The Two Lila Bennetts

by Fenton, Liz

  “I need to talk with her attorney. See what she’s asking for. What her side is. If we can settle out of court.”

  “We’re not settling. She doesn’t have a side. My side is the truth. She’s a money-grubbing bitch. Plain and simple. I want the boys. I want the house. And I don’t want to pay her a fucking dime. Can you handle that? Or do I need to call Sam?”

  My head is suddenly throbbing. We’re just getting started, and Greenwood already seems much more demanding than my other criminal defense clients, which is saying a lot. Those people are literally fighting for their freedom. This guy wants to be free of the woman he married. I rub the back of my neck. I’m stuck with this man. I can’t quit—Sam and David have made that impossible. I can’t admit I’ve handled only a handful of divorce cases early in my career, because Greenwood expects me to be like the lawyers in those goddamned TV shows who handle corporate litigation one day and a murder case the next. And yes, there are real lawyers, jacks of all trades, who do that kind of thing. And if I were getting the help David had initially promised, I’d probably be fine. If this was a client who would be reasonable and willing to compromise and settle, I would be able to skate a little bit. But Steve Greenwood wants a fight. And I have to give him a good one, or my reputation will be forever tainted. And that will mean Sam wins. That, I cannot allow to happen.

  “I need you to let me do my job, Mr. Greenwood.”

  He scoffs. “Fine. But I’m still coming back tomorrow, and you’d better bring your A game.” He flies out of my office without saying another word, and I slide back into my chair and put my head in my hands.

  “You okay?” Chase asks.

  I look up at him, study his hazel eyes framed by perfectly arched eyebrows. He couldn’t be more opposite of the maniac who left my office moments ago. I want to tell him that no, I’m not okay. Not by a long shot. But of course I can’t do that. My heart burns as I think about how alone I really am. “He’s an ass. God, I could never be a divorce attorney,” I say.

  “Then why represent him?”

  “I’m not just representing him; I’m now the lead on the case. Sam is insisting upon it,” I say and look down, not wanting to meet Chase’s eyes. I’ve always wondered if he suspected our affair. How could he not? Chase notices if I forget to apply my green tea eye cream the night before, frowning at the tiny creases the next morning as I soar in for my first meeting. There’s no way he hasn’t noticed the stolen looks, the electricity that passes between me and Sam when we’re in the same room.

  “Why? What about David?”

  “I don’t know—maybe his plate is too full. Sam told me it needed to be me, and it wasn’t up for discussion.”

  “I guess we’re going to need to read up on divorce law in California.” He smiles.

  “We sure are.” I laugh.

  “Fuck that devil Muppet.”

  “Yeah, fuck him. What would I do without you?”

  “You would wear boring-ass shoes,” he deadpans.

  “These are scuffed pretty bad, actually.” I show him.

  He shakes his head. “Girl, what am I going to do with you?”

  “Order me another pair?”

  “Done,” he says and makes a note on his phone.

  “Thank you. So devil Muppet is coming back tomorrow, and we need to be ready. I’d like to have our investigator follow his wife. I need to know if the things he is accusing her of are true.”

  “I’m on it. Do you need anything else right now?”

  “A shot of tequila?” I smile wanly and glance toward the cabinet where we keep a secret stash for these sorts of occasions.

  Chase shakes his head. “After work?”

  “I can’t. Dinner with my mom and Ethan.” I glance at my phone. “Shit! How is it already five o’clock? I have to go.”

  “Really? Because we have so much work to do to prepare for tomorrow.”

  “I know, but I can’t cancel on my mom—again.” I think about the last time I was supposed to have dinner with her. I called an hour before I meant to arrive, and she was not happy. Especially when I told her I was stuck at work. “I’ll come in super early tomorrow.”

  “What time? I’ll meet you here.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

  He gives me a look. “I’m coming, and I’ll have coffee. Six a.m.?”

  I nod, grateful.

