The Sweet Life #2: Lies and Omissions

by Francine Pascal

  “No, no—of course not.” Elizabeth put her hand on his arm. “I trust you, Bruce. I believe you.”

  Relief fell across his face, and Elizabeth felt guilty. All he wanted was her support. Why couldn’t she just give it to him—no questions asked?

  Bruce folded her into his arms for a hug and Elizabeth went, but stiffly. She couldn’t quite relax with his arms around her. The reporter in her would never stop asking questions. That’s just who she was.

  “Elizabeth…” Bruce said, and in that moment she knew he could feel her discomfort, too. Elizabeth had never been a good actress. She stepped away from his embrace.

  “I’m sorry, Bruce. This whole thing…I’m just so upset…for you. For both of us. It’s just so much to handle and I want to help you, but I feel so powerless about everything.”

  That part was the truth. She felt powerless to protect Bruce…if it turned out he was really guilty.

  “If we could only find out who this girl is, then I’m sure we could get to the bottom of it,” Bruce said. “Have you found any new leads?”

  Elizabeth cleared her throat. “No, and that’s partly why I’m so frustrated. I’m going to work on it today.” The lie came so easily. Since when had she become so good at lying? Elizabeth never used to lie, hardly even white lies. Yet ever since these allegations had surfaced, she’d turned into a habitual liar. Lies, she realized, were more addictive than potato chips. She started with one and had to keep going with another, and another, and another. She wondered if she’d ever be able to stop.

  “I’m going to work on it today,” Elizabeth promised.

  “Okay,” Bruce said, but a sliver of doubt remained in his eyes.

  During the car ride home, both were silent, lost in their own thoughts.

  Chapter Twelve

  Elizabeth asked Bruce to drop her off at her car, parked at the newspaper’s lot. She promised him she would do more digging on his case. That, for a change, wasn’t a lie. She needed to find out more about Robin. After speaking with the girl, she’d gotten more details about her work history before she was hired at the Patman Foundation. Pretending to be Laura Christer, the concerned therapist, she’d gotten Robin to talk about when she’d moved to L.A. two years ago.

  Born and raised in small-town Kentucky, Robin had moved to Los Angeles in hopes of working in films. She’d been a creative artist-type back home and decided she wanted to use her talents in film. She wasn’t sure how, though. Creating PR posters, perhaps, or even working on art direction. She came without a definite plan and just hoped everything would work out—like so many hopeful people who flooded L.A. every year.

  Robin’s first job had been as a nanny to a family in Malibu with two girls, ages five and three. Elizabeth hadn’t had any luck tracking them down yet, since they’d moved to Italy, but she did have a reference letter that Robin showed her, sent via e-mail. It seemed to check out.

  After that, Robin got a job working for Filmart as a secretary. Robin said she’d hoped to just get her foot in the door at a production studio, even if it was just answering phones.

  Elizabeth drove to Burbank, where Filmart Studios rented their offices. She formed her cover story as she went. The last thing she planned to do was introduce herself as a reporter from the L.A. Tribune investigating the Bruce Patman scandal. Instead, she just made up another story: She was thinking about hiring Robin for a freelance job and just happened to be in the neighborhood, so decided to drop in and check her references in person.

  Robin’s boss, the Filmart office manager, seemed happy enough to chat about her. He was a slightly overweight man in his forties. Even though he worked at a movie studio, it wasn’t every day a pretty blonde took the time to ask him such detailed questions.

  Elizabeth found with a little smile and nod of encouragement, Larry volunteered Robin’s whole story.

  “She was great,” he said. “Nice girl. Dependable. Always came in on time. Was happy to work overtime, too.”

  “Did she like being a secretary?”

  “Well, I knew she wanted to work on films,” he said. “She was a graphic designer or something.”

  So far, Elizabeth thought, everything Robin had said checked out. She hadn’t found a single inconsistency yet.

  “Why did she leave?”

  “That’s personal information I couldn’t give you even if I did know, which I don’t. I haven’t seen her since she had that internship this past summer. After that she quit.” He sat down behind his own desk.

