by Tonya Hurley
“Spare me the piety, Agnes,” Frey snapped, removing his glasses and placing them on his desk. “Those stragglers outside aren’t there for you. They are out there for themselves. For the cameras. For the attention. For the parade. And once it passes, so will they, on to the next big thing, and you will be forgotten. That is, at best.”
Agnes stood up and backed out of the room, her eyes locked on Frey’s like a wary opponent. Neither blinked.
“Like they’ve forgotten Lucy?” Agnes said as she left. “You’re losing, Doctor. Did you ever consider that the parade might just be starting?”
3 Jesse gathered his things, zipped up his bag, and walked out of his hospital bedroom under his own power for the first time since he’d arrived. He was still sore. His head hurt every time he put his foot down, and the puncture wounds, mostly healed now, in his hands ached as he grabbed for the strap. He walked slowly, cautiously to the reception area to fill out his discharge papers and noticed a beautiful girl standing there in a vintage emerald green minidress and leggings, already waiting at the desk. “Agnes?”
“Jesse!” Agnes leaned in and held him tight. Jesse dropped his bag and hugged her back, with all the strength he had in him.
“I heard you were here,” he said, a worried tone is his voice, only vaguely aware of what had transpired since his arrival there.
Agnes looked at him sympathetically, sad for the time he’d clearly lost and things he’d missed while in the coma. Jesse had always been so on top of things, it was odd for her to see him look so fragile and uninformed.
“Yes, my mother is picking me up. Frey released me.”
Jesse raised an eyebrow and Agnes shrugged, seconding his skepticism.
“Cecilia?” he asked.
“She’s already out, against Frey’s wishes.”
Another skeptical expression crossed Jesse’s face, this time mixed with trepidation.
Agnes brushed a comforting hand along his cheek.
“You’re going home, Jesse. For a minute there we didn’t think you were going to make it. You’re alive. And you’re going home.”
“Lucy’s not,” he said.
“She’s bigger than life now, Jesse,” Agnes whispered. “No one can delete her. She’s forever. You understand?”
“Sorry, but it’s not a very comforting thought to me,” he said. “All I know is she’s dead.”
“She knew what you did for her, Jesse. We all did. She was the first one at your bedside when you were taken here.”
“She let her guard down because of me. They got her because of me.”
Jesse’s lip began to quiver.
“Miss Fremont,” the nurse said, calling her to the desk.
“Yes,” she said, taken aback by the charge nurse’s politeness.
“Everything seems to be in order. Doctor Frey has signed your paperwork. You’re free to go.”
Agnes took the paperwork and half expected the nurse to pull it back, but she didn’t. The nurse returned Agnes’s boho bag made of teal, red, and gold vintage carpet with leather straps, and then handed her a small box with her green turquoise, crystal, and gold gypsy jewelry—rings and bangles.
“Thanks,” Agnes said politely, glancing back over her shoulder at Jesse.
“Be careful out there,” the nurse said with a smile.
“Be careful in here,” she warned. “The lunatics are running this asylum.”
The nurse just smirked condescendingly.
“Your mother is waiting for you in the lobby downstairs.”
Agnes should have been cheered by that thought, but she wasn’t. She turned back to Jesse and gave him a soft kiss good-bye on the cheek.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Agnes said, some tears welling in her eyes. “Call me when you’re settled,” she said, putting on her jewelry-like armor—bangles up her arm and rings on almost every finger, some with more than one. She took out a black enamel brush with red, blue, and yellow roses on it, and brushed her long, gorgeous copper hair for the first time since she could remember.
“I’m not sure we should be together for a while, Agnes, any of us. We both know this is bullshit. Whatever reason we are being let go, it’s not an act of kindness. Frey won’t give up.”
“I’m not afraid,” Agnes said, throwing her brush back in her bag.
“Yeah, well, I’ve heard that before. You should be. We all should be.”
