by Peak, Renna
“What if you weren’t running?”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“If you weren’t running, would you approve of Brandon then? Would I have your blessing if you weren’t going to be the next president?”
He smiled. “I’m glad you’re on board, Jenna.” He nodded. “Sure, I could see it if I wasn’t elected. But you and I both know that isn’t going to happen.” He reached over to me, patting my knee. “We’ll get through this. You’ll get well and we’ll take this election together.”
“You realize I don’t need your blessing.” I wasn’t sure where my words came from or how I had found the strength to say them. “You realize that I don’t have to check myself into a mental hospital either, right? Those are voluntary programs, and I am the only one who can commit myself there.”
He tilted his head, his features softening, almost fatherly. “Jenna.” He shook his head, and I almost expected him to cluck at me like a grandmother might have done. “Don’t push me on this. You have everything to lose. Brandon might be loyal, but we both know I’m not above doing what needs to be done to get what I want.”
I was surprised that tears didn’t spring to my eyes the way they always seemed to when he threatened to take away the man I loved. My mind was racing—not because I was afraid. Not this time. I could only think about my options. What I could do when I got to California. Where I could go. If I had any friends who would help me. If I could do this on my own.
“Fine.” I kept my face expressionless, but I knew I wasn’t agreeing to some treatment facility. I didn’t need two months of art therapy and people asking me how I was feeling. I only needed one thing, and agreeing to go was going to help me get there.
Out. Away from this life. Away from the man sitting across from me.
8
We had been in the air for over an hour before she finally spoke to me. She hadn’t even really looked at me, though I could see her eyes were swollen and red, as though she had been crying. I hadn’t seen her shed a single tear, but it was pretty clear that something had happened between her and her father on their ride back to their house in Virginia.
“There are fourteen other seats. You bumped everyone out of first class so you don’t need to worry that I’m going to go crying to someone for help.”
“Perk of being a senator’s daughter, Jen.” I glanced over my shoulder. Her father had made me promise that if we were going to take a commercial flight, that there be no other passengers in the first class cabin.
“Perk of being humiliated on national television.” She let out a long sigh and turned her gaze out the window again, where it had been fixed since we had come on board.
“I take full responsibility for that.” My stomach was still twisted into something of a knot after seeing that particular spectacle. It had all happened so fast—the service, then the interview. “They weren’t supposed to interview you until tonight.”
“Yeah. They decided to pre-record it. That way they could edit it to make me look even worse.” Her voice was cold, almost without any emotion at all. Almost like Marian’s.
“She asked me to get you away before they had the opportunity to do that. I think there’s a pretty good chance someone will be waiting to feed me my testicles when we land because of that.” I held my breath, waiting for her to turn to me.
She didn’t move. “She? She who?”
“Marian.”
“Marian is dead.” Jen pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around them as she gazed out the window of the airplane.
“I need to show you something.” I reached into the bag under the seat in front of me, pulling out the folder and envelope that Marian had given me at our meeting the night before her faked death.
“There is nothing you can show me, Brandon. Nothing you can say or tell me that is going to change anything.” She finally turned to face me. “We gave this a good shot. More than we should have. No one can accuse either of us of not trying.”
I caught her gaze, pinning her in it. “You are not giving up on this. Not on us.”
She remained expressionless, almost as though the emotions she was trying to hide would break her if she let them show. “It’s too late, Brandon. I’m on my way to the psych ward, and you’re on your way to wherever. I really didn’t need a babysitter to get me to California. And if the senator really thought I did, he should have sent Krystal.” She turned back to the window.
“Well, you’re stuck with me. But I do want you to look at this.” I tapped on the folder on my lap. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”
She turned back to me, her gaze narrowed. She snatched the folder from my lap, opening it. She leafed through the papers before handing it back to me. “It’s nice. Is that where you’re headed?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you’ll be very happy there, Brandon.” She turned back to the window. “Are you trying to torture me, too? You and my father are just so determined to rub salt in my wounds, right?”
I put the folder back into the bag, leaving the envelope on my lap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jen. The only one being tortured here is me, since you won’t even look at me.”
She turned to me, glaring. “Is that better? Does that make you feel better? Because it sure as hell doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Will you stop for just a second, please? I know you’re exhausted—I know this day was way more than either of us bargained for, but you need to look at everything before you jump to conclusions. Can you do that? For just a second?”
Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “Fine. What else is there? Are they making you an honorary senator in Costa Rica?”
“Funny.” I handed her the envelope. “You’re coming with me.”
She shook her head. “That will never happen—not in this lifetime. I don’t even have a passport anymore—I’m sure my father canceled it anyway. And even if I did—“
I interrupted her, sure that the reasons for her fears included a list that might go on for days. “Will you just open the envelope?”
