Let Her Lie, page 26
Zora nodded sadly. “If I had known it would be so … sensational, I would have never given my contact with the police your results. The information is going to be public. The press will pick up on it quickly. I tried to stop it, but I can’t. I can only delay the inevitable. He said he’d do what he can, but at most, it will come out in a month.”
Miracle stared off at nothing. “I have to find him.”
“The Halo Killer? Why?”
Without realizing it, Miracle touched her stomach for the first time since they’d sat.
“He was the last person to see my mother.”
* * *
Somehow, Zora used her magic and found him. The man who had murdered her mother. Miracle found herself sitting closer to him on the bed. She could not take her eyes off the man. He was so small. So broken. Yet so confident. It dripped from him, telling both her and Zora that he was better, stronger, smarter. Regardless of the fact he had just been manipulated and that he might not leave that room alive.
The more they spoke, the more he entered her thoughts. He probed her soul. Then he said it, even before she could.
“You need to know why she did it.”
Need? Was that it? Or was it something else?
“I need to know I won’t,” she said.
Miracle let out a slow, agonizing breath. That’s when the true pain hit. When the last of her tattered heart broke. For she realized that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t why she was there. Why she’d done what she had to get there. It was so easy to say it was about her child, but so untrue as well. Though admitting that hurt almost as much.
“Did she love me?”
The question burst from her like a blood clot breaking free and storming through the synapses of her brain, burning them out, erasing everything else. Her childhood. Her unborn baby. His father. Her mother. Everything.
“Did she love me?” she repeated.
And somehow, Miracle felt emptier than she ever had before. Jasper just stared at her, an even stranger look in his piercing eyes.
“Amazing,” he whispered.
“Why?” she asked.
“The hunger. It’s in us all. We’re all trying to find it. To devour it. In the hope that it will help. That it will make a difference.”
Miracle nodded. “When I was young, my … mother would take me to the ocean. After playing in the water, for hours sometimes, I would leave Meg in her old beach chair, reading some novel she’d bought on discount at Browseabout. And I’d cross the sand. I’d feel the warmth from the day’s sun against the soles of my feet. It would grow hotter and hotter the closer I got to the dune. But I would keep going until I couldn’t take it. Then I’d sit in that hot sand, utterly alone. And dig.
“Despite the beauty around me. The soft sound of the ocean singing. The gulls crying out above. I only saw my fingers scooping sand out. Faster and faster. And with each swipe, the sides caved in, refilling the space, undoing my best effort. But I kept going, kept fighting, like I could win, like the sand was some challenger. Some enemy that cared as much as I did. But it didn’t. It just did what it does. Erases what I did.
“Eventually, I won. At least I thought I did. I dug deep enough, fast enough, that I reached the damper sand below. The hole became a deep, dark eye staring back at me. I leaned back; I looked at what I’d done as sweat dripped down and burned my eyes. And you know what I saw? A hole. Nothing more. And I was left wondering why I’d tried so hard to begin with.”
“Because what would you do if you didn’t,” Jasper Ross-Johnson said.
“What would we do if we didn’t,” she agreed. “Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe the big questions don’t matter. Because you can never truly fill the holes inside. Because they’re not holes. They’re just a part of us. Pieces that make us who we are. Maybe we’ll keep trying. Maybe we don’t have a choice. But in the end, it doesn’t really matter, because they’ll always be there. No matter how much you are loved. Or how much you are feared.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Zora moved closer. She looked to Miracle, who subtly shook her head. With a nod, Zora left them on the bed, walking into the bathroom.
Jasper watched her leave. Then he turned back to Miracle, the smile on his face strangely human.
“She left you alone with me,” he said.
“I’m pregnant,” Miracle replied calmly.
“Yes, I know.” His head shook. “Is she going to kill me now?”
“I don’t think so,” Miracle said.
“I think … I wish she would.”
His eyes never left Miracle’s as Zora reentered the room. She held a damp washcloth in her hand. Without pause, she slapped it across the bottom half of his face. In three seconds, the homemade ether dropped him into a sound sleep.
CHAPTER
11
“WE LEFT HIM at the parking lot where it all started,” Miracle said. “It felt right.”
“And the police found him there just as he was waking up,” Zora added.
“Wow,” I said, for so many reasons.
They stood beside each other, so close that I could not see the doorway behind them. I sidled to the left until the knob came into view. Maybe, if I made a sudden lunge, I could surprise them. I could make it out into the hallway.
As I tensed the muscles of my feet, ready to spring, Zora turned. She opened the door, and Miracle followed her through. Standing in the threshold, she stopped.
“Theo,” Zora said. “It’s up to you now. Understand that everything I did, I did to try to protect her. It was stupid. A risk. But once we started, it just snowballed.”
“It’s amazing,” I said, breathless.
“She’s been through enough. If her part in this gets out … it would be like reliving it all over again.” Her head shook. “But there’s nothing left. You have the truth now.”
“Do I?”
Her eyes clouded. “What does that mean?”
“You’re leaving something out. You broke him out of prison. Why?”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Zora said, but I didn’t buy it.
