Exposed

by Brighton Walsh

  “Gage—”

  “Immediately, Ry. Reset your phone, clear it out, and don’t use it again.” Then the line went dead, and I was left wondering just what the hell was going on.

  * * *

  I met Aaron at the shady dive bar Gage and I had settled on back before I’d even really been a part of the crew. Back when he’d just been getting started in it. It felt like a lifetime ago. Even back then, he’d been prepared for the worst.

  Glancing around, I took stock of everyone in the place, ignoring the thinly veiled looks sent my way from some of the female patrons. After a quick pass, I finally noticed Aaron in the back corner, sipping a beer while he pretended to watch a couple tough-looking girls across the room. I knew, though, that he was doing exactly what I’d been doing—always calculating, always studying the surroundings.

  I walked over to him, pulled out a chair, and took a seat. “Hey.”

  “Hey, Kid.”

  I rolled my eyes at the nickname that would, apparently, follow me to my fucking grave. “You know I’m twenty-three now, right? Not a fourteen-year-old trailing after my big brother…”

  “Yeah, well, shit sticks with you.” He shrugged as he cracked a small smile and took a pull from his beer, his eyes taking in everything in the place. He looked relaxed, leaning back in his chair, his body language giving off a laid-back vibe, but I knew better. He was on alert, ready for anything. Just like I was.

  “Do you have what I need?” I asked. I knew better than to say much more than that. Knew better than to name Gage—even using his crew name of Ghost—as the person who’d sent me. Anyone could be listening. Anyone could be watching.

  He tipped his head toward the empty chair between us, and in my peripheral vision I could make out the outline of a black backpack partially hidden under the table. He didn’t say anything about the bag or the exchange, didn’t need to. His eyes spoke volumes.

  Aaron lifted his beer to his mouth again, tipping it all the way back and swallowing the rest of it before setting down the bottle on the gouged wood table. “Getting late. I better jet.” He held me in place with his gaze, telling me without words that I needed to stay put for a while to avoid being seen leaving together. “See you later, Kid.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder, then walked out the way I’d just come.

  The next thirty minutes were the longest of my life. I ordered a beer, then sat and waited, rebuffing the couple girls who came by my table and tried to get me to take them home. I barely glanced at them. I couldn’t think about anything but what the hell was going on. I watched the clueless people milling about, all the while my mind churning at a hundred miles per hour, conjuring up all the different reasons why Gage would’ve had to put a plan like this in place.

  At the end of those thirty minutes, after I’d finished my beer, I grabbed the backpack and slung it over my shoulder, casually walking out the front door and into the night.

  * * *

  When I got to my place, I flipped the dead bolt behind me, then made a quick sweep through my apartment, checking to ensure I was alone. After pulling all the blinds, I sat down at the table, black backpack in front of me. With steady hands, I unzipped the bag, methodically pulling out all the contents. Inside was a small laptop, a prepaid cell phone, and a pouch with a wad of cash I didn’t bother counting, but by the size of it I guessed there was several thousand dollars there.

  Before I could dig for a note or open the computer to search for some information, the phone rang, piercing the silence of the room. I snatched it up, seeing that the number was blocked—not a surprise—but I answered immediately.

  “Yeah.”

  “Boot up the computer.” It was Gage’s voice, hard as steel, and I did as he said without hesitation.

  It didn’t take long before it came to life, a login screen popping up and prompting me for information. “Password?”

  Gage’s voice echoed in my ear, and I typed in the random letters, numbers, and symbols he gave me, then waited until the desktop was displayed. The background was empty, save for one lone folder, labeled simply E.

  “Open it,” he said.

  I did as he instructed, double clicking on the icon and inputting the new password he recited when the computer asked for one. Once the password was confirmed, a dozen other files popped up, each labeled as cryptically as the folder had been.

  “I’m in. Which file?”

  “Open the one labeled STN.”

