by L. C. Shaw
You must find a man named Jeremy. He is the key to all this. He has been in hiding for the past year and has, over that time, built up a network of allies and advocates. I’ve enlisted the aid of Jack because I know he will do everything in his power to keep you safe.
I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I pray that one day you will find it in your heart to grant it.
All my love,
Malcolm
Jack was watching her, wondering how she was handling all this. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”
“Of course not! What does he mean, his identity was fabricated?”
“I don’t know. But he told me that he was in the pocket of a powerful man. Hamilton, too.”
Taylor looked shocked. “No. That’s impossible. You must be wrong.”
“Look, Taylor, I know this is hard to take in, but you need to think. Who else could be involved? What about other politicians in DC?”
Jack could see the wheels turning in her mind. Grabbing the cheap, plastic motel pen from the table, she rooted in her bag and brought out a small pad of paper.
“Number one: the rider. Two, Brody Hamilton, and three, a man named Jeremy. You said he told you to go to some cabin—where is it?”
“In New Hampshire. It belongs to a friend of mine.”
She looked confused. “Why would Malcolm know anything about your friends, and why would he be keeping tabs on you?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can his identity be fake? How did he get through the background checks?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Whoever he works for is powerful enough to build him a bulletproof identity.”
The voice on the television got their attention.
“US Senator Malcolm Phillips was found dead in his room while vacationing in Truk Lagoon, a small island in Micronesia. The senator apparently died of anaphylactic shock from a seafood allergy. In a bizarre twist, his wife, Taylor Parks Phillips, is missing. Funeral services are on hold until Mrs. Phillips is located.”
Jack changed the channel again. Fox News was discussing the implications of Phillips’s death.
“On a more personal note, Bill, what do you make of the wife’s disappearance? Seems a little strange, don’t you think?” A picture of Taylor flashed across the screen.
The news anchor’s eyes widened, and he turned to his coanchor.
“It seems there is a new development in the disappearance of Taylor Phillips. She may have been abducted. Look at this. A man was captured on video by the security camera. He’s been identified as Jack Logan, an investigative journalist well known in DC circles. Police are asking anyone who’s seen either of them to report it immediately.”
The footage showed Jack holding a gun as Taylor was rushed into the front seat of his car.
Jack cursed and turned the television off. “How did they get that?”
“We’ve got cameras everywhere.”
“Everyone will be looking for us. There’s probably already an APB out. We’ve got to get moving, and we’ve got to dump my car. We have to change our appearances. I’ll run out in the morning and get what we need.”
“What about my shots? We need to go back.”
She didn’t get it. “We can’t. I’ll figure something out. Trust me.”
As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them. Her expression said it all—trust was the last thing she would bestow on him. He would earn it back. Somehow. He would figure out a way to make things right.
* * *
The next morning, the sliver of light through the motel curtains woke Jack, and he stretched, trying to work out the kink in his neck from sleeping in the stiff chair. He glanced over at the bed and saw that Taylor was still asleep. He watched her and smiled when he noticed that she still favored lying on her side with a pillow clutched tightly to her chest. It was hard to believe he hadn’t seen her in almost fifteen years. If it was possible, she was more beautiful now than she was back then. He knew he should wake her, that she’d be furious to know he was sitting here, staring at her, but he wanted a few minutes more to really take her in without being met by her accusing gaze.
Beau sprang off the bed, nudged Jack with his nose, and barked, indicating he wanted to go out.
“Beau.” Taylor sat up, a look of confusion flickering across her face, as if she was trying to remember where she was. She slid from the bed in a single motion and put her feet into the loafers waiting on the floor.
“He needs to go out. I’ll take him,” she said.
“I’ll go with you.”
“Honestly, Jack, I don’t need a bodyguard. If you don’t give me some breathing room, this is never going to work.”
He put his hands up and backed away. “Okay, okay. Just let me do some quick surveillance to make sure no one found us.”
“By then we’ll have a puddle to clean up. Excuse me.” She pushed past him, grabbed Beau’s leash, and opened the door. “I won’t be long.”
Jack followed immediately behind her. He didn’t care if she got annoyed.
After Beau was finished, they returned to the room. Jack was mentally assessing what he needed to accomplish before they hit the road again. He pulled out his laptop, wanting to see how many outlets had picked up his story. He typed Manchester v. Omega Entertainment into Google and his name. This was interesting. Not many papers had run the story. He typed in Teenage Wasted to see what other journalists had said about the ruling on the show. The page was full of links—mostly to YouTube. He scrolled down, clicked the first link, and was taken to a video.
It had an adult content warning and he clicked play, then watched in horror as a young man demonstrated the most efficient way to build an autoerotic asphyxiation room. He gave a tour of his room, a list of supplies, suggestions on where to hide them, where to set them up, and promises of a live demonstration to come.
“What are you watching?”
He paused it.
“I did a story on Manchester v. Omega Entertainment. You know the case I mean? The class action suit about the kids’ reality show that went to the Supreme Court.”
