Truth Be Told

by Holly Ryan

  “He’s all wet. Yeah, it was him alright.”

  I hold my arms out to the side of my body and gaze down at myself. Sure enough, my entire body is soaked with seawater. Dripping, even, and the sand at my feet starts to darken as it grows wetter.

  “Yeah,” he points, “he tried to save her, but he’s the one who fucking did it.”

  “No,” I shake my head. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Yes, it was.” One of them comes closer, holding out his finger. “Don’t lie.”

  He’s right, and I didn’t mean to say that it wasn’t me. That was instinct.

  “It’s icy,” I try to say, but the words come out weak and pathetic. I clear my throat and say louder, trying to defend myself, “The roads are slick.” As if that somehow justifies it.

  “She didn’t do this to herself, you prick.” He’s full of rage. Who does he think he is? If he cares so fucking much, why didn’t he dive into the damn ocean and try to save her?

  My fingers form a fist at my side, that previously unheard-of fury flowing through my veins. But it’s not only embarrassment and the regret of failure that’s fueling the fury. It’s pain, too. It’s the fact that I want to rush back into the water, but these people are stopping me, while attacking me at the same time.

  My muscles relax as the sound of the waves lapping at the sand draw me back to where I need to be. I’m no longer worried about the men in front of me. I don’t give a shit what they think of me, or what they saw, think they saw, or what they’re going to say about me to anyone else. They can accuse me of whatever they want. All I need to do is get back into that water.

  I walk forward and try to break through them, but their bodies form a kind of wall.

  “Stop, man. You can’t help her now. You’ll kill yourself, too. Stop and wait for the cops.”

  What are they talking about? Don’t they know I can swim? “Let me go,” is all I can manage. I throw my weight into them, but it’s no use. The three of them together are stronger than me, and they succeed in holding me back.

  When I tell all this to Stella, she listens closely, not once interrupting, even though at times it looked like she wanted to break in to give me a hug or something.

  “Jesus,” she says quietly when I finish, shaking her head. “Cohen, this isn’t okay. You need to tell someone.”

  “Tell someone what?”

  “Well…” she stands and starts to pace the room. She slows, approaching the next question with tenderness. “They accused you of something that you didn’t do. Right?”

  “Stella, it was a dream.”

  “Oh,” she says. “So they didn’t they really say all that?”

  I shake my head. “No. That was the dream, and my subconscious mingled in there, fucking with me.” I stand too. “That’s the thing about my nightmares. Well, about everyone’s nightmares, I guess. They’re based off something real, but they’re twisted. Distorted.” I turn to her. “Don’t you ever get dreams like that?”

  She nods quickly. “Of course I do.” She comes over to me and swoops her arm around my waist, dropping her cheek against me. “So what’s the real story?”

  I glance down at her. She makes me want to open up, but something inside me won’t allow it. “Stella,” I say, “that story’s even longer.”

  STELLA

  “Is it true you’re dating this Cohen Thatcher now?”

  Lorelei has joined me on my morning walk to work. She called last night, forgoing a text probably because of what happened the last time when I missed her messages. We’re walking fast because I’m a little late, but she’s doing a good job of keeping pace with me. She always does. “What is he,” I ask, “some kind of celebrity around here or something?”

  “No, it’s not that. He’s not exactly famous or anything. It’s just that people around here know their local billionaires. It’s not like there’s more than one.”

  “Why did you want to get together, anyway?”

  She sighs. “Sapphire has sucked royally since you’ve been gone.”

  I grimace. “Really? I’ve only been gone a few days.”

  “Well, a few days is enough.”

  “I’m sorry, Lorelei. I really am.” I look at her, bending down a little. “But I’m not going back there. Ever.” I try to make myself sound all dramatic, like it wasn’t really that bad, but truly – it was. I have zero desire to return to that place and put myself at risk again.

  She smirks at my honesty but doesn’t respond.

  “Hey,” I continue, “I miss you too, though.”

  She leans over and gives me an affectionate bump that sends me off balance. I’m not worried about Lorelei. She’s strong, and she’s been dancing for a long time. She can take care of herself. And if she can’t… well, I’m not sure if she carries some kind of protection on her like I do. I’ve never asked, because I didn’t want to shed light on mine.

  “Here,” I say, coming to a stop at the closest bench. She follows and takes a seat as commuters continue to walk past.

  “What is it?”

  I swing my bag down off my shoulder and set it next to her. She watches as I swift through it, shoving contents every which way inside the large opening. At last, my hand comes to rest on what I was looking for – my blade. I’ve stopped carrying it around in my sock the last few days, although I can’t quite say why. I think it has to do with Cohen, the distraction of something new with him and the fact that he makes me feel like I have my very own protector.

  I open my fingers, the familiar, compact chunk of stainless steel resting calmly in my palm. I hold it out to her. “I want you to have this.”

  She takes it from me. “What is this?” She examines it and then successfully flips it open, the blade taking her by surprise. She quickly tucks the blade away again so the people walking by won’t see.

