A Shameless Little LIE

by Meli Raine

  And now I’m risking it all for–what? To keep my secret informant a secret?

  Why?

  We turn into the driveway at The Grove to find more armed guards than you’d find on a base in the middle of a combat zone. Men in black military gear carry automatic weapons at the gate. My gut tightens and chills run up and down my spine like tiny bugs.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, marveling at the sight.

  “New reality,” Silas says in his work voice. “We had to up the security level.”

  “To this?”

  “Are you kidding? An armed intruder made his way onto private grounds using a hacked code. You damn well better bet Drew’s upping security to this. Be prepared to be searched.”

  “Searched?” Maybe it’s my tone of voice, but something about me softens him. He reaches for my hand and takes a deep breath, watching me.

  “A formality. But one we have to go through, nonetheless.”

  “As long as I’m not being searched by that doctor, I’m fine with it.” I look him right in the eyes and lie. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Of course you don’t. I trust you.”

  Do you? I want to ask. I bite the words back.

  We climb out of the SUV and Duff pulls away, two guys with wands coming over. No one actually touches me. It’s all done electronically. Silas shows them his gun.

  Guns.

  He’s wearing three.

  “Why hasn’t someone given me a gun?” I ask him as we walk to the office wing of the house.

  “Why would you need one? You’re sufficiently protected at all times.” He sounds offended.

  “Why wouldn’t I need one? If I’m separated from you, or Duff, or that creepy dude Romeo...”

  Silas pauses mid-step. “Creepy dude? What’s wrong with Romeo?”

  “He’s creepy.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

  “He’s super creepy.”

  “That makes all the difference, then.” He frowns. “Did–when you say ‘creepy,’ was he...” Silas’s hands curl into fists.

  “No! No, nothing untoward. Just condescending.”

  “That comes with the job.”

  “You’re not condescending.”

  “I don’t need to be. Some guys, though, can be.” He shrugs.

  “Well, he was.”

  “I’ll make sure he’s not assigned to you again. What did he do?”

  “Refused to give me information.”

  “Jane. Come on. That means he was doing his job.”

  “He didn’t have to do it so creepily.”

  Silas stifles a laugh as we reach the main door. A gentleman, he opens the door for me. I walk in and run straight into Monica Bosworth.

  Whose glare is so icy, she might as well be the air conditioning system for the building.

  We don’t say a word to each other. All three of us file into the conference room. Lindsay and Drew are already there, some kind of fruit smoothie in tall, clear glasses in front of them. I look around the room to see an assortment of drinks on a small buffet table. Aside from coffee, I haven’t had much since we flew back this morning.

  Silas moves to Drew, their heads close as they whisper. Lindsay pats the seat next to her and smiles at me. I get a fruit drink and sit down, achingly aware of Monica’s eyes on me as she texts someone on her phone.

  And then she looks right at me and grins.

  You ever see the Cheshire Cat in the old animated Alice in Wonderland movie?

  I’m staring at the human version right now.

  I shift in my seat as I take a sip of the cold fruit concoction. It settles in my mouth like a lump. Forcing myself to swallow, I inhale, then exhale, acutely aware of every microsecond I’m existing. As my skin crawls, it feels like my organs are moving of their own volition under my skin.

  I can’t name it. Can’t place it. Can’t describe it, but something is changing as I sit here. Lindsay gives me an expectant look.

  “We seriously need to go out for coffee,” she whispers as I try to manage the deep sense of unreality that is invading me. It’s not Monica’s weird smile. It’s not Alice’s death. It’s not one simple thing I can point to.

  Or maybe it is.

  I give her a weak smile and say, “Yes, definitely. How about after the meeting?” as I cast my glance toward Silas and Drew.

  Their faces are drawn into deep, wretched frowns.

  Silas looks up and catches my eye for a split second, looking away as fast as he can. He turns his head, chin dipping down, words whispered furiously with Drew in a verbal tennis game, the tight, clipped way they are speaking filling me with a growing sense of horror.

