.

  “In Gala?”

  “At the Water Lily.”

  What the fuck?

  “Declan was there?” I ask, wondering if he knows what was kept from him.

  “It’s where Elizabeth is staying. He was there the other day for a couple hours in the middle of the night and then returned home.”

  I’m not given the chance to respond when the guard slams the door open and shouts, “Time’s up, inmate!”

  He snatches the phone from my hands and disconnects the call.

  “What the hell happened to five minutes?” I sling in hostility.

  “Price influx, bitch. It’s gonna cost you more next time.”

  Grabbing my arm, he leads me out of the laundry room, and even though my bones burn to knock the living shit out of this pussy, I keep myself in check because I can’t be getting thrown in the block. I need to continue to have access to that fucking phone or find a way to get my hands on my own.

  First thing I need to do is find out who this Elizabeth woman is that has my son going to the Water Lily. So I wait in my cell until rec time and then make my way to the phone bank where I can make my call.

  “Cal, baby,” Camilla’s voice sighs into the phone.

  I thank God that the values of this woman are slightly shady to accommodate being involved with a man who’s facing up to twenty-five years in a federal prison.

  “How are you holding up, love?” I ask.

  “I miss you. Trying to take care of everything on my own is drowning me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I need to see you though. I need you here this weekend.”

  “Of course. You know I never miss a visit. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. I don’t want you worrying about me,” I tell her. “It’s just important that I see you.” I urge my words because what I need her to do for me isn’t something I can mention on these monitored calls because of the names involved.

  “Callum,” she softly scolds, “You’re in jail. How can I not worry about you?”

  “Ninety seconds remain.”

  “Fuck!” Bracing my hand against the cinder block wall, I bark, “Did you send the money into my account?”

  “Yes, but you know how slow they are.”

  “I need you to call about it because I’m all out of time. I won’t be able to call you until I get that money.”

  “I promise, Cal.”

  “Thirty seconds remain.”

  “God, I hate this,” she cries. “I miss you so much.”

  “I miss you too. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

  “I’ll be there. I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Walking into the quad, I take a seat in front of the TV that’s playing an episode of Jeopardy. I look to my left and watch a couple of illiterates shout out their answers, and I find them to be more entertaining than the actual show.

  “Hey, puta.”

  My body stiffens when the words slither across my ear and the coolness of what I imagine to be a razor blade pierces the flesh of my back.

  “I’m talking to you, esé,” he says, sitting behind me with his face hovering by the side of mine as he talks quietly into my ear so as to not arouse attention.

  “What do you want?” I keep my voice even and hard.

  “Your boss wanted me to relay a message for him.”

  “My boss?”

  “That’s right. He don’t want you actin’ a jit. Sayin’ things that don’t need to be said. Mentioning names that don’t need mentioning.” He digs the blade into my skin, and I bite back against the sting as he sneers, “You don’t need to be reminded about your vieja, no?”

  I snap my head to look him dead on, and he backs off, slipping the blade down his sock quickly. My blood boils, and the rage that brews inside takes an effort to keep under control.

  The guy smiles, dismissing his threats in exchange for a light chuckle, saying, “Whoa, mi amigo. Relax.”

  “Relax? You mention my vieja, and you expect me to relax? I don’t need a reminder, and I’m not your amigo. Next time you talk to my boss, you remind him that loyalties lie thick, sometimes in a pool of blood.”

  He gives a curt nod, taking in my words, and then I add, “You threaten me again, I’ll turn you into a prag and stick a brinker on your ass.”

  He laughs, stands, and before walking away, shakes his head, saying, “You surprise me, blanco.” And then, with a smile, adds, “I’ll let the boss know we’re good.”

  “You do that.”

  “I HAD TO lift my bra, Cal!”

  “What? Why?”

  “Apparently, I look more suspicious than the garbage I was standing in line wi
th,” Camilla whispers under her breath and then takes a scan of the room to make sure no one else heard her. “It was utterly degrading.”