  “Now go see Mama. You’re lucky to have her. I have a private investigator to brief.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “I know. That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

  It’s true. We do. Before Sam turned on me, I begged him to help me get Chase a huge raise, making him the highest-paid assistant at the firm. Someone has to fund those tailor-made suits, I told Chase.

  As I walk to the elevator bank, I’m stabbed with guilt. I shouldn’t leave Chase at work. I should go back into my office and make sure I’m ready for my meeting with Greenwood tomorrow. If I’m not prepared, it will only make the situation worse. But how do I explain that to my mom—who already wants me to quit? Who already texted me to confirm I’ll be in her kitchen in the adorable townhome I’d bought her, the down payment coming from my first year’s bonus, by 7:30 p.m. on the nose? I pause by the elevator, debating.

  My phone buzzes.

  Can’t wait to see you!

  God, my mother has radar.

  Before I can respond, she sends three pink heart emojis, and my heart sinks. She is an expert at emoji guilt.

  Can’t wait, I type, then press the elevator button. When the doors part, I’m relieved to find it empty. When I reach the parking level, I step out into the garage, which is mostly dark. Several of the lights are out, and the one that is working is flickering. It is so quiet, I can hear myself breathing. There are still a lot of cars, as it’s only five o’clock—early for the workaholic crowd in this building. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone. I glance around, but all the cars appear dark, no one inside any of them as far as I can tell. I walk quickly to mine and open it, locking the doors behind me. I start the car and grip the steering wheel. Nervous energy balls in my stomach. I check the monitor on my backup camera, then glance over my shoulder, reversing quickly. As I head out of the garage, another car’s headlights go on in the row behind where I was parked. In a car I’m sure had been empty. I glance in my rearview mirror, but I can’t see the driver because of the low lighting. The car pulls out but seems to keep its distance as I wait for the security arm to rise. Am I being followed?

  I gun it and take a quick right, not wanting to find out.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TUESDAY

  CAPTURED

  Rage burns hot inside me as I stare at the iPad. Q has stopped the video on a shot of Ethan hugging my mom, his head buried in the shoulder of her peach sweater. Carrie squeezing his hand. Reporters swarming the three of them. I imagine my anger as a swirling ball of fire that is making its way up my body, soon to ignite and explode with the words I want so desperately to scream: Why, why are you showing me this video? Why do you have me here? Are you going to kill me?

  But I know I need to control myself. To restrain myself from spewing the venomous things that are poised to launch from my mouth. I force myself to look at this masked man who is taunting me with my husband, my mother, my best friend. How can any human do this to another? Although I have seen worse in my line of work. And because of this, what I’ve come to know about the depths of a sociopath’s soul, I’m terrified of what Q may be capable of. Still, controlling my emotions seems impossible.

  The minutes have felt like hours. The hours like days. The police chief said I’ve been missing under twenty-four hours, but it feels like years. Not to mention I don’t know when the press conference happened. It’s impossible to keep time, no matter how hard I try. Did it happen days ago? Part of me wishes Q would get it over with already. Put me out of this misery. This despair. The unknowing is almost worse than my fears of what’s com
ing.

  But as I’m opening my mouth, the fabric of his mask expands to accommodate his grin. He reaches into the inside pocket of his black Adidas track jacket and slowly pulls his arm back out, deliberately taking his time. It’s obvious he wants the drama, the show. He wants me to feel scared. Unsure. But again, why? Who is he, and how is he connected to me?

  Finally he jerks his hand out like a magician pulling back the cloth.

  He’s holding a gun.

  My anger freezes as quickly as it formed, and I’m hollow with fright. It’s amazing how fast that can happen—your emotions swinging from one extreme to the other.

  I’m numb now as I stare at the sleek black weapon that Q is stroking like a puppy.

  So this is it. My answer.

  “Are you going to kill me? Is that why you have me here?”

  Q laughs, but it comes out clipped, like he wasn’t expecting it, confusing me more. Each time I think I have him pegged, he changes direction. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Y-you have a gun,” I stammer, hating the shakiness in my voice. How vulnerable I am.

