Liars' Paradox

by Taylor Stevens

  She moved closer and studied her reflection.

  Anger and loss and hope and fear and want and need and love and hate gushed up into the stillness. She slammed the mental lid shut. There weren’t enough drugs in the world to make it worth looking inside that Pandora’s box.

  She pawed through her purse for mascara and a tube of rose gloss and spotted the phone instead—not the burner phone, not her personal phone—the Blackphone that connected her to the Broker.

  Unanswered questions doused her high with a miserable comedown.

  She nudged the phone aside.

  She’d call him. She would. Soon as she figured out how, because she couldn’t just put in for an audience with a man who paid good money for dead bodies and be all, Hey, um, any chance those guys you sent me to kill sent someone to kidnap my mom? Or did you kidnap her? Or maybe you know who did?

  She brushed goop on her lashes and highlighted her lips and cheeks, then left the bathroom and threaded between mostly empty tables, avoiding eye contact and hoping no one else could smell her the way she could smell herself.

  Her brother, without the benefit of a shower, was twice as rank.

  Food waited for her at the booth.

  She slid onto the bench and stuffed fries in her mouth before her butt hit wood.

  Jack, across the table, pushed and prodded his food, just like he used to in places where unwanted surprises often found their way onto a plate.

  She shoved a fry toward him and said, “Eat.”

  He batted her away.

  She wiggled the fry and pushed it up close to his nose.

  He brushed her away again and said, “Stop.”

  But she couldn’t.

  Annoying him, provoking him, was self-harm that soothed a deeper pain.

  She doused her hamburger with condiments, took a mouth and a half full and, meat juice running down her fingers, went after him again. “Eat.”

  He smacked her hand. “I said stop.”

  She smooshed a fry on his chin, because making him mad was better than the dark, brooding silence that forced her to feel and think in ways she’d rather not.

  He looked up, face red and fists on the table, and his eyes kept going, tracking over her shoulder, and his expression shifted to surprise, and his mouth went slack.

  “Put your hat on,” he said.

  She took a sip of sweet tea and dug in for another messy bite. “Why?”

  He leaned forward.

  Still looking over her shoulder, he hissed, “Hat. On. Now.”

  She turned, followed his line of sight to the television on the back wall, and there was Robert Davis, good ole all-American, clean-cut, solid, reputable, fucking Robert Davis—the first guy she’d ever considered sticking around for, the guy she’d been stupid enough to think she could pick back up with after this was over—on the news, choking down emotion, telling the world she’d been taken at gunpoint and asking for help in bringing her home.

  She reached for the baseball cap beside her and slid it on.

  Jack nudged sunglasses beneath her fingers.

  She turned to her food, pushed the glasses on, and slunk lower in her seat.

  She’d caught only the final fifteen seconds, but even that was enough for her to realize the shit storm she was in. Attracting attention was the worst of the worst of the worst, but this was in a whole galaxy of its own.

  Jack leaned toward her and hissed, “Have you lost your goddamn mind, letting him get a picture of you like that?”

  Jill stared at her plate, thoughts scattering like a dozen terrified cats refusing to be herded, struggling, trying to place the image and sort through missing memories for where and when the photo had been taken, trying to breathe away the disgust rising up from her belly like spoiled food. She’d liked Rob, she’d genuinely liked him, and she’d stuck around for him, because for the first time in her short messed-up life, she’d found a legitimately decent guy who was strong enough to call her on her bullshit and laugh at it and whose brain she couldn’t turn to jelly. But this, this public spectacle, this begging and ineffectuality, this going to the police and media—which, from society’s point of view, was probably a heroic thing—this was repellant.

  Jack’s judgment bored through the hat and into her skull.

  This shouldn’t be happening. Couldn’t be happening.

  “I didn’t,” she said. “I didn’t let him take pictures.”

  “Then you were too buzzed out of your head to notice or to do anything to stop him. Pick your poison, sister dearest. This is on you.”

