Robert takes my elbow, gentle yet firm. “I consider you a friend.”
“Don’t get mushy,” I warn.
He smiles, subtle and knowing. “So take my advice. Go see your mother. You don’t have to agree with her, or even forgive her. But offer her the chance to…” his voice fades out as his attention is pulled somewhere else—his eyes lose focus and a shadow passes over them at the thoughts brewing behind his gaze.
“A chance to what?” I ask, my voice low, almost a whisper.
He returns his focus to me. “I was going to say to know you, but maybe that’s asking too much. She fought for you, though. She braved a lot to try to find you. My wrath, her own fear, Isis.”
“She’s crazy, like I said. I’m sure she thought God had her back.”
“That kind of faith can be admirable.”
“It’s dangerous.”
Robert nods, his eyes soft and thoughtful. “Yes, Sydney. Your mother is dangerous. And her surviving this wound is evidence to a lot of people that she is chosen by God to spread her message. A message of equality for women. Of revolution. A message you agree with. Your mother could be useful to you in the future.”
I frown. “There is always an angle with you,” I accuse.
Robert shrugs, releasing my elbow. “There are many angles to any issue. Forgiving your—”
I cut him off. “I’ll never forgive her.” Sharp anger cuts through the sadness.
Robert takes a step back. “She’s changed. And so have you. Open yourself to the many possibilities the world offers, and you will find the one that best suits you.” He steps away, headed for his desk.
“You sound like a Hallmark card.”
Robert laughs. “Do you want me to drive you tomorrow?”
“What?”
“To the rehabilitation center.”
“I didn’t say I would go.” I follow him toward his desk.
He rounds it and sits in his chair before looking up at me. His eyes are blank, unreadable. “But you will go see her. It’s important for more than just you. Sydney, it is your responsibility to connect with her, to help guide this movement that you started.”
My mouth opens and closes. I’d just gotten used to the idea that I had to help lead Joyful Justice. “I’m not helping lead a religious movement I don’t believe in.” He’s crazy.
Robert’s lips tighten. “I’m not suggesting you start giving speeches or making sermons. Just that you speak to your mother.”
“I’d rather give a sermon than do that.” Anger burns my throat, and I turn quickly, facing the door, my feet swiftly moving toward it, Blue at a heel and the other dogs leaping up to join us.
“I’ll drive you tomorrow then,” Robert says, his voice soft and assured.
I turn back to him, tears welling in my gaze. I shake my head, but he’s not looking at me. Robert’s gaze is on his computer, his eyes following text. He’s won this argument somehow.
I knock on the door of my mother’s room, my hands tightly clenched. I don’t want to be here. Blue taps his wet nose to my coiled fist, offering comfort and strength. My breath eases out.
Robert stands behind me, his phone in his hand, reading something, as if this is all so casual. No big deal—I’m just going to see my crazy mother who almost died.
“Come in,” she says.
I swallow the fear trying to climb its way up my throat and turn the handle, pushing into her room, Blue tight to my side, Robert remaining in the hall. My mother stands by the bed with her back to me as she packs things into a small duffel.
Mom’s thin shoulders move slowly, the sharp angles of her bones visible through the blouse she wears, making her look frail, almost on the verge of breaking…or maybe just clawing her way back from broken.
I don’t say anything, but rather just stand there watching her. My heart beats wildly in my chest as memories swirl across my vision: my mother’s gentle touch when I was little; how red her face turned when she drank during my teenage years; the anger, despair, and disgust in her eyes after James’s death.
The gun gripped in her hands. Her dress, crusted in blood and dirt, the way her eyes shone with light on the battlefield in Syria.
The way she dropped to her knees, dust puffing up around her…the cadence of her voice as she told me I was a miracle, proof of God’s righteousness, brought back to life to spread a message.
“Is the car here, Claire?” My mother turns to me with brows raised in question as the door clicks shut behind me. Her mouth drops open as her eyes land on me.
“Joy,” she breathes, her voice barely a whisper…practically a prayer.
“It’s Sydney,” I remind her.
She nods. “Of course.” Mom steps forward, her movements inelegant, faltering.
She looks older, as if time has taken a blade and twisted it in her gut, speeding up the inevitable. The lines on her face are deeper, cheeks sunken, and silver dominates her hair. Her body is bent over, being pulled toward the grave, but her eyes are still the same mercury gray as mine—they have that same glow to them—her strange and unshakable faith shining through.
“I’m so glad you came,” she says, reaching out for me.
I don’t want her to touch me.
Side stepping, I avoid her outstretched hand. She pauses, her mouth pulling down into a frown as her hands twine together, holding each other because they can’t hold me.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why I came here. My eyes flicker to the closed door. “Where are you headed?” I ask, my voice coming out stilted and strange. Blue’s nose taps my thigh in support.
Mom clears her throat, forcing a smile onto her lips. “I’ve rented a place in town and plan to spend some time resting…I have outpatient rehab. Then I’ll be getting back out on the road.”
“On the road?”
“Yes, of course.” Her voice rises. “I will continue to spread Her message.” She raises her hands to her stomach–to one of the places where she was shot. “This was just a test. But I survived. Clearly, I am meant to press on.”
