Under the Lies

by Green, Sarah E.

  He chuckles. “Only with a better escort this time.”

  My head whips to his. “You remember who my escort was?”

  “Mark Tulaen.”

  Wide-eyed, I stare at him. That was over eight years ago. “H—how…” I flounder, searching for sentences that have left me.

  “I remember everything about you.” He says it so casually, so flippantly before he takes a sip of champagne. I stare at him with my mouth open in a little O.

  He remembers…

  I stare up at him, into his eyes and almost suck in a breath at what’s staring back. Open and honest, I see the truth swimming in the depths of his arctic blues. My heart trips over itself as all my annoyance and anger at him for the past couple days fades away.

  Noah hasn’t forgotten me, and he wasn’t lying to me at Harlots.

  He wants me.

  He’s protected me.

  He’s made me feel safe and has helped me feel more whole. He took me to my granddad’s when I was too afraid to go by myself.

  He’s always seen me when I’ve only ever felt invisible.

  Noah leans in, wrapping his fingers around my chin. “Close your mouth, Sayer. It isn’t proper.”

  “Neither is this.” I lean on my toes and brush my lips against his neck. I breathe in his scent of clean minty soap, leather, and rich spices.

  I pull back to say something, but the words leave my lips, leave my mind as Noah’s mouth crashes on mine. He kisses me like we aren’t in public, touches me like we’re the only two in the room.

  He drowns out the worries, the whispers, and I lean into him. Lean into the freedom he’s given me and kiss him like I always wanted to as a lovesick teenager.

  I get lost in his lips. My fingers find themselves woven into his hair.

  This really isn’t proper. And I really don’t give a damn. Especially as his tongue greets mine.

  But all too soon he’s pulling away. “Not yet. Soon, but not yet,” he whispers. Heat simmers behind his glasses. “Stay here, I’m going to get us some more drinks.”

  It looks like the last thing he wants, but I understand. We’re here to coax out my sister and if we were to disappear, it’d defeat the purpose of us being here tonight.

  Soon, I echo, watching as Noah walks to the bar, leaving me alone.

  Alone with the whispers and stares and speculation. My arms wrap around my middle—a shield from the gossip.

  Trying to ignore them, I focus on what makes me happy.

  Art.

  I catch myself staring at the painting Noah showed me, the one about the lovers. He had said it was donated by my parents and while I might have been distracted at the time, what with his roaming hands and whispered words, now with him a healthy distance away from me, I can attest to never seeing that painting before.

  Not even in my granddad’s collection, which we inherited most of with his passing.

  Noah said they were donated, but he must’ve been confused by which painting was donated by my parents because the lovers one isn’t it.

  Or is it?

  I go through my memory trying to remember all the paintings they have in their collection and which ones they kept after my granddad’s passing, but between both my parents and granddad, so many paintings came and went through their houses while I was growing up it sometimes felt we were a temporary holding facility.

  Mom was always redecorating, and Granddad always had paintings waiting for his clients to pick up.

  The more I study the painting, the more I don’t know if my parents donated it.

  Why is it bothering me so much?

  “What’s that look on your face for?” Noah’s arm winds around my shoulders.

  I don’t get the chance to say anything before his grip tightens around my shoulder. Holding me in place. His jaw’s clenched and body ramrod straight.

  What…

  Following his gaze, I see why.

  My parents have returned from their European vacation, walking into the event with an air of superiority.

  And they’re staring straight at me.

  When I was younger, my father used to get this look on his face. One that didn’t quite convey anger, nor did it scream disappointment. Somehow he had perfected a look that fell in between. I called it his lawyer face since it resembled the expression he usually wore when he was in his office or in court.

  My father is a handsome man who has been treated kind with age. Salt and pepper hair and soft worry lines that crease between his eyes from all the frowning he’s done over the years.

  He’s one of the only adults in this town that hasn’t gotten some kind of injection to make them disappear. He doesn’t seem to mind them. I don’t either. They make him look more refined in a way.

