Fractured Secrets, page 1
Fractured Secrets
Lisa Alfano
Lisa Alfano
Copyright © 2023 by Lisa Alfano
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Lisa Alfano.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by GetCovers
Interior design by Lisa Alfano
ISBN: 978-1-962675-03-1
For my parents, Mark and Ginny,
Thank you for teaching me to never give up and to always follow my dreams.
I am the woman I am today because of your unconditional love and unwavering support.
Dad and Mom,
I love you both beyond words!
Contents
1. SECTION 1
2. Chapter One
3. Chapter Two
4. Chapter Three
5. Chapter Four
6. Chapter Five
7. Chapter Six
8. Chapter Seven
9. Chapter Eight
10. Chapter Nine
11. SECTION 2
12. Chapter One
13. Chapter Two
14. Chapter Three
15. SECTION 3
16. Chapter One
17. Chapter Two
18. SECTION 4
19. Chapter One
20. Chapter Two
21. SECTION 5
22. Chapter One
23. Chapter Two
24. Chapter Three
25. Chapter Four
26. Chapter Five
27. SECTION 6
28. Chapter One
29. Chapter Two
30. Chapter Three
31. SECTION 7
32. Chapter One
33. Chapter Two
34. SECTION 8
35. Chapter One
36. Chapter Two
37. Chapter Three
38. SECTION 9
39. Chapter One
40. Chapter Two
41. Chapter Three
42. SECTION 10
43. Chapter One
44. Chapter Two
45. Chapter Three
46. SECTION 11
47. Chapter One
48. Chapter Two
49. SECTION 12
50. Chapter One
51. Chapter Two
52. SECTION 13
53. Chapter One
54. Chapter Two
55. Chapter Three
56. Chapter Four
57. Chapter Five
58. Chapter Six
59. Chapter Seven
60. SECTION 14
61. Chapter One
62. Chapter Two
63. SECTION 15
64. Chapter One
65. Chapter Two
66. Chapter Three
67. Chapter Four
68. Chapter Five
69. Chapter Six
70. Chapter Seven
71. Chapter Eight
72. Chapter Nine
73. Chapter Ten
74. Chapter Eleven
75. Chapter Twelve
76. SECTION 16
77. Chapter One
78. Chapter Two
79. Chapter Three
80. SECTION 17
81. Chapter One
82. SECTION 18
83. Chapter One
84. Chapter Two
85. SECTION 19
86. Chapter One
87. SECTION 20
88. Chapter One
89. Chapter Two
90. Chapter Three
91. SECTION 21
92. Chapter One
93. Chapter Two
94. Chapter Three
95. SECTION 22
96. Chapter One
97. Chapter Two
98. SECTION 23
99. Chapter One
100. Chapter Two
101. Chapter Three
102. Chapter Four
103. Chapter Five
104. EPILOGUE
105. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About Author
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SECTION 1
DAY 9,680 – OCTOBER 9TH
“Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts; Secrets weary of their tyranny; tyrants willing to be
dethroned.”
— James Joyce, Ulysses
Chapter One
Sophie
THE WHITE-WASHED BRICK building sat in unobtrusive significance, surrounded by coiffed evergreens, at the base of the expansive parking lot. Sophie’s pulse stuttered beneath the thin flesh of her wrist as she approached.
“Damn it,” she muttered. Every freakin’ time. Get over it already, Soph.
The dark glass swallowed the golden rays of the early morning sun. Sophie sighed at her reflection in the umber panes, at the silent omen, and the unspoken promise that day 9,680 will suck like the previous 9,679. She hated her ridiculous fear of the building and her daily defeat to anxiety that hummed through her body each time she forced herself to walk through the twin doors. Fear isn’t rational, she told herself. It feeds on the irrationality that lurks within the mind.
“You can do this, Soph,” she said as the doors closed behind her.
Trapped within the belly of her nemesis by the glass, the outside world and freedom faded, and her pulse traveled from stutter to full throttle. She pulled her shoulders back and stared down the narrow hallway that led to the real cause of her anxiety; to her real nemesis— a nemesis Sophie conceded that she was ill-equipped to conquer.
Recirculated air washed over Sophie as she entered; the air as stagnant as her life, and both trapped in a perpetual loop of decay and despair. The musty stench burned the insides of her nostrils. A sour taste settled on the back of her tongue that hinted of decomposed rodents and defeat. Wretched despair, silent and destructive, surrounded her petite frame like a mourning veil and devoured another piece of her withered soul. Sophie hated to complain. Her life was stable, uneventful, boring, and her marriage mediocre and solid. Her career allowed Jack the opportunity to pursue his culinary dreams, paid for the mortgage to the Mathieson McMansion, and two semi-upscale vacations a year. It’s more than I deserve. Her mind resisted and then replayed the familiar mental loop of the what ifs of her life. What about your dreams, Soph? Don’t they matter?
