Hush Hush #2 (3 page)

“Right,” I say. There’s a nervous flutter in my chest, and I can’t seem to get rid of it.

“Now that he likes you, and more importantly now that he
trusts
you, you need to leverage this.” Her voice lifts with excitement. “So I’m thinking we do something…bigger.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have a couple options,” she says. “The first one is the simplest—you find a way to snap some photos of Liam’s naughty little room, then threaten to sell them to the paper and expose his dark, deviant secret if he doesn’t pony up some hush money.”

“That’s blackmail,” I say. My voice cracks.

“Well, yeah,” Miranda says, as if what I said is obvious. “Crime ain’t pretty, honey.”

“Still, I don’t know about that,” I say nervously. “The whole point of all this, at least for me, is to get back at the Hawthornes. And I’m not going to do that by embarrassing their
son
.”

Miranda sighs. “I had a feeling you would say that. Fine. Here’s our other option—you manage to get Liam to introduce you to the parents, then you introduce them to me, and I’ll handle the rest.”

“Why does that sound
way
simpler than I know it really is?” I say suspiciously. “And besides, his parents aren’t exactly crazy about me, remember?”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed by a
glowing
endorsement from their only son,” Miranda replies breezily. “Ask Liam to take you to Sunday dinner with his parents. Tell him that it would mean a lot to you. And then be on your best behavior and dear
God
don’t mention your parents again.”

“Right,” I say meekly.

“And when you’re chatting with them, you’ll casually mention how your friend from college just received an incredible return on an investment. Their ears will be perked up at this point. You’ll say that you don’t know much about the details, only that the investment company is
extremely
selective about taking on new clients. They’ll be nearly salivating at this point. And then you’ll offer to introduce them to
me.
”

“My old college friend?”

“Your
young
and
gorgeous
college friend, you mean,” she corrects me. “And yes, that’s right.”

“And, what, you’ll have some kind of mock-investment company set up? Have you ever done anything like this before? I thought your schemes were always a little…lower-key.”

“I know a few people who are experienced in this kind of thing. They might be interested in helping us, if I pitch this to them in the right way. And if we split the profits, of course,” she says. “I think this could be big, April. If we do this right, if we convince them to invest enough, we could bleed them for almost every penny they have. Permanently.” Her voice is giddy.

My hand rises to my mouth, which has just dropped open. The possibility of bankrupting the Hawthornes is incredible. No, it goes beyond incredible—it’s more satisfying and exhilarating than I ever expected.
 

“Okay,” I breathe out. “Call your friends. Let’s do it.”

“Excellent,” Miranda says, sounding pleased. “Keep me updated on how things progress with Liam. I’ve started up a new scheme over here—there’s this guy I have my eye on, with the perfect combination of good looks, zero brains, and a fat inheritance—but I can drop it and come to New Orleans if you need me for anything. Just say the word.”

At this, I pause. Miranda doesn’t know about the research collection mounted on my wall. I can just imagine her walking into my room and casting a critical eye to the array of newspaper clippings. She’d accuse me of losing focus.
 

On the contrary, probing more deeply into the story of my parents’ unjust incarceration is
exactly
what I need to keep focus. I need to understand what happened to my parents, and why. Knowledge, more than anything, is what keeps me motivated to carry on.

But I know Miranda. She wouldn’t understand, and it’s not worth the attempt to explain this to her.
 

“I told you before that I’m fine here on my own,” I say hastily. “But thanks.”

“If you say so,” she says. She’s quiet for a moment, and then says thoughtfully, “So what were the ‘terms’ of the relationship that Liam wanted to talk about, anyway?”

“Well…” My voice trails off. I can’t bring myself to mention the contract.
 

But still, my eyes flick over to my purse, which is resting in a heap on the edge of the bed. In my frenzy to identify this mysterious “Robinson” person, I had shoved Liam’s contract to the back of my mind. But now, as I pace toward my purse and withdraw the crisp, white paper, I can feel the curiosity stirring within me.
 