  Not tonight, though.

  The deep scowling makes those worry lines more prominent, angry and harsh.

  Together, with my mother’s hand resting in the crook of his elbow, they walk as a unit toward Noah and I. My hand squeezes Noah’s forearm warning him to let go.

  Naturally, he doesn’t.

  Bastard. I glare at him.

  He winks back.

  “Noah,” I plea under my breath. “Let go. You’re only going to make this worse. Please.”

  Surprisingly, he does. His arm drops from my shoulders, but he doesn’t leave my side as he whispers back, “Don’t ask me to walk away because I won’t. I’m not leaving you alone with them.”

  My chest warms with his declaration, but it quickly sours with where it came from. Noah remembers what I was like around my parents as a teenager. A coward, a shell. I let them control me, to make me who they wanted to be.

  But not anymore. No longer will I allow them to have power over me.

  “Mom, Dad!” I force a smile that hurts my cheeks as they stand in front of us. Entrapping us in a small, intimate circle of animosity.

  My parents hardly acknowledge me. How could they? They’re too busy staring at Noah with enough hatred to melt a couple of icebergs.

  I’ve never fully grasped why my parents hate him. Even before he and Harlow started dating, they had despised the Kincaid name. At first, I thought it was because Noah’s parents owned a majority of the city, places that now belong to Noah.

  The one time I asked my mom about it, she brushed some hair out of my face while telling me people like Noah didn’t deserve to inherit the money he did, not when he didn’t have parents around to teach him how to act appropriately.

  It was cold and harsh. How could she hate a boy that lost his parents?

  But the more Noah came around in prep school, the more I got to see them interact. My parents’ loathing of Noah wasn’t just rooted in his inheritance and lack of propriety. It stemmed deeper than that. Almost like it came from a place of fear.

  Fear of what?

  I watch the three of them, feeling out of place, out of the loop. None of them so much as look my way and I can’t help but feel like there’s a conversation going on here, one I am not privy too.

  I clear my throat, nudging Noah’s side with my elbow and he blinks, whatever was transpiring between the three of them is now over.

  Noah’s hand finds a home on my lower back. “Want to introduce me to your folks?”

  “They know who you are,” I hiss under my breath for only him to hear.

  He looks highly amused at the situation.

  So glad he’s having fun.

  “What are you doing here, Sayer? With him?” My mother doesn’t sound amused.

  “I didn’t know you two were back,” I say, sidestepping her question.

  “Yes, well,” my mother draws out. “If you answered your phone when we called you, you would’ve.”

  I don’t answer, not when she just called me out on exactly what I’ve been doing. Ignoring their calls.

  Both parents look to me in silent question, waiting for an explanation on my date. An explanation they’ve been wanting since they left for Europe.

  A few of their frien
ds, like Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. Rochester, glance over, whispering to each other.

  Noah’s hand presses into my back.

  “Mom, Dad,” I force cheer into my tone. “You know Noah. We’ve been kind of dating.”

  My mother’s upper lip snarls and father’s scowl deepens further, if that’s even possible, while Noah turns to me slowly as his fingers dig tighter into my back, letting me know he’s here. He’s ready to step in if I need him. To fight the backlash for me.

  “Sayer Brooks.” My name is a verbal lashing on my mother’s tongue.

  I don’t have a middle name and it’s time like these that I’m glad I don’t. Two names sound bad enough. I don’t want to imagine what kind of wounds she could inflict with a third.

  My father stands beside her, not saying anything. He doesn’t have to. Not when his twisted lips and throbbing vein above his eyebrow say it all.

  If we weren’t in a crowded room full of their friends and journalists, they would ream me out and possibly strangle me. I’m with the one person who, in their eyes, helped tarnish our family name.

  I don’t have time to pay attention to my father, though. Or my mother.

  Not when Noah is rigid at my side.