She snapped the lid on her thoughts. She did not have the time, or the energy, to delve into that box of disappointments. Fluorescent lights flickered and hummed above her head. Her eyes averted away from the harsh lights as she adjusted her pocketbook on her shoulder and trudged down the hall. She paused at the doorway of her office for the 9,680th time, an exercise in futility, but a useful habit. She used the precious seconds to psych herself up before the bullshit du jour slapped her across the face.
“You could leave,” her mind mocked. “Turn around and don’t look back.” I can’t. “Coward.” Sophie nodded, but did not retreat. I am a coward and cowards never choose the brave path.
Her windowless office loomed before her. Layers of gray assaulted her eyes from all directions—walls, carpet, every stick of furniture—various hues of battleship gray; each one duller and more depressing than the last. Each shade matched her dull, depressed, pathetic life. What I wouldn’t give for a pop of color in my life. A hot pink chair, or even a cheap abstract print with explosions of violets and turquoise, or even greens. Any color to break the monotony of the monochromatic gray. Well, any color except ruby red. Sophie frowned at the thought of Desiree’s favorite shade of crimson.
“Here we go again, time to pull your shit together and suck it up, buttercup,” Sophie whispered to herself, with the solemn reverence of prayer; not that she believed in prayers anymore.
God did not answer the prayers of the unworthy. Someone like me. She refused to dwell on it. She could not change it and accepted it with resigned surrender. She deserved neither God’s grace, nor His mercy. Not after what I did. Her eyes drifted to the message board on the wall. Same as yesterday. Nothing ever changes. Nothing of significance. At least not for me.
Her petal pink nails grazed over the message board, her fingers covering over a portion of the sign, and transformed it from, “Welcome to Heller Corp.” to “Welcome to Hell.” She grinned. Yes, that’s more like it. Her watch read 8:59. Time’s up. Time to be a good little responsible prisoner, Soph. Sophie smoothed out a crease on the front of her suit jacket, strolled into her office, and across the threshold into her own personal version of Hades.
Welcome to Hell Co. Sophie, please deposit your dreams at the door.
“Happy Friday, Desiree,” Sophie muttered through gritted teeth.
“Oh, you’re here. I didn’t think you were going to show up.”
The hair on the back of Sophie’s neck twitched. Her jaw clenched. She heard her molars grind. Desiree’s tone grated on every last one of Sophie’s frazzled nerves. Heat rose into Sophie’s cheeks. “Of course I’m here,” Sophie longed to retort, but didn’t. Coward.
Sophie plopped into the gray pleather chair at her dark gray desk. “Sorry to disappoint yet again, Desiree.”
She glared down at her speckled desktop. Don’t look, Soph. Don’t give her the satisfaction.
“My, aren’t you in a snit this morning,” Desiree said.
Sophie’s muscles spasmed in her neck with each syllable. Few people infuriated her by their mere existence, but of those few, Desiree Cray topped the list. Sophie did not care that Desiree made ass-kissing the boss an artform, but the perverse pleasure Desiree found in taking nasty snipes at Sophie, thanks to the claustrophobic confines of their office, made her blood boil. Lucky me, I get to be target numero uno.
“What did you do with the Drake account? I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Nothing, Desiree,” Sophie sighed, battle-weary and unprepared to begin the day’s first round of combat. “I didn’t touch it. Did you check your desk?”
“Of course I did. It’s not there. Oh, never mind. I’ll find it myself.”
Good, find it yourself, and leave me the hell alone.
The file cabinet drawer slammed. Sophie jumped. Her fingers dug into the arms of her chair. Her heartbeat accelerated beneath her silk blouse. Damn, Desiree. I’m not in the mood. Another drawer rattled and slammed next to Sophie.
“Desiree, you’re going to break the drawer if you keep slamming it. Are you sure it’s not somewhere on your desk?” Sophie said, hoping to deescalate Desiree’s hissy fit.
Desiree tapped her long crimson nails on the edge of the file cabinet in response. Sophie peeked at Desiree’s side of the office and performed a half-hearted inventory of the clusterfuck. The desk, a shrine to all things uselessness and narcissistic, hovered on full- blown hoarding. Stacks of papers and files, most dating back a decade or more, inhabited every square inch of the large desk. The pile climbed up toward the ceiling, an unstable paper replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Sophie’s eyes moved up to the shelf above the desk. An array of various creams—hand, foot, face—battled for position with a plethora of medications along the front edge; side by side they stood, like plastic cylinder-shaped soldiers standing at attention ready for war. Sophie’s gaze halted on a box of Monistat suppositories; its cardboard box shrouded in a layer of thick gray dust and shook her head. Every item on Desiree’s side of the office served a purpose, but none of them had to do with work or personal hygiene. Sophie was not stupid. She knew the method behind Desiree’s orchestrated chaos of random trinkets on the shelf. The clusterfuck evoked bizarre curiosity from fools who wandered into the office, and perhaps the reason few returned. Sophie did not blame them. She wished she had the luxury of avoiding the office and longed for solitary confinement in an office far away from Desiree’s. Or even a broom closet would be better.