“Never. Not as long as we have each other,” Agnes insisted, kissing him on the cheek once more. “And we’ll always have each other, no matter what. I love you.”
Agnes smiled sweetly and headed for the elevator. She waited for it to arrive more patiently than she would have guessed, glancing back again at Jesse in relief, watching him finish up his paperwork, almost in disbelief that he was upright. He looked weak and frail to her, broken, and not just physically. Beyond his own trauma, it was obvious to her that Lucy’s death was weighing heavily on him. She felt for him. He appeared lost and vulnerable, like a widow grieving a longtime spouse. More than that, it seemed to her he felt responsible in some way. Much more. Neither he nor Lucy had ever discussed their relationship with her, but one thing was for sure. It was complicated. In so much as Jesse could love anyone, Agnes believed he loved Lucy.
There was definitely a practical side to it, she thought. Without Lucy neither of them would have existed, and vice versa—not in the way that they did. She remembered before she’d ever met Lucy that night in the church, she’d read about her on Byte, Jesse’s gossip blog. All her friends had. They dreamed secretly and not so secretly of being her, of having someone be so obsessively into them as Jesse was with Lucy that they could single-handedly make them a topic of conversation. A celebrity. Lucy and Jesse were a team, professionally, but it was the personal side that drove the entire thing, Agnes could now see. And this was at the heart of Jesse’s problem with Sebastian. Jesse was jealous of him. It was something Lucy had that he didn’t arrange and promote. Something bigger, which Lucy sensed right from the start. And apparently so did Jesse. The fact that his jealousy turned into resentment and skepticism was normal under the circumstances, but offering himself up like that against the vandals, sacrificing himself, was an act of pure unselfishness. He fought not just to save Lucy’s life, but also to prove his bona fides to her. His sincerity. His love. Now it was obvious to Agnes that he was blaming himself.
The elevator doors slid open and Agnes got in. She rode down to the lobby where her mother was waiting, as she’d been told.
“It’s about time,” Martha groused. “I’ve been standing around here for an hour.”
“Hello, Mother,” Agnes said snidely.
“Well, you got what you wanted, Agnes. I hope you make the most of it.” Martha took her firmly by the arm and tugged. The crowd noise from outside was nearly maddening as they approached the hospital exit. A swarm of people, mostly followers, nearly blocked the doorway, but the police were now out in full force and cleared a partial path to the curb for them.
As Agnes exited a loud cheer went up, of gratitude from people excited to see her but also thrilled to know that they must have played some part in her release. They threw rose petals at her feet, placed flower wreaths on her head, and slipped her notes. Pleas and wishes, and artful sacred heart milagros in every shape and size, were given to her, made for her. They reached for her, to take her hand, and she reached back for them.
“Thank you,” Agnes said as she passed her supporters. “I’m free because of you.”
“Crazy breeds crazy,” Martha groused resentfully. “You’re free because of me.”
The crowd parted for Agnes as she walked around her mother’s car to shouts of encouragement and solidarity. She grasped the door handle to open it and paused for a moment to survey the swelling crowd and to look up at the hospital building, to the very top. To the penthouse where she’d been held captive. In the window of the corner office she could barely make out the silhouette of a man. More shadow than substance. L
ooking down at the scene below him. At her.
She got in the car—beautiful, thoughtful, handmade gifts being thrown inside until the last second—and closed the door. Jesse was right. Frey was watching.
3 Cecilia puttered around her new pad restlessly. Moving from the tufted beige sofa to the modern kitchen to the pimped-out mini–recording studio that had been set up for her in one of the three bedrooms. She peeked out the living room window and was both relieved and surprised to find that there was no one on the street below. She was safe here, just as Less had promised.
She wasn’t used to this kind of luxury. Luxury of any sort, in fact, and it was making her uncomfortable. She flipped open the gleaming stainless steel–encased laptop and noticed a card sitting on the keyboard.
Life is short.