  He watches me for a moment, sees my fear, smiles again. This was the goal. But again, why? If he’s going to murder me, why not just do it?

  Which means maybe he’s not going to end my life. Maybe there’s another plan. He might not be holding me for ransom but for something else. That introspection punches the fear back into my gut, understanding that there are things much worse than death.

  “Wow, nothing gets by you, observant one. No wonder you’re such a successful attorney.” He bends down in front of me and strokes my bare leg with the gun, teasing the bottom of my skirt with the barrel. The weapon is lighter than I would have thought—but the heaviness of what it represents is still there, my leg tensing from its touch. My eyes sting with tears.

  Maybe he is going to murder me. I think of the people I’ve hurt. The other mistakes I made, long before my affair with Sam. The wrongs I won’t have time to right. He moves the gun to my chin.

  “Please,” I mutter.

  “Please kill you?” He jabs the barrel against my neck. “Because there’s no doubt you deserve it.”

  “No . . . no, please don’t.” My lips shudder, and a tear rolls from my eye. If he pulls that trigger right now, oh my God. Will it be quick, like a light bulb that pops and goes dark? Or will the pain shoot through me like a lightning bolt? Will I watch myself bleed out as I desperately pray to a God I’ve ignored for years to save me? Will he hear my pleas? I’d never put that much thought into what the afterlife might look like, but now the options race through my mind. I can hear my heart drumming in my ears. I can feel the blood pumping through me, like my body is reminded how very alive it is right before . . .

  He jams it in harder, and I try to scream, but my throat is closed. I can’t speak. I can’t beg for my life. I squeeze my eyes shut, and he squeezes the trigger.

  There is a click.

  Q’s laughter is loud. Obnoxious. He’s doubled over. “You should have seen your face. Did you shit your pants? I bet you shit your pants.”

  My heart is still ramming, my body not understanding what my mind does: The gun is not loaded. Or if it is, the bullet was not in that round. He could be playing Russian roulette with my life. The tears are falling now, hard and fast. I don’t care what Q thinks of this. He wanted to make me feel weak, helpless. He has succeeded.

  “So now that I have your attention, I’ll tell you why I have this beauty here.” He pets the pistol again. “Consider it a reminder of how powerless you are. Of how you’ve used your own power in the past to ruin people.” He glares at me.

  As if I needed another reminder.

  He puts the gun in the front waistband of his track pants. “How was it to see your family? Your best friend?” His words are sharp, tinged with anger.

  I barely hear his question, the sound of the gun clicking still ringing in my ears. I’m still alive. But for how long?

  “I asked you a question,” he says, putting his hand over the gun in his pants. A sign of what he could have done. Of what he could still do.

  I stare at his mask, wondering again who is behind it. Who would kidnap me, restrain me, play Russian roulette with my head? I swallow hard, trying to decide how to answer him, what combination of words won’t set him off, won’t make him reach for his weapon again. “Yes, it was hard,” I finally say, then debate my next sentence. If he’s a cold-blooded killer it could be enough to make him pull the trigger. But if he’s got a heart, a conscience, maybe he’ll show me something that will help me figure out who he is. “I’m sure you can understand that despite the things I’ve done wrong, I’m still human. I miss my family and am scared I might never see them again.” I pause. “Don’t you have people you love?” I hold my breath.

  He turns away from me, and I can see his shoulders tense. He makes fists with his hands.

  It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. I said the wrong thing.

  In two strides he’s right in front of me, inches from my face.

  “Don’t you dare ask me something like that again. Do you understand me?” he yells.

  I nod my head.

  His eyes dart upward for a split second, and I follow his gaze. That’s when I notice it. How have I not seen it before? A tiny camera in the top right corner of the room. A pit forms in my stomach. Someone is watching me. But who?

