Black Lies (28 page)

My trepidation disappears the moment Jillian answers the door, fully dressed, makeup on. Her puzzled look turns to an impressive show of alarm upon seeing me. “What’s wrong? Is it Brant? Did you find him?”

I stare at her, slack jawed, my mind furiously working, something it should have done during the drive here.
She’s continuing the façade
. I had expected, upon my early morning arrival at Casa Jillian, for her to be contrite and honest.

“No…” I say slowly. “I haven’t. May I come in?”

Her mouth closes and a regretful look passes over her face. “It’s awfully early, Lana. The staff isn’t even up yet.”

I can call bullshit on that. Jillian demands secretaries at BSX arrive by 6:30 AM. I’m pretty sure her house staff starts their day before the sun rises. I also notice her use of ‘Lana’—an endearment never extended before. If she thinks I’m that pliable, I’m going to dissuade her right now. I step forward, pressing a firm hand on the door and squeeze by her, a huff of annoyance heralding my entrance. “I just need a minute, Jillian. I’m going crazy with worry.” I allow my voice to wobble, hoping that it passes as hysterical.

“Well, please keep your voice down,” she says stiffly. “This needs to be a short visit, Lana.”

Short visit, my ass. I wait for her to shut the door. Watch her turn to me and gesture toward the closest chair.

I have underestimated this woman. Faced opposite her for three years but I haven’t known the level of her deceptive abilities until now. Now, in a situation where I know the truth yet am almost persuaded by her acting. I sit in her home, listen to her lie, and feed her rope. I feed her foot after foot of rope and watch her, seated in a plush red upright chair, tie a complicated noose around her neck and hang herself.

It is a masterful act. One that goes through irritation, then sympathy, then a full-breakdown of tears over ‘where our boy may be’. Her worry for him. Her terrified portrayal of a loving aunt. Played to perfection. I watch her performance with dead eyes, horrified by the ability of this woman, one who has orchestrated Brant’s life for two decades. Ran BSX during that time. Protected secrets while spinning lies of her own. I sit before her, grip the arm of a chair, and wonder where in the home Brant is.

Once the noose is tied.

Once I know her selfish loyalties.

Once I understand my enemy.

I stand.

Throw back my head and scream Brant’s name as loud as humanly possible.

Jillian shoots to her feet, confusion in her eyes, her gaze darting to the right, and I take off running, up the staircase, my Uggs taking me faster than a high-heeled senior citizen can even think about moving. I scream for him, scream his name over and over as I tear down a marble hallway, my feet slamming to a halt when I hear my name, called from a few doorways back, and I whip around, bursting into a bedroom as my eyes catch sight of Jillian’s entry from the top of the stairs.

I don’t at first understand the scene. A man I’ve never seen, standing at the edge of a bed, the thrashing figure before him a tangle of sheets and movement. I come to a stop, the stranger and I staring at each other for a brief moment, then my eyes are on Brant and he smiles and it feels as if my heart will explode. “Lana,” he gasps. “Get me out of here.” Then he jerks his hands and I see restraints and my entire world goes red.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” I whirl, Jillian’s entrance into the room skirted by two employees, three flushed faces who stare at me as if preparing for battle.

“Layana,” Jillian starts, her hands patting the air in a calming fashion.

“WHO THE FUCK HAS THE KEYS TO GET HIM OUT OF THOSE?” I point to the shackles *ohmygod* that hold Brant down.
Hold him down
, as if he is fucking dangerous. Or insane. Or anything other than Brant, my gorgeous brilliant man, currently tied down like an animal.

“We had to restrain him. He was violent.”

“No I wasn’t,” Brant speaks from behind me.

“You don’t know what you were!” Jillian snaps.

“You,” I snarl. “You don’t have the right to fucking talk to him anymore. I’m taking him with me right now.”

“Language,” Jillian clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “It’s nice to see the trash that lies beneath that blue blood smile, Layana.”

I look at her in disbelief. “My
language
? That’s what you want to discuss right now? While you have Brant
tied
down
?” I look from the strangers face to her employees, all who look unsure. “WHO THE FUCK HAS THE KEYS?” I scream, my own hold on rationality questionable.

“I do.” The man in the room steps forward. Pulls a key chain from his pocket and looks to Jillian. I move in between them, blocking his view, and point to the bed.

“Untie him.”

“Don’t move, George,” Jillian’s voice rings out.

I step forward, snatching the key ring from the man and move to the bed. Meet Brant’s eyes while freeing his right hand. “I love you,” I breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he responded.

“Shut up baby.” I turn to his leg strap and come chest to chest with Jillian, her fingers wrapping around my wrist with an iron grip.

“Please call Duane and Jim,” she says crisply to the women behind her. “I need them to get over here immediately.”

I jerk my hand back, twisting it until her fingers lose their grip. I place both hands on her chest and shove, the woman letting out a cry as she stumbles back, her legs giving out and falling to the floor. “Stop!” I cry at the uniformed women, their exit paused as two pinched faces turn to me. “Right now,” I gasp. “You have a decision to make. You are, I assume, both BSX employees. If you have any interest in future job security, I’d get over here and help me free the owner of your company.”

My car burns rubber on its Nobb Hill exit, Brant’s groan from the passenger side causing my foot to ease slightly, my eyes leaving the road for a moment to assess his condition. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just get us away from her.”

I press a button on my steering wheel, speaking when the tone sounds. “Call Home.”

I reach over and grip Brant’s hand, my fingers looping through his. An interlocking squeeze that I don’t want to ever lose.