  Something is wrong.

  Everything is about to change.

  “Harry will be here shortly,” Marshall announces as he arrives and takes a seat near the projector screen. “We can begin to cover some of the topics before he arrives.”

  “Topics?” Monica scoffs. “There aren’t topics. There is only one topic. Her.”

  No one asks who she’s talking about.

  “What are the topics?” I ask Marshall, ignoring Monica. I expect Drew and Silas to join us, but they stand near the door, continuing to talk quietly. Lindsay looks back at them, a small frown folding the skin at the bridge of her nose.

  I follow her gaze and work to quell the growing panic in me.

  Did Silas figure out the sweepstakes text? Does he know I’m hiding that from him? Instant regret washes over me. I should stand up and walk over there to tell him. I should spill it all, right now.

  “Alice Mogrett’s death is turning into a scandal of its own,” Marshall starts, snapping me back to attention.

  Silas and Drew stop talking.

  “Jane,” he says, leafing through a folder of documents. “Have you talked to Hedding Stuva yet?”

  “No. They’ve been leaving messages, but Silas said–”

  “You’ll need to take care of the paperwork, and Harry wants you to move all estate work out of their firm. The Mogretts kept their connection to Hedding Stuva for far too long after that mess with El Brujo.”

  “Could you explain that in plain English, please?” Lindsay asks, glaring at Drew as if it’s his fault she doesn’t understand it.

  “Alice Mogrett died. So far, it looks like simple old age. Natural causes. Jane and Silas were present when it happened. Not the actual death, but they were house guests. Alice Mogrett left her entire estate to Jane.”

  I hear the words. I do. But I feel Silas’s eyes on me from behind.

  They burn.

  “What?” I squeak. “Alice what?”

  “Oh, don’t play dumb,” Monica says in a scathing voice. “You know damn well you helped her to die so you could get her money.”

  “WHAT?” I stand, then sit quickly, my legs unstable. “Alice left me what?”

  “She made you the sole beneficiary of her family’s money,” Harry says from behind me. All eyes turn to him.

  “Nearly nine figures,” Monica adds in a catty tone. “Nice payday for whatever you did to her.”

  I spin around to find Silas, to connect to him, eyes grabbing like he’s a lifesaver.

  Instead, I find him turned toward Drew, face in profile, jaw tight.

  “Alice. Oh, no,” I moan, sitting down hard, my head in my hands. Lindsay presses a flat palm between my shoulder blades, sitting quietly with me, the only person in the room who seems to care about my grief.

  “As you can see, it makes for a PR mess,” Harry intones, with Marshall making a small, coarse sound of agreement.

  “Alice’s death is more than your public relations snafu, Daddy,” Lindsay chides. “Can’t you see Jane’s in pain? Don’t you care?”

  Monica makes a dismissive noise. “We care about the fact that she’s got an even worse tornado of complication around her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lindsay whispers, but her voice turns urgent. Excited even, as she leans in and says, “Think abou
t what this means, Jane. You’re free. It’s your money. You have all the power now.”

  You have all the power.

  Alice. Oh, Alice. You clever, wonderful, inspiring, devious woman.

  I stand, my skin like iron shavings in a dusty wind, the boundaries of my body no longer distinct. “I’m her heir?” I ask no one, everyone.

  “Yes,” Marshall says. “It doesn’t look good, but–”

  Ignoring him, I pick up my broken phone and slide out of the way, walking behind Lindsay’s chair, leaving the room. Monica makes a sound of outrage, but I don’t care. I pull up the voicemail from Hedding Stuva and as the phone rings, I wait.

  I wait.

  I wait until eternity passes by and laps itself.

  “Hedding Stuva,” the voice says.

  “I’m Jane Borokov, returning–”

  “Just a moment, Ms. Borokov. I’m patching you straight through to Ms. Stuva. Mr. Stuva is not here, but Helen will take your call.”

