The Two Lila Bennetts

by Fenton, Liz

  “Not tonight, Sam,” I finally say. And probably not ever again, I want to add but somehow can’t. I picture Carrie’s bouncy ponytail as she popped into the conference room, her sparkling eyes, the ignorance of my betrayal painted across her face in the form of a sincere smile as we talked about my day in court. As she tried to make me feel better.

  Sam gives me a look as if he can’t believe I’m saying no.

  Have I ever turned him down before? I can’t remember a time.

  “I need to go home . . .” I look down, suddenly overcome with emotion. Am I going to cry? God, it feels like I’m going to lose it. I bite down on my lower lip hard. I need to say the rest. “To my husband. I need to go home to E-than. And you . . . you should go home to your wife.”

  “What is this, Bennett? What are you saying?”

  “You know what I’m saying.” I lock eyes with him for what feels like minutes. This isn’t how I saw myself ending it. In my mind when I told him it was over—because I had always planned to stop our relationship—we would have one final night together. And the next morning I would make my last tally, and then I’d rip up every page in the notebook and dispose of it in some dumpster. But of course, life isn’t that simple. I almost laugh out loud at my stupidity.

  “Do I?” He steps closer and tips my face to his, kissing me. He’s so close I can smell a hint of shampoo—is that sandalwood? And then I notice that his hair is slightly wet. He must have showered in his private bathroom. Did he plan this—wait for me so he could convince me to go out?

  I recoil at his overconfidence—his ego—that of course when he intercepted me in the parking garage I would go with him, choose him over my husband. Yet again. “There are cameras.” I pull away from him quickly. “We’ve been lucky until now that we’ve been able to keep it quiet. Let’s stop while we’re ahead.”

  “Since when do you quit anything when you are winning?”

  “Are we really winning, Sam?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. We both know my question is rhetorical. “I’m serious, Sam. It’s over.” I say the words quickly and reach down, squeezing his arm before backing away. “I have to go.”

  “Lila,” he calls after me.

  The only sound is the clicking of my heels on the concrete. I don’t turn around, but I can feel his eyes boring into my back. I unlock the car and throw my purse on the passenger seat. Slamming the door behind me, I can see him in my rearview mirror watching me, his face twisted with emotion. Sadness? Anger? Confusion? I can’t read it. Finally he gets in his car, and after what feels like forever, his headlights come on, and I watch as he drives out of the parking garage. I take out my notebook and make my final tally. I draw a line across four marks that are already there, making five. Six months and five days.

  I start the car and look over my shoulder before pulling out. I see a figure pass behind my back window. I turn to see who it is, but no one is there. I take a deep breath and try to focus, still rattled from my conversation with Sam.

  As I drive toward home, to my other life, I realize that I’m choosing it for the first time in as long as I can remember.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MONDAY

  CAPTURED

  I wake with a start, my cheek still pressed against the cold floor. Did I pass out? I hear footsteps that grow louder and then what sounds like a key in a lock. A creaking sound cuts sharply through the air, a door closes, and the steps grow closer. Still on my side, my face throbbing, I slide my body away from the sound until I hit something hard—a wall.

  “Going somewhere?”

  I scream, and the sound of my voice echoes.

  A man’s voice. Deep. Assured. The tone bordering on jovial. As if he’s recently drunk a cup or two of coffee. Maybe he got a run in. He’s ready to face the day.

  The man laughs. It’s a deep sound that radiates hard from his chest.

  My insides go cold. Is this it? The moment I’m going to die? Despite the freezing temperature, I start to sweat.

  His steps are closer, and he’s so near that I can smell him—a combination of cologne and coffee. I was right: He’s caffeinated and ready to . . . to what? To maim? Torture? Kill? I shudder at the thought.

  Beads of sweat trickle down the back of my neck. Is it still Monday? How long have I been here—wherever here is?

  “I’m going to remove this,” he says, and I feel him at the back of my head trying to pull the blindfold free. He tugs at it hard as I flinch, terrified at what he’ll do next. He grunts and rearranges his body until finally he yanks the blindfold off.

  I blink several times, the dim light a shock to my pupils.

  I look at his hands first, expecting him to have a gun or a knife, but he doesn’t appear to have any kind of weapon—at least not that I can see. A ski mask covers his face, his dark eyes and full lips peeking out from small holes. He’s muscular, wearing a tight black long-sleeve T-shirt and gray joggers, and about five feet ten—it’s hard to tell with him standing and me sitting. New Balance sneakers on his feet.

  I quickly take in my surroundings—brick walls, concrete floor. Small—maybe ten by twelve, the size of my living room. Exposed pipe runs across the high ceiling—a single fluorescent light bulb hanging from it. There are no windows. The only way in or out is a large steel door.

  “I’m Q,” the man says gruffly. “No need to tell me your name.” He smiles, which looks terrifying through the ski mask. “You are Lila Rose Bennett. Attorney—mostly criminal defense, but you’ve dabbled in other areas. Five feet seven, one hundred and twenty-seven pounds. You used to be an avid runner—a couple of half marathons before the ski accident and then the surgery.”