Enjoy,
Daniel
The note brought a smile to Cecilia’s face, the first one she could remember in a long while. Life is short. He had no idea how right he was or what he was getting himself into, she thought. Life might well be short. Especially in her case. And she still had a lot to do. As motivational maxims went this was as good as any. A call to action, both practical and now contractual as well. He’d made an investment in her, she concluded, and he needed to stay on top of it. The phone, furnishings, equipment, technology, apartment. It cost money. Lots of money. He was betting big on her.
A sudden and familiar wave of anxiety raced through her mind. The sort of feeling she used to get before Sebastian came into her life, whenever a big opportunity presented itself, be it a hot guy or a hot gig. Less was touching something deep inside of her. Something she’d buried. Her desire for success, for the big time. Here it was, offered to her on a silver platter. Where once she might have jumped into Less’s arms or into his bed for such an opportunity, for even the promise of it, she was now torn. Between who she was then, who she’d planned and struggled to be, and who she was now. A girl on a different kind of mission, on a different career path. Careers in the music business could be short, but not as short as the journey she was on.
Maybe it was the fact that he’d saved her from Frey that conjured up such deep feelings of gratitude and, if she were being honest with herself, affection. It was the same with Sebastian. He’d freed her too, but in a whole different way, and she was struggling not to imprison herself again. She felt herself slipping.
Cecilia sat down at the computer and booted it up. All the music software she knew by heart was preloaded. If there wasn’t any inspiration for her in this situation, in the conflicted feelings raging through her, she might as well hang it up.
She began to tinker at first, making random drum loops of beats. Building the track in her imagination from the bottom up. She’d had a song in her head for weeks now but getting it recorded was a whole different story. She teased out her feelings, her thoughts into separate rhythms, bass and melody, like strands of wool from a tangled ball of yarn. She grabbed her guitar and laid down a riff to add to her mix, fashioning each part into a whole.
Cecilia channeled what she was feeling for Sebastian and everything he meant to her. And her sadness and anger and pride at Lucy’s death. There were so many conflicting emotions to draw from about so many things. Her confusion about the future and the gratitude she was feeling for the media executive and for the crowds that had stood outside day and night on her behalf. The music flowed freely from her now, like blood from a wound. The beats were powerful; booming so loudly she worried her high-end neighbors might be disturbed from their night’s sleep. The keyboards and guitars were spare and dreamy, translating her feelings into an atmosphere of sound. It all came together quickly and organically, as the best songs always do.
Cecilia was bleeding from her heart now; it was pouring into the recording console drop by drop. It was the sound of her soul.
You are my agony.
You are my joy.
You are the part of me
They can never destroy.
No sooner had Agnes and Martha sped away then a shrill voice suddenly burst through Doctor Frey’s speakerphone.
“Doctor Frey, your call has come in.”
“Hello, Captain.”
“You called?”
“Yes, I wanted some explanation as to the release of Cecilia Trent. Are you in the habit of letting psychotic murderers walk the street?”
“It wasn’t my call,” Murphy said abruptly.
“But you didn’t fight it either?”
“No, I didn’t. I arrested her. We did our job. The evidence is thin.”
“That never stopped you before.”
“There are powerful forces at work on her behalf, Doctor. You understand how these things work.”
The sarcasm in the police captain’s voice was not lost on the doctor.
“And by powerful forces you mean Daniel Less?”
“He’s a billionaire media mogul with connections, Doctor Frey. And a colleague of yours, isn’t he?”
Like a good cop, Murphy was prodding. Frey was perturbed.
“He’s a pimp, Captain.”
Murphy let the characterization go unchallenged, as he had little use for either the doctor or the music man. But he was nevertheless curious about the rivalry, the adversarial relationship that existed between the two men. It was the first he was hearing of it.
“Pressure was put on and the judge signed the order. It’s out of my hands.”
“Unless she kills someone else.”
“It’s not clear to me that she killed anyone. And you weren’t beyond pulling strings to get her held at Perpetual Help instead of the jailhouse,” Murphy reminded him.