  Memory failed her, left her nothing to hold on to.

  She shook her head.

  He said, “You don’t even remember it happening, do you?”

  She couldn’t answer that.

  “I warned you,” he said. “I told you he was going to be a problem. I told you to call him. You said you’d deal with it, said you’d take care of it.”

  “I did,” she said. “You saw me send the text.”

  “Because I made you. Because you never called.”

  “Whatever. It got dealt with, so this isn’t my fault.”

  “Your face is plastered all over the television, and you want to talk about fault? This isn’t about fault. It’s about fixing. You broke it, you fix it, and you better fix it in a hurry because trying to find Clare is impossible enough without every do-gooder in the state calling in hotline tips everywhere you go.” He sat back, crossed his arms, and glared. “I get hauled in for this, and you can kiss Clare good-bye forever, and me, too, for that matter.”

  Jill shoved fries in her mouth and, staring him down, worked the food the way a cow chewed cud. Jack’s jaw clenched. He motioned for the server, and when he’d gotten her attention, he smiled a forced smile that almost passed as charming and circled a finger over their barely touched plates.

  “Duty calls,” he said. “We need to get this packed up and need the check.”

  The server returned the smile and headed off.

  Jack tapped his fingers against the table. He said, “You need to call him. Need to call him, let him hear your voice, make sure he knows it’s you, and put an end to this now.”

  Jill bit another mouthful off the burger, kept staring, kept chewing.

  Jack, the good son, Jack, the responsible son, Jack, the son who could do no wrong had, by dragging her out of that house, put them in this predicament in the first place. And, just like always, the fallout for both their mistakes was fully her failure.

  It was the same damn argument they’d had for twenty damn years, only this time instead of Clare casting blame, Jack was the blithering surrogate.

  Jack, the smart one. Jack, the emotional idiot.

  Jack, who never did understand why she’d rage at him as if he were Clare, never got that the reason she lashed out whenever he came to her defense was because taking her side only intensified the pain when he didn’t.

  “I never asked to be favored,” he’d say.

  No, but he didn’t turn his back on it, either.

  “What was I supposed to do?” he’d ask. “We were just kids. I was just a kid. I wanted and needed parental love and approval as much as any other child would, and I never threw you under the bus to get it.”

  And she’d feel guilty, because she loved him, and it was harsh to hold his child self responsible for adult choices, but this right here, this brought it all back.

  This was what hurt the most.

  Here he was, parroting Clare’s bullshit, blind as fuck to his own responsibility.

  He’d bought into the fucking mind-set and couldn’t even see it.

  But he was right about one thing, and she hated that he was right, because she didn’t want to make the call to Robert now any more than she had after Jack had humiliated her by dragging her out of that house right in front of him.

  They left the restaurant and drove in angry silence, Jack at the wheel.

  She played worst-case scenario in her head down the freeway
miles until Jack turned off onto the wide white concrete of a rest-area lot. He backed up against a wooded area, shut off the engine, and stared out the windshield.

  She dug through her purse for the phone and the battery, snapped the pieces back together and, with her thumb over the CALL button, said, “If I’m going to do this, I want privacy.”

  Jack barked out a laugh. For emphasis, he added, “No.”

  She pushed away the urge to punch him in his stupid mouth.

  She couldn’t compete with him brain to brain, couldn’t make Clare love her the way Clare loved him, but none of that mattered when she could take him down in two fast seconds, break him into submission, and beat his self-righteous no into a yes.

  That had always been the reason for training hard, fighting hard, and getting her teeth knocked in by bigger assholes. Except she couldn’t, not here, not now, because he’d leave, and she’d be cut off from finding Clare, and she didn’t have that in her, so instead, she thumb-punched CALL.

  The line connected.

  And rang.

  And rang.

  Voice mail answered.

  She hung up without leaving a message and heel kicked the dashboard.

