Hushed Guardian: Brandon's Story

by Shandi Boyes

  My heart pumps out an extra flutter when he mentions Katarina’s surname. “You’re on the board of Julian’s charity. He talks about you all the time.” I offer her my hand to shake, smitten to meet the woman Julian talks about often. Julian is extremely close to his mother, but she barely gets a mention when he gushes about the charity work Ms. Rouse does. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Hi.” Katarina appears more shocked than me, like I’m one of the big celebrities sending the paparazzi into a tailspin. I find out why she’s eyeing me with star-filled eyes when she asks, “Have we met before?”

  I twist my lips. “I don’t think so.” I run my hand down Julian’s forearm. “I’ve been meaning to volunteer with Julian but life is hectic.”

  Katarina smiles. It’s as adorable as her face, which isn’t holding many wrinkles considering her age, which I’d guess to be mid to late fifties. I can only hope to have such a youthful face at her age. I want to say her smooth skin is compliments to Botox, but she doesn’t have the overly-rigid face most Botox lovers do, so perhaps it’s more good genes than a skilled dermatologist.

  “Julian said you moved to New York to accept a position at the DA’s office, how are you finding it?” Katarina asks, appearing genuinely interested in my reply.

  I pull a face. “It’s good. Challenging, but good.” It usually takes me knowing someone for a good three to four months before I open up to them, but Katarina has the type of aura you can’t help but be honest with her. She reminds me a lot of my mother. “There are more cases here than in the office I interned at in LA, but nowhere near as many staff, so it’s taking me a little bit to adjust to the workload. I’ll get there… eventually.”

  Although I’m still treated as an intern by my colleagues, I’m quickly clueing on to how diverse each office is. Such as, it’s not every day you’ll be in the same room as a Governor, a District Attorney, three High Court Judges, and a Mafia Kingpin. The latter has only just arrived, but he enters the room like a god, turning more than a few heads. Even I watch Henry Gottle, Snr. from afar, speechless and in awe. There’s a natural arrogance to him that you can’t help but be sucked in to.

  Not sexually. Don’t be uncultured, Henry is around the age of my father. It’s the fact he presents as an extremely dark and dangerous man, but when you truly look at him, you get the sense he has a hidden nurturing side as well. He conceals it well with deadly blue eyes and a fiercely cut suit, but it’s still there, hiding in the dimples of his concealed smirk.

  His hair is darker than a night’s sky, and his skin looks like he spends his days lazing at the beach instead of amassing a vast amount of wealth from unscrupulous business adventures. His persona, even from a distance, could be described as mulish.

  That is until his eyes swing my way.

  I take a step back, surprised by the ownership in his heavy-hooded gaze. Unlike a handful of the women in the rape support group I commenced attending in the months following my confession to Julian, my assault didn’t claim my innocence. If anything, it made me more naïve. But even someone with the purity of a saint couldn’t miss the possessiveness in Henry’s eyes as he makes his way across the room.

  Even with the room filled with influential people, the crowd creates a pathway for him, knowing no amount of political backing will alter the facts. This state isn’t run by men like Mr. McGee or Leo. It’s owned by Henry.

  I’m tempted to slap myself up the side of the head when the reasoning for Henry’s across-the-room stare becomes apparent. He isn’t parting the crowd like they’re the red sea because he thinks I’m the most beautiful woman in the room. His eyes aren’t even on me. They’re on Katarina, who looks exactly how a woman should look when the man from her dreams spots her from across the room.

  My brows stitch when Katarina presses a hurried kiss to Julian’s cheek before she makes an excuse to leave. She’s so flustered, nothing she says makes any sense, and we won’t mention her unsteady footing as she darts for the exit or you’ll believe she’s been downing as many cocktails as me.

  I’m not drinking because I am as out of my league as Julian is in it. It’s wondering if any other McGee’s would be at tonight’s festivities. I’ve yet to spot Brandon in any of Mr. McGee’s campaign photographs, but Phoenix and Madden occasionally pop up—Madden even more so the past six months since he announced he’s running for office at the next election. He’s starting at the senate like his father did.