  I take in a sharp breath. This was no accident. Not a carjacking gone bad. Q had come for me.

  “You live in Santa Monica with your husband, older than you by eight years—Ethan, a novelist. Well, can we still call him that? His first and only book debuted on the New York Times bestseller list, but that was six years ago. Is a novelist still a novelist if he only writes one? What’s that saying about the tree in the woods?” He makes that same deep cackle, and my skin crawls with fear.

  I play back his coarse voice in my head. Is it familiar? Is he a defendant I’d represented or—I think of Stephanie—a family member upset about one I’d freed? Could he be a witness I cross-examined too harshly? I stare at his broad shoulders, his average height and weight, contemplating whether I’ve seen his body before. I’m not sure I have. As far as I know, this man could be anybody.

  “Is this a hostage situation?” I ask, staring at his mask, the black woven cotton tight against his face, praying the fact he’s wearing it means he’s not going to kill me. But I can’t bring myself to ask him.

  Not knowing who he is—not understanding his connection to me—makes my heart pound hard and fast. I force my face to remain neutral, but I know I’m trembling. “Have you been hired by someone?” I ask when he doesn’t respond to my hostage question, trying to keep my voice balanced. The cuffs are cutting into my wrists, the blood in my legs not flowing well because of the bindings around my ankles. My feet seem to have fallen asleep. I shift, trying to alleviate some pressure.

  Q crouches down in front of me, and I can see that his eyes are not nearly as dark as they looked when he was standing. But they are unique—split pea soup–green with flecks of gold—different enough that I would expect to have a spark of recognition had I seen them before. But there is nothing—no memory of exchanging a glance on the sidewalk, being stared at by them in court, or seeing them in passing as one of us stepped off an elevator and the other on.

  His close proximity makes me shake harder. I bite firmly on my lip and try to control my tremors. Is this where he reaches over and chokes me? I tense, desperately wondering how I can defend myself while bound. The answer is: I can’t. Fear from this realization dizzies me—rushing through me from my toes to the top of my head and back down again.

  “I thought you’d never ask what is going on here, Li
la. Let me give you all of your answers, and then we can both be on our way.” He stares at me for a while, and I try to regulate my breathing, but it’s impossible; I’m sucking in short gasps, releasing even less. “Not.” He doubles over with laughter. “I’ll be doing the question asking, the talking, everything. You . . . well, you can hang out. Make yourself comfortable.” His eyes rest on my bound bare feet. I wonder where my shoes are. My purse. My cell phone. My car. Has he gotten rid of them? Does he plan to do the same with me?

  I suck in another shallow breath and stare at him hard. All the information he has on me. Has he been stalking me? His demeanor reads almost as if he’s proud of his accomplishment—of holding me captive.

  “I’m about as far from comfortable as someone could be.” I hold my wrists up. I shift my legs, and my feet start to tingle again. “Please,” I plead. Not sure what I’m pleading for. The desperation has set in so quickly. The feeling of being trapped, of the walls closing in. Not being able to breathe. I would have thought I was stronger than this. But it’s as if he’s stripped away all the armor I’m normally encased in.

  “Oh, you’re uncomfortable? Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll be right back with a Casper bed and some silk sheets. While I’m at it, a glass of wine? You like red, don’t you? The Prisoner is a favorite, isn’t it? Although you’ll settle for Meiomi in a pinch.”

  His last comments bring bile to the back of my throat. I imagine him watching me through my living room window as I bring my glass to my lips, savoring the bold berry flavor, totally unsuspecting I’m being stalked.

  Could he be connected to the family of Jeremiah’s wife? To Stephanie? Did she hire him to kidnap me? I remember being outside the courthouse, turning and looking over my shoulder before I got into the Uber. There was something about her stare that gave me chills. And she told me karma would take care of me. Was this what she had in mind? Did she get impatient that the universe wouldn’t deliver justice quickly, so she took matters into her own hands?

  He waits a beat. “Nothing to say? Wondering how I know all of these intimate details about you?”

  “Is this about Jeremiah Taylor?” I ask, watching for signs he recognizes the name, but if he does, he gives nothing away.

  “For an attorney, you’re not very smart, are you? Didn’t I say I’ll be asking the questions?”

  I freeze. Nod. “You did, sorry,” I say, my voice shaking in response to his sharp and biting tone. My gut tells me it could lead to something far worse if I push him.

  “That’s better. You’ll get the hang of this, I promise.” He sits down and crosses his legs.

  Crisscross applesauce. I hear a voice in my head. It’s my mom’s. Her voice was always airy, although she was usually exhausted. She’d say it when she wanted me to sit in front of the TV so she could rest her eyes before her night shift. My chest tightens at the thought of her. Will I see her again?