  Franklin comes to mind first. I think of him in his short-sleeve white button-down tucked into his perfectly pressed, pleated khaki pants. The way he sat erect on the court benches, watching. Often smiling if he’d catch my eye. He had a little notepad that I later realized must be what he was writing his letters to me in. I’d always considered him a harmless stalker, if such a category exists. He thought he was in love with me; I got a restraining order; he went away. Or so I thought. But—and I never told anyone this—the night they dragged him away after he showed up at my office that night . . . there was something about that look—like he was sending me a message. This isn’t over. What if he hired Q to take me and hold me hostage? It seems far-fetched—the police said he had no criminal record, not so much as a speeding ticket. But isn’t that always how it is? There is no record until there is?

  Q takes a step backward. “You’re right.”

  “That you have your own family?” I ask, a tiny spark of hope shooting through me that maybe I’ve gotten through to him.

  Q smirks. “No, Lila. You’re correct that you aren’t going to see yours again.”

  I see it then. He’s telling the truth. I’m not going to make it out of here alive.

  I think of Ethan tucking a stray hair behind my ear as I read my vows, the wind from the ocean kicking up, my hair flying everywhere during the ceremony. Then a piece of sand lodged in my eye. Both of us laughing. I picture my mom the day I graduated from law school, the pride on her face. The relief I felt that I could finally take care of her financially. I remember Carrie on that night we met at the cocktail party for the firm. I had no idea when she offered me a cigarette how important she would become to me . . . and how I would betray her in the very worst way. I get that it might be hard to understand—how you can love someone yet still choose to hurt them. How you can be loyal to them in so many ways except the most important one. All I can say is that I’ve compartmentalized it for the last six months—the pull to Sam and my love for Carrie. My commitment to Ethan. I put them each into these little boxes and shut them tightly so I don’t have to think about any of them too much. Until now. Now it’s all I think about as I sit here with my back pressed against the cold concrete wall, contemplating how terribly I’ll be paying for my sins when I die.

  My lip quivers as I imagine Ethan at my funeral. Contemplating the wife he thought he knew. My secrets surely coming to light after my death. He’ll be equal parts mourning me and hating me as I’m laid to rest. Having to live with the fact he may not have known me at all.

  And Sam. Will he attend my servi
ce? Will he still come if Ethan and Carrie find out about us? I picture him the last time I saw him as I stormed out of Bestia after ending things. Why didn’t he tell the police we went to dinner? What reason does he have for keeping it from them, unless . . .

  I glance up at the blinking red light again. Could he be the one staring at me from behind the camera? Did he hire Q? His only motive would be that he’s afraid I’ll tell Carrie about us. But he knows I would never do that—I have as much, if not more, to lose. He could also be upset I broke up with him. I shake my head. But he didn’t know that was coming. And my abduction was clearly planned for some time. I glance at my wrists, rubbed raw from the cuffs. This feels creepy. Personal. Like I’m in the center of someone’s mind-fuck. But whose mind-fuck is it?

  And next time, will there be a bullet in the chamber?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TUESDAY

  FREE

  I’m so lost in thought that I let out a small shriek when my car door jostles, my heartbeat only slowing when I realize it’s Ethan. He smiles and nods slightly toward the door. I fumble for the unlock button, flustered. “Sorry,” I say as he settles into the tan leather interior. “I’m a little jumpy tonight.”

  “Why?” he asks, frowning. “Did something happen?”

  I pause before answering. No, nothing has actually happened, so why does it feel like something has? Almost as if there’s a muffled alarm ringing deep down in my psyche. I can’t explain it—maybe it’s the breakup with Sam and the ensuing fallout that has me on edge. Or it could be Greenwood and that sixth sense I get about my clients, warning me that something is off about him. Whatever is going on, it’s causing a rumble within me, shooting off sharp blades of anxiety. “No,” I say to Ethan. “It’s probably stress. They’ve given me a divorce case at work, and it’s going to be messy.”

  Ethan cocks his head. “Divorce? Why?”

  “He’s a big client, and he asked for me. Guess he’s a fan.”

  “That makes no sense. Is that divorce lawyer going to help you—the short, aggressive one with the bad sweater vest that I met at the holiday party last year? What’s his name?”