Her shoulders slumped and she leaned back in her seat. She dropped her feet back to the floor, emptying the contents of the envelope onto her lap and leafing through the documents. She looked up at me. “I don’t understand.”
“Marian’s gift to you.”
“Marian is dead, Brandon. You were there—you saw her with your own eyes. There is no way she would have done this for me. No way—“
“Jen, she did it because I fucked up your plans. She gave up. She didn’t want to fight him anymore, and I’m pretty sure you don’t either. I want this to be over. We all want this to be over.”
“And how do we get out of checking me into the looney bin?”
“Residential psychiatric facility. Isn’t that what you told me once?” I smiled. “Let me worry about that.”
“She gave you a new identity, too? You’re seriously telling me that she went to all this trouble right before she took her life?” She shook her head. “I find it a little hard to believe.”
“She isn’t dead, Jen. She wouldn’t say where she was going, but she took Cade with her.” I rubbed at my temple. “And come to think of it, I don’t want to know what might be going on with those two. Just take my word for it—what you saw … thought you saw—wasn’t real. It was carefully planned and you saw exactly what they wanted you to see.”
She shook her head again, harder this time, almost like she was trying to shake out the memory of seeing the body of the woman she had known as her mother lying in a large pool of blood.
“And she didn’t give me anything other than these two things. The stuff for the house and the stuff for you. We’re on our way to take care of the rest of it now. It’s what I was doing when you got on the plane without me.”
“I thought you were on the phone with my father.”
“I was. And then I was on the phone with someone else. Someone who is going to meet us in Las
Vegas to give me a new identity, too. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And I was thinking that as long as we were in Vegas you might consider something else.” I fished in my pants pocket for the box I had been carrying with me all week. I flipped it open, finally showing her the ring I had chosen for her. “I thought you might want to be my wife before we leave. I know it’s only a ring and a piece of paper, but it means something to me. It’s something they can’t take away from us, Jen, no matter what else happens.”
Her mouth had opened, forming a tiny “o” as she stared at the ring. I thought I could see tears in her eyes again, but I could see she was trying hard to remain stoic.
“Just say yes, Jen. Say you’ll be my wife. Say you’ll go with me and start a new life with me. Say you’ll—“
She interrupted me with a single word that spilled from her lips as only a whisper. “Yes.”
* * *
He had slipped the ring on my finger right after I said the word. I barely remembered what happened afterward, but it was like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. Nothing else mattered anymore—there was nothing left to stop us from being happy. We would make it official when we landed—we would find a place to do a quickie marriage and then we would leave. It didn’t seem like giving up. It seemed like I was embracing something I hadn’t thought was possible—a real life. A normal life.
I slept in his arms for the rest of the flight, the first time I had really slept in days. Maybe longer. It was the first time I had felt truly happy in longer than I could remember.
We left the plane and walked toward the luggage claim. Brandon was being vague about who was meeting us here, but he said that the person was going to bring him his new identity. There hadn’t been anything disturbing about it—I had been aware that he had those kinds of connections since I had known him. I just wasn’t prepared for the person who was walking toward us as we waited for my suitcase to make its way to the baggage claim.
She was pregnant. I was no expert in maternity care, but I would have guessed she was pretty far along—six or seven months at least. And she didn’t look happy to be there.
She almost shoved an envelope into Brandon’s hands. “What you asked for.” She looked over at me, the sneer on her face almost turning into a smile. “I had a feeling you’d be here, Jenna. I mean, he didn’t say it, but I had a feeling when he asked me to get that passport that you had something to do with it.”
I nodded, motioning at her belly. “I guess I should congratulate you, Melissa?” I smiled. “So, congratulations.”
“Ha. He didn’t tell you, did he?” She grinned, looking over at Brandon. “Figures.” She motioned to two men who were standing nearby. “It’s her.”
My brow furrowed as the two men approached. Brandon stepped in front of me, splaying his arms in some form of protection. “Step away, gentlemen.”
One of the men shoved him aside as the other one approached me, opening his wallet to show me a badge. “Jenna Davis? You’re under arrest.”
I looked over at Brandon, whose jaw had dropped almost as far as mine. Melissa stood next to him, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
I turned back to the man, my brow furrowed with confusion. “On what charge?””
He fished a pair of handcuffs from his pocket before taking another step toward me and motioning for me to turn around. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Amanda Agostino.”
TAKEN #5 is available now
Taken #5
The MISTAKEN Series - Part Seventeen
1
I felt the cold hard steel of the handcuffs close around my wrists. It took everything I had to keep my head held high as the man shoved me forward, forcing me to begin walking through the crowded airport.
Under arrest. Murder. Amanda.
It didn’t make sense. And it was too hard to breathe, let alone to think or to make sense of anything.
“I’m sorry.” I looked over at Melissa as the two men led me away. I had thought she was talking to me—apologizing to me for bringing these men here, but she was facing Brandon. She was telling Brandon she was sorry for having me arrested.