  Thankfully, it appears as if Mr. McGee went stag tonight—if you exclude the three bugged-eyed women who’ve been buzzing around him all evening. He’s old enough to be their father, but they still fawn over him like he’s a rock star and they’re thirsty groupies.

  It makes me sick.

  I’m pulled from my thoughts for the second time tonight when my name is called from a voice I’ve never heard before. When I twist in the direction the thick, deep timbre came from, the caller of my name appears surprised I heard him as I am that he knows my name. We’ve met before, but that was an extremely long time ago, so why is he staring at me like a halo is circling my head.

  “You heard me.” Henry Gottle bridges the gap between us with three long strides. I’m tempted to bolt like Katarina did, but a weird sensation pinging through my veins keeps my feet planted on the ground. I also don’t want to appear frightened in front of my colleagues, because not only did Julian’s grip on my hand tighten when Henry called my name, every set of eyes in the room honed in on me.

  A silent gasp leaves my mouth when Henry cups my jaw in his palms. Because his hands are so big, his fingers weave through the hair I wore in tight curls with the hope it would hide the internal transmitters of the implants behind my ears. The difference in my pitch to people not born deaf already discloses I have cochlear implants, so they don’t need additional proof. I’m not ashamed I was born deaf, I just hate when people assume it’s a disability. It isn’t. It’s a uniqueness.

  I can tell the exact moment Henry unearths the cause of my newfound hearing. His gasp is as silent as my earlier one, but I didn’t need to hear it to know of its existence. It fanned my face with a pricy alcoholic scent.

  “I can’t believe you decided to get them done.” Henry’s words are only for my ears. As are his eyes. “It’s been years. Over two decades. Do you remember me?”

  The hope in his eyes almost has me nodding, but the sweat from Julian’s hand seeping into mine stops me. Since he’s clutching my hand as possessively as Henry is holding my face, he’s being roasted by the microscope of scrutiny right alongside me.

  I won’t have him subjected to a rumormonger because my parents had a weird kinship with Henry many moons ago. For all we know, their meetings could have been business related. But since this town loves gossip, and I can’t shut them up by telling them to keep their eyes on their own paper, I lie as I was trained to do on cue.

  “No, I don’t, sorry.” After stepping back, freeing myself from the fingers weaved through my hair and the hands warming my cheeks, I dip my chin in farewell. “But it was a pleasure meeting you. I hope you enjoy the festivities.”

  I hightail it to the exit as fast as my quivering legs will take me. Since Julian’s hand is enclosed over mine, he falls into step rather quickly.

  “What the hell was that?” Julian mutters when we break through the double doors of the ballroom guarded by secret service agents like the President is in attendance. “Do you know who that man is?” Although he’s asking a question, he doesn’t give me time to conjure a reply, much less articulate it. “He’s Henry Gottle. Henry. Gottle.” He repeats his name slowly like I’m still deaf. “How do you know him, Mel? You’ve never mentioned him previously.”

  I move to the edge of the sidewalk to flag a cab. “I don’t know him. He must have mistaken me for someone else.”

  “He said your name.”

  I roll my eyes like he’s being ridiculous. He isn’t, but when the chips aren’t in my favor, I have a proven track record for acting imma
ture. Brandon learned that the hard way seven years ago.

  “There are plenty of people called Melody.”

  My eyes snap to Julian when he snickers, “And how many of them were born deaf?”

  With my back up, I get snappy. “I don’t know, Julian. How many? You’re the one who’s profession feeds off the ‘disabled,’ so your statistics would be better than mine.”

  All it takes is for our eyes to collide for the quickest second, and Julian’s campaign to unravel the connection between Henry and me is set aside for comforting. He does the same thing any time we fight, and I’m ashamed to admit, I use his dislike of arguing anytime I’m overwhelmed with either fear or frustration, or sometimes both, such as tonight.

  While joining me on the curb, Julian tugs off his swanky black tuxedo jacket. My heart warms as well as my body when he drapes the quality material over my shoulders, wrongly believing I’m shivering because of the late fall evening. I’m not scared. I am just disappointed about the idiot I’ve been portraying the past twenty minutes.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, pulling his coat in closer.

