Lies

by Aleatha Romig

  I took a deep breath. “No...it wasn’t the pilot that gave her that idea. It was me.”

  “You?”

  “In the ladies’ room, she approached me. It made me nervous. She made me nervous. I said I had to leave, to get to my fiancé.”

  Sterling’s chest flexed as his head nodded. Letting go of my hand, he lifted warm lavender water, raining it over my shoulders. “You know...” He kissed my neck. “...I think you’ve found the perfect answer.”

  “What is that?”

  He lifted my chin until my neck was craned backward his direction. “We should get married.”

  What?

  That wasn’t the way I imagined a proposal. I thought it may start with the word will.

  Sterling wasn’t serious

  I scoffed. “Right. First, let’s concentrate on uncovering the veil of lies that I’ve been told my entire life, and while we’re at it, you can work on the request thing.”

  Annabelle

  Twenty-six years ago

  “Daniel, talk to me. Where are we going?” My tone was no longer calm. It hadn’t been for the last hour. This wasn’t right. “You know the doctor said I shouldn’t be more than two hours from home. For God’s sake, we’re in Wisconsin.”

  I rubbed my growing midsection. It wasn’t growing, but grown. At thirty-six and a half weeks, I could go into labor at any time. I’d been so distressed after my last doctor’s appointment—after being blindsided the way I’d been—that the obstetrician for high-risk pregnancies ordered me on bed rest.

  I had been.

  All of my court cases were reassigned. I was home.

  That was, until now.

  Currently, I was in a rental car, riding on refreezing springtime roads, winding our way toward Madison, Wisconsin. Yet for some reason we weren’t even on Interstate 90 anymore. Daniel had exited onto smaller two-lane roads winding us through the Wisconsin wilderness.

  “We’re on a drive,” my husband said, his head shaking back and forth. “We’re not in Wisconsin, dear. You’re mistaken.”

  I wasn’t. We’d been headed north and had left Illinois a while ago. I was capable of reading signs. On top of that, the forecast was calling for snow. Daniel was lying, as if he could gaslight me into believing him instead of the evidence.

  Whenever I started to speak, my husband shook his head. He didn’t want me speaking or asking questions. He knew me better than that, and yet with each mile my anxiety grew. The angst wasn’t helping our baby.

  As my analytical mind processed our situation, it made sense that whatever was happening was connected to the FBI raid last week. There had been two: one of our home and one of Daniel’s office. The agents seized our private phones and boxes of papers as well as our home computers and not only ours, but his assistants’ too. For the next four days, Daniel had been MIA. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead, and I didn’t even know who to ask.

  Two days ago, he returned a different man.

  He was acting strangely. His usual confidence shaken, he was paranoid of everyone and everything, and he’d also been drinking more than usual. This morning, a Sunday, he woke and announced we had plans. I thought it might be with his sister, Pauline, and her husband, Rubio. They were our only family since both of us lost our parents. While they didn’t have children, Pauline has been very helpful and supportive of my pregnancy. A few weeks ago, she’d thrown me a baby shower.

  At forty-one and financially secure, a baby shower seemed unnecessary, but it was greatly appreciated. The symbolism meant more than the gifts. It had been like a dream come true, surrounded by friends and colleagues with pink gift bags and wrapping paper. At that moment it seemed like Daniel’s and my dream was finally coming to fruition.

  That was one week before our world fell apart.

  The man who intruded upon my obstetrician appointment was Agent Bane, from the Criminal Investigative Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He informed me of the occurring raid and offered me immunity if I agreed to be questioned and testify.

  I didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about.

  Question me about what?

  Testify about what?

  I was a judge.

  Agent Bane said I hadn’t answered his requests.

  I hadn’t received his requests.

  None of it made sense.

  What would I possibly know about crimes, other than the ones in cases over which I presided and ones with statutes I researched?