  Elizabeth leaned forward.

  “Last I heard from her was just after she did that internship at the Patman Foundation. She called up crying one morning.”

  “Crying?”

  “Yeah, really upset. She said she couldn’t tell me what happened, but she said she was quitting.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, July, I think.”

  That would’ve been around the same time Robin claimed Bruce had attacked her. Elizabeth swallowed.

  “What do you think happened?”

  Larry shrugged. “Maybe she broke up with her boyfriend? Who knows. But she said she was really sorry but it was personal and she couldn’t go into the details.”

  Elizabeth felt the knot in her stomach grow. Robin had said she’d felt so victimized after that night with Bruce that she didn’t leave her house for a full week and that she’d had to quit her job.

  “Don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice girl,” Larry said. “I’d hire her back if she called me. She never missed a single day before that. Whatever happened must have been really bad.”

  “Thanks, Larry. You’ve been really helpful.”

  Elizabeth picked up her purse and walked out the door, hoping her hands weren’t shaking. The more she dug into Robin’s past, the more impeccable she seemed. The evidence was stacking up against Bruce.

  She got into her car just as her phone chirped, announcing an incoming text message. She looked at the phone and saw it was from Bruce.

  SORRY I WAS GRUMPY THIS MORNING. LET’S DO SOMETHING SPECIAL FOR DINNER.

  The thought of going home to Bruce—and, actually, spending any time with him at all right now—just made Elizabeth feel queasy. How could she keep up the pretense? She’d never been any good at pretending.

  Already this morning, he’d seen right through her. She was trying hard to be the supportive girlfriend, but even he could tell she was faking it. Now, armed with new information supporting Robin’s side of the story, it would just be ten times worse.

  Elizabeth texted back.

  GOT HUNG UP AT WORK WITH A LATE DEADLINE. DON’T THINK I’LL MAKE DINNER TONIGHT. MIGHT EVEN STAY AT JESSICA’S.

  Jessica’s town house was slightly closer to the newspaper office than Bruce’s mansion. This was pure avoidance, but Elizabeth couldn’t think of a better idea.

  I REALLY NEED YOU RIGHT NOW. PLEASE COME HOME.

  Elizabeth’s heart ached. She hated not being there for him. He sounded so lost. Maybe she was just being selfish. Then she remembered Robin’s tearstained face.

  If he was guilty…then he’d have to learn to soothe himself. Because Elizabeth couldn’t be with him. Nothing could make a near-rape okay, no matter how much he’d had to drink.

  She decided to go check on Robin. Basically an orphan with few friends, Robin truly had no one. She texted Bruce.

  SORRY. I CAN’T.

  That much, Elizabeth thought, was true.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bruce looked at his phone and sighed. Elizabeth wasn’t coming home. She was avoiding him. He’d been in love with her for years, long before she’d even seen him as anything more than a friend. He knew her better than she knew herself, and it was obvious she doubted him. Every day, it seemed, she moved further and further away from him, and he didn’t know why. He asked her all the time what was wrong, and yet she refused to tell him. Or if she did talk, it came out as a veiled accusation that he might be lying about what had really happened that night with
the intern. Or was it some veiled reference to high school? Yes, he knew he hadn’t always been the nicest guy. Sure, he did stupid things in high school, but didn’t every seventeen-year-old? And, besides, he really thought that was ancient history. That short-tempered, spoiled kid wasn’t him now. He’d changed. Grown up. Matured.

  Of course, none of that seemed to matter these days since he felt like he was fighting against enemies he couldn’t see, phantom accusers who popped up to hit him and then disappeared before he could strike back.

  Just like the intern. If he only knew who she was, he felt convinced, he could solve this mystery. But he had no idea of her name or where she lived. All his power and connections weren’t helping, either. Someone was keeping her hidden someplace where she could say all those terrible things about him and not even give him the chance to defend himself properly.