  Once again inputting the password he gave me when prompted, I waited and watched as what looked like a newspaper article came up on the screen. I read the headline—“Kirkland & Caine Throw Another Successful Fund-Raiser for the Children’s Hospital”—and rubbed my fingers against my forehead.

  “What am I supposed to be looking at here? All I see is an article about a fund-raiser.”

  “Scroll down to the pictures.”

  There were only three shots in the article—the first and largest a photo of the entire event, round tables filled with hundreds of rich people all decked out in tuxedos and fancy dresses, their attention focused on a stage where a man spoke behind a podium. The next was a shot of two men, both in their late sixties, if I had to guess, smiling as they chatted with a group of people. I darted my eyes to the caption below it: “Senator Caine, former senior partner at Kirkland & Caine, makes an appearance at the annual fund-raiser.”

  “Gage, man, what am I supposed to be—”

  And then I got to the third picture. In it, dozens of people milled about in the background, though the picture focused on just two people. The caption to this image read: “Eric Caine, son of Senator Martin Caine, with his fiancée, Genevieve Meyer.”

  The man in the photo was probably in his early thirties, his head bent toward the woman on his arm. My eyes roved over the color picture, noticing how much younger she was than him, maybe a decade or more. In a long, formal dress, she stood at his side, her hand in the crook of his arm. Her most distinguishing feature was her hair—a bright fiery red that fell in waves nearly to her waist.

  But her hair wasn’t all I was looking at.

  After five years, I’d gotten used to glimpses. Seeing things in people I wouldn’t normally. Catching a peek of someone somewhere who reminded me of a girl I’d lost a long time ago. And I would’ve chalked this up to a coincidence, too, because of that history and the way coming from jobs always brought her memories to the forefront of my mind. Would’ve chalked it up to a coincidence the way the shape of this woman’s lips were identical to that of someone else … how her nose sloped in the same way, how her eyes were the same shade. And while those were all pieces of a puzzle, they didn’t add up. Because the girl I’d once known had had short hair, and it’d been every color of the rainbow when I’d known her—every color but red.

  I would’ve looked away, figuring it was yet another false sighting in a string of too many to count. I would’ve looked away if it wasn’t for the small beauty mark on her left cheek, the one that I knew would disappear into the dimple that only came out when she truly smiled.

  The one I hadn’t seen in five years. Not since the day she’d disappeared.

  Not since the day she’d died.

  Chapter Three

  I gripped the phone so hard I was lucky it didn’t break.

  Gage’s voice was low and controlled when he finally spoke. “You still there?”

  I didn’t know how long I’d sat there without saying anything, just staring, disbelieving, at the photo. At Gage’s question, I tried to speak but had to clear my throat before I could force out any words. When I finally did, what came out was nothing more than a croak, but he took it as confirmation.

  “I need you to listen to me, Ry, very carefully. She’s in trouble. They’ve found her. Someone from the Minneapolis crew must’ve seen the article, and word got back to Max. Aaron confirmed a few hours ago that Max is sending people for her. We don’t know who, and Aaron couldn’t give me an exact time, but it’s going to be soon. I’d bet my b
alls Max won’t sit on this more than a few hours.”

  And even though I couldn’t stop staring at the picture of her, at the face that resembled the girl I’d once known, I still couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make any sense.

  I’d visited her goddamn grave.

  Because of that, the denial came effortlessly. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Almost as if he’d expected that response, Gage answered without hesitation, without exasperation. “Yes, you do.”

  “No. I don’t. It says right here her name is Genevieve Meyer, and I don’t know anyone with that na—”

  “Ry. You know who it is. You know.”

  I shook my head, though he couldn’t see it. I couldn’t reconcile what he was telling me, what I was seeing in that photograph, with the past five years. I didn’t know which was real, which was a lie.

