Her brow furrows, and she sits back, her hand releasing mine in a jerk. "You don't trust me?"
I keep my expression flat and my eyes on hers. "I trust you, Petra. I don't trust the McCain brothers. Their reputation is not clean.”
"I know them. I've known them for years."
I suck my lower lip between my teeth and worry it, as though I'm being torn here, as if I can't decide whether to help her or not.
"Risking my business, my customers and the men who work for me, is a big request. Will you share more information with me?”
Petra's eyes darken. “I understand that I am asking a lot, but this will do you good in the end. We must take down Joyful Justice if we want to continue to live our lives.”
I don't respond, sipping my coffee instead. She ignored my question.
Petra turns to her toast and crunches on it. Silence fills the breakfast nook. Moments later, her maid appears with a plate of eggs and bacon for me. She knows me well. Has she guessed I’ve betrayed her? Or does she believe I will join her?
Chapter Ten
Dan
I wake up to the sound of silence. There is nothing in my room—not even the soft hum of my computers. I shut them down, to finally get some sleep.
Anita insisted.
The memory of her sitting on my bed, long shimmering hair draped over one shoulder, flashes across my closed eyes. "If you don't sleep, Dan, I'll have to kill you,” an indulgent smile playing on her lips as she tucks in the sheets around me.
How long did I sleep? I reach over for my phone, but its screen is dark. I close my eyes again as it reboots. There is so much to do…
My phone vibrates, letting me know it’s back online.
I slept four hours.
Better than nothing.
I climb out of bed and pull back the curtains. It's dawn; the sun sits at the waterline, shimmering off the restless ocean and reflecting off the few clouds in sprays of pink, peach, and orange.
All communication between the island and the outside world is shut down—except for Anita and me, who still have access. It’s a small protection and gives me a little room to breathe. But we are not safe.
All missions are on hold, until I can figure out what's going on.
Leaving the window, I head into the sitting room of my three-room suite, turning on my computers and starting the coffee maker before hitting up the bathroom.
The florescent lights flicker on, and I grab my toothbrush. Glancing at my reflection, I pause, struck by how old I look. There are crinkle lines around my eyes that weren’t there last year, flashes of silver in the blond stubble lining my jaw, and a slight slump to my shoulders. I straighten, forcing myself to stand tall so I can see the outline of my muscles under my shirt. I’m still strong. Maybe stronger than ever.
I hold my own gaze—bloodshot, pale green eyes stare back at me. Shaking my head, I turn on the tap and brush my teeth, keeping my eyes on my phone, flicking through my apps, checking for messages and alerts. All is quiet.
I'll head down to the command center soon, but there are some personal things I want to do first. Some tension-relieving work.
A cup of coffee in hand and my passwords entered, I settle in across from my computer at the desk I keep by the living room window. First, I check on my mother. It's evening in New Jersey, just about dinner time.
Her Alexa streams play across my screen, the sound waves moving up and down in spurts and starts. She's watching TV. Or at least has it on. It seems she always does. That's not unusual, using a device as a friend.
My mother has three Alexa units. I gave them to her. The one in the kitchen captures the clatter of dishes. She's making dinner.
"Hello, honey," she says in the sing-songy voice she uses for the cats. "You want some?" she asks.
A heavy hand squeezes my heart, and I turn off the sound, closing my eyes for a moment. I spend so much time trying to make the world a better place, and yet what can I do for my mother? I'm sacrificing her for some illusion of greater good.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
This is not the time to question my life. It is a time to find out who is trying to destroy it.
Opening my eyes, I sip my coffee and change screens. Black and white CCTV footage fills my monitor. I have six cameras in Mulberry's apartment. He and his ex-wife, Sandy, moved in together soon after he recovered from his injury, and I keep track of him. For his own good and ours. If his memories come back, we need to know. If one of our enemies goes after him, we need to know.