  The tires of the rental car bounced as Daniel pulled onto the gravel parking lot of a small motel. Surrounded mostly by forest, the one-story building sprawled out both directions from the center where the office appeared to be, only four units on either side. The dilapidated business was directly off the two-lane road and basically in the middle of nowhere.

  The darkening spring sky didn’t help the run-down appearance. With one of the lights out on the sign, instead of motel it said ‘mot-l.’

  As I started to speak Daniel put his finger to his lips.

  My head shook in frustration as my midsection contracted.

  “I’ll be right back,” he mouthed.

  A cold chill filled the car as Daniel opened the door and quickly slammed it shut.

  No, just no.

  I pulled my coat up over my shoulders as I wrapped it tightly around me.

  Peering through the windows up to the sky, an ominous feeling settled in my stomach. I’d lived in Illinois since law school. I recognized the billowing dark-gray clouds. They contained snow—a lot of snow. We were over three hours north of Chicago. Even in late March this area could get significant snowfall. A few years ago, there had been over two feet of accumulation in less than twenty-four hours.

  I wouldn’t stay here. I couldn’t.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have a new cellular phone, as I’d been promised the FBI would soon return mine. However, common sense said there would be a telephone in the motel’s office. Daniel was crazy if he thought I’d stay in this flea-infested establishment.

  This was ridiculous.

  I shouldn’t have left the house with Daniel. I should have known better. Then again, he was my husband and I trusted him. I had or I did. I wasn’t sure anymore.

  Tears came to my eyes as I quietly spoke to our unborn daughter. “Spider-girl, it will be all right. I promise.”

  I’d come up with the name Araneae by accident. Since my name began with an A and my mother had been Amelia, I had been searching for something unique, strong, and resilient that also began with the letter A.

  It was during the time we’d learned our child was a girl that I was presiding over a horrific case of accused child abuse. The public defender was young and inexperienced. He’d asked the appropriate questions of his clients, but the research wasn’t all there. What should have been a simple judgment denying the parents custody ended up being reconvened, as evidence began pointing to a growing problem especially evident in larger cities: child exploitation and trafficking.

  The evidence kept me awake at night as I wrestled with photographic proof that we were bringing a child into a world where things like that could occur. Girls weren’t the only victims of these crimes, yet in most instances, they outnumbered boys. While our court kept the young man in the dispute away from his parents who were associated with the crimes, our one case did little to infiltrate the bigger ring.

  Nevertheless, it pleased me to see the young man leave with his grandparents, as later his parents were both taken into custody.

  That case confirmed my desire to take time away from the bench and raise Araneae. Like a spider, Araneae would be fierce, a survivor, and hardy. Daniel wasn’t sure of my choice and only agreed if I’d pronounce it differently than the spider: uh-rain-ā. I agreed, yet in my head and once she was born, she’d be my uh-ron-e-eye.

  The car door beside me opened. In Daniel’s hand was a hard-plastic keychain with a number four and a dangling key.

  As I got out of the car, I
looked his way.

  Unlocking the door, he said, “It’s time I tell you everything.”

  The door opened inward to a one-room standard motel room. Within seconds, we were met with the offending odor of stale cigarette smoke combined with harsh cleaners. Bringing my gloved hand to my nose, I asked, “Everything?” I wasn’t sure I could listen, not to my husband. “And why here?”

  “There’s no place in the city I trust. There are bugs everywhere: in our home, our cars, our telephones, even our cellular phones. That’s why the FBI was there, planting devices that overhear everything. It’s why I rented the last-minute rental car with cash. No record. But I had to show them my license, so we still couldn’t trust it. I just hope we weren’t tracked. I need time to explain.”

  Did I want him to explain?

  Wasn’t it easier to plead ignorance?

  I couldn’t be forced to testify against my husband. I knew the law, but that was the problem. I believed in the law.

  What had he done? What did he know?

  The threadbare carpet under my boots held a stained path from the entrance past the bed to the vanity. Leaving the outside door ajar, Daniel stepped forward toward a partially opened door to the right of the vanity. He pushed the lavatory door inward. Next, I heard the jingle of hooks on a rod as the sound of a moving shower curtain filled the small room.