  Noah stands quiet, not moving. I don’t even know if he’s breathing.

  He glances down at me and I feel sweat gathering along my hairline as a shiver crawls up my spine.

  Something’s wrong.

  Before any more words can be shared, the lights go out and people scream in panic. Names get shouted and people start to rush in an unseen panic. Bodies knock into me. Noah’s hand falls away and I feel his body heat leave mine.

  I hear him call my name. At least, I think I do.

  Just as I begin to move, to answer him, unfamiliar hands wrap around my waist and my mouth and I’m pulled back into a solid chest of a tall, tall man.

  A man who’s not Noah.

  I struggle, kick and bite, trying to get free but they hold me to the point of tears stinging my eyes and I can do nothing as something goes over my head and tightens around my neck, the pressure making it hard to breathe, let alone scream.

  With my voice stolen, I feel something sharp pierce my skin. Everything goes dark behind my eyes as I’m carried away into the unknown.

  I don’t know how long I’m knocked out for before I wake up against a leafless tree, dead from the winter. My face is frozen and limbs rigid as I struggle to stand up.

  Dazed, I look around.

  Where am I?

  Slowly, the memories of the art gallery come to me. Of stranger’s hands grabbing me. A prickling sensation in my neck.

  I lift a hand, touching the spot. A little knot now resides there.

  What happened?

  I see nothing but trees. Barren, hibernating trees. Dark with only the faintest stars for light.

  Am I in a field?

  I take a few hesitant steps only to stop dead.

  It’s not a field. It’s a cemetery.

  Rows and rows and rows of headstones greet me.

  My body is frozen and not only from the cold.

  Spinning around, I look for an exit. Iron gates are a beacon in the distance. I start toward them.

  With every step, another question forms: how did I get here? Who grabbed me?

  Why am I here?

  Somehow finding the courage, I take a step and then another toward the exit only for a body to step into my path.

  A black hood pulled low over their head steps in front of my path. I freeze, memories of another night with a stranger wearing a black hoodie come rushing back to me.

  Is this the same guy?

  Holy crap I’ve forgotten how to breathe. My chest is tight, lungs not working. Time slows down as they walk toward me with a cat-like grace, lazy and unhurried. His hood falls revealing a full-faced mask. Set in a shiny plastic smile, a voice asks, “Ready to play?”

  No. I run instead. Laughter trails after me.

  I’m close to the exit when I no longer hear the laughter. No longer hear anything but my footsteps breaking leaves that have dried and fallen to the ground.

  Arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back just as I’m about to reach the destination.

  A hand wraps around my throat. The hold tighter than I’ve ever felt, enough to know my skin is turning a suffocating shade. I can’t breathe. I don’t move. Even my heart feels frozen in my chest, already failing. Giving up. Accepting fate.

  Too bad for them, I’m not. I kick my legs in a wild manner, striking their legs. We buckle but are quickly righted.

  “That was very naughty of you, Sayer.” My name rolls like a purr from his throat in a voice I don’t recognize. His fingers dig into my pulse. Where it should be. I’ve gone numb. “I think I have to teach you a lesson.”

  He swings me around to face the graves before shoving me down on the ground.

  Dirt, sticks, and horror dig into my knees and out-stretched palms.

  Air. Air. Air. I need air. And it’s not coming in fast enough.

  A boot presses into my lower back, pushing me farther to the ground.

  I try to fight, but can’t.

  He pushes down harder until I’m flat on my stomach. Once I’m pressed close to the ground, he removes his boot only to stand on either side of my hips.

  Fingers tightly wrap around my hair and tug, twisting my head to the side. Seeing him crouched above me. “You can’t escape me, pet. You will not win and in the end, you will only cause more harm to yourself. Is that what you want, Sayer? To hurt yourself?”

  I try to shake my head, to answer, and his grip tightens around my hair. Fisting more and limiting all movement.

