Close Enough to Hurt, page 23
The rain beats the car, louder and louder, so I have to speak up to be heard. “This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.” He laughs, a sudden rich sound over the roar of the rain, but it fades quickly. “But you’ve never been a bad influence, Dylan.” He meets my gaze again. “You’ve always made me want to try harder. Made me want to be brave. Like you.”
I love you, I almost say, words rushing up from the bottom of my being. He’s dismantled my barricades, all right, scorching through layer after layer, finally exposing the naked, vulnerable heart of me.
It hurts. God, it hurts. But if I have to feel, I’ll let this love raze me down to bone.
“Well.” I clear my aching throat, stuffing the words back into a corner of my brain where they sit, glowing with heat. “First of all, I’m so sorry. I know you’d never betray me …” I grip the steering wheel with my right hand. “I don’t know why I said what I said. Just terrified, I guess.”
He gently pries my fingers from the steering wheel and gives them a quick squeeze before letting go. “It’s all right, Dylan. I know that.”
I wipe my nose. “Really?”
“Really.”
Heartened, I sit straighter. “And second, well … I guess I’m trying to break space and time and be everywhere at once.” I tick each scheme off on my fingers. “Dr. Chang and I filed a whistle-blower complaint and got that ball rolling. Then I’m going to alert the Prometheus board what Brent’s been up to. Staying a private company has enabled him to skate by without checking in with investors on the regular, and I don’t think they’ll be pleased to know he’s screwed them all over.”
“How will you bring it to their attention?”
“If I can get into his contacts, I plan to email them the evidence.”
Daniel’s eyes widen. “You want me to hack?”
I shake my head. “Let me try my way first.”
He frowns but nods for me continue.
“Then, when Rhys is finished investigating, we’ll expose the data from the clinical trials. But!” I hold up a hand. “That’s not all. He has a colleague who discovered women on the East Coast who were harassed by Brent in prep school. That colleague has also been in contact with someone from Prometheus who’s been sexually harassed by Brent more recently, and I’m working with Dr. Chang to see if there are any more. And I’m planning to talk to another woman I met at a restaurant who said Brent’s known for harassing the female waitstaff.”
When I’m done, Daniel sits back, considering. “You’re going to overwhelm him. The scientific front and the personal.”
“In short, yes. We just have to convince everyone to speak up and add their names.” I hold my sides. “Otherwise, the whole thing might fall apart. Boards can be reshuffled, but if we show the company is rotten through and through, it might be enough.”
Daniel reaches out, long arm stretching across the center console. He hovers over my upper arm for a second before giving it a gentle squeeze, warmth seeping through my damp, long-sleeved shirt.
Even this small touch fortifies me. Grounds me. I take a deep breath. “My sister also offered to go on the record about Brent.”
“You talked to your sister?” He lets go and leans over to study me, trying to find a way in.
“Last night. I went back to Eureka.” I don’t need to say more—of course he hears the subtext, lifting it out of the water like a handful of kelp.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I muster a smile for him. “Thanks to you, I stopped being a coward and went home. First time in years. Met my sister’s partner, Alicia. It was so nice to see Ellie. Gabrielle, I mean. She’s …” I close my mouth. “I’m so happy for her. She’s doing better than I ever thought she would.” My hangnails haven’t been picked at for a while, so I tear at one. “No thanks to me, of course.”
Daniel remains quiet.
I look over, curious what’s brewing in that head of his.
His expression is soft. “She’s lucky to have a sister like you, Dylan. No matter what you say.” A small smile folds the corner of his mouth. “Not many people would devote themselves to fighting on their sibling’s behalf.”
“Well, if anything happens to me, I hope you’ll do the same and avenge me.” I close my hand in a fist and smile. “Avenge me, Daniel!”
“All right, Roy Kent.” He smirks. “But it won’t ever come to that.”
“No?”
“Not while I’m alive.”
As if he’s blown air over them, the three small words in the back of my brain glow brighter. Hotter.
They have to emerge before they burn me alive, but not yet. Not just yet.