“Are you sure? Maybe it’s a sign to shut up.”
Mom just shakes her head, her smile growing broader. “No, this has brought even more attention to our cause. I am her.”
I am her is the saying of those who follow the “her” prophet.
"Yeah, well, Mom,”—disdain drips off each word—"I am your daughter."
That makes her smile. Which wasn't the goal.
She takes a step forward, her eyes widening. She’s going to try to touch me again. "Yes, exactly. We are mother and child. Our bond is unbreakable."
"You have so much faith, don't you? Faith God has chosen you. Faith you're on the right path. Faith I will forgive you."
She shakes her head. "I have faith but not in the way you make it sound. It is not some simple, easy thing for me."
"It was easy for you to throw James out. Like he was nothing. Like he didn't matter." Tears suddenly choke my voice, and I hate them.
She flinches as if I’ve slapped her. Her eyes well and redden with emotion. She shakes her head again. "That was not easy." Her voice is quiet and sharp. As if she's trying to explain something to me, but the words don't even exist.
"Yeah, well, you didn't make it look hard." My whole body is tingling. This is the fight we've needed. These are the words I’ve needed to say to her.
"I was wrong." Her voice is so quiet now that I barely hear her.
"You should say that more proudly,” I tell her. Because it's true.
"I am weak. Like so many others."
"Yeah, you are." Disgust burns in my gut and I turn, headed for the door, Blue pressing against my leg, but Mom jumps forward and grabs my arm. I yank it free, and Blue lets out a soft growl of warning. Mom stumbles, almost falling, but I reach and catch her.
My fingers wrap around her thin biceps—there is hardly anything between my hand and her bone. She is weak.
Tears burn my eyes, and I can't seem to sto
p them from leaking out. She looks up at me, and tears are streaming down her face, too. "I'm so sorry,” she says.
"You should be. You should be sorry for the rest of your life. You don't deserve to know me."
She's steady on her feet, so I let go of her. But I don't make another run for the door. I want to hear her admit it. Admit that I'm better than her. That I was right and she was wrong.
"I understand why you're angry. You have every right to be. But I still want a relationship with you."
"And why does what you want matter more than what I want?” My voice is quiet, lowering to meet hers.
She cringes away from me but does not retreat.
"It's what you want, too.” She says it as if she knows me. As if we have some kind of relationship where she can tell me my feelings.
My hands are shaking, and I curl them into fists to get them to stop. Blue’s wet nose brushes against one balled hand, giving me strength. “You don't know me,” I remind her.
"We believe the same things now, Sydney. We are fighting for the same cause." Her gaze finds mine, and I don’t look away.
"You are a liar. And a fool. And your faith makes you blind and stupid."
"Your refusal to believe in anything makes you dangerous and sad." She stands a little taller, knowing she's hit something in me. A soft spot. Something she can push against that will give.
I spent years making myself hard, in both body and mind. And yet, Mom can always find the weakness in my armor.
I shouldn't have come. This was all a mistake.
Again, I turn for the door, determined this time to get away from her. "Wait,” she says, but I don't. I pull on the handle, and the door cracks open.
"Why did you come here?" my mother asks, her voice edging on desperate.
I turn and look over my shoulder. She’s standing there in her too-big blouse, with her fragile body and her crazy eyes. "I came here because someone convinced me I should try and work on a relationship with you. Because you're my mother. But that's not you. Not anymore. You're just a ghost from my past. My mother died along with my father. And then I died along with my brother. There is no family left here. Just two strangers in a room who don't even like each other."
I rip open the door and storm out, Blue tight to my side. Robert is sitting in one of the waiting chairs out front, and he stands as I head for the elevator. He doesn't speak as I jab the button repeatedly. He just stands behind me, his presence calm and steady.
"This was a mistake,” I say, fighting to keep the tears out of my voice.
"No, it wasn’t.” He says it like he knows me. Like he has some rights over me. No one controls me. I clench my jaw so I won't scream at him. So I won't tell him to mind his own damn business.
The elevator doors open, and we step in. Blue sits by my side, and I look over at Robert. He's staring at me with that blue-green gaze of his—so cold and strong.
"She's a crazy bitch. And all I did was get upset."
"Sometimes we need to get upset to realize what's important to us."
"Oh, shut up."
"You can hit me if you want." His voice is a low rumble. A challenge?
"What?" I snap at him. I do want to hit something. Anything, anyone…except my own mother. I don't want to beat up on some weak old lady.
"Go ahead, hit me. It might make you feel better." He’s not smiling, not giving me any clue if this is a joke or what.
The doors open onto the lobby, and I turn to him before walking out. "Nothing is going to make me feel better, Robert. Nothing but forgetting that she even exists. I'd be better off if she died."
I walk out, and Robert follows Blue and me, his strides long and steady. "Maybe you would be, but would the world?"
"Oh shut up,” I say again, realizing I’m repeating myself. But I’m more angry than sad now, and that’s something. That’s something good. I can use anger. Sadness is quicksand—I sink in and stay sunk, useless and immobile.