  I swing my bag back onto my shoulder and sit down beside her. “I carried it on me while I was working at Sapphire.”

  She twirls it, noting its size. “Where?”

  I laugh. “Well, not while I was dancing. I couldn’t. But every other time I could. I’d take it out in the locker room and keep it there in case I needed it, then carry it with me again.” Now that I explained it to someone out loud, I realize the flaw in my plan. I guess the blade was there to make me feel better more than anything else.

  “Why didn’t I think of this? No one will fuck with me now.”

  I lower my head. “It might not help. I always hoped that it would, but I guess I was wrong.”

  Lorelei stills at the memory of my close encounter passing between us. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “No, you’re right, Stella. This was a good idea. Mama May always told us that the few minutes after we got off our shift were the most dangerous. Remember?”

  I lift a corner of my mouth in an appreciative smile. I don’t remember. That must have been something they were told before I was hired. Lorelei always makes me feel better though, and that fact warms me. “That’s true,” I say.

  “But Stella, I can’t take this from you. Really.” She tries to give it back to me.

  I hold up my hand. “Keep it. Seriously, Lorelei. You need it more than I do now.”

  “For real?”

  “For real.”

  She drops it into her own purse, and I hear it hit the bottom of the bag with a thud. “What would I do without you?”

  I give her that same bump of affection, but mine is gentler. “I ask myself the same thing.”

  “Don’t get all mushy on me.”

  We both smile.

  Then she stops. She spins and pulls something out of that same bag. I can’t see exactly what it is, but from here, it looks like a newspaper that’s been folded over on itself. She passes it to me, and I’m right – it is a newspaper, or part of one at least. It’s thin, so it must only be a few select pages. I watch as it unfurls in my hand, and the front page stops me dead.

  “This is why I wanted to get together,” she says. “I thought it was impo
rtant for you to know. You know, now that you two are a couple and everything.”

  I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. Cohen’s picture is looking back at me. Although the article is dated three years ago, he hasn’t changed much. I would have expected to see a formal picture, given his status in the community, but instead the one they chose shows him dressed down and holding a drink in one hand. His facial hair is slightly longer, too, giving him a more scruffy, rough around the edges appearance. That’s probably what the paper was going for, I think as I scan through the paragraphs below the photo.

  The headline reads: WOMAN DROWNS ALONG RT. 1

  A woman was found deceased after losing control of her car off the scenic Route 1 in Stonington. Brianna Sterling, 29, went down with her car after hitting an icy stretch of road.

  The article breaks at an inserted picture of a woman, the caption underneath which reads her name and age. She’s an attractive woman with long, wavy blonde hair. In the picture, she smiles from ear to ear, and she’s obviously hugging someone next to her who the newspaper has cropped out.

  Brianna Sterling. I repeat the name in my mind.

  Shit. This woman looks perfectly normal, like any of the hundreds who I pass on the way to work every day. She could have been me.

  Business mogul Cohen Thatcher, of Thatcher Industries, is said to have attempted to save the woman after stumbling upon her vehicle in Sunday’s early morning hours. Thatcher is under investigation for the incident, although blood alcohol levels came back under the legal limit.

  My eyes dart back to the largest picture, the one of Cohen. “How did I miss this?” I whisper.

  “What?” Lorelei asks.

  “Nothing,” I respond.

  She tilts her head, trying to get a better look at me since I refuse to lift mine. “Did you know about this?”

  I take a breath, filling my lungs with frigid air, and sit up. “I did.” I re-roll the article. “He told me about it.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing he’s honest,” she says gently, but I detect her disapproval.

  “What do you mean?”

  Her shoulders shrug under her heavy winter coat. “Some people say he was involved.”

  Involved? Maybe that part of his dream was true, after all. “Involved how?” Relax. She can’t know if Cohen caused it or not. Maybe she’s talking about the fact that he tried to help her, not knowing that I already read it.

  “Well, there was an investigation into what happened that night, and a lot of the investigation involved him. I don’t know any more than that. They didn’t release many details.” Her voice changes. “Stella, the reason I’m telling you all this is because I don’t want you to get hurt. Something could come up from his past that could hurt you. You know that, right?”

  I look back down at the paper, my eyes settling once again on the heavy words. “And where did you get this?” is my only response.

  “Remember how I said it was common knowledge around here who he was?”

  I point to the paper. “So this is common knowledge, too, is that what you’re saying?” My anger grows at the thought of Cohen’s name being slandered over an attempted good deed.

  “Not as much, but yeah. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

  All at once, I stand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to go.” I hold up the article. “Thanks for this. We’ll get together again soon, okay?” I start to hurry away. “Call me.”

  “Okay,” she replies, slowly waving, the disappointment thick in her voice.

  She’ll just have to deal with it for now. There’s something I have to do.

  “Here you go, Stella,” says one of my coworkers. She passes me a file, and inside is a single sheet of paper which contains nothing more than a phone number and an address.