  “Such fear in your eyes,” he marvels. I squirm, getting filthier and filthier as my clothes rub along the sodded lawn. “I wonder how far that fear can go.”

  He lets go of my hair and stands up. Quickly, before his mind changes or he makes his next move, I twist around, scrambling away from him. My palms and soles carry me backward until I collide into something, no longer able to move.

  My body nails into something strong, something hard. Something rough and carved.

  Peeking around, I see a headstone.

  I jump up, choking on rising bile.

  Hands clap. “Fascinating. How much do you fear death?”

  I shake my head. Doesn’t everyone fear death?

  “Stop moving,” he orders, no longer sounding like the delighted sociopath and more hardened. Like a creature from Hell itself.

  “Now, run.”

  I look back to the entrance. A cloaked figure now stands in front of it. Arms crossed.

  He steps in my line of sight and shakes his head. “You’re not leaving this cemetery tonight, Sayer. Now. Run! Let us chase you.”

  I have a choice.

  Do as he says and think of a plan or eat more dirt with him physically assaulting me. He’s already established he can overpower me so if I pick option A, at least it gives me time to think of a way to escape this hell I’ve woken up to.

  So I run. Run as fast as my shaking, beat up legs can carry me, once again weaving between headstones and silently apologizing to every grave I run on, for disturbing their peace and to take their revenge on the fiend chasing me.

  Except.

  He’s not.

  Stealing a glance over my shoulder, no one is behind me. He’s nowhere in sight.

  I stop. Turning in this direction, then that. Where is he?

  “Did I say you could stop?” Amplified by hidden speakers, his voice roars around me. Stuttering my already erratic heartbeat. I feel the muscles straining. Feel my lungs seizing. Trying to fight as my legs take off once again, farther into the cemetery, where the dates of the deceased go further and further back in time.

  I’m glancing over my shoulder to see if anyone is behind me when I run into an ancient and elaborate grave marker. The force of the blow causes me to fall backward, eyes stinging with tears.

  Crunk. Crunk.

&nb
sp; I look to my left, where leaves crunch under pressured weight and see several feet away, a hooded body. Standing. Shadows cast over his face, making it impossible to see his features. It’s not a man though. This build is smaller, more petite.

  A woman.

  Pushing up, I run in the opposite direction only to skid to a stop. Another person steps into my path. Cornered. I’m surrounded on all sides, each one of them moving closer and closer to me.

  I’m trapped. They caught me.

  The man who grabbed me tsks down at me, sucking air from behind his teeth. As if he’s disappointed in me. “I had higher hopes for you. Thought you’d last longer.”

  They all shift to line up before me, stepping closer and closer. Forcing me to walk back. My feet stumble but I right myself. Huffing a breath as I do, one that quickly plummets as the ground below me turns to air.

  No.

  I fall with a scream, going down and landing on something soft. A box. My hands wrap around either side as I fight for the breath that got knocked out of me on the landing.

  As my breathing catches up to me, I realize a few things. The first is that I’m flat on my back. The three people who were chasing me have doubled. Six people stand above me.

  And the last thing is that I’m not in a box. I’m in a coffin.

  With six hooded figures standing above me, sinking lower and lower in the ground.

  The descent is slow, and I can’t even scream. Not when my body is being taken over by a new kind of fear. One that’s pure terror. One that locks my muscles.

  A hand goes to the casket’s lid and flicks it with enough force to close. “Sleep tight, darling Sayer.”

  I don’t move. Can’t. My eyes won’t even blink as I struggle. It’s like my body is locked in a cage from within, fingernails clawing at the lock to free me. To free my limbs, my mouth.

  Thunk

  Thunk

  Thunk

  The cage unlocks enough for my eyes to search for the sound. To feel the vibrations from above.

  Thunk

  Thunk

  Thunk.

  Something coarse and grainy falls to my fingers. Dirt.

  With desperate clawing, the cage fully opens, and my hands stretch out to the tufted lid. Scratching at the plush linen.