“She’s mentally ill. Observation and treatment was, and still is, the best course.”
“There were a lot of other fingerprints on that letter opener, Doctor. Some traceable to patients in your ward and at Born Again.”
“Are you implying something, Captain?”
“I don’t imply, Doctor. I deal with facts and the facts are contradictory,” he said.
“Aren’t they always?”
“All I’m saying is that Less, or whoever sprung her, did you a favor.”
“I’ll be sure to send a thank-you note.”
“You know, it’s not clear that preppy kid that was killed didn’t try to rape your other patient,” Murphy posited. “Maybe we were looking at the wrong girl.”
“I don’t find Ms. Fremont to be homicidal, Captain.”
“With all due respect, she had motive and she’s good with a blade, if you catch my drift. Any half-assed lawyer would get Cecilia acquitted in a heartbeat. Not to mention the pressure being put on by those groupies and news crews lining up outside the hospital.”
“So now we make our legal decisions based on public opinion? A lot of so-called witches got burned in town squares that way.”
“And sometimes it’s the townspeople that get burned,” Murphy said. “When they get in the way, create an embarrassment, cause too much of a fuss.”
Frey had been waiting for Murphy to connect him to the violence outside the hospital and the captain didn’t disappoint.
“Another insinuation, Captain? That situation had nothing to do with me. You should really try being more direct. Maybe some therapy would be helpful?”
“I’ll consider it, Doctor,” Murphy said sarcastically. “Know any good psychiatrists?”
Frey dismissed the jibe. “Back to the reason for this conversation, Captain. Cecilia is your problem now. Mark my words.”
“Thanks for the tip, Doctor Frey. Frankly, I don’t think the case will ever go to trial.”
“Finally, something I think we can agree upon, Captain. She won’t make it to trial.”
Hazel sat in the back of the class at the end of her final period, nearly dozing off until the phone in her oversize faux fox fur bag began to hum. She reached for it stealthily, while the teacher’s back was turned, punched in her security code, and tapped on her message list.
“Yay,” Hazel
whispered almost inaudibly as she read Agnes’s text.
It was short but sweet as could be: I’m home. Come cuddle.
Another girl sitting just behind glanced over at Hazel’s phone message and nodded to yet another classmate. Hazel had a weird feeling. She felt their eyes on her, but then that was nothing new these days. Her friendship with Agnes, her loyalty to her, had made Hazel a sort of pariah, not just in her classes but in the school. The other girls’ suspicion, Hazel had decided, wasn’t such a bad thing. In fact, it was oddly liberating for her. She no longer needed to seek their friendship or their approval. Invites to parties had stopped coming long ago, but whatever the impact on her social life, Hazel knew that Agnes was worth the sacrifice. She subscribed to the age-old axiom of life, of relationships and of parties: You dance with the one who brought you. And in this regard, Agnes was her life partner.
The bell rang but Hazel took her time leaving as the class and the school emptied out for the day. She texted Agnes back and returned a few e-mails, reached for her bag, slung it across her shoulder, and walked back toward the classroom door and out into the hall. She’d all but passed the last girls’ bathroom before the exit when she felt a sudden urge to pee. Her classmates, the two that sat behind her, were standing outside the door. They’d changed out of their Catholic school uniforms and penny loafers into tattered low-rise jeans and crop tops.
“You guys waiting?” Hazel asked politely.
“No, go ahead in,” one offered, even holding the door open.
“Thanks,” Hazel replied and stepped inside.
She entered the stall and relieved herself quickly, anxious to get home, change, and then go to Agnes’s place for some vegan grub and gossip. She walked over to the sink, washed her hands, dried them, and looked down into her bag, rummaging around for some lip gloss. As she brought it to her lips, she suddenly saw the reflection in the bathroom mirror of the two girls, standing right behind her. A little too close for comfort.
“Can I help you?” Hazel asked the two girls in the mirror.