  Sitting at the small table, across from the woman who’s loved me for the past year, I’m pissed at the scum that got to see my doll’s tits when I haven’t had the privilege since they arrested me. She’s mortified and angry and completely out of place. She always stands out like a sore thumb when she visits me, dressed in her designer clothes, but that’s my Camilla.

  “I miss you, love.”

  “The waiting is killing me. I know it isn’t fair for me to say that when you’re locked up in here, but I feel like I’m in a constant state of anxiety,” she says.

  I haven’t told her about the plea deal that was put on the table because she’d have me do anything, throw whoever they wanted under the bus, just to get me back.

  “The case will be taken to grand jury soon enough. That’s the first step. But in the meantime, I need you to do something for me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “First, any update on the Vanderwal murder?” I ask since you can’t get the guards to turn the TV to any of the news stations.

  “The whole company in under investigation, but for what, the public isn’t aware of yet.” She releases a heavy sigh, leans forward, and grows emotional. “What am I supposed to do, Cal? It’s only a matter of time before this all hits the press. Everyone will know; our names will be smeared all over the place.”

  “My words are safe with you, right?”

  “You don’t even have to question that. Of course they are. They always have been. I love you and will do anything for you, you know that.”

  “I just needed to hear it again. This place messes with my head,” I tell her, but I know I can trust her. She’s unlike any woman I’ve ever loved. She may be twenty-three years younger than me, but she’s a fighter. After my arrest, I came clean to her about the illegal activity I’d been involved with. I told her everything and she didn’t disappoint when she offered to tell the authorities whatever it was I wanted her to. This woman would lie, cheat, and steal for me, and I love her even more for that. So as she sits here, prim and proper against the trash of the city’s misfits, I smile inside to know she’d probably fight dirtier than most of them, and she’d look simply gorgeous doing it.

  “What about his wife? Has she been in the news?”

  “No. The coverage is so limited at this point. The police are keeping a tight lip while the case is being investigated.”

  I give a nod, and then she adds, “Honey?”

  “What is it?”

  “Have you thought any more on calling your son? Don’t you think he should know?”

  Clapping my hands together, I rest my forearms on the table. “Not yet.”

  “I could call him.”

  I shake my head, saying, “Lachlan mentioned a girl he’s been spending time with in Gala. Elizabeth Archer. Can you remember that name?”

  “Elizabeth Archer,” she repeats. “Yes. Why?”

  “I need to know who she is and what interest she has in my son. Lachlan told me she’s only been in Scotland for a short time. I couldn’t get too much information because the call was cut short.”

  “Who do you think she is?”

  “Don’t know. But someone shot Declan within days of Bennett’s murder, and he refused to mention who. There’s a link in this somewhere; I know it.”

  “This is so unfair,” she voices. “I mean, you never hurt anyone. I don’t know why you’re sitting here in jail and not the others who are involved. Why don’t you give up their names?”

  “You know why, Camilla. We’ve already talked about it. These aren’t the types of people you turn your back on. This business is much bigger than me. And knowing the amounts of money I’ve been laundering and the lives at stake if someone were to blow the whistle, I’d be killed.”

  “I know we’ve talked about it, it’s just . . . ”

  “Look,” I say, wanting her to not get wrapped up in the emotions of it all. “For right now, just focus on taking care of yourself. Focus on figuring out who this girl is that’s spending time with Declan. I don’t want you getting hung up on things that are out of our control right now, all right?”

  Nodding, she yields, “All right.”

  STEPPING FOOT ON foreign soil feels freeing. I’m relieved of the weight I’ve been bearing on my back, and it’s a welcome change to be able to walk around without constantly looking over my shoulder.

  I arrived here in Scotland yesterday, and after getting my first night of solid rest in a long time, I woke up this morning, revived.

  But now, it’s business.

  Finding her is my ticket to freedom.

  So when I open up my laptop, I start searching with the two names I’m already aware of that she uses: Nina Vanderwal and Elizabeth Archer.

  “HELLO?” I ANSWER when my cell rings.

  “Elizabeth, it’s Lachlan.”

  His voice disappoints. Ever since Declan came to me and asked me not to leave, I’ve been hoping to hear from him, but so far, nothing.

  “Hi.”