  “Ms. Borokov,” says a sophisticated older woman. “Thank you so much for returning our call. I’m Helen Stuva, one of the senior partners here. First, I am so sorry about your loss. Ms. Mogrett was a fine woman of character and strength.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We have a matter of legal importance to–”

  “Is it true I’m her heir?”

  A pregnant silence fills the air. “It would be best if you came to our office and–”

  “I will. Trust me, I will. I just need to know if it’s true.”

  “I can verify it’s true, yes.”

  “Can you see me later today? You’re in Los Angeles?”

  “My day is free for you, Ms. Borokov. And yes, I am here.”

  “Fine. 1 p.m.? Thank you.”

  I hang up. I grab the wall for support. It’s not strong enough to hold me. Sinking to the ground, I sit on the carpeted floor. Duff is suddenly at my side, leaning down.

  “Jane?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  “No. Stop asking me that. I’m never okay.”

  “Fine. You need help?”

  “Another stupid question, Duff.”

  “The senator wants you back in the conference room.”

  “The senator can go screw himself, Duff.”

  “The senator,” says the man himself, “does not think the laws of physics would allow that.” I look up to find Harry standing there, hands in his pockets, an exasperated look on his face.

  “Why am I here?” I ask Harry as Duff helps me up. I look behind him, toward the open meeting room door.

  No Silas.

  “Because we need to make sure we have a plan for–”

  “No.”

  “No?” Harry acts as if he’s never heard the word before.

  “No.”

  “No to what, Jane?”

  “No to everything. I’m a pawn. You controlled me because I needed help. I don’t need help any longer.”

  “What do you mean? Of course you need help. You–”

  “You heard Marshall,” I say as we stand in the hallway, Silas finally poking his head out, Drew and Lindsay’s faces visible next to him. “I’m Alice’s heir. Hedding Stuva confirmed it.” I wiggle my phone.

  Harry’s expression hardens. “Hedding Stuva isn’t the most reputable of law firms,” he begins.

  I interrupt him. “But it’s true. I’m her heir.”

  “Yes,” he concedes.

  “Which means I have all the money I could possibly need to hire my own protection.”

  The reality of what I’m saying sinks in slowly, his face morphing into incredulity as the implication hits him.

  “Oh, Jesus, that’s not–”

  Silas and Drew walk up behind him, Drew’s demeanor more closed off than usual. He looks at me as if I’m a piece of dog poop on the bottom of his shoe.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “Jane’s exercising some control,” Harry starts to say.

  “I’m ready to fire all of you,” I say flatly.

  Four men look at me, agog. Even Duff’s jaw drops, and I get the sense he’s not easy to shock.

  And with that, I spin on my heel and walk outside.

  To come face-to-face with a guy in black, wearing a machine gun, peering at me.

  “Hold on,” Silas calls out, jogging after me. “It’s not that easy.”

  “Oh, yes, it is. I have my own money now. I am independent. Alice wanted this.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “Drew gave me a briefing. A bunch of new information came in over the last hour. Information about you.”

  Oh, no.

  “Like what? I’m sure the media are swimming in ‘news’ about me, Alice’s death, the inheritance, the–”

  “We have credible tips that you were part of my sister’s death.”

  “WHAT?”

  “And the people you’re working with were part of the plots to kill Drew’s parents and Mark Paulson’s mother and stepfather, too.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Silas.”

  “I’m making plenty of sense.” Silence hangs between us after his words, like an all-too-patient vulture.

  “You can’t be–you can’t really think–what?”

  “Give me a reason not to believe it all, Jane.” His voice is so, so hard.

  “Why on earth would I want to kill your sister? A sister I didn’t even know existed until you told me? Do you really think I’m capable of that? How? You’ve been watching me every single day for the last two weeks!”

  “The source is credible.”

  “I don’t care! I’m more credible!”

  “Are you?”