  It smells like him, which is both comforting and exciting. He has a different scent than Brandon. His spicy aroma often reminds me of pumpkin spice lattes and freshly baked bread. Brandon’s scent was woodsy and natural, like it was plucked straight from nature. It was a smell I craved often before… you know.

  I’m still lost as to why Joey smelled like Brandon the night of his summer party. We hung out only minutes earlier. The drinks he’d been downing before I arrived was clear on his breath, yet, I didn’t detect an ounce of alcohol in the air when he slid into Brandon’s bed. All I could smell was Brandon’s aftershave. That’s why I wrongly believed I was safe.

  I guess Joey could have put it on to deceive me. In all honesty, that makes his switch in personality even more confronting. If he went to the effort to make himself appear to be Brandon, that means his assault was premeditated. That’s so much worse than believing he had read my friendliness in the wrong manner. It breaks my heart believing he purposely set out to hurt me. We were close. He was my friend. I loved him even before he was given my daddy’s heart, so why did he do what he did?

  When tears prick in my eyes, I shift my head high and to the right to ensure Julian doesn’t see the sheen threatening to spill down my cheeks. My sudden shift in visual has me stumbling onto Katarina being ushered into the backseat of a pimped-out SUV. Her protective detail isn’t surprising. Not even Henry’s suffocating presence stopped man eyeballing her with desire, however, the man guiding her into the four-wheel drive most certainly raises suspicion. I can’t see his face, but not even his tall height, bald head, and massive biceps are behind the massive spike in my heart rate. It’s his unique neck tattoo. I’ve seen it twice in my life. Both times it was on dead men.

  2

  Brandon

  My heart thuds against my chest as I stare down at a tiny slip of paper sitting solemnly on my dining room table. Half of me wants to snatch it up in an instant, whereas the other half wants to throw it into the fireplace with the hope the still warm ash will ignite it as well as it set ablaze my panic. My fireplace usually gives my home a welcoming vibe, but all it’s doing today is making the conditions extra muggy. I’m so hot, I am five seconds from ripping off my shirt, and we’re tiptoeing toward December.

  My eyes dart to Phillipa when she asks, “Shall I, or would you like the honor?”

  I snatch up the paper, answering her question without words. Melody isn’t technically mine anymore, but her safety is most certainly my responsibility, and I don’t give a fuck if her fiancé believes otherwise.

  My hands shake like I’m in the middle of a snowfield without gloves when I unfold the thin slip of paper. Even only being partially opened can’t hide the single string of text scrawled across the middle. The handwritten black-ink is similar to the script on the note Tobias handed me over a year ago, but it’s a fourteen-digit number instead of the filing code I didn’t want to discover.

  I flop back my head and lock my eyes to the ceiling, relieved it’s nothing close to the coding system Tobias used for his private files. Although I could swear on Joey’s grave I’ve seen a set of similar numbers before.

  Mere days ago.

  When recollection dawns on its familiarity, I head to my satchel I dumped on the entryway table when I arrived home twenty minutes ago like I had a rocket strapped to my back. Phillipa watches me with wide, curious eyes when I tug out a similar sized scrap of paper from my satchel. The handwriting is different, and this sequence of numbers was written with a blue biro, but the similarities between the numbers reveal a pattern, and it has my stomach twisted up in knots.

  “For every check written, two check digits, a bank identifier, a branch identifier, and part of an account number is imprinted on the bottom. Is it the same with wire transfer payments?”

  Phillipa looks lost to where I’m going, but she nods her head, nonetheless. “If they used the same bank and branch, you’d have similar digits on the transfer receipt, but the account number would be different.” She gasps in a sharp breath when I place down the two sheets of paper side by side. “They’re almost identical.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Is that the number Alex pried out of Albert Thursday afternoon?” Her eyes widen when my chin balances on my chest. “But there are decades between transfers. The date on Albert’s transfer reveals it only occurred this week. It was a down payment for something no amount of grappling had him disclosing. But the code on the Greggs file is from twenty-two years ago.”

  The shock on her face slips away for annoyance when I mutter, “It isn’t just legitimate businesses that have returned customers, Phillipa.”

