by W Winters
“Thank you.”
“Well, I’ll let you get to it,” I tell him, but he doesn’t let the conversation end.
“Jase really likes you.” The statement surprises me, holding me where I am.
Warmth flows through me, from my chest all the way to my cheeks. I don’t know what to say other than, “I really like him too.”
“He’s turning back to his emotional… hotheaded younger self.”
“Hotheaded?” I pry. Carter doesn’t seem to take the bait though.
“When we were younger, he used to be a real troublemaker,” Carter says as he leans against the counter, staring into the cup of tea and lifting the bag of leaves. We both watch the steam billow into a swirl of dissipating clouds although I’m across the room.
“Really?” The shock is evident.
“Not because he was… like me. Not that kind of trouble.”
If Carter’s going to talk, I’m damn well going to listen. Taking a step closer to the counter, I ask him, “What kind of trouble?”
He peers at me, but not for long. “He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. It should have gotten him into more trouble than it did really. I know if I’d done it… My father never hit Jase. I can’t remember a single time. He liked the belt and took it out on us mostly, me and Daniel.”
A sadness creeps inside of me at the ease with which Carter speaks of his father beating him and his brother. He was the oldest. I’m the youngest, but I remember the way my mother used to yell at my sister for things that I didn’t even think were wrong. With parted lips, I grip the edge of the counter, cold and unmoving as he continues. “I remember so many times my father would say to Jase, your mouth is going to get you in trouble.”
“Parents sometimes take it out on the eldest.”
“If I’d talked like Jase did when we were younger, I’d have been punched in the mouth.” Carter’s statement doesn’t come with emotion. It’s merely the way things were for them back then.
“He used to say it like it was. He never had a filter, and couldn’t just be quiet. There were so many times he said shit to my father that made my back arch expecting to be hit there. He had the balls to call everyone out on their shit and never stopped for a moment to question what he was saying.”
“Honesty without compassion is brutality.” I say the quote and then add when Carter looks back at me, “I don’t know who said it. It’s just a saying.”
Standing up straighter, he holds the tea with both hands and tells me, “He was compassionate, too much. That’s why he never let a moment pass him where he thought he could change what was happening if he only made people aware of how wrong it was.”
It’s hard to keep my expression straight. I can only imagine Jase as a young boy, watching everything that happened and speaking up, expecting it to help, when there was never any help coming.
“He used to have hope.” My first statement is quiet and I think it goes unheard so I raise my voice. “It sounds like he was a good kid,” I comment and Carter’s forehead wrinkles with amusement.
“Sure, as good as the Cross boys could ever be.”
“You know,” I start to say, and that stops him from walking off while I tap the glass base of my Dr. Pepper on the counter. “My sister was like that. When I was growing up and she was in high school and even part of college, she was a lot like that.”
“Is that right?” he asks, leaning against one of the stools and listening to my story.
“When our mom got sick, she had Alzheimer’s.” I have to take a quick sip as the visions of my sister, a younger, healthier version, flood into my mind. Jenny would stand outside the university before every football game and every council meeting with flyers she’d printed from the library. “My sister wanted to educate people. She said it might help them because if you can diagnose it early, it can lessen the symptoms.”
I’ll never forget how often Jenny stood there after mom was diagnosed. I met her outside the stadium one chilly October night. She had a handful of flyers and tearstained cheeks. She’d been there every night that week, and I wanted her to come home. I needed help. Mom needed help.
When I told her to come home, she broke down and cried. She didn’t want to go home to a mother who didn’t know who she was. She said she blamed herself, because she knew something was wrong and she hadn’t said anything. She did nothing when she could have at least spoken up like she would have before she was busy with classes.
All the while she spent her nights standing there, I did what was practical. I listened to Nurse Judy, I figured out the bills and how to pay them all with what we had. I took care of the house and learned how to help any way I could.
My sister looked backward, while I tried to look forward. I think that’s where the difference really lay.
“That doesn’t sound like mouthing off,” Carter comments.
“Maybe that wasn’t the best example,” I answer under my breath, not seeing the similarity so clearly like I did a moment ago. I find myself lacking, not unlike the way I felt back then. The visions of her that night she cried on the broken sidewalk don’t leave me.
“She blames herself then?” Carter asks and I have to blink away the memories.
“Yeah, she did. Blamed,” I correct him. “She passed away this past month.”
Something strange happens then. The air in the room turns cold and distant as Carter looks away from me.
Some people deal with death differently, but it’s odd the way he reacts. He doesn’t look back at me. He stares off down the hall and past the kitchen toward his wing of the estate, avoiding my prying gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he finally speaks, although he pays close attention to the mug in his hand. His lips part but only to inhale slightly; I think he’s going to say more but he doesn’t. And then it’s silent again.
I don’t like it. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention and the uneasiness I felt when I walked into the kitchen greets me again.
“When she died, I inherited her debt and met your brother, so if nothing else…” My voice trails off. What the fuck am I even saying?