“You know, more or less what you’d expect,” I say vaguely. “Listen, I’m really beat. I think I’m going to rest. Talk to you later?”

“Definitely,” she promises, and then hangs up.

I take a seat on the bed and put the phone down beside me. I cautiously flip open the folded paper. I hesitate for a moment—just a moment—and then begin to read:

I, Sophia Moore, of my own free will, offer myself as a submissive to Liam Hawthorne. I will obey him at all times and will seek his pleasure above all other considerations. I offer him unfettered use of my body, at any time, in any place, according to any means as he will determine…

My eyes widen, but I continue reading. Snippets of phrases jump out at me:

…safe words will follow the traffic light system…

…masturbation: Dominant to submissive, submissive to Dominant, and self-masturbation by both parties…

…the submissive will refer to the Dominant as ’Sir’ at all times, under penalty as determined by the Dominant…

…
agreeing to the following types of bondage…

The contract trembles between my fingers. I can feel my heart thump excitedly in my chest.

Here, in my hands, is the price of my vengeance.
 

I suppose I should consider myself lucky, in a way. I’m sure Miranda’s never had such an opportunity, to see the terms and tradeoffs of her schemes laid out so plainly. At least with this, I know what to expect. At least with this, I’ll have no surprises.

There’s a space at the bottom for signatures. Liam’s already signed the line designated for the “Dominant, Liam Hawthorne.”
 

I stare at the page, momentarily losing myself in the black scribble of his name, before grabbing a pen and signing the line for “Submissive, Sophia Moore.” I do it before I can stop myself, before my hand clenches from nervousness.

There. It’s done.

I can feel my body already reacting the word.
Submissive.
My blood begins to pump quick in anticipation. My skin twitches, turning hot.
 

I fold the contract and place it carefully back in my purse.
I’ll return this to Liam the next time I see him,
I think. Which will be…well, actually, I’m not sure. He never did give me a date or time for our next date. Just an ambiguous,
I’ll let you know.

Another show of power
, I realize.
 

Of course. As the “Dominant,” he gets to decide when and where we’ll next meet. And as the “submissive,” I get to—what? Coop myself up in the stifling four walls of this hotel room, until he decides he’s ready for me?
 

But that’s the arrangement, isn’t it? That’s what being a “submissive” means, right?

Fine. Sophia Moore the submissive can cool her heels here. As far as Liam’s concerned, at least.

But April Morrison has research to do.

I push myself off the bed, abandoning the purse and the contract. I stride over to the wall of notes.
 

Where to begin? My eyes sweep back and forth, taking it all in. They land on the blank part of the wall that I’ve reserved for the Benzes.
 

The Benzes from my childhood were happy, active members of the community—from what I recall, Kimberly led a local running group and always seemed to be organizing some kind of bake sale for her church. Eric Benz kept himself just as busy, coaching lacrosse at the high school. And there
were
plenty of newspaper articles that I had found during my research that mentioned the Benzes and their cupcakes and lacrosse matches, evidence of a life that was once full and happy. I chose not to tape them to the wall because they didn’t seem relevant to my investigation—and because they were too outdated.

And that’s the curious thing: after a certain point, the mentions in the newspapers just…petered out. Kimberly’s name was dropped from the PTA list. And the reports on the high school lacrosse games no longer included quotes from Eric Benz, but instead from a new coach named Craig Ashby.

If it wasn’t for Riley mentioning that they sometimes visit his bookstore, I’d have thought the Benzes had vanished into thin air.

There’s more to the story here. I’m sure of it. The Benzes disappeared from the newspapers less than two years after my parents’ trial. That can’t be a coincidence.

My adrenaline pumping, I grab my phone off the bed and quickly punch in a number.

“Hey Riley, it’s me,” I say when the line connects. “What are you doing tomorrow morning? I need to ask for a favor…”

3

Riley is already lingering on the grassy sidewalk, with his hands shoved into his pockets, when I pull onto the side of the street. I pause briefly to take in the view of the neighborhood before I shut off the ignition. This Lakeview is different than the one from my memories. Most of the homes look new, freshly renovated—a necessary outcome of Hurricane Katrina, surely. The street seems a little wider, the architecture a little taller.