  Her hand vibrated. She fumbled, dropped, and caught the phone.

  Baby blues under black hair smiled at her from a good-looking face that had, until two days ago, felt like hope. She swiped and answered.

  Robert said, “Jen? Is that you?”

  It took a second to make the switch, to move out of anger and confusion and twenty-six years of shit and get her head back to the fun-loving party girl he knew.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said. “I was so scared when you didn’t answer.”

  “Are you okay?” he said. “Where are you?”

  Her mind rushed through an array of possible directions in which to steer the conversation and got caught between real and fake.

  She’d always been true with him.

  Well, besides the lies.

  Which were pretty much everything.

  But besides those, she’d been authentic—as close to whatever a person like her could know as authentic—because he’d been the first guy, besides Ray, besides her brother, who’d called her on her bullshit and manipulation.

  That was why she’d liked him.

  And that created just a small problem in the moment.

  She said, “Of course I’m okay—was okay. I just saw my face on TV. Rob, those poor police, those poor volunteers, and all that wasted time and money. I texted you, and I told you I was fine. This has gone off the rails. You have got to let everyone know there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  The line hung dead with silence, and when Robert spoke, his tone went cold.

  “Misunderstanding,” he said. “Some guy comes and rips you out of my house, and you’re just gone. I call and I call and I call, and you never answer, and then, finally, the next morning, I get a text—a text anyone could have written—and when I text you back, you don’t answer that, either. The police can’t get a trace on your phone, you’ve basically vanished, and I keep trying, and for two days nothing, until now.” He paused and took a breath. “I’m glad you’re fine. I’m so relieved I’m angry. You want to know how I am? I’m wrecked, that’s how I am, and this isn’t anywhere near a misunderstanding.”

  CHAPTER 17

  JILL

  AGE: 26

  LOCATION: BEAUMONT, TEXAS

  PASSPORT COUNTRY: USA

  NAMES: JULIA JANE SMITH

  SHE SIGHED, OOZED SUGAR AND SWEETNESS INTO HER VOICE, AND thickened the vulnerability. “What do you want me to say, Rob? My cousins can be over the top with their pranks and jokes. Grabbing me like that was extreme, but I wasn’t ever in danger. I thought when I texted, you’d find it hilarious, just like I did.”

  Sarcasm dripped back, thick enough to feel. “Right. Some stranger hauls you out of my house and throws you in his trunk, and you think I’d find that funny?”

  “When you put it that way . . .” She let the thought trail off into sorrowful remorse. “Please don’t be mad. These past few days have been hard enough as it is.”

  Robert’s tone turned harder. He said, “Some woman calling from Jen’s number says Jen is fine. You could be anyone. Someone could be forcing you to make this call. I’m not kidding here. You really need to contact Austin PD and tell them from your own lips, so they can be the judge of what’s what. And again, where are you?”

  She nudged exasperation up a notch. “Same as I told you yesterday. Bastrop, with my friend Angela, the one whose mother got hit by a drunk driver. I’ve been stuck here, trying to help as best as I can with funeral arrangements and stuff. I miss you,” she said. “I really am sorry for the drama.”

  “You could have called using Angela’s phone.”

  Jill clenched her teeth, tipped her head back and took in a long calming breath. “Angela’s been crying nonstop, doesn’t eat, can’t sleep, and I’ve been just a little distracted.”

  “Well, you’ve got your priorities.”

  “Come on, Rob,” she whispered. “Don’t be like that.”

  He said, “You do what you need to do. I’ll let the detectives know we’ve had this conversation, and I’ll let them know my doubts.”

  He paused and she waited and he hung up on her.

  Feet on the dash, face tipped up, she tossed the phone on the floor.

  Silence filled the car.

  Jack draped his arms over the steering wheel and rested his forehead against them.

  She said, “Do you think Robert had something to do with Clare? The timing and all, putting me up on television, do you think it’s to pull us out into the open?”

  “No.”