The ringing through the speakers ends, replaced by the efficient voice of one of our security personnel. “Sharp residence, this is Len Rincon. Good morning, Ms. Fairmont.”

“Len, I’m with Brant. We’ll be arriving home in about ten minutes. I want the house on lockdown. No one coming in or out unless you talk to me. Especially not Jillian Sharp.”

“Is Mr. Sharp also available, Ms. Fairmont?”

“I’m here, Len. And I agree with everything Lana just said.” Brant leans forward to make sure the speaker catches his voice.

“I’ll need you both to provide your security passcodes.” Any comradery I’ve shared with this man over the last six months is gone. Suddenly, I see the ex-Special Forces asset we had hired.

“4497,” Brant mutters, sinking his head back against the headrest.

“1552,” I say.

“Thank you. We will be ready when you arrive. Would you like me to alert the police?”

I glance at Brant, speaking when he shakes his head. “No, thank you. Just make sure Windere is secure.”

“Will do, Ms. F.”

“And please connect me to Anna.”

“Certainly.”

The house manager answers promptly and with more perkiness than any individual should contain before 7 AM. I speak quickly, wanting to get off of the phone and talk to Brant. “Can you have Christine prepare breakfast? A full spread of everything Brant likes. Also, please prepare the bedroom. Draw a hot bath. And light the fireplace. I also need you to bring a physician in. He needs a full tox screen done, so have them bring whatever they need for that.” I had a sudden thought. “Actually, call Dr. Susan Renhart. She’s at Homeless Youths of America. Tell her it is urgent, and that discretion is important.”

She repeats the instructions back to me, then I end the call and glance over at Brant, his eyes closed. “Stay with me, babe,” I say softly, the sun rising spectacularly as my car whips around a curve.

“I’ll never leave you,” he says. “Not willingly.” He sits up, pulls on my hand slightly. “I’m so sorry, Lana. For everything I must have put you through.”

“We have the rest of our lives to talk about it.” I squeeze his hand. “Right now I’m more concerned with Jillian. Brant… she’s…”

“Crazy,” he finishes with a growl. “Crazier than me,” he adds with a wry laugh.

“Should you call your parents? I’m trying to think through her next course of action. It might be best for you to speak to them before she does.” I reluctantly pull my hand from his, put both on the steering wheel before he feels the shake in my palms. I was literally
shaking
with anger, at myself, at Brant, at the manipulation this woman has had in our lives. “I mean… Brant, she
tied you down
. What kind of sick person does that?”

“What if I’m dangerous, Lana?” His voice is quiet but walks the steps of giants.

I slow the car, jerking my gaze to him. “You’re not dangerous, Brant.”

“Brant isn’t dangerous. But you said yourself I have other personalities, what if one of them…” He suddenly leans forward, gripping the sides of his head. “Oh my God.”

“What?” I reach a frantic right hand out as my left pulls the wheel hard enough to turn through our gates. Tugs at his knee as I careen down our driveway. Pull at his shirt as I shift into park. Try to break through, but he ignores me, gripping his head as he shakes it from side to side.

“October 12th,” he whispers. “Oh my God. October 12th.”

I say nothing, wait, as he repeats a date that means nothing to me. Then, he stills. His head stops moving, he slows his frantic rock, and drops his hands, a calm settling over him as he raises his head and looks at me.

“I remember.” He says softly. “I remember October 12th.”

Brant

There is not a moment when I feel the switch, when it bubbles through me and replaces one person with another. There is nothing to fight. Nothing to struggle against. I simply open my eyes to a place I don’t recognize. Stare around, take in my surroundings, and then continue.

Our minds are unique in that they are like infants in their acceptance of what is shown. I don’t wonder that I don’t remember yesterday, because I have always had no yesterday. It, to me, is normal. That personality has never lived another way. I don’t find it strange to be suddenly awake and at a restaurant and midway through a meal because that is what I know. How I know life to be. The regular world, as a species, doesn’t question the fact that they close our eyes and—for eight hours—time passes in literally the blink of an eye. Doesn’t question the fact that they may have said things in our sleep, held a brief conversation in the middle of the night with a spouse—a conversation that they remember nothing about. And just as they don’t question that, I never questioned the two decades where things didn’t always make sense. Blamed any gaps in memory or sudden changes in location on my medication’s side effects.

But now, suddenly, I remember something. One glimpse into a day I have wondered about for twenty-seven years.

I didn’t know much about my world when I opened my eyes on October 12th, other than a few simple facts. I was Jenner. I was eleven. There was a girl down the street named Trish who had a pet mouse and wouldn’t let me play with it. She’d shown me the tiny, trembling figure a few weeks earlier and I had touched it. Pale white with red eyes, and I had poked it too roughly and she had pushed me away. Pulled it close to her chest and screamed that I’d never touch it again.

I digress. I was Jenner. I did not know who this woman before me was and had no interest in her brand of authority. I wanted my mom. I wanted my blue house with the broken porch rail and the iced tea pitcher that collected condensation in the fridge. I didn’t want to be in a basement with a woman whose mouth was tight and eyes were black, who smelled of vinegar and coffee and whose finger wouldn’t stop jabbing the paper before me.

“Focus, Brant. Multiply the fractions. We don’t have all day.”

I’d never seen this pile of crap before. Numbers above and below lines. The crooked cross, which I knew
meant
to multiply but I didn’t know
how
to multiply. I pushed the paper away and looked at her. Said the only truth that didn’t make me sound stupid. “I’m not Brant.”