  “I was wondering if we could get together. I have some information about your mother.”

  A slight jolt of adrenaline rushes my body. Or is it anxiety? Fear, maybe? I don’t know what it is exactly, but it awakens something inside of me, and I ask, “You found her?”

  “Yes. Do you have time to meet me?”

  “Are you in town?” I ask, knowing he lives over an hour away in Edinburgh.

  “I can be. You just tell me what works for you.”

  “I can come to the city.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” I respond. “It’ll be nice to have a little change of scenery.”

  Honestly, I just need a distraction. I spent all of yesterday moping around after having Declan here the night before. The tangled mess of this situation is driving me to madness. Trying to deal with the wound I opened the other night is proving to be too much for me to cope with.

  And when one wound opens, so does another.

  With the rousing of the shame and disgust of my past that I’d forced to lie dormant for so long, I needed a vice to help me grapple with the war inside of me. So I did what I’m becoming good at, and when the tranquility of blood running down my neck faded, I hammered my fists into my thighs. I wasn’t sated until I could finally see the blood pooling beneath my skin. Mutilated alabaster.

  I hang up with Lachlan after I jot down his address and grab my scarf and coat. I head out and make the drive to Edinburgh. When I turn onto Merchiston Gardens, I’m greeted with beautiful Victorian homes.

  “Did you have any problems finding it?” Lachlan asks when he opens the front door after I pull up to his house.

  “I’m in a foreign country,” I tease. “I always have problems when I drive here.”

  He laughs, and as I approach, he remarks with jest, “Well, you appear unscathed, and the car still looks to be in one piece.”

  “Lucky car,” I respond with a wink before stepping into the foyer.

  The walls are bathed in rich taupes, ivories, and wines with hardwood floors and large bay windows. The house is airy with lots of natural lighting.

  “Lovely home.”

  Walking past me, I follow Lachlan through the house to a formal sitting area.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he offers.

  “No, thank you.” Slipping off my coat, I drape it over the couch and take a seat with Lachlan sitting adjacent to me. “Impressive.”

  He laughs, saying, “You’re being generous. One could say I was slumming it when compared to the likes of your man’s Brunswickhill.”

  “My man?”

  “Isn’t he?”

  Continuing the light banter, which tends to come easily between the two of us, I say, “Well, for anyone who knows Declan, you’re instantly aware that no one stakes claim on him. He operates on the contrary.” Crossing my legs, I chuckle, add
ing, “Total control freak.”

  “Try working for him.”

  His words perplex, and I question, “You work for him?” and when he nods, I note, “You failed to mention that.”

  “You failed to ask.”

  “Is there anything else I’ve failed to ask that I should be aware of?”

  “Oh, yes,” he exaggerates in humor. “But where’s the fun in transparency?”

  “Man of mystery.”

  He smiles, and I laugh.

  “So, tell me, Lachlan. What is it that you do for Declan?”

  “I manage his finances among other things. And what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “What do you do for a profession?”

  His question perturbs, and I deflect, “I prefer to dabble instead of commit to a singular entity.”

  “Entrepreneur?”

  “Isn’t that just a fancy word for unemployed?”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “Honest and straight forward,” I tell him. “No reason to dress up the truth because when people realize the crudité is just a veggie platter, they feel cheated and the culprit looks like a fraud.”

  He laughs, but little does he know, I’m the crudité here. I’m a distorted hyperbole. At least that’s what I have been. I’m trying to shed the guise because I need a solid ground of understanding to figure out who I am. What are the true fibers from which I’m woven?

  And then I remember why I’m here, and I wonder, Am I ready for this? Do I really want to know? He told me he found her, the mother I’ve never known, and a multitude of questions begin to rain down: Did she ever love me? Did she love my dad? Why didn’t she want me? Did she know my dad was in prison? Did she know I was in foster care? Why didn’t she come for me? Why didn’t she save me? How could she just dispose of me?

  “Are you okay?” Lachlan questions, his voice thick with concern.

  I flick my eyes up to him, realizing I let my mind drift and pull me away.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” I shift, and leaving the humor behind, I say, “I’m a little uneasy.”