Sandy is sitting at the dining room table. Her blonde head rests in her hands. At her elbow, a half-empty wine bottle sits next to her full glass. Her shoulders are shaking. She's crying.
What happened?
I pull up the recorded files, switching from the live stream, and begin to watch the day in reverse. Sandy backing up into the kitchen, pouring the wine back into the bottle, and closing it. I check the time stamp as she walks backward out the door—she got home from work at her normal time. But Mulberry wasn't there. Strange, but not alarming enough to explain the crying.
Time continues to rewind.
The house sits empty all day, where is Mulberry?
He's usually in and out. Heading to physical therapy, to the local café. He lives this incredibly awesome normal life where he works out and goes to the library and reads the paper. Last time I spoke to him he mentioned they might be getting a cat. A cat.
Not knowing who he was, what he fought for, gives him a special kind of freedom. A part of me envies him while another pities his memory-deprived existence.
But maybe he woke up.
The day passes in reverse and morning comes, and there he is, storming into the house backward, a duffel in his hand, his shoulders braced. He left. The footage keeps going, and he strides to his bedroom, ripping clothing out of the duffle, his jaw set into a hard line.
Where is Sandy?
She runs out of the bathroom, face in her hands, sobbing. She ran in there crying. They had a fight.
She is begging him. And he is speaking quietly, his movements so hard—every line of his body stiff—as firm as his prosthetic leg. Time keeps reversing, and then I see him wake up. I see his eyes pop open that morning.
I pause the footage, zooming in. The image is grainy and hard to make out, but it seems like he...remembered.
I let time proceed at its normal pace and in the traditional direction—forward—Mulberry sits up and looks around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. His gaze landing on Sandy, who sleeps peacefully next to him.
Mulberry puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. His shoulders shake for a moment as if he is crying.
God, it must all have come back to him.
We knew this was a possibility. Perhaps even an inevitability.
My hand is gripping the mouse. I'm on the edge of my seat.
There's a knock at the door, pulling my attention from Mulberry's shaking form to the front door of my suite.
I click over to a blank screen and put the computer to sleep before standing. Checking the video monitor by the door, I see it's Anita. She looks relaxed, her hair shiny with wetness, like she just got out of the shower. Opening the door, I smile at her.
"I hope I didn't wake you," she says in that accent of hers—the cool confines of a British boarding school mixed with the evocative lilt of a childhood in India.
I shake my head. "Been up for a bit. Come on in. You want coffee or anything?"
She nods and enters, the scent of her mint and rosemary shampoo coming with her.
"Anything going on I need to know about?” I ask, crossing the living room to the coffeemaker.
"I want to reopen communication. People are getting antsy."
"You know that's far too dangerous." I refresh my cup and then turn to her, asking with a raised brow if she wants the same. She nods.
I pour her a coffee, adding sugar and cream just the way she likes. Anita sits o
n my couch, and I bring her the mug, sitting down next to her.
"It's not fair to punish everyone."
"Anita, you're being unrealistic, and you know it." I sip my coffee, watching her. She's not making eye contact. Something else is going on here.
"What is it?" I ask her.
She cocks her head, eyes narrowing. “By putting everyone under suspicion, by saying no one can talk to their family or friends, we are making them all into suspects. And when you start to make everyone a suspect, you risk the possibility of turning them all into enemies. Besides, don’t you think if we open the lines then maybe we can catch something? A call coming in? Something?”
I sip my coffee, watching her. She holds my gaze, her large brown eyes wide and sincere. “So you’re suggesting we let them believe we trust them, while in reality turning them all into suspects?”
She blushes and turns away.
"Let's give it a few more hours. See if anything turns up on the scans of our systems. If no one tries to breach anything then I'll open communication to phone calls only."
Anita smiles. “All right, that works. Want help listening in?”
“I’ll need it.”
“Great.” She puts her cup down on the coffee table and moves to stand.
"One more thing," I say and she turns back to me. "I think Mulberry remembered."