  I weakly smile. The address is for a home in New London, close to Stonington. This looks right. It took most of the workday for someone to fish this information up for me, but it’s exactly what I was looking for. I’m just surprised it didn’t take longer. “Thanks so much. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

  My coworker nods and then excuses herself, closing the door quietly behind her. I check the clock. It’s almost time for me to get out of here. I tuck the file under my arm, gather the rest of my things, and hurry out.

  Cohen’s house is even nicer when the snow has melted. The impeccable landscaping is more apparent, and the true nature of the place can better be observed. Inside, he takes me in his arms, kneading my back for a second while inhaling the scent of my hair.

  Gently, I pull away. I have to approach this delicately. “Cohen,” I start, retrieving the manila folder and playing with it.

  When his eyes fall on the folder, he stops, as though he’s almost fearful. “What’s that?”

  It can’t go this way. I don’t want him to approach this with negativity. I want him to accept this. “What makes you think it’s something so serious?”

  “You’re holding a manila folder. Only serious things come in manila folders.”

  I tighten my lips and nod. He’s right. “I guess I forgot who I was talking to.”

  “Yep. Thatcher Industries is manila folder central.” He stretches out his arm and gestures for me to hand it over. “Let’s have it.”

  I sit and he takes hold of it, but I don’t release my grip. “Before I give you this, you have to promise me you’ll hear me out. Okay?”

  He pulls harder.

  “Not until you promise,” I say again.

  “Okay, okay. I promise. Now hand it over before I die from anticipation.”

  Hesitantly, I release my hold. The folder slips out of my hand and passes into his.

  “Wait,” I say suddenly, slamming my hand on top of the folder. He looks up at me. “Wait. Actually, before you read this, you need to tell me the rest of the story. The whole story. The real one.”

  “Is that an obligation?”

  “No. It’s not. But I’d like you to.”

  He takes a breath, then places the folder next to him on the couch. “The story I told you – the parts in my dream – were based in reality. I did jump into the water to help her, but I didn’t even come close to getting her out.”

  I acknowledge him, allowing him to speak even though I know this already.

  “What you don’t know,” he goes on, “is that they investigated me for some kind of involvement in her accident.”

  “Actually, I knew that.”

  “You knew?”

  “I saw a newspaper article that briefly mentioned it. But I don’t know any more than that.”

  “That’s to be expected. They only released the barest details. Which was good, of course. For me.”

  “I imagine that it was,” I say softly. “And your business.”

  He nods in sad agreement, then lowers his head. “They never could figure out what exactly happened. Some said she ran into a patch of ice, and that she lost control first. Then there were others who said I ran into a patch of ice. It’s impossible for me to remember. Too much happened all at once, there was too much adrenaline, too much darkness, too much cold from all that damn water.”

  I sit back. Empathy warms me. Despite not being able to remember if it was his fault or not, the fact that he fought so hard to save her tells me that in the back of his mind, he might actually know.

  I glance at the folder, remembering the nondescript piece of paper it contains. Now, more than ever, I’m thankful for what I did. It’s obvious Cohen is ridden with guilt, not only around being unable to save her, but also potentially causing the accident in the first place. I won’t deny I hope that by him doing this, he finds that closure.

  He turns and, seeing me relaxed, can tell I’m not going to push it further. He reluctantly takes the folder, cups its spine in his hand so that it splays open, allowing the information to fall in front of him

  He reads it over in an instant and then says, “What is this?” He looks to me again, then ba
ck to the paper. “This is some random address and phone number. I don’t know what this is.”

  “You wouldn’t,” I say. “It’s… the address of Brianna Sterling’s husband. I tracked it down for you, so you could, you know, maybe call him up. Get some closure.” I continue to talk quickly so he doesn’t have a chance to interrupt. “Maybe you could give him some closure, too. It’s wasn’t exactly professional of me to track down that information, so I put my ass on the line for it, but–”

  “Shit, Stella.” I try to read him, but he’s suddenly turned into a blank book.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re mad.”

  He hasn’t looked away from the paper. “I’m not mad, I’m… shit. Stella,” he finally looks up, “I don’t think I can do this. I can’t just call him up, or show up at his house. That’s not how this works.”

  “Isn’t it, though? I thought getting some closure might help with your nightmares. It’s worth a shot, right?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not so sure it is.” He thinks, then lets out a laugh and puts the papers down. He rubs his face. I expect him to say more, the way he always does when one of us breaches this subject, now that we’re comfortable with each other. Instead, he’s speechless. Maybe I was wrong, after all. Maybe this was a mistake.

  I place my arm around him and lean in. A tear falls, absorbed by his shirt. “Please just try,” I say.

  He looks down at me with those eyes. The deep brown ones, the ones that always seem to know all about me. He strokes my cheek and finishes wiping away the tear. “This means this much to you.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He knows this means this much to me. He breathes in. “Okay. If it means this much to you, then I’ll do it. I’ll try to do it.”

  I smile weakly. I’m glad he’ll try, but the weight of what it’s all about keeps me from being truly happy. He knows this. I know he does.

  Sure enough, he takes me by the shoulder and pulls me closer.

  COHEN

  “Please,” Troy Sterling says. “Come in. Take a seat.”