But the vibe, the
soul
, of the neighborhood—it’s unmistakable. Even with my eyes closed, I would recognize this place. I remember this feeling, the warmth of the sun, shining down from the wide open sky. The sweet scent of freshly-cut grass. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees, the bright chirp of the birds.
 

You’re not here to relive your childhood
, reminds a voice in the back of my head.
You have a job to do. Answers to find.

My back stiffens.
 

Riley’s face perks up when I get out of the car. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself,” I say with a smile. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long for me.”

He shakes his head. “Not really. I came to the neighborhood a little early. Thought I may as well pay my old folks a visit.” He nods in the direction of a house down the block.

“Yeah? How are they doing?”

“Good. Complaining about the rising price of crawfish. You know, same old.” He laughs and shrugs. “I think they’d be really happy to see you, if you wanted to stop by after…”

My head shakes a little too frantically, and the smile on Riley’s face falters.

“I wish I could,” I say, scrambling to recover, “but I can’t let anyone know who I really am. Remember,
you
weren’t even supposed to find out. But then again, you’re too smart for your own good.”

The grin returns to Riley’s face.
 

“Fair enough, I guess,” he says.

I turn to survey the street. “So where are they?”

Riley points to a modest cottage with a green stucco facade. A single old, tall tree bows over the house, scraping its branches across the slanted rooftop.
 

As I gaze at it, a hazy memory wafts to the front of my mind: my stubby young hands smacking against the bark, attempting to climb the tree. The creak of wooden chairs as my parents and the Benzes chatted pleasantly on the front porch.

“Do they know we’re coming?” I ask, turning back to Riley.

He nods. “I called them last night. I wasn’t sure what to tell them, so I just said you’re a student at Tulane Law. If they ask, you’re writing a case study about the Morrison trial.”

“Good thinking,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
 

I wait for Riley to start walking. But he hesitates, digging the heel of his sneaker against the concrete sidewalk.

“What is it?” I prompt.

“They weren’t too keen on meeting you, truthfully,” admits Riley. “But they agreed to it—under the terms that I accompany you. Since they know me. Friend of the family and all that.”

“Oh,” I say slowly. “I see.”

“I know you only asked me to arrange the meeting. But I hope you don’t mind if I come inside with you…because I already kind of told them I would.” He gives me a half-hearted apologetic smile.

I pause for a moment, processing this.

“Actually,” I say, “that works. They might be more willing to talk with you there.”

“Great,” Riley says, sounding relieved. His eyes twinkle. “Let’s do this.”

As we approach the house, the first thing I notice about the house are the bars on the windows.
 

“That’s new,” I murmur to Riley, gesturing.
 

He glances over. “Relatively speaking, maybe. They had those installed years ago. I was still in grade school.”

Curiouser and curiouser.

We mount the stout staircase up to the front porch. That’s when I notice it—the red, blinking light of the security camera. It’s half-hidden in the old tree, pointed directly at us.

I turn to murmur a comment to Riley, but he’s already knocking on the front door. He catches me looking at him, and he gives me an encouraging nod.

“You know some legal terms, right? Enough to pass yourself off as a law school student?” he says.

“Uh, sure,” I say entirely unconvincingly.
Does the word ‘objection’ count?
I think to myself.

A peep hole in the front door slides open. A pair of bushy, gray eyebrows fills the gap.

“Riley, is that you?” a gruff, tired-sounding voice says.

“Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Benz,” Riley says lightly, as if speaking with a pair of eyebrows is an entirely normal thing to do. “I’m here with my friend, the one I told you about.”

The peephole snaps shut. A moment later, the door creaks open.

The man standing in the doorframe is a little grayer and fatter than the Eric Benz I remember, but there’s no mistaking him. He eyes me beadily as I step across the threshold into the living room.