Her jaw loosens in surprise, and she drops back into the couch. "My God, what makes you think that?"
I'm not going to tell her about the surveillance. She doesn't need to know.
"I have my reasons."
She shakes her head, a smile on her lips. She knows my ways. "I'm going to call Sandy,” I say, “and see if I can confirm it.”
"Okay, do you want me to call Sydney and the rest of the council?"
"I think we can wait until communication is back open. We don't need to alarm anyone. And I want to make sure that I’m right.”
Anita's expression darkens. "Hiding it from them doesn't serve anyone."
"We're not hiding it from them, Anita." I close my eyes, exhaustion washing over me. "But we have enough to worry about without unsubstantiated rumors.”
When I open my eyes again, Anita is staring at me, her gaze stormy. "This isn't some little thing. Mulberry helped found Joyful Justice. None of us would be here without him.”
"I know that.” I say it more sharply than I mean to and she flinches. "I'm sorry, I'm tired. I just don't want to get everyone upset."
"They'll be more upset if you don't tell them, Dan. I know you like to keep things quiet, keep everything under your control. But this is different. You need to be open about what's happening here, and about what's happening with Mulberry."
"You're right,” I say, running a hand through my hair and looking toward the window behind her for a moment before meeting her eyes again. “I’m sorry." Her features soften. "I'll call Sydney after I confirm what’s going on, and then we can tell everyone else.”
"Good."
Anita stands and I move with her, walking toward the door. She opens it and then turns back to me, half in the hall. “See you down in the command center.” I nod and she walks away, the door swishing almost silently shut behind her, the lock clicking automatically into place.
Taking my coffee, I return to my computer and switch back over to the surveillance of Mulberry's house. Or at least what was Mulberry's house until this morning.
Sandy is still sitting at the dining room table. Except her glass is now empty, and she's no longer crying. Just sitting there, staring off into space.
I open a new window and check Mulberry’s credit cards—nothing so far today. Next I log into his online banking. He withdrew $1500 in cash. I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen. He knows I’m watching.
I dial Sandy’s number, it rings on my end, and a moment later Sandy starts, sitting up quickly and turning toward the kitchen. She swipes at her eyes, just staring at the door for a moment before standing up slowly…carefully. She’s had more wine than she is used to.
Sandy passes into the kitchen and stops in front of the phone on the counter, her head bowed as she stares at it. Pick up.
Taking a deep breath, she grabs the handset and pushes the on button. "Hello?" Her voice is ragged, and she keeps one hand resting on the counter, shoulders hunched.
"Sandy, it's Dan."
"Oh," she says. "Mulberry isn't here." Her voice sounds dead. Emotionless.
"Do you know when he'll be home?" I ask, hoping she'll tell me what happened. Hoping I won't have to press.
"I don't know if he's coming back, Dan. He remembered some things." Her voice raises, an edge of anger sharpening her tone. Her shoulders straighten out, and she clears her throat before continuing. "He remembered some things that made him have to leave."
"I'm sorry to hear that,” I say quietly.
"He's not answering my calls." The edge of anger shifts into pain again…there are tears in her voice. She lets go of the counter and covers her eyes as her shoulders hunch forward again. "Why didn't you just tell him whatever it is he’s now remembering? Ease him back rather than having it come in a rush?" Her voice squeezes off into a sob.
I take a deep breath, my heart loud in my ears. “I’m sorry, Sandy. Maybe that would have been better.” Shit.
“Fuck you.” Her rage is fast and quick. “You said you were his friend, but you’re not. None of you are.” She brings the phone down and pushes the button, disconnecting our call. Sandy places the phone back on the counter and puts her hands on either side of it, bracing herself, head hanging down. I put my phone on the desk next to my keyboard and chew on my lip. Is she dangerous to us?
Sandy picks up the phone again and dials a number. When no one picks up, she turns it off, staring down at the handset. Her grip tightens on the phone, and suddenly she hurls it across the room. The plastic smashes into the fridge, pieces flying off before bouncing on the floor. Sandy is breathing heavily, her body shaking.