  I blink. I hold my breath. My heart stops.

  There it is.

  How he really feels about me.

  My reply comes out as a shaky whisper, anger driving my voice to highs and lows. “I am. I know that. You obviously don’t. And it’s not my job to convince you anymore. I’m done doing that. I shared my body with you, Silas. I don’t regret that. But the part I do regret is sharing my heart. You told me to trust you. I took you at your word, Mr. Honor. Mr. Dignity. Mr. Remorse. And this is what you do to me the second someone spoon feeds you a bunch of fake evidence against me? Really?” My voice is thin and filled with an anguish that is a thousand times stronger than my body.

  He says nothing. Just captures my eyes with a long, excruciating look of indifference.

  Which is so much worse than anger.

  “Go to hell, Silas. You don’t deserve another second of my time.”

  I march across the courtyard, straight for Duff. “I want Gentian off my case. Effective immediately.”

  Duff’s expression doesn’t change as he looks at me, then Silas, reaching for his earpiece. “I thought you were firing us all, Jane.”

  “Not yet. Just Silas. I’ll figure the rest out after I’ve met with my lawyers and sort all this out.”

  Silas turns away, hiding his face, his shoulders tense, his body rigid. All I can see is his back, a wall of denial.

  An impenetrable wall.

  My God, I realize. I’ve been a fool.

  This is all nothing but a lie.

  A shameless little lie.

  Chapter 22

  You ever see your naked body all over the PBS station’s news show?

  Me neither. Until right now, four days after Alice’s death, as I pull my frozen dinner out of the microwave and curl up on the couch, watching as the news cycle spins in front of me, moving from a story about North Korea to–

  Me.

  Did I mention the naked part?

  Alice’s paintings are a visual feast that takes away my appetite. The scent of microwaved spicy chicken turns my stomach into a twist tie. There I am.

  Naked and broadcast to the world.

  After months of being doxxed, having every personal detail spilled all over the internet, having all my
Facebook messages and private forum scribblings revealed for the world to see, you would think this wouldn’t be so embarrassing. I should have a thicker skin. I know it.

  Those paintings are the real me. Not the fake me that the media creates.

  That’s me.

  The light on my skin is the same light that graced Silas as he gazed at me. The strokes Alice used, the blends, the perfect imperfections she catalogued–that is me. The way my throat goes concave for a brief stretch of inches, giving my neck a kind of ethereal curve, is me, too.

  The world doesn’t deserve to see what Alice created.

  The world doesn’t deserve much of anything right now.

  Especially my contempt.

  They get it, though.

  Clearly, someone found their way into Alice’s studio and snapped pictures of the paintings. Larger than life, they boldly take up the screen, hungry for space. That’s my breast on screen, the size of a cantaloupe. That’s my belly on screen, winking at me with my navel as the eye. That’s my jawline, the size of a dinosaur’s, reflected in the soft light of Alice’s studio.

  That’s me.

  I flip the channels. I’m everywhere. If I wanted attention, this would be cause for celebration.

  Instead, I’m alone in an apartment I didn’t rent, living next to a man I thought I could trust, and I’m eating over-salted crap as I click through my humiliation on over one hundred channels.

  Losing Silas is the part that eats away at me. It’s been two days since I saw him last. Duff and Romeo alternate their coverage of me, standing sentry outside my door or finding places to hide. I won’t let them in my apartment.

  And I’m ignoring all the calls and texts from my father.

  Tap tap tap.

  I jolt, the remote flying out of my hands and landing in my microwaved noodles.

  “Go away!” I shout.

  “I have ice cream and lattes. I can’t go away. That’s a major violation of Friend Code,” Lindsay calls back from the other side of the door.

  Lindsay? What the hell is Lindsay doing here?

  I open the door, because hey–who turns down free ice cream? Especially when it’s delivered to your door with your favorite coffee from The Toast and a compassionate smile that makes me want to cry.