  Rage bubbled up in his throat and for a second, he felt the urge to throw his phone across the room. He thought about how satisfying it would be to watch the phone’s screen—and Elizabeth’s text—go dark as it cracked to pieces. He almost let the phone fly, but a beep from an incoming text stopped him.

  He glanced at the phone’s face, hoping Elizabeth had reconsidered. Maybe she would say she was sorry. Maybe she’d come home.

  But, no. It wasn’t from Elizabeth.

  I’VE GOT NEW INFO ON YOUR CASE. MEET AT NEVIN’S BAR TONIGHT?

  The text came from Gavin MacKay, the private detective he’d hired to try to find his accuser. Bruce had hired him after it became clear Elizabeth wasn’t getting anywhere finding her. And Gavin was the top private detective in the business.

  Maybe now he’d finally get some answers. He certainly wasn’t getting any from Elizabeth.

  Bruce grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elizabeth pulled up in front of Robin’s new house, a modest but clean one-story bungalow just down the street from Robin’s parish. The minute Elizabeth had seen the little house for rent she knew it would be the perfect hideaway. It was close to Father Riley’s church and no one would know Robin was there.

  With Elizabeth’s name on the lease, she’d be safe from reporters or anyone else searching for her.

  Elizabeth rang the doorbell, and Robin opened the door seconds later.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Robin gushed, truly happy to see her. This girl needed her.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Elizabeth said. “Got hung up at the office with…” She nearly said “deadlines” and then stopped short. Elizabeth was supposed to be therapist Laura Christer, not Elizabeth Wakefield, newspaper journalist. “…clients.”

  “I understand.” Robin smiled. “Someone like you just wants to help people.”

  Right, and lie to everyone she knows. Everything she was saying and doing seemed like a lie these days: lying to Bruce, lying to Robin. Elizabeth hated lying. It would be horrendous if either one found out the truth.

  “Sorry about the boxes,” Robin said as Elizabeth sidestepped a few stacked up in the living room. “Do you want something to drink? I might be able to find some iced tea. Or there’s tap water…”

  Robin dug around in one of the boxes in the kitchen and pulled out a glass only to lose her grip on the tumbler. It fell to the floor with a crash.

  “Great.” Robin knelt to pick up the broken pieces and began to cry almost immediately. “This is just great.”

  “Robin, it’s okay. Here. Let me help.” Elizabeth instinctively went into mother-hen mode, picking up the bigger shards and looking around for something she could use as a broom. She settled on an empty plastic trash bag on top of one of the boxes.

  Robin rocked back on her heels and tears dropped down her cheeks. Elizabeth abandoned the cleanup effort and wrapped her arm around Robin’s shoulders.

  “Don’t cry. It’ll be okay. Here, let’s go sit down.” Elizabeth steered Robin to a nearby couch and helped her sit. She reached for a tissue inside her purse and handed it to Robin.

  “I’m sorry. I’m such a mess.” Robin swiped at her eyes with the tissue. “You’ve been so kind to me, getting me this house and everything, and here I go and make a mess of it all.”

  “No,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head. “You haven’t made a mess of anything, Robin. It’s okay. I’m not even thirsty.”

  Robin smiled weakly at Elizabeth’s joke, and then blew her nose loudly in the tissue.

  “It’s just that I really don’t know if I can do this.” She glanced around at the stacks of unopened boxes.

  “Don’t worry. I can help you unpack.”

  “No, it’s not that.” Robin sucked in a deep, shaky breath. “I mean these charges. Against Mr. Patman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Elizabeth stared at Robin, noticing for the first time just how disheveled the young girl was. She had tossed her hair back in a hasty and uncombed knot at the base of her neck. She carried dark rings under her eyes like she hadn’t slept in days. Her face was gaunt and thin, as if she hadn’t been eating all that well, either.

  “I-I-I don’t know, Laura. I’m so scared he’ll find me.”

  “That’s why I moved you here,” Elizabeth reassured her.