“I don’t want you involved in this, don’t want you hacking,” I tell him. “Not when you could go to jail for it.”
“Don’t put the programmer on the pedestal,” he says, with another smirk.
I smother a startled laugh with the back of my hand.
“I know you want to protect me, but my help doesn’t have to be illegal. Dylan … I just …” He sighs. “I want to be there for you.”
I crack my knuckles and sigh, too tired and charmed to fight. “I must be going soft,” I mutter.
He lifts a dark brow, waiting in that infuriatingly patient way of his.
“How ’bout that home security system in the houseboat, then?” I hate, hate asking for help, hate admitting weakness, the damsel in proverbial distress, but it’s a wise precaution knowing who’s approaching my home. And it’s Daniel, after all. If I have to lean on someone, it should be him. “The newfangled one you offered to install this summer, with fourteen cameras and the duress alarm and all that? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s overkill, but maybe—”
“It doesn’t have fourteen cameras, and I’d be happy to.” He gives me a zillion-dollar smile. “Was that so hard?”
“Yeah.” I grunt. “It was.”
He smooths his smile away. “I’ll get it set up tomorrow before work. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour.”
Though he’s coming to my home for a prosaic reason, I can’t deny my outlook has brightened like sunlight streaming through broken clouds.
So fucked. Still.
The price I pay for ignoring the words in the back of my skull.
“It’s a date,” I manage to say.
CHAPTER
26
TRUE TO HIS word, Daniel shows up bright and early the following morning, several large boxes tucked under his arm. He toes off his shoes.
“I come bearing gifts.” He deposits everything onto my kitchen counter and rolls back the sleeves on his tailored, soft-gray dress shirt.
I press a plate of homemade cinnamon rolls into his hands. “Looks like you’re going to need this.”
He sets the confection of cinnamon sugar on the counter without a glance. “I got a few add-ons. Motion detectors, range extender. The duress alarm. That’s why it looks like a lot.”
“Well, thank you.” I hide my sad puppy face in my urn of a mug, downing the rest of my now-cold coffee. “I appreciate it.”
“Wait. Is this what I think it is?” He finally looks at his breakfast/dessert, eyes wide.
I nod. As if I could forget his favorite pastry, the one he never makes for himself because he never has time. Also because he values not being on a first-name basis with his dentist.
“And you don’t even have a mixer.” He looks at the mixing bowls and measuring cups filling the sink. “Dylan …”
“Don’t Dylan me.” I find a fork and slide it his way. So what if I woke up at four AM to make it? “Just eat it.”
He does, groaning with unfiltered delight. “Why is it so good?”
“The three cups of sugar probably have something to do with it.”
“Three?” He chokes on a bite. “I can never eat this again, can I?”
“Maybe on your birthday?”
His smile changes, wavering, weighted by an emotion I can’t pinpoint. “Well, send me the recipe, so I can still make it even if you’ve gone walkabout.”
Damn. Reality hurts like a punch to the solar plexus. “I will.”
After finishing his plate of goodies, he works for the next hour, muted and focused.
Then he asks for my phone. “I’ll need it for command central. You’ll be able to monitor everything from the app.”
“Music to my control-freak ears.” I hand it over, unthinking.
The lock-screen photo shines, the one I changed the night I was in and out of sleep in Eureka. It’s a snap of him from the speakeasy, taken earlier in the night—before the Scotch—when I still had my wits about me, but only just. In the photo, he’s in half profile, backlit by the pink-and-orange neon tiger, a phosphorescent halo.
Smile, Haas, I’d told him.
He did, just for me, wide and real. So devastating I could hardly stand it, scorched by my yearning. The knowledge that I wanted him in every way. The knowledge, too, that I didn’t know how to ask, how to invite something so fine and precious into my nasty, venal life, except in the most superficial of ways. In the end, what could I do with such a gift except ruin it?
I should’ve deleted the photo ages ago. I tried more than once, thumb hovering over the proxy garbage can that’d absolve me of this lacerating reminder, but I never did.