She turns and races back through her dining room, pausing at the front door for only a moment to slip on her shoes and grab her bag.
Then she’s out the door…out of my sight. I rub at the stubble on my chin and close my eyes, leaning back in my chair.
Sandy doesn’t know anything…but that doesn’t mean she can’t hurt us.
Chapter Eleven
Sydney
Merl drops me and my dogs off at Robert’s house, and I make my way through the garden, sucking in a deep breath of floral and salt-scented air as I wind along the path to the front door.
A guard named Jorge rustles in the brush, tilting his head to me. I nod back. Frank lets out a happy bark, and Blue silences him with a low growl. Will Frank ever learn? A smile crosses my lips as I silently hope he doesn’t.
The front hall smells of something delicious, and I make my way back to the kitchen. Jose is humming in front of the stove, a pan sizzling on the front burner.
“Smells good,” I say.
Robert’s chef turns, giving me a bright smile. In his fifties, with gray-streaked black hair, Jose is originally from Cuba. He braved the passage to America on a homemade raft at the age of seventeen and recently got his citizenship—Robert and I attended the ceremony. “Just onions in butter,” Jose says. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, and let gratitude well inside me. “Mr. Maxim wasn’t sure what time you’d be back. I thought you might like an omelet?”
I open my eyes and smile. “That would be so great. Thanks, Jose.”
His gaze falls to the dogs, focusing on Blue. “I saved him a chicken liver,” he says with a smile. Blue wags his tail as though he understands. Blue loves Jose, who is always saving him special treats and spoiling him. Blue deserves all the attention, but he has a new thickness around his belly Merl recently warned me needed to be watched. An older dog’s weight is very important for his health.
I refuse to think of Blue as older.
Footsteps in the hall draw my attention. Robert looms out of the darkness
into the bright lights of the kitchen. “Hey,” he says, “how did it go?”
“Fine,” I shrug.
A frown tugs at his lips, but he lets it go. Robert does not like being out of the loop.
“I need to speak with you about something.” There is a note in his voice that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. Whatever this is, it isn’t good.
“Okay,” I say.
Robert turns to Jose. “She can have her omelet in twenty.”
“Yes, sir,” Jose says as he opens the fridge.
I follow Robert to his office. He gestures to the loveseat and armchairs by the window. “What’s going on?” I ask. “The suspense is killing me.”
“Sit.” I do, my dogs fanning out, surrounding me in a comforting circle. Blue leans against my right leg, resting his head on my lap, Frank settles near my left foot, and Nila lies behind my chair. Robert takes a seat across from me. He settles back into the deep seat, his eyes holding mine. “Your mother—” My heart jumps into my throat, and I’m choking on it. Is she dead? “Is getting out of the rehab tomorrow.”
I swallow, relief washing through me. “Oh.”
“Do you want to see her?”
“No.”
He frowns, his eyes darkening with judgment.
“What?” I say, my voice rising.
“You may regret not knowing her one day.”
“I do know her. She’s a crazy bitch.”
His lips quirk up for just a moment as he laces his fingers across his stomach. “That doesn’t change the fact that she’s your mother—your only living family. One day she’ll be gone.” He pauses, his expression turning serious. “And you’ll be alone.”
I shake my head, trying to cast off the truth he’s speaking. “I’m already alone.”
“You’re not.” His voice comes out harsh, as though I’ve touched a nerve. His parents are gone.
“I’m sorry, but this is none of your business.” I stand quickly, knocking Blue back. He harrumphs his displeasure.
Robert rises slowly, unfolding from the chair: a predator revealing its true strength before striking for the kill. “We are friends now, Sydney, right?” The question comes out quiet—sincere—and all my anger evaporates, exposing the deep sadness thinking about my mother causes.
Betray the Lie Page 9