  “I have nightmares that he’s found me already.” Robin looked at Elizabeth with eyes wide with fear. Robin’s bottom lip started to quiver and then she dropped her face in her hands. Elizabeth was more convinced than ever before that this girl was telling the truth. You couldn’t mistake the real terror in her voice. “What if he found me?”

  No way could Elizabeth imagine Bruce coming after this girl. But then, none of this seemed like Bruce, and yet there was no question that Robin’s terror was real. She couldn’t help thinking about the news story that ran just last week in the Tribune, the one about the woman who’d been married to a serial killer for ten years and never knew it. If being a reporter had taught her anything at all, it was that sometimes people were very good at hiding their true selves.

  Look how she was hiding her own life now.

  “It’s okay, Robin.” Elizabeth patted the girl’s shoulder. “It will be okay.”

  Robin took a deep breath and lifted her chin. She wiped her tears and shook her head.

  “I don’t know, Laura,” Robin said. “I’m starting to think that this was all a big mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have come forward at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’m more scared now than I’ve ever been. Maybe I should just walk away from this whole thing.”

  Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. Robin was clearly in a lot of pain and very frightened.

  “It’s okay. We’ll get through this.” Elizabeth hoped that wasn’t a lie.

  “Maybe it’s not too late, Laura,” Robin said. “Maybe I could still do it. I mean, that night that he almost…” She swallowed. “It was the worst night of my life. But since then, it’s only gotten worse, not better. I’m afraid all the time, terrified he’s going to find me. I should just drop the whole thing, go away and start fresh. I did that once before when I moved here from Kentucky and I can do it again. Maybe then the nightmares will stop.”

  Elizabeth froze, unsure of what to say and not trusting herself to speak. Robin was so close to offering to end this nightmare—for Bruce and everyone else. It would be a perfect solution.

  This could be her chance to save Bruce. A little nudge and Robin might just drop these charges and disappear. All she had to do was say just the right thing, and it would be over. And with this whole scandal gone, maybe she and Bruce could pick up their life again.

  But what about the young, frightened girl in front of her? Could Elizabeth—in good conscience—tell her just to give in and call it quits? And what if what she was saying was true? The damage to her life would be devastating. Where was the justice in that?

  Not to mention, if what she said was true, Bruce could do it again. Could Elizabeth live with herself if she told Robin to run and some other girl wo
und up his next victim?

  Elizabeth mentally shook herself. She couldn’t believe her mind had even gone there. Bruce wasn’t a serial rapist. He wasn’t a criminal.

  Elizabeth had the power to make this all go away for him. She could do it with one word.

  Robin clutched at Elizabeth’s hand. “Laura,” she pleaded. “I trust you completely. Should I stay and fight this or should I just drop the charges? What should I do?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bruce Patman looked at the photos and papers Gavin MacKay had brought to Nevin’s Pub and shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. Gavin, the big, burly ex-L.A. cop turned private detective, had found his accuser’s identity.

  “Robin Platt? I don’t even know her,” Bruce said as he scratched his head. He caught the bartender’s attention and signaled for another round of scotch. He’d lost track of how much he’d drunk so far. Three? Four? He didn’t know anymore. He’d gone to the bar early and Gavin had been a little late. He’d drunk from pure nerves, but now he’d ordered another because he wanted to dull the harsh reality of his situation. Now that he had his accuser’s name, it made everything all the more real to him.

  “She didn’t work for the foundation very long,” Gavin said. “But she was there. Take a look at this photo. Remember her?”

  Gavin held up a color picture. In it, Bruce saw a pretty, petite, blond girl standing with a man unloading moving boxes from a rental truck.

  “That’s the girl from the bar,” Bruce said. “But I swear, I never saw her in my office.”

  “Records show she was there for at least two weeks in July.”

  Bruce tried to think back to last summer. Had he been out of the office a lot that month on business? It was possible. Otherwise, when he was around, he always made an effort to meet the interns. He just thought it was a nice thing to do. He had gone around and introduced himself in August, he remembered that much. But by then, she would have been gone.