I kept it instead. Cutting myself with the burden of knowledge, the way I always do. Elevating him front and center when I knew it was over, so I’d never forget he deserved better than a queenpin like me.
Putting the programmer on the pedestal, apparently, if I’m to borrow his words.
I’d laugh, except terror has clamped around my throat like a huge, crushing hand.
Daniel looks at the screen, then back at me, expression inscrutable.
“Sorry! Duh, you need my pass code.” I pretend like I didn’t reveal an ace-high flush. “Or my face, as it is.” I snatch my phone from his hands and let facial recognition do the job of removing the telltale photo, relegating it to the background.
“Thank you.” Daniel takes my phone and wordlessly installs the app.
I pour myself more coffee, though what I need is a month at a Buddhist monastery to help my thudding heart and runaway pulse. While I fix my mug with heavy cream and enough sugar to ensure cavities—solidarity!—I steal a few furtive glances at him as he connects all the cameras and sensors to the mother ship.
He still hasn’t said anything.
He doesn’t need to. A small, pleased smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, pulling his cheek taut, revealing the hint of a dimple.
“Twenty dollars for your thoughts?” I venture. “I’m prepared to go higher.”
“You’d need more than that.” He tucks his smile away and returns my phone. “All done.”
I take it, careful not to brush his fingers, sliding the incriminating device into the pocket of my robe. “Well. Thank you again.” I blow on my coffee.
“You’ll want to update your profile with emergency contacts. People the system will alert if you’re in trouble, aside from the police.”
“Sure thing.”
“Don’t wait to do it.” He slides his leather messenger bag across his chest. “Take care of it today, okay? Please?”
“Are you calling me out on my procrastinating ways?” I lean on the counter, amused despite myself.
“Yes,” he says, without apology. Daring me to be mad.
As if I could when he smiles at me like that, backlit by the morning sun. “All right.” I burn my mouth with a too-hot slurp. “Anything for you, Daniel.”
He inhales, big rib cage expanding.
So far as I can tell, no breath comes out.
A moment later, he gives himself a shake, rue filling his expression. “I have to get to work.”
“Giddyup, then.” I wave him on. “Skynet won’t create itself.”
He laughs, shakes his head, and closes the door.
As soon as he’s gone, I slump against the wall.
Everything hurts. My head, my heart, even my fingertips, clenched around my mug.
“It’s not forever,” I tell myself. I have to endure this painful balancing act with Daniel only a little longer. Long enough to finish what I started with Brent and watch him be brought to account.
I unlock my phone and admire the impressive assemblage of video streams Daniel’s put together on the app. I’ll see every Tom, Dick, and pelican approaching my home, that’s for sure. Good to know in case this whole operation goes tits up and Brent’s out for blood.
Under my profile, in a remarkable feat of cognitive dissonance, I type Daniel’s name and phone number as my emergency contact and hit save.
* * *
That evening when I return to the townhouse, I send a mea culpa text to Brent, setting my plan in motion. My hands are sweaty, and I wipe them on my skintight jeans before I type.
Hi, babe! Been thinking about the other day and hoping I can make it up to you with dinner. My place, let’s say seven. Hoping to see you.
As I hoped, he replies immediately. Sure. I can be there.
Trap set, I ready my temporary home, preparing food. Lighting candles. Grinding more antihistamines.
Brent knocks early—again—perhaps hoping to catch me off guard, but I’m ready. Hair dried and curled, a low-cut silk cami underneath a prim angora cardigan, buttons popped. In the soft light, my reflection in the mirror glows angelic. A lesser angel, maybe. Ready to sully my hands among the humans and do the Lord’s dirty work.
His eyes widen when he sees me, then the candlelit kitchen and dining room. He lifts an inquiring brow.
“Like I said.” I take his hand with a smile and pull him across the threshold. “I wanted to make it up to you.”
I feed the monster my mother’s own decadent pasta specialty, penne alla vodka with a generous serving of chopped pancetta.
All the while, the monster drinks his Chianti full of antihistamines. I will him to pour every last bit of comeuppance down his throat.