“Why would you allow that maniac to be free again? It makes no sense. But that’s why you’ve gone so far. Why you’ve risked so much. Why you are still protecting her.”
Like a flash, she attacked. Zora grabbed me by the throat, pushing me across my apartment and up against the far wall. Her nose nearly touched mine as she growled at me.
“You have enough, you asshole. Make the movie and move on. You’ll be rich and famous. Everything you could have ever wanted.”
A laugh slipped out. “It’s not enough.”
Strangely, I felt no fear. No concern at all. Instead, something else engulfed me. Fueled me. And I realized that Jasper was right. It wasn’t desire. It was a hunger. The truth was a drug, the perfect ending my hit. I would dig, claw out the clues. Tie up the loose ends. I would prove that they’d broken him out of jail. I would learn the motive. My film would shake the world.
Why?
The question was much softer than everything else. A whisper in the storm of endorphins. This time, though, it was not directed outward but at myself. For some reason, I thought of that pop star who had slipped into my DMs. My childhood dream. Birthed to reality by my sudden fame. And when it happened, when I had it all, I’d ended up on my floor, empty and alone.
In that moment, I realized something. Looking into Zora’s eyes; seeing Miracle stepping back into my apartment. Picturing Jasper’s dark eyes. Seeing myself, maybe for the first time. Were we so different?
The hunger. The need to fill some deep emptiness inside our souls. Zora’s family had broken her. Her parents had turned their backs on her, made her the villain. Miracle had been left to die by the one person who should have loved her beyond life.
I never truly learned what had made Jasper a killer. But I’d built a profession convincing people that I could. That my work dissected the unexplainable. Parsed it into predictable slices that the rest of us could easily swallow, making us feel better. Safer. Superior. Letting us believe that we could never. That our children could never. And that tragedy like that would never touch the ones we loved.
I was the true American dream. I’d made it. I was rich and famous. I could get a table at Nobu myself now. I had it all. And the second I did, I realized that it wasn’t enough. Not that I needed to be more famous. Make more money. Instead, I learned that I’d spent all my life chasing a dream. I’d run myself ragged. Paranoia and anxiety had racked my psyche, tearing it to bloody shreds. My career had skyrocketed, then plummeted to the literal basement. I’d worn my hands and knees raw climbing my way back up. As I stared into Zora’s eyes, I wondered why. Why had it been so dire to me? What was my motive? And I had no answer. I didn’t even know what hole I’d been trying to fill. I just knew, for certain, that this wasn’t the answer.
Miracle eased beside Zora. A hand snaked out, taking hers. I glanced down as their skin touched. I saw how that simple contact eased the rage that had creased Zora’s entire face. And I understood her hunger as well. What Miracle meant to Zora.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’ll all be okay.”
THE ENDING
December 17, 2018
TIME HAS PASSED. I stand behind the counter, one hand atop the La Marzocco espresso machine. The morning’s been slow, just the regulars. Often, as I do this morning, I find myself watching the guy who comes in and writes between nine and eleven every day. As always, he wears noise-canceling headphones and sits there, alone. Every day. Doing the same thing.
I assume he is or is trying to be a novelist. An air of torture surrounds him, keeping the other patrons at bay. I picture myself approaching him. Sitting down across the table and asking him the question. Why? I won’t, though. Because his journey is not mine.
As I watch him, my phone rings. It is my mom and dad on speaker.
“Hey,” I say. “Did Meechie land yet?”
“We’re on our way to pick her and the kids up,” my mom says.
“When can we expect you?” Dad adds.
“Cass is coming in to cover for me in an hour. I should get there in time for dinner. I can’t wait to see the kids.”
They both talk at the same time. Eventually, Mom wins.
“They can’t wait either. They keep talking about your famous scavenger hunts.”
“Oh,” I say, smiling. “I have a great one planned. I’ll see you all soon. Love you, Mom. You too, Dad.”
“Love you too, buddy,” he says.
When I end the call, I glance over at the writer again. As I do, the door swings open. Without really looking, I slip the cleaning rag from my shoulder, rubbing it between my palms.
“Can I help you?”
“Hello, Theodore,” a familiar voice says.
My heart stops. My head jerks up. And I find Martino standing across the counter from me. His teeth shine brightly, in contrast to his smooth, bronze cheeks. He holds a thickly stuffed manila envelope in his left hand.
“What … how’d you find me?”
“It wasn’t hard,” Martino says, his tone unnervingly familiar.
“Wow,” I say. “Um, how are you?”
“I saw your movie last night,” he answers.
“You did?” I shook my head. “The Basement?”
He laughs. “No, Miracle and the Halo Killer.”
Though my back stiffens, I try to smile.
“That’s not my movie, Martino.”
He nods. “I forgot. The woman got the credit.”
I blink slowly. “Her name is Jessica Ransom. I hear it’s amazing.”
The truth—after Zora and Miracle left my apartment, I sat down and edited the footage from the night I shot the Halo Killer, careful to avoid any hint of Miracle’s involvement. We plugged it in and I called Kent’s father. I asked to be removed from the credits and from any press junket. He fought me—until he watched the film. Saw how great it was. In the end, he plugged Jessica into the director role, at my suggestion. I watched her Academy Award acceptance speech from my tiny house on the shore of Rehoboth Bay, smiling the entire time.