  “Close the door,” he called.

  When I did, he asked if it was locked. “Daniel, I’m nervous. You’re scaring me. We need to get back to the city. The baby.”

  He pulled out one of the chairs to the small table. The cracked vinyl of the seat matched the chipped surface of the laminated table. Leaning down, he lifted a metal panel and turned a knob, bringing the large heating unit under the window to life. The offending odors blended with warmth as the unit roared.

  “There. It should warm up,” he said, as if the temperature were my only concern. “Annabelle, I’m so sorry. This is going to take some time.”

  My head shook. “No, Daniel. I need to get back to Chicago.”

  “Sit down. Let me tell you why we aren’t going back—ever.”

  Araneae

  The stubborn side of me wanted to wear clothes I brought from Boulder for my first day back to Sinful Threads. However, the part of me that loved fashion and quality and had run the luxurious material through her fingers, found it difficult to not try on the clothes from the collection within the closet, including soft and sexy underclothes. That wasn’t usually a consideration of my morning routine.

  Sterling had a way of infiltrating my thoughts even when I was dressing. I’d never before dressed for work thinking about undressing after work, and now I was.

  Unlike the underclothes, the choice in clothing wasn’t based on Sterling. I doubted he would care about whatever I chose to wear over the sexy lace bra and thong. He’d never voiced an opinion about my attire except with evening clothes for his special occasions—the red and black dresses came to mind.

  After our talk last night, we both fell sound asleep. There was something comforting about clearing at least some of the air, acknowledging that we both had strides to make, and knowing that we were safe behind the infrared protection of his apartment. With each nugget of information on Annabelle—I wasn’t ready to call her my mother—my indecision grew. Did I want to know more about her? Did I want to know her?

  I couldn’t answer those questions right now.

  I had too much new in my life to give her the thought she probably deserved.

  Between Sinful Threads and Sterling Sparrow I had enough monopolizing my mind.

  Sterling didn’t mention what happened yesterday while he was gone, what he’d done or what he’d ordered done. My mind had created scenarios I didn’t want to believe were possible. I wasn’t sure how he could confirm my safety, yet there was too much conviction in his declaration to not believe him.

  When I awoke this morning, there was a note, in his swirling handwriting, wishing me a good day back to work, letting me know that Patrick would be waiting with my phone, and that he wanted to hear all about it tonight.

  I’d never had anyone other than Louisa who was interested in my work or my day. It didn’t seem fair that I couldn’t ask him about his. Nevertheless, that didn’t quell my excitement to tell him about mine.

  After all that had happened the last few days, the idea of having Patrick with me throughout my day wasn’t upsetting. In a strange new way—in my new strange life—it was reassuring. Dressed mostly in clothes from the closet, including a blue pencil-style skirt, cream silk blouse, blue closed-toe pumps—because I planned to visit the warehouse and open-toed shoes were against warehouse policy—and a Sinful Threads brooch and bracelet, I made my way downstairs.

  As I descended the stairs I heard the chatter coming from the kitchen. Turning the corner, the amazing aroma of coffee and sizzling bacon beckoned me closer. My steps stilled at the doorway for a moment as I watched Lorna, Reid, and Patrick talk, joke, and eat.

  Lorna said she worked to make this place a home, a place where the men could relax from the stress of what went on in their day. Watching them interact, she’d succeeded.

  Lorna turned my way first. “You’re looking even better today.”

  Looking down at the outfit I’d chosen, pink came to my cheeks as thoughts of the sexy lace bra and panties beneath came to mind. Oh, that wasn’t what she meant. She meant me—my health. “Thank you, I’m feeling better. Whatever it was, it must be gone.”

  A few minutes later, with a mug of coffee within the grasp of both of my hands, a plate of fruit, eggs, and toast in front of me, I asked, “So since you’re all here, does Sterling get to drive himself?”

  Reid and Patrick scoffed.