  I think of the front room in my house; its thick rug and bookshelves lined with our favorite novels immediately make me conjure Ethan’s face—frowning, his eyes squinting at his phone. I keep telling him he needs reading glasses, but he refuses. He’s probably trying to figure out where I am—so many times I’ve been stuck at work. Or told him I was on my way out the door, only to leave two hours later. So he might not be looking for me yet. Or if he is, where is he searching? Who is he calling? Sam? That thought I can’t digest. I can picture the Styrofoam container of Mongolian beef on the coffee table where we usually eat. It’s been opened, Ethan’s chopsticks stuck haphazardly in the middle—he’d have one bite, okay two—because the poor guy was hungry. Didn’t realize I’d never make it home after lying about getting gas. Shit. He’s going to search gas stations—aimlessly—taking him nowhere near me. Thanks to my lie. He can’t track my phone because I wouldn’t agree to have one of those apps he wanted me to get for safety after Franklin. I told him it drained my battery. But really, I didn’t want him obsessing over my every move from our living room couch. I go back to taking in the room I’m currently in.

  “Wow. This floor is hard as a rock,” Q says, his voice still unfamiliar to my ears.

  I move my legs slightly, wincing as the zip ties cut into my ankles. The waistband of my pencil skirt is cutting into my stomach, my white button-down mimicking a straitjacket.

  “Let me go over the ground rules,” he says.

  If there are ground rules, maybe I’ll be here for a little while.

  “This is your new home,” he continues, waving his left hand back and forth like a Realtor might.

  I notice his nails are trimmed and clean. His hands smooth. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring. The details I was taught to take in about a client. The little signs—possible tells. You never know what will be a significant factor. Serial killers can get their nails done and manual laborers can deliver babies. There isn’t always a rhyme or reason to it.

  “As you can see, it’s about one hundred seventy-five square feet,” he continues. “There is absolutely no light. But it’s a fine concrete square—the exposed brick on the walls gives it a nice touch, don’t you think? Imagine all the ways you could decorate.” He grins. “Oh, and there’s room service! You’ll get the finest tap water and only the best mush. We will take you on two bathroom breaks per day. Any other needs, you’ll have to handle in here.” He points to a bucket in the corner.

  We. He said we will take you on two bathroom breaks per day. Is there more than him? Was that a slip? Or does he see himself as multiple people?

  He’s still talking. “As for who I am, why you’re here, that is all for later. For now, you wait.”

  Later. So there will be a later.

  “Wait for what?” I feel it again. The tightening in my chest. Like my skin is being pulled inward. I push a breath out, just to make sure I still can.

  He presses his pointer finger to his pursed lips and watches me for a long beat. I begin to wonder whether I’ll want there to be a later.

  When he finally speaks, my body goes numb. “You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  MONDAY

  FREE

  I drive home slowly, lost in thought. My phone buzzes, and my stomach flips.

  Sam?

  I glance at the screen exposed from the inside of my bag. It’s not him. Of course it’s not. He’d never call me now, not after our exchange in the parking garage. Because we have a deal. When one of us is not at work, we never call or text. Too risky, even for us. And besides a few sloppy drunken moments over the past six months, we’ve both honored it.

  I exhale, not sure whether I want it to be him or not. Do I need him to fight me on the breakup? Show me he wants me? That although we promised not to fall in love, he has anyway because I’m so amazing? That’s so damn high school of me. We’re both married. What did I think? He’d show up at my house wearing a trench coat holding a boom box overhead?

  I debate not answering, but it’s my mother. I swear she had an emotional tracker implanted in me when I was born. Every time something goes wrong, she seems to know. And she doesn’t text. She calls. She says it’s because my voice always gives me away, and she’s probably right.

  I answer. “Hi, Mom.”

  “What’s wrong?” I can picture her sitting in her reading chair in her living room, looking out her window, the ocean in the distant background. A half-read copy of the most recent Reese Witherspoon recommendation balancing on the arm of the chair. Her peppermint tea long ago gone cold. “You don’t sound good.”

  “I only said, ‘Hi, Mom,’” I refute weakly. She already knows. No sense in lying. I really need to stop that in general.

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nothing. Or at least nothing I can talk about.”

  “You can tell me anything.”

  I roll my eyes. “Not about this.”

  “Is it something legal? Attorney-client privilege?”

  “Not exactly,” I say vaguely, wondering whether I should take the fifth. Really, th
is woman missed her calling as a prosecutor. She is relentless.

  “Then tell me. I can help,” she presses.

  Because of what she went through with my dad, I know my mom would not understand what I’m feeling right now about Sam. Not one bit. But I suddenly understand there’s something I need to clarify after all this time.

  “Why did you tell me about Dad cheating on you?” I say as I slow down for a red light. “What purpose did you think it would serve?”

  “What?”

  “Mom . . .” I say, because I know she heard me.

  “Is this what you’re upset about?”

  “Yes,” I say, telling myself this is somewhat truthful. Not an outright lie. Because I do need to understand her motivation. Maybe it can shed some light on my own.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I knew the moment I said it that it wasn’t right.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so?” A tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it away hastily as the light turns green.