It’s hard to swallow, but I force down a sip of the cold drink and let the taste settle on the back of my tongue where the words all hide. At least her death led me to Jase.
Was I really thinking that?
Was I really drawing a positive out of my sister’s murder?
“A debt? Did Jase help you out of something?” Carter’s dark eyes seek mine and I reach them instantly. Suddenly he’s interested.
“The debt my sister owed,” I state, feeling a line draw across my forehead as I read his expression. No memory is worn there of the money she owed the Cross brothers. Money Jenny owed to Carter.
Jase blamed Carter, didn’t he? He said Carter wouldn’t let it go even if Jase wanted to.
“Who did she owe money to?” Carter asks and the wind leaves my lungs in a heavy pull. Drawn from me so violently, that I drop the bottle to the counter with a hard clink.
Jase lied. Staring into Carter’s clueless eyes, I see it so clearly now.
He lied to me about the debt.
About my sister owing it.
I thought so poorly of her. That she would owe so much money to men like him.
And he put that on her.
With a sudden twist, my gut wrenches with sickness and I have to focus on breathing just to keep from losing it.
He lied to me. It was all a lie.
How can I believe anything that comes out of his mouth? How many lies has he told me? How many things has he kept from me?
“Where are you going?” Carter’s voice carries down the hall, chasing after me and I ignore him. I don’t trust myself to speak.
Every step hurts more and more. I’ve fallen for him. That’s the only explanation for the way my face crumples as I storm off. The way my eyes feel hot although there’s no fucking way I’ll cry. I won’t cry for a man who lies to my face over and over again.
&n
bsp; I let him touch me. I let him use me. Because he lied about a debt.
I’m foolish. I’m a stupid little girl in his man’s world.
“I hate him.” The words tumble out in a single breath as my hands form fists. I hate that I believed him. That I fell for him.
No… no I don’t. My throat dries at the realization.
I hate that I wanted him to treat me like he loves me. I hate that I believed he did.
You don’t lie to the ones you care for. You don’t use them.
You don’t coerce them and blackmail them.
I thought he loved me though.
Maybe he still does… the small voice whispers. The voice that’s gotten me deeper and deeper into bed with a man who tells me lies. A voice I wish would speak louder, because I desperately want it to be speaking the truth. But the rest of me knows it’s a childish wish, that I need to grow the fuck up and slap the shit out of Jase’s lying mouth.
Jase
“What did he say specifically?” I question Seth, comparing notes.
“To meet… to come alone... and that he has evidence he doesn’t want to use against us.”
Our pace is even as I walk with him from the foyer to the office. I waited for him outside after taking Bethany to bed last night. Watching the late dusk turn to fog in the early morning and preparing for what has to happen today.
I respond, “Officer Walsh is my new favorite person to hate.”
“Do you think it has to do with Jenny?” he asks.
“I doubt it. If he has something on us and if he’s going to use it to blackmail us…” My teeth clench hard as I release an agitated exhale.
“Do you think you should tell Bethany? In case this leads to something?”
“No.” Shaking my head, I think about the way Bethany’s going to react when she finds out about her sister being alive and the fact that I knew this whole time. “I want to know I’ll be able to bring her back before I tell her anything.”
“Marcus will know when we find her. I don’t see how he won’t know when we approach. Unless it’s only a few of us, but that would be suicide.”
“We’ll all go. He can know. I would think he already knows we’ve been watching.”
He stops walking and the sound of two men walking down a long hall turns to one and then none as I turn to him, waiting for him to speak.
“You think Marcus would go against us?”
“I don’t know,” I answer him honestly and feel a chill run up my spine. The silver glimmer of the scar on my knuckles shines in the dim hall lighting. “We’ve never openly been against him, but he’s never taken from us either. He has her. He knows we want her back. It was his call to decide that and ours to decide the consequence.”
“We don’t know that. We don’t know how it happened and what she’s doing with him.”
“There’s too much we don’t know, but we don’t have time to wait. If we find their lookout point or storage centers, or anything at all, we go in.” My words are final and Seth’s slight nod is in agreement.
With a tilt of his chin, we continue back to the office. Every step I take grows heavier, and the anxiousness of getting down to what we have to discuss stifles the air and coils every muscle in my body.
I force myself to stay calm with my hand on the doorknob to my office, careful not to say anything until he walks in first.
“Did you get it?” I ask him as I flick on the light. It’s still early morning and the sky’s a dark gray. Pulling back the curtains, the harsh sound of them opening is the only thing to be heard as Seth walks to the row of books on the other side of the room.
Clouds cover the sky, hanging thick and with varied shades of gray. Rain’s coming and with it, a darkness that will cover the day.
“I did,” he tells me, leaving a book he’s eyeing to come to stand where I am and hand me the box.
“What do you think?” I ask him.
“I agree with you,” he says simply. “It’s why I like working for you.”
As I’m inspecting it, he delivers news I didn’t think would come so soon. “There may be a room, or tunnel, or shelter of some kind.”