  She would have asked him to explain, would have pestered to understand how, given everything else over the past two days, he was so sure, but under the circumstances she knew better, and so she let him be.

  He said, “How clean is this car?”

  “Clean.”

  “Need more than that from you right now.”

  “Titled to a New Mexico corporation with a ghost address in Hawaii. Plates, insurance, and tags go to a drop in McAllen.”

  He nodded, and she couldn’t tell if he was relieved, impressed, or finally willing to acknowledge she wasn’t a complete fool, and it didn’t matter because he changed the subject. He said, “There’s liquid latex in my tool bag.”

  “That’s your plan B?”

  He sat up and looked at her. “You got a better way?”

  She scooted up and twisted around to grab his bag and drag it to the front.

  He carried latex for the same reason Clare claimed she’d stopped traveling: each year the grid got tighter, the data aggregation better, and facial recognition software further advanced, which made it more and more difficult to remain invisible. Latex built a temporary disguise from the skin up, widening the nose, softening the eye sockets, and reshaping cheekbones and jawline. Hardest was altering distance between the eyes, but even that was doable with a keen attention to detail and a steady hand. A half hour of work could modify the landmarks and shift enough distance between nodal points to both mess with the software and change the way a face looked to the naked eye. She’d carried the stuff, too, before she pilfered her stash to become Jennifer Lopez for Halloween, and had never bothered to replace it. Liquid latex was Jack’s solution to her face being plastered all over the news.

  Robert’s picture, which had caught her in mid-movement, wasn’t incredibly clear and probably not even framed well enough for facial recognition to pick up half the nodal points, but it definitely showed enough for strangers to recognize her walking down the street. Latex meant Jack planned to ignore the Robert issue for the time being and focus entirely on finding Clare.

  She was good with that.

  She dragged the bag forward and zipped open the inner pocket.

  The bag vibrated and rang—rather, the burner phone inside the bag—the phone Clare would call. Jill’s hands
froze. Her heart seized. Jack reacted because she couldn’t. He ripped Velcro, grabbed the phone, and took the call faster than she’d seen him move in a long time.

  He punched over to speaker, cut out pleasantries, and said, “Hey.”

  Clare’s voice came through, Clare without a doubt, Clare alive and live in the moment, speaking to him as if he were a lover, not a son.

  She said, “Baby, I’m sorry I missed the party.”

  In a routine so old and used so often that Jill wished she could forget, Jack said, “Make it up to me. Dinner and drinks. I’ll bring a friend. Your place or mine?”

  “Yours. As soon as I’m—” And Clare was gone.

  A voice replaced hers, not so much a voice as a computerized rendering of human speech. “Your services are no longer needed,” the voice said. “You will no longer be paid for protection, and any further action on your part will result in death.”

  Jack stuck to the role.

  He said, “Hey, dickwad, I don’t know who you think you are. . . .”

  The line went dead.

  Jill said, “That went well.”

  It was the best she could do to keep from vomiting.

  In so few coded words Jack had told Clare they were together, and in return Clare had told them to stay away, but it was the other voice that had made her guts turn inside out.

  Jack set the phone down and, oblivious to what they’d heard, said, “I guess we sit tight and let her do her thing.”

  The words were tiny bombs to her brain arteries, twisting reality into a slow-motion dream that couldn’t be possible.

  She said, “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  Primal screams, frustration, and fear and anger filled her head, her chest.

  He didn’t know what she knew.

  To abandon Clare now was to leave her to die.

  She wasn’t ready for that, not like this, not like this....

  She said, “It’s so obvious. Can’t you see it? Clare saw the news footage, she was hunting for confirmation that we were both alive, and okay, that’s what that was.”

  Jack looked at her like she was stupid. He said, “This is Clare we’re talking about. If there’s a way out, she’s going to find it without our help. This was her letting us know that she’s alive so we stop looking and don’t interfere and mess up whatever she’s got going on.”