  “He doesn’t mind driving. He likes it, if he can get away,” Patrick began, “but no, we have someone else with him.”

  “Is it usually you?”

  Patrick nodded.

  My lip went below my teeth. “Then why don’t I get the other person and you can stay with Sterling?” I’d been thinking about everything Sterling had told me. Combine that with what Lorna said about each time Reid left, and I was a bit concerned about him being out there—in his world—without Patrick. It wasn’t that I doubted Sterling’s ability to handle himself. It was that he’d left before I woke, before I had a chance to tell him...

  What did I want to tell him?

  Surely it wasn’t that I loved him.

  Maybe it was that I cared.

  Yes. That was it. I cared.

  Patrick’s lips quirked. “You’re my job.”

  “So you’ve been demoted?” I asked with a grin.

  “No, not at all. Sparrow has his priorities. Ms. McCrie, you’re number one. Being entrusted with you is about as far from a demotion as possible.”

  I shook my head. “While you’re all here, let’s get this out in the open.”

  They all looked my way. “Would you please all stop with the Ms. McCrie?”

  “Ms. Hawkins?” Patrick said with a grin.

  I shrugged. “Well, according to you, that’s still my name at Sinful Threads. While we’re h-here...” I almost said at home. “...it seems too formal. How about Araneae? I need some help getting used to it, and I think you might be the ones for the job.”

  Everyone nodded. Patrick eyed my nearly empty plate. “Your new assistant is due in at ten.” It was only seven-thirty. “We thought you’d like to take a look around the new office space first. It’s not very large, but traffic is unpredictable.”

  “Since I was planning an office or a closet at the distribution center or maybe a cubicle at the warehouse facility, I’m certain this will be an upgrade from there.”

  “When you’re ready?” Patrick said standing and lifting my satchel, the one that now contained my laptop as well as other items I’d brought from Boulder.

  As I reached for my purse, Patrick handed me my phone. For a moment I stared at the screen. It was a strange sensation having it a
gain in my possession. Even though I’d missed it, being without it gave me a sense of freedom from responsibility that I hadn’t enjoyed since...well, I couldn’t remember when.

  Now with the phone within my grasp, I didn’t have the urge to call a million people or check emails or social media. I wasn’t even tempted. Somehow over the past days and weeks, Sterling as well as everyone in the kitchen with me had convinced me that listening to them was my safest course of action.

  As I put the phone into my purse, I realized something I hadn’t been willing to admit to myself. I trusted them...all of them. That didn’t mean I distrusted those I loved: Louisa, Jason, the Nelsons, and Winnie. It meant that the circle of people for whom I cared and trusted had grown.

  Turning toward Lorna now standing at the counter, I asked, “Do you ever get out of here?”

  She laughed. “I do. Truth be told, I like it here.”

  My head moved from side to side. “It might not be so bad.”

  “Well, that’s a step in the right direction.”

  “This way, ma’am,” Patrick said.

  “Araneae,” I corrected.

  “We’re headed to Sinful Threads, Ms. Hawkins.”

  “But we’re still here.”

  “Yes, Araneae, we are.”

  My steps stuttered as Patrick turned away from the front doors, the ones Mrs. Sparrow had passed through and continued down the hallway near Sterling’s office. “I thought we were leaving.”

  “Yes, this is the way to our private elevator that will take us to our garage.”

  “Our garage. We have to be at least fifty floors up. I’m sure there are a lot of people who need a garage.”

  This was part of the apartment I hadn’t explored. Taking a turn away from Sterling’s office, we came to a stop by an elevator hidden behind a pocket door within the white woodwork of a doorframe. If I’d seen it last night, I wouldn’t have realized what it was. At its side was a scanner. Patrick placed his palm over the sensor and the lights flashed. “This is the 96th floor.” He tilted his chin up. “Your second floor is ninety-seven, one floor more than another tower you may have heard about in Chicago. Only the building previously called the Sears or Willis Tower is taller. And it’s mostly the spires.”