He leans his back against the leather chaise, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “The blueprints for the bridge don’t show anything. So what’s under the bridge is… we don’t know.”
“You’re sure of it?”
He bows his head in acknowledgment. “We’ve kept an eye on the people associated with Jenny being taken. They’re out there, making these rounds and going to the same spots. Last night, one disappeared. Nik was watching him, and then he was gone. There has to be some hideout there we haven’t yet found.”
Slipping the box into my pocket, I ask him, “Did he do surveillance?”
“Not yet.” Uncrossing his arms, he slips his hands into his pants pockets and glances at the unlit fireplace before turning back to me. “I wasn’t sure how you wanted to proceed.”
“You seem distracted,” I tell him, rather than giving orders. It could be a setup. It could be suicide. Carter should know before we decide anything.
“Me?” he questions.
“You didn’t think I’d noticed?”
His answer is to tilt his head. With a cluck of his tongue, he pushes off the chaise and walks to the bookshelf before confiding in me. “We’re distracted for the same reasons, I think.”
Every hair stands on end at the thought of him being distracted by Bethany. The skin across my knuckles stretches and turns white as I crack them with my thumb, one by one and consciously resist forming a fist.
“What reason is that?” I ask and my voice is low.
“A girl.”
“Bethany?” I question and now my tone is threatening.
“She’s yours and I have mine.”
“So you are seeing someone?” I ask him and the edge of jealousy seeps away, although not as easily as it came.
Instead of answering, he suggests, “You should take Bethany to the graveyard. I think it’d be good for you two.”
“You’re good at distraction,” I comment as I eye him moving down the rows of books he’s seen before.
“You go there often…” he pauses before continuing, seeming to struggle with how he wants to say what’s on his mind. Choosing a new book, one I recognize by the distinctive spine, he tells me, “I almost took her there when I picked her up a few days ago. Thought you could meet her there, but then I got your message.”
“Why would she want to go there?”
“She’s empathetic. She reacts to emotion. If she saw the end result of what you’ve been through… it makes things more real. To see loss.”
“She knows what a graveyard looks like. She’s been there herself a time or two.”
“She hasn’t though. She didn’t go to her sister’s funeral. I don’t know about her mother’s either. She was working a lot back then.”
The fact that Seth knows this and I don’t makes me feel a certain way; I hate him for it, but I’m grateful for the message. We work differently, we see things differently. I could have never imagined it’d work so well for so long.
“I have to tell you something before I forget.” Tapping my fingers along the hard walnut shelves, I let my gaze stray down the shelves. “You need to get rid of your shoes.”
“What?” His surprise is met with a huff of humor. “Now you’re going with the distraction method,” he jokes although he’s still waiting for me to explain what the hell I’m talking about.
“The ones you wore when you went to check on Bethany. When she thought there was a break-in.”
“I don’t even know what shoes they were.”
“White with red stripes on the sides,” I answer him and finally make my way to take a seat. “She saw them, so it’s best to get rid of them.” As I sit down, I focus on the box, thinking about it rather than Seth and the fact that Bethany saw his shoes.
“Fuck.” Seth closes the book in his hand with a thwack, lowering his
head and shaking it. “That could have ended badly.”
“If she didn’t tell me, I imagine it would have if she’d seen you in them.”
“Are you going to tell her it was Marcus or Romano or some random burglars or what?”
“She’s too smart to think it was random.” Leaning my head back, I close my eyes and hate the way all this started. “I don’t know,” I answer him. “One fucking lie after the next with her.”
A creaking sound snaps my eyes to the open door of the office. The dim light behind her places a shadow of contempt across her hurt gaze and pouty lips. Her small hands are balled into fists gripping the hem of her gray sweater. Even enraged, she’s in pain. It’s etched into every detail of her. Fuck.
“Bethany.” Her name tumbles from my mouth as I stand up, feeling the thrum of disaster in my blood.
Bethany
“I can explain,” Jase repeats as he rounds the worn leather chair. Through my blurry vision I can barely make out Seth backing away from both of us as I stalk into the room.
I’m shaking, trembling, on the verge of a rage I didn’t know was possible.
“I hate you,” I sneer and how my words come out so clearly, I’ll never know. They strike him, visibly, across the face as he stops with both hands up a foot away from me.
“What did you hear?” he asks me calmly and I want to spit at him. I can already see him spinning a new lie in his head, just waiting to know what I heard so he can manipulate it. Betrayal is a nasty thing, twisting a knife deeper into my rib cage.
All I can remember is how I felt standing in the threshold of my kitchen, too afraid to speak or move, and knowing I had nowhere to run. “It was Seth? It was your men all along?”
My vision blurs with the present and the past.
“I sent him to check on you. I was with Carter and Aria; I couldn’t come so I sent Seth.”
“Seth crept into my house. It was Seth.” I repeat it and I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe it’s true.
“He was only going to stay with you because I thought someone was threatening you--”
“Someone?” I question, feeling raging tremors run through me. Even now, he hides from me.