  In the silence, Gage spoke again, “I’m sorry it had to happen this way. I wish I could’ve told you differently, but I need you to focus. It’s important. Someone could already be on the way to her. She’s in trouble.” He sighed and cursed below his breath. Then he said the words I never thought I’d hear again: “Evie needs your help.”

  EVIE

  It was late when I finally got home, the house empty and hollow, Eric having left for London several days prior. I both loved and loathed when I had the house to myself. It was the only time I ever truly got to let my guard down. It was the only time I was able to truly be myself.

  Except I hardly remembered who that was anymore.

  Hell, I didn’t know if I even wanted to know who that was.

  Because the girl I’d left behind so many years ago was a complete fuckup with more problems than a mental institution and more baggage than an airport. And even though I didn’t want to, even though I fought the flashbacks with everything I had, my mind still betrayed me sometimes. It still transported me back to my childhood home—a small two-bedroom house in a shadier part of Chicago. It’d been all we could afford, though, especially after my father had been laid off shortly after I’d started high school. And even then, it had been fine.

  Until it wasn’t.

  Until suddenly the walls of that house felt more like a prison than a home. Until those very walls held secrets—secrets buried under years of silence and pain and avoidance. Secrets I still kept to this day.

  Secrets I’d keep until my last breath.

  My heart sped at the remembrance of that time. When I’d been fifteen, fumbling my way through my teenage years and totally unaware of the hell my life was about to become.

  Forcing myself out of my memories, I hung my keys by the back door and walked farther into the house, shedding my coat and hanging it over a chair in the dining room. Whenever I was assaulted with flashbacks, I always had a hard time sleeping. I didn’t know if it was self-preservation, keeping myself from the nightmares that plagued my sleep, or if it was simply fear of the possibility that I might be transported there against my will.

  After taking a long bath and indulging in a couple glasses of wine, I settled in on the couch in the family room to watch some comfort movies—old-school cult classics, the ones that always made me laugh no matter what—knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while, anyway.

  When I was partway through my third movie, my cell phone rang. I glanced at the time, seeing it was after one in the morning. Eric’s face lit up the screen, and I answered. “What if you’d woken me up?”

  I could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. “That’d be some supersonic hearing you had, then, since you always put your phone on Silent when you go to sleep.”

  The thought that he knew something as trivial as that, but not something as monumental as the fact that my parents were still alive and well in Chicago, not buried in a cemetery in Miami, filled me with the heavy cloud of guilt that was always pressed down on my shoulders.

  “I’m just watching some movies. How’s London?”

  “Busy. I’m running all over place, and this office is a goddamn mess. There’s a lot to get in order before it’s suitable for clients. Too much to get in order.” He cleared his throat, and I knew enough about him to know he needed to tell me something he thought would disappoint me.

  “What is it?”

  Blowing out a breath, he said, “Because of that, I might need to extend my trip.”

  I figured that was coming, because all the business trips he’d taken since we’d gotten engaged had run longer than anticipated. “That’s okay.”

  “I’m talking about another week, maybe two.”

  “That’s okay,” I repeated. “Take the time you need. I’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe they’ll keep you busy at work,” he said.

  I thought about the office job I went to every day, the job I had absolutely no interest in, and knew that even if they did, it wouldn’t engage my mind. Despite my degree in journalism, I’d never put it to use, instead getting a job at an office, filing papers and inputting data into a computer. And I dutifully went to it Monday through Friday, put on my mask, and got the job done that I needed to.

  Always pretending.

  Before I could answer, muffled sound crept over the line from Eric’s end. There was a mumbled voice, a murmur of confirmation from Eric, then he said, “Sorry, Gen, I gotta run. I’m not sure what my hours here are going to be like, so I’ll try to call when I can.”

  “That’s okay,” I said for the third time. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  The line went dead, and I tossed my phone on the cushion next to me as I stared blankly at the comedy still playing on the TV. My favorite part of watching movies, of reading books, was getting lost in a story that wasn’t mine. A feel-good story that inevitably had a happy ending. It was the only way I was going to live one, vicariously through others.