  Her face screws up. She appears utterly confused. “What do you mean? You need to spell it out for me, Brandon. I’m hormonal and five seconds from chewing off my arm in hunger, so my brain is beyond fried right now.”

  Trust isn’t something I give easily, and tonight isn’t any different. My next set of words don’t just come out garbled, they’re also brimming with distrust. “Did you make copies of the files I requested?” When Phillipa jerks up her chin, I ask, “Even Ophelia Petretti’s?”

  Her chest rises and falls four times before she pulls a third file out of her leather satchel. This one is thicker than the Greggs file. It’s even more bulgy than Isabelle’s.

  “Did you comb through it?” The instant I voice my question, I realize how stupid it was for me to ask. Phillipa’s rant only minutes ago exposes she read Ophelia’s file, otherwise how would she know about Ophelia’s bogus claims I used my position to instigate a sexual favor. “Did you find a wire transfer receipt inside?”

  Phillipa’s brows furrow before she shakes her head. “But that doesn’t surprise you, does it? She wasn’t sold, more removed from her situation, so her file wouldn’t have a receipt for us to source similarities from.”

  With her honesty feeding my trust, I pace to an oil painting hanging above my fireplace. Phillipa groans when the removal of the painting from the wall reveals a hidden safe. “That’s the first place thieves look.”

  My laugh comes out super breathy since I tried to hold it in. “That’s the point. As soon as light is captured by the digital retina in the touchpad, an inbuilt camera commences recording. The footage is uploaded to both the security company’s servers and is streamed live to my phone.”

  Phillipa joins me at the wall that divides my dining room from my living space. “There’s a camera in there.” When I nod, she asks, “Where? That’s got to be the world’s smallest lens.” After stepping back, she waves her hand across her body then strays her eyes to my phone that commenced streaming a live feed the instant the painting was inched away from the wall. “It’s tiny but effective. I can see my crow’s feet from here.” She’s clearly joking. Although she is a handful of years older than me, she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.

  While Phillipa lady-boners over my state-of-the-art security
system, I punch a six-digit code into the digital touchpad, push aside my personal weapon, bundles of emergency cash, and a shoebox full of photos and memorabilia I can’t give up no matter how hard I try, so I can grab a bright pink envelope from the very back. The greeting on the front of the envelope reveals it doesn’t belong to me, much less the tiny slip of paper inside it.

  I didn’t buy Isabelle, but Tobias most certainly did, and he kept a record of his purchase.

  I’m reasonably sure I won’t eat for a week when I dig out the slip of paper from the envelope. The number sequence scrawled across it is a sixty percent match to the one Alex handed me. The only difference is the numbers that most likely correspond with the account the money was being withdrawn from. It abundantly proves Isaac is purchasing something significant from the Popovs. I just need to determine whether it’s upstanding like the purchase Tobias made or something much more sinister.

  ***

  Many hours later, I fan a bedspread over Phillipa before heading to my room. We worked through both lunch and dinner, yet we’ve barely made a dent in the stack of wire transfer receipts Phillipa arrived back from Tiburon with. The angle Tobias was working is clear, each transfer appears to be an exchange of money between the Popovs, the Bobrovs, and the Petrettis. We just have no clue exactly what they purchased.

  If it was children like Isabelle, this is worse than anyone could have comprehended. Several of the receipts have the same transfer identity imprint as the wire transfer receipt in Isabelle’s file, but without knowing the name of the child who could have been sold, we have no clue what their files are coded with.

  We could scrounge through the thousands upon thousands of files in Tobias’s personal collection, but that would take months.

  We don’t have months.

  Phillipa disclosed Isaac’s payment was a down payment. That means there’s more to come. Furthermore, I can’t live like this for months on end. I love cheese pizza and tomato soup, second only to peanut butter licked off Melody’s skin, it’s my favorite combination, but I barely touched it when it was delivered fresh. I didn’t even reheat a slice when Phillipa’s hungry stomach got the better of her four hours ago, meaning I’m once again going to bed with a tablespoon of peanut butter hanging out of my mouth.