“Of course. It’s been all over the news. Disgusting. I can’t believe Omega won.”
“Take a look at this. There are hundreds of them.”
He hit play again, and they continued watching the video until it ended with the noose around the boy’s neck and him winking. Then the screen went black.
Taylor shook her head. “Unbelievable. I wish Omega had lost.”
He arched an eyebrow. “A surprising stance coming from a journalist.”
She looked at him. “It’s not so black and white, Jack. There was an analogous case out of California a few years back, Brown v. EMA. The state banned certain violent video games from being sold, and the gaming company fought back claiming protection under free speech. The gaming company won, but only because there wasn’t enough proof that the games incited violence.” She raised her eyebrows and gave Jack a long look. “I think we can safely say that’s not the case with this show.”
“Listen, Taylor. It wasn’t an easy call. I gotta say, it worries me when we start fooling around with constitutional liberties. This case came dangerously close to censorship. On a personal level, I agree with you, and would like nothing more than to shut that show down. I’ve talked to those parents; they’re heartbroken.”
Jack thought about the mother from his last interview. He’d seen a lot of grief covering war zones and natural disasters, but the abject agony in her eyes haunted him. What could he say to this woman who had saved her daughter from the grips of death years earlier, only to have her succumb to it in a misguided attempt to get high? Her words echoed in his mind.
She spent years working with therapists. She was throwing up every day to look like those airbrushed models in the magazines. Finally had gotten the bulimia under control. Was happy. And then . . . gone. Copying those foolish kids. Gone in seconds.
How do you
comfort someone like that? Did he want Omega to pay? Absolutely—but there had to be a way to do it without screwing with the First Amendment.
“I read your articles.” She pursed her lips. “Your follow-up did a good job giving the parents a voice. It’s just that Omega’s behavior gives all the media a bad name. I mean, exploiting vulnerable teenagers for ratings with no regard to the consequences. It’s unconscionable.”
“Agreed.” He stood. “I’m going to run out and get the hair dye, et cetera, before we hit the road later. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She opened his laptop. “What’s your password? I’ll start digging and see what I can find out about the bill and the rider while you’re gone.”
He took a deep breath, looking at the floor as he answered. “Koukla.”
Her eyes shot daggers at him. “Really?” She looked back at the screen and stabbed the keys with the password.
He didn’t bother trying to defend himself. He had no answer as to why his old nickname for her was his password when he’d left her behind for another woman a lifetime ago.
Chapter Six
CROSBY WHEELER, CEO OF OMEGA ENTERTAINMENT, looked at the men gathered around the table. He pushed the sleeve of his black cashmere sweater up and admired his new Patrimony watch, which he’d added to his collection just that morning. Not one to waste money on expensive suits or designer clothes, his Bohemian style defined him, and he never felt the need to try to impress others. A simple wardrobe of black pants and turtleneck was his signature look. But he allowed himself this one indulgence and didn’t flinch at the six-figure sum the watches commanded. In his mind they were works of art that one happened to wear.
He was in a good mood today, pleased by his recent win in court. It was unfortunate that the parents of the kids who had died had gotten together so quickly and organized the class action suit, but it was ridiculous to pin the blame on his show. That was the problem with society these days—no one wanted to take responsibility for their own actions. They should have been more involved with their kids, known what they were doing, maybe looked in a closet or checked their cell-phone texts. His job wasn’t to parent America’s children. His job was to entertain and keep his shareholders happy.
He had jumped on the streaming bandwagon early. Omega had started small but was now the uncontested leader in this space, made popular by his original programming. He made shows that no one else dared make. He was criticized widely by some, adored by others.
He’d never had any doubt that they would prevail, but it had been an inconvenience having to put a hold on the show until the verdict came in. Luckily, the forced hiatus had only increased interest in it, and he was certain that the losses incurred over the past several months would be made up in no time. He looked at his executive producer.
“Do you have an update?”
The man nodded. “Yes, I just got the latest figures.”
“Any fallout?” he asked.
“Parents are outraged. They can’t accept that they’ve lost. The other networks are using it to their advantage, hosting parent interviews. We’ve lost a handful of sponsors.”
His new executive in charge of advertising, Adrian Winters, cleared his throat and spoke. “But we’ve got a long line of others waiting to take their place. I’ve replaced them at double the price.”
Crosby looked at him with interest. He took a sip from his bottle of mineral water. “Do tell.”
Winters picked up a mint from the crystal bowl in front of him and unwrapped it. “The media frenzy has caused the ratings to skyrocket. Internet channels are jamming from the traffic. It’s an advertiser’s dream.” He popped the mint in his mouth.
Crosby spoke. “Good work. Email me the list and the new production schedule.” He addressed his producer again.
“The kids on the show okay?”
“Mostly. They were pretty upset, but the counselors talked them down, gave out some anti-anxiety meds. They’ve been compensated.”
Crosby nodded. “Good. They need to understand that they are not responsible for the deaths of those kids who imitated them. Make sure their contracts are all up-to-date. We don’t need any more lawsuits.” He stood and left without another word.