Understand something: as altruistic as this all might sound, I kept the money.
“It’s funny,” Martino says. “He actually predicted that would happen.”
I can barely get the next question out.
“Who?”
“Jasper,” he says, the smile gone from his face. “He left this for you.”
Martino reaches out, handing me the envelope. I take it, my hand so numb that it slips from my fingers, floating to the counter. I snatch it back, pressing it against my chest.
“He asked me to give this to you after the movie was released. He had some … parameters as well. Having to do with the ending. So, I had to watch it first. You understand.”
“You’ve had this since …?”
He nods and backs away.
“It was a true pleasure meeting you, Theodore. I hope you’re happy.”
I have nothing to say. All I can do is watch Martino walk out of the coffee house. I am so transfixed that I don’t even notice the novelist craning his neck, staring at me.
“You know him?” the guy asks.
I startle. “Martino? Yeah.”
“Martino?” The guy squints. “That’s Malcolm Grander. He’s kind of a local legend.”
“Malcolm. Grander?”
“Yeah. You didn’t know that?”
I shook my head.
“Wow,” the guy says.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Did you see The Face of a Killer?”
I knew the documentary well. It was Cassandra’s finest work. But I had stopped watching competitors’ films a long time ago.
“He was in that?”
“Yeah, he played the killer in all the reenactments.” The guy pulls out his phone. “He runs a local troop of actors down here, out of the Rehoboth Theatre. I wrote a short for them. Here.”
He tilts the phone, and I stare at the photo on the screen. It is a group shot. My eyes immediately find Martino—or Malcolm—standing in the center. When I see who stands next to him, my stomach turns. Though she wears neon sunglasses and a theatrical cape, there is no mistaking Ginny Harris, Miracle’s landlord. As I stare at the picture, I think about all the background the woman provided me. And the confusion I first felt begins to melt away. I sense, not for the first time, that I have been masterly played. It’s just the author I got wrong.
The writer from my café kneels beside Malcolm in the picture. I glance at him, and he smiles.
“Yup, that’s the Rehoboth Beach Players.”
I remember my last conversation with Zora. We knew Jasper had help. As my eyes slowly move across the other faces, I recognize some of the others as well—the prison official who took me back to see Jasper that second time. The man who kept me up all night on the red-eye with his inane stories. Tilting my head, I stare at another one. A tall guy in all black. With thick, stylish gray hair. And I swear he is the one I ran into outside my apartment the night I found the flower at my door.
“We all go a little mad sometimes,” I say out loud, remembering his words.
“That’s from Psycho. I love Hitchcock.” The writer guy laughs, then continued in his best Norman Bates impersonation, “A boy’s best friend is his mother.”
And I picture that group of nefarious, geriatric thespians haunting me. Cleaning out my apartment. Leaving that damn flower outside my door. Keeping me on edge, exhausted, so I wouldn’t notice. I imagine an elderly would-be actress named Edith following me in New York. And as I fled to New Jersey. Making phone calls and holding a cell up to the receiver, one connected to Jasper in Delaware. That was why he had sounded so distant. How he had appeared to be everywhere at once. Jasper hadn’t had a single obsessed follower, but a troupe.
My heart misses a beat. The phone disappears. The man, next. Even the café. Everything but that envelope and its contents ceases to exist. I tear it open. I know, immediately, that it is a script. A letter is attached to the cover page with a shining silver paper clip.
DEAR THEODORE,
I truly hope that this letter finds you well. I have a feeling, as long as Mr. Grander follows my instructions, it will. I am sorry I’ve kept this from you for so long. As you will surely understand upon reading this correspondence, it was necessary.
First, let me thank you. To my vast surprise, prison was both a blessing and a curse. I knew that the situation was not viable, long-term. I certainly was not going to allow my own ending to be written in that place, by our pathetic government. Horrid concept, really. Yet, it did provide me the focus to understand my final purpose. The time to craft my greatest tale. And the focus to realize my inspiration. “Did she love me?” That was her question, not mine. Oh, how it did inspire me.
At this time, I assume you believe that the other one, that so-called detective, found me. That is a lie, though one originated by me. The truth is that, when I read that article, printed on July 15th, I found her the very next day. The detective had nothing at all to do with it. She was nothing but an annoyance, though her skills came in handy near the end. I needed to see the girl. Maybe I intended her harm. I am not sure. But I found her. And when I met her, everything changed.
I will not enlighten you on our full connection. That is mine, alone. But I will say that, in many ways, where I was empty, Miracle was full. And vice versa. We had no convenient motive. No lust, no love, no greed or passion or hatred. That, my friend, you understand. For those things are not necessary for the truly beautiful stories.
You might wonder why Miracle and the other one fed you that final story. I was not sure it would be necessary. I wrongly assumed that, due to your troubles, you would be more pliable. That you would follow my lead and end our film as I intended. I should not have been surprised. I chose you not solely because of the Bender scandal, but for your miraculous work to date. I was in awe of you from the day we met. How quickly you neared the truth. That Miracle and I were connected. And that we had met prior to my capture.