  Because despite outward appearances, a happy ending wasn’t in my cards.

  * * *

  I woke to a noise, my eyes popping open as I lay on the couch, having fallen asleep sometime during my fourth movie. Another residual effect from my teenage years—the ability to sleep light as a feather, the softest sound enough to wake me. Without moving an inch, I quickly took in my surroundings. The TV was frozen on the menu screen, the movie having long since stopped, not a sound coming from anywhere. I lay as still as I could and listened for any movement. What I’d heard was probably nothing more than a tree branch scraping a window or the house settling, but I couldn’t write it off immediately.

  After minutes of listening for any further noise and finally confident that it’d just been something trivial, I sat up and reached for the remote to turn off the TV, then grabbed my cell phone from the cushion next to me and stood. I checked the screen, seeing it was close to five A.M., and breathed a sigh of relief that it was Saturday, and I had nowhere to be. The hallway light upstairs lit a muted path as my feet slapped against the hardwood, heading in the direction of my room and the bed I hoped would allow me peaceful dreams.

  I was three steps from the stairs when a creak sounded from the floor at the same time a hand reached out from the shadows and connected with my arm.

  Without thinking, without taking a moment to second-guess myself, I snapped into action, my foot going back and connecting with a solid mass of muscle at the same time I spun around, my other arm coming down hard on his and causing his grip on my arm to loosen. I used his surprise to my advantage, not staying to fight but instead twisting from his grasp and running toward the kitchen. Toward my keys and the door that would lead me to freedom.

  I’d thought about this day countless times over the past five years. How it would happen. When it would happen. If Eric would be home when it did. Because I knew it was inevitable. I knew I couldn’t run forever, that at some point, someone would find me. I just didn’t know which bad guy I’d left behind would be the one breathing down my neck.

  But in all the times I’d thought about it, in all the times I’d played this scenario out in my head, I’d
always gotten away. I’d always managed to get to the door in time, managed to grab my keys and get into my car before the intruder could reach me.

  Never once did I end up forced face-first against a wall, the cold drywall biting into my cheek as someone pressed along my back, my arms bound tightly to my sides as his wrapped around me, the solid weight of him holding me in place.

  Even then, I didn’t stop struggling. Even then, when all the odds were stacked against me, I couldn’t blow out the fire burning inside of me, and I fought. Against the weight pressing into my back, against the restraints holding my arms down, I struggled to get free—always struggling to get free—but I was pinned. Trapped. With no way out.

  Just like so many times before.

  My breaths started coming in quick, sharp gasps, buried childhood memories creeping along my spine as I was transported back to a place I didn’t want to go. A place I never wanted to go, but one my cruel mind took me to without permission.

  Drawn curtains and scratchy sheets and darkness and silence. Always silence, except for the muffled sobs I couldn’t seem to help.

  “Stop fighting.” The male voice was low and harsh, frustrated. His breath brushed my ear, and I froze, my flashback evaporating in the blink of an eye. I froze because though I hadn’t heard it in years, I knew that voice. I recognized it as sure as I’d recognize my own face. Because it was a voice I’d heard in my dreams too many times to count. When my dreams were dreams and not the nightmares that so frequently plagued me, it was his face I saw. His voice I heard. His body I felt.

  It was him. It was always him.

  The one person who could make me feel better, the solace to my pain. My sanctuary when I’d needed escape. And I’d needed escape more often than not. More often than I’d ever let on. Because admitting that I’d needed an escape would mean admitting the truth, and I hadn’t ever been ready to do that.

  I still wasn’t ready to do that.

  “Stop fighting,” he repeated, though I’d gone still at his first words. “It’s me.”

  My breathing was harsh, Riley’s matching mine as his chest rose and fell against my back, his breaths puffing against the side of my face. And despite the situation, despite the terror that still gripped my throat, I became aware of every inch of him pressed against me.