He didn’t say anything to her, just looked at her with an icy stare before turning to me, his apology in his gaze. There was something in his eyes that was trying to tell me more than that he was sorry for this, but I wasn’t sure what. He turned again to Melissa, staring at the pregnant belly she carried in front of her.
Six months. She had to be about six months pregnant.
There was something wrong—something between Brandon and Melissa. I just couldn’t comprehend it with the cops standing near me and the handcuffs pinning my hands behind my back.
I wanted to call out to Brandon, but I felt like I was walking underwater. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. I wanted to protest—wanted to tell someone this had been a mistake, but no words came out. I was having trouble making coherent thoughts form, let alone words. And what would I say? That I hadn’t been the one to kill Amanda, but they might want to talk to Brandon.
No. I knew I had to be strong—at least for the moment. At least until they took me to the police station and I could find someone who would be willing to listen to me. And I could call a lawyer when we arrived—they had to let me have a lawyer. I hadn’t ever had the experience of being arrested, but I knew they had to read me my rights and let me have an attorney before they questioned me.
The men behind me said nothing as we walked, one of them giving me a push now and then as we weaved our way through the hordes of people. I only felt numb—almost dizzy, trying to come to grips with had just happened.
I tried to take in a long breath to calm my racing thoughts. Whatever it was that was happening here would all be over in an hour or two. I could live for a few hours like this—a prisoner, accused of a crime hadn’t committed. I didn’t want to think about what I would have to tell them—that Brandon was a more likely suspect. But I didn’t need to think about that now. I only needed to think about making it through the next little while without falling apart. I could do that. I had been through much worse than this.
We finally made it to the exit and the dry, intense heat of the July desert air almost knocked me over as we walked outside. One of the men was beside me, leading me by the elbow to a car waiting several yards away. He opened the back door, and the other placed his hand on my scalp, making sure my head didn’t hit the top of the car.
It was all a little surreal—like a scene from a movie. The term perp walk flashed through my mind as one of the men took a seat the seat next to me in the rear of the car.
The other man sat down in the front passenger seat, and the car began to move. It was fuzzy—all of it. It didn’t occur to me until the car was tearing down the street and away from the airport exactly why none of this made any sense.
It wasn’t a police car. There was nothing about it that seemed like a police car—no radio, no lights, no special equipment. It was just a plain, everyday sedan. Ordinary in every way except for the men in it—and me.
I took a sharp breath in, my heart racing as I looked at the man next to me, searching his face for some trace of an expression. Anything that would tell me who he was or what was going on here. There was nothing about him that would have made me doubt he was a detective. He was tall—taller than me, anyway, and clean shaven. Brown hair, hazel eyes, maybe forty years old. I somehow had a feeling that knowing the details of what he looked like was going to be important.
“I can’t believe it. That was him. You know that was him, right Marty?” The other “detective” in the front seat turned around to look at the man sitting next to me. “We just waltzed in and took her away from him. From Brandon Richardson.” He shook his head. “He must be losing his touch.”
The man next to me—his name must have been Marty—shrugged, looking out the window. “I never believed any of the stories, anyway.”
“I guess they were pretty farf
etched. But he can kiss our asses now. They’ll be telling stories about us before you know it.” The man in the front seat smiled before turning back around.
It was hard to find a comfortable position to sit with my arms pinned behind me, and I tried to maneuver myself into a less painful posture. I turned slightly to face the man next to me—a man I was now almost certain was not a police officer any more than I was but was instead my captor. “Shouldn’t you read me my rights?” I was sure I had seen that in the movies and that it had to be a real thing—the police were supposed to tell me about my right to remain silent and my right to an attorney. I just wasn’t sure if it was before or after they took me to the police station. And I was hoping like hell that they were taking me to a police station now. I knew I would have a chance if this was a real arrest. If it wasn’t, I had no idea what I was in for.
The response all three men gave me let me know immediately that my fears had been right—none of them were cops and this was a setup. They all laughed. Hard, belly laughs, as though I had told the funniest joke they had ever heard.
The driver shook his head. “You have the right to keep your mouth shut, Jenna.”
I blinked a few times, shrinking back into my seat as much as I was able to. I had no idea what mess I had been sucked into this time, but I knew enough to do as I was told, at least for the moment. At least until I could pull my thoughts together. I had a pretty strong feeling that if I didn’t, I would probably end up with a hypodermic needle going into my shoulder again, knocked out for the night.
I turned everything over in my mind—there was just no way this should have happened. No one even knew we were coming to Las Vegas. It had been a last minute thing Brandon had come up with before he was going to take me to wherever so that we could live the rest of our lives in peace. Without this kind of thing happening ever again.
“What if we held her?” The man next to me seemed to be lost in thought himself. “What if we just didn’t show up with her?”