“You didn’t answer my calls earlier.” He twirls the stem of the wineglass, looking at me with thinly veiled hunger but recrimination as well. Irises like hard blue marbles, exuding no warmth at all.
I knew he’d bring it up. He can’t help but list my faults and missteps, trying to tear me down and prove my unworthiness. My fickleness and faithlessness, and by extension, that of all women. Proof we deserve mistreatment.
“Well, I was pissed after we talked.” I let truth seep into my voice, granting it a layer of authenticity. “My family means everything to me. If we’re going to be together, you’ll need to understand that.” Little does he know how true my words are.
He nods like he cares, finishes his wine, and crosses the table to meet me, kneeling at my feet. “Of course, babe.”
I look into the monster’s eyes, touch his hateful face, and don’t look away.
He blinks, looking dazed. His skin is flushed, perhaps from the wine. Maybe from the substantial dose of diphenhydramine.
“Are you feeling okay, babe?” I fix my expression into one of concern. “You’re looking a little feverish.” I touch his forehead with the back of my hand. “Do you want to lie down?”
“I am feeling … off …” He shakes his head, confusion slackening his features. Confusion and anger. As if weakness is an affront to his very masculinity.
“Come on, then.” I stand and support his ungainly body. “Let’s get you comfortable.”
He lists, a heavy weight sagging against me, footsteps uneven. I drag him over to the couch. “Can I get you some water, maybe?”
“No. I don’t want …” He shakes his head, agitated, eyes slipping closed before he snaps them back open. “Don’t know why … just had a glass …”
I sit by his side holding his hand, a regular Florence Nightingale, and lean over to drip Nurse Ratched poison in his ear. “Well, you have been drinking a lot lately, babe.” I pat his chest with my free hand. “Is it any wonder you black out from time to time?”
His eyes remain closed. His breathing has slowed, a sluggish rattle.
I disentwine my hand and step away to clean the kitchen, waiting for him to reach a level of stupor and dissociation he can’t rouse from.
When the kitchen has been restored to unoccupied order, I pack my belongings into the suitcase, bag the trash and leftover groceries and deliver it to my car, removing every trace of my existence. I smile, imagining Brent’s confusion when he comes to.
Only then do I approach the slumbering monster.
I snap by his ears.
Nothing.
I lift his hand.
It drops like a dead weight.
“Well, look at you, you stupid fuck.” I shift him to the side with a grunt and retrieve his phone. His background photo is a picture of himself, naturally. Getting ready to blast himself into space on a giant rocket phallus. The phone unlocks when I lift his eyelids with one hand and hold the screen up to his sagging face with the other. “Thanks.”
I was prepared to venture next door if facial recognition let me down, find his contacts in his office, but his failure to disable this setting makes my life considerably easier. Within minutes, I have access to his photos, including more than a dozen anonymous women in various states of undress, all of them unconscious. Horror spreads through my insides like oil, a film I won’t ever be able to wash off.
I don’t have time to sift through them all, so I send the trophy album to my burner, evidence for Katie. I’ll do an image search after I’ve disappeared, see what the almighty Google pulls up. Maybe Daniel can help me find these women too. He has ways more powerful than mine.
Then I scrub the evidence of the sent message and delete myself from Brent’s contacts. I won’t have my burner’s SIM card up and operational, but every blockade I can put in his path will make it that much harder for him to find me.
I tamp the fury down and cross-reference his contacts with the Prometheus board members, a dozen men who look just like him. Prior research revealed no one has a background in science and they were all chosen for their ties to Brent above all else. A group of enablers if ever I’ve seen one.
“Frat party’s over.” Sipping wine, I open my laptop and ensure my VPN is running. Then I email the board one by one from an anonymous, encrypted account, delivering the evidence of fraud right to their in-boxes. Half an hour later, all my missives have been sent. If anyone deletes the email, it will only make them look more culpable, especially when the SEC begins an investigation, even if that’s months from now. Lady Justice plays a long game.