Sophie could not decide if the tube of dusty vaginal cream’s prominent, in-your-face display, Desiree’s gaudy makeup, or incessant complaining kept visitors from the windowless tomb—D— all the above, Sophie decided and turned away. Lucky me, I’m stuck in Hell with Desiree, the Monistat Queen.
“Found the Drake file,” Desiree called out. “You stuck it in with the C’s.”
Sophie’s teeth nipped at her bottom lip. She did not respond nor bother to remind Desiree that the Drake file was in Desiree’s file cabinet, not hers. A pointless waste of breath. The Monistat Queen is never wrong. Any facts or arguments Sophie presented would never remedy that fact.
The afternoon progressed in the same fashion as the morning limped away; ass-numbingly boring and oozing with underlying stress. It did not surprise Sophie anymore. Her previous 9,679 mornings and afternoons were exact replicas. Nothing ever changes. Nothing will ever change. Sophie tapped the end of her pencil on the desktop, tap-tap-tap, as the clock ticked another minute closer to five o’clock. I’m going to make it through another week without succumbing to the urge to drive my car into a giant oak, or better yet, over Desiree. Tap-tap-tap. I’ve made it through the week without a solitary dead body. Her eyes bore into the clock’s face in a mental battle of wills—a silent plea to please click off another sixty seconds—as Desiree hummed loud and out of tune. But, then again— there’s still sixty long minutes left.
Sophie closed her eyes. You’re almost there, Soph. You can do it. She cracked open her eyes. Yup, still stuck in the life-sucking cell of hopelessness. Kill me, please. She scoffed at her foolishness. Death did not have her on the radar. Death refused to come and free her from misery or from Desiree because even Death feared the dingy shades of gray and horrid stench that spawned within the windowless cell that masqueraded as an office. Even Death fears the Monistat Queen.
Sophie dragged the heel of her shoe over the carpet beneath her desk. Big mistake. The innocent motion unleashed a fresh whiff of … What the hell is that? … of whatever lived within the short pile of the industrial-grade carpet. The rank odor registered on Sophie’s stench-o-meter scale somewhere between vomit and rancid roadkill. If someone could find a way to bottle despair, it would smell like her office. If asked to name the fragrance, she would call it Shriveled Hope. Yes, like my squandered life, Sophie thought. A wave of sadness washed over her. Or Jack’s cock as of late.
She lowered her head because that recent development was not about to change anytime soon. Not unless Jack apologizes, because I’m not going to, not this time. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” her brain replied. The perfect Jack Mathieson never apologized, nor did he grovel. I do…always. She wanted to believe she could grow a spine and reject Jack, especially as she did not miss the sex and all the pretending it entailed on her part. Probably on Jack’s part too, she admitted to herself. Stagnation and arguments were part and parcel in a marriage as long as theirs. Three decades is a long time to pretend you’re still turned on by each other. But this time was different. This time she had a reason to be mad and feign a headache.
Sophie stared down at the tips of her stunning new embossed leather shoes with their stylish four-inch heels and pointy-tipped toes. So pretty and so damn uncomfortable. The pinky toe on her left foot throbbed within the tight leather confines. She tried to wiggle the toe in its cramped quarters and sighed at the stupidity of her attempt and the actual impulsive purchase of the shoes. Never shop in the height of revengeful rage. Her lack of self-control still surprised her. She hated conflict and avoided it whenever possible. I’m the peacemaker, not the payback shrew. But Jack deserved it. This time he pushed too far. It’s his fault I’m sitting here in pain as my feet blister. The pencil snapped in her fist as the images of Jack’s new candy apple red Mustang GT parked in their driveway and Jack’s smug face at her outrage at his secret purchase. With my bonus money. Asshole.
“What the hell Jack?” Sophie yelled as she stormed into the kitchen.
He glanced up from his phone with that stupid innocent look of his and shrugged. She hated that look—a combination of innocence and screw you. And, the shiny new car parked in her driveway … a giant, “F-U Sophie,” from Jack.
“What?” he said.
“What? Are you kidding me? Don’t play dumb. The car. Why is there a Mustang in our driveway?”
The corners of his mouth twitched. Don’t you smirk, don’t you dare smirk at me. She tried to warn him with a narrowed glare.
“It’s mine, all right? I bought it,” he said, and returned his attention to his phone.
“You bought a car? And you didn’t think you should consult me?” She tossed her briefcase. It landed with a resounding thud inches in front of him. Jack didn’t flinch. “Jack, we’re supposed to be a team, make decisions on expensive purchases together.”
She crossed her arms over her chest in a display of anger and a form of self-soothing. Challenging Jack always made her insecurities rise and left her feeling exposed and unworthy. Most days she did not dare protest or utter a word about his behavior. Not today buddy. Her foot tapped against the wooden floor in rapid, noisy succession. Jack’s jawline quivered. The veins in his neck bulged. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into tears. It infuriated her that she possessed the defect of crying whenever she got angry. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare shed a single tear, Soph. The last thing she wanted was for Jack to think he had won and that her tears were a symbol of surrender. Surrender was the last thing she planned to do, wiping the smug smirk off Jack’s face. Definitely.