Back in his office, he reviewed the newest script. It was going to make the other episodes look tame.
He opened his email and input the addresses of his top ten YouTubers. He wrote a short note, letting them know what he had planned for the next show and telling them to be ready to imitate it on camera, then post their videos after the show aired. It never hurt to give the public a little extra guidance on how to behave.
Chapter Seven
TAYLOR HAD BEEN READING THE BILL FOR OVER AN HOUR, and her vision was starting to blur. It must be the pregnancy—before it, she’d been used to working well into the night on deadline. She moved over to the bed, stretched out, and patted the space next to her. Beau jumped up and nestled against her legs. His warm body was comforting, and she stroked his head.
“You’re wondering what in the world we’re doing here, aren’t you, baby?” She sighed.
The enticement of sleep became stronger, but she resisted. Oh, Malcolm, what did you do? How could it be that she would never again hear his soothing voice or feel his strong arms around her? That he wouldn’t be there with her to raise the child they’d worked so hard to conceive? He’d been her best friend these past few years, the one she’d confided everything in. And now she found out everything she thought she knew about him was a lie. She picked up the letter again. All he’d given her to go on was that one cryptic line in his letter: They fabricated my entire background and made up a new identity for me to serve their purposes.
She thought back to the evening she’d first met him. She had just returned from a trip to Greece and was having dinner at her father’s house. Evelyn and he hadn’t mentioned inviting any other guests. She’d heard the deep laugh before she walked into the living room and wondered to whom it belonged.
“Ah, there you are. Come have a drink and meet Malcolm Phillips. Future senator,” her father called over to her.
She looked up to meet Malcolm’s eyes as he clasped her hand in his. Was this some kind of setup? She’d recognized him right away. He was running for one of the Virginia Senate seats and her father was a major supporter and contributor to his campaign. Prime son-in-law material. When would her father learn that Taylor’s priorities were not the same as his? She gave Malcolm a tight smile. She’d lived near DC long enough to know the type. Polished, powerful, and political. No thanks. “Nice to meet you.” She sat down in the chair farthest from him.
“You as well. Evelyn tells me you’ve just returned from Greece. It’s one of my favorite diving spots. How did you like it?”
She hadn’t been in the mood for small talk, tired from the flight and jet-lagged. But she was polite and smiled when she answered.
“I’ve been many times. I’m half Greek. But this wasn’t a vacation. It was a trip to support a children’s ministry my mother started there. They live a very simple life on the island, but they are grateful for everything they have.”
He nodded. “They have so little, yet they have so much.”
“Exactly. Here we’re so caught up in ambition and impressing others. It’s easy to forget how most of the world lives.”
Her father patted Malcolm on the shoulder and turned to Taylor. “Malcolm’s well traveled. You have that in common.” Her father and Evelyn exchanged glances.
“Let’s go into dinner, shall we?” Evelyn linked her arm around Taylor’s dad and Taylor and Malcolm rose and followed them out of the room.
Malcolm stopped to look at a photograph on the mantel. “Is this your mother?”
Taylor took the picture and wiped the dust from it with her hand. “Yes. She died when I was fourteen.”
He put his hand on her arm. “I’m so sorry. I know how hard it is to lose a parent. Both my parents were killed in a car accident when I was fifteen.
”
“Oh, Malcolm. That’s so awful.”
At that point in the evening, something in her softened toward the guy with the slick exterior. They began seeing each other every weekend, and by the time he took his place on Capitol Hill, Taylor was his wife.
Hot tears wet her cheeks, and she hugged Beau closer to her. The familiar ache returned. Being with Jack after all this time brought it back: the heartache, the betrayal. She needed to clear her head.
“Come on, boy. Let’s take a walk.” She got up and attached his leash, grabbed her purse, and left the room. Her father would be beside himself with worry after the news report. She had to let him know she was okay. She pulled out her phone and dialed him on his cell.
He answered on the first ring.
“Taylor?” A deep voice came over the line.
“Dad?” Her voice broke with emotion.
“Thank God you’re alive! I’ve been out of my mind. Where are you? I’ve just run your picture on the front page of my paper. What the hell is going on? Why was Jack at your house?”
Her father, Warwick Parks, was the editor of the Washington Daily News, second only to the Post in circulation. “Oh, Dad. I don’t know where to begin. Jack showed up at my house last night. He said Malcolm told him to come and get me, to keep me safe. It’s all so mixed up; I don’t know what to believe.”
“Listen to me, Taylor. I don’t know what in the world he’s thinking—whisking you off like that, but the police think he kidnapped you. He’s in a lot of trouble.”
“He didn’t kidnap me. Some men came to the house, and we had to leave. I can’t explain it all now. I just wanted you to know I’m okay. We’re trying to figure it out.” She heard a long sigh on the other end of the line.
“Taylor, you need to come home. You haven’t seen Jack in years. You have a funeral to plan. Everyone’s looking for you. You can’t just run off . . . I don’t trust Jack.”