Gathering the anger around myself like a shield, I step out into the bright Miami day. I’m going to find someone to strike. There are injustices far greater than my pathetic war with my mother. Watch out, bad guys. I’m coming for you.
Chapter Twelve
Lenox
“You’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Petra pouts. She holds a glass of red wine by its stem, twirling it slowly. Her nails are painted the same dark burgundy as the Châteauneuf du Pape. My favorite.
I give her a warm smile and reach out for her free hand. “I can come back soon.”
“Good,” she nods. “But what about Joyful Justice? You never answered me.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if this has been a hard decision for me. “I can’t decide. Please, tell me more about what they are asking for, what they are claiming you’ve done.”
“Not me,” Petra says quickly. “I’m not on their radar.” How wrong she is…
“So, this is the McCain brothers you are trying to protect. And what would you have me do exactly?”
“We are forming a coalition…to stop them. We already have people in place.” Petra leans back, a satisfied smile coming onto her lips. I raise my brows, silently encouraging her to go on. But she shakes her head. “I can’t tell you anymore until you agree to join me.”
“But I can’t do that until you tell me more details.” I open my palms. This is obvious. “I’m a businessman, Petra, not a fighter. Joyful Justice has shown me no ill will.”
“But it is only a matter of time,” she protests, her voice going high.
“Have you taken action against them?” I ask. She drops her gaze but does not answer. And that is answer enough.
“Come,” I say. “Let us talk of other things. Enjoy our last evening together.”
Petra brings her eyes back to mine and gives me a warm smile. “Yes, lets.”
Later, once she is asleep, I draw my arm from where it rests at her waist and slip from under the silk sheets. Naked, I ease from the room in silence, headed toward my guest room. Goosebumps rise on my bare skin as the cool night air wraps around me.
Once in my own space, I dress in exercise clothing and lace up my trainers. I must check that dungeon in the woods.
The mansion is quiet except for the wind blustering at the windows, and I arrive at Petra’s office without seeing another soul. Moonlight spills in from the windows, lighting the room with its blue cast.
The mother of pearl box is where I last saw it. The beautiful object is smooth and cold against my fingers. I remove the key from its bed of velvet and slide it into my pocket, replacing the box and starting for the back door.
The sound of light footsteps freezes me in the study. Turning quickly I rush to the glass doors, which open to the garden and then beyond to the expansive yard bordered by the pitch-black forest.
“Lenox?” Petra’s voice stops me on the threshold.
I look back into the room at her. Green eyes glitter in the darkness as she holds her robe closed against the cold breeze blowing in.
Do I lie?
“What are you doing?” Her voice is as cold as the night and sharp as a blade. She will not believe me.
“Going for a walk. Would you like to join me?”
She frowns deeply. “Liar.” Moving toward a side table where a phone sits, she picks up the handset. I do not wait to hear who she calls. Turning to the night, I dash over the loose, white stones of the garden, bursting through the topiaries, hitting the yard at a full run.
The night envelops me, but the moon betrays me as it glows bright enough to see each blade of grass. The black line of trees promises sanctuary, and I run toward it.
The grass, wet with dew, soaks my sneakers and barking in the distance urges me forward. The rumble of an ATV engine joins the other sounds of pursuit as I hit the forest and begin to dash through the trees.
I leap a fallen log. I can just make out the entryway to the dungeon. The pale stone archway, with its moss-covered wooden door, glows softly under the
moonlight.
The shouting grows louder. Do they know where I’m headed?
I veer off my path. The chances of the girl being there are slim—we’re a very long way from Texas. And, in any case, there is no time to save her now. I’ll have to come back. But as I sprint through the trees, branches whipping my face and lancing cuts into my skin, the key to the dungeon bouncing in my pocket with each stride, I know I must go back to find out for sure. If she’s their prisoner, they will move her or change the lock—I’ll lose my chance if I don’t do it now.
I’m thus pulled toward the dungeon, first my eyes and then my shoulders, followed by my waist and hips. My hand reaches out and grabs a tree trunk, spinning me around to face the prison. Then I’m sprinting toward it—toward that softly glowing beacon among the trees.
I skid to a halt in front of the dungeon and yank the key from my pocket, fitting it into the lock with unsteady hands. The deadbolt thunks back and I rip the door open, my eyes taking in only charcoal black—the darkness impenetrable.
I step in, closing the door behind me, and grope along the wall for a light switch. One quick flip and a caged bulb in the ceiling glows into a dull yellow. I’m in an anteroom; there is a shorter door with a bolt across it and a narrow barred window in front of me.
I hear scuffling on the other side.
“I’m here to help you,” I say.
More scuffling but no response. I pull the bolt back and ease open the door. We don’t have much time, but I must be careful—whoever is in there will be traumatized, and getting them to trust me is vital.
The pale light from the single bulb casts my shadow into the cell, long and wide and dark.
A figure presses against the far wall, black hair a tangled mess, eyes bright and wide with terror. “Stay back!” She holds out a bloody palm to warn me off. Her English is accented with a Texas twang. It really is George’s sister, Elsa!
Betray the Lie Page 10
