Hush Hush #2 (11 page)

“Of course he’s not,” I say, rising from my seat.

“How did you think this would end, April?” she demands. “That you could get justice for your parents
and
get to keep the boy, too?” A burst of angry, unhinged laughter escapes from her lips. “Doll, that’s not how it works.”

At her words, I can feel my defiance start to wither.

“Tell me,” Miranda says, storming up to me, “which do you want more: vengeance or Liam? Because you can’t have both. And before you answer, let me tell you this—if you say ‘Liam,’ then I’m out of here. You’re on your own.”

I hesitate. My mind shifts back to that fateful day in the courtroom. Even now, after all these years, I remember the smug expressions on Mr. and Mrs. Hawthornes’ faces as my parents were being dragged away in handcuffs. I can still remember the anger, hot and white, that took seed in my heart that day.

My hands clench into trembling fists.

I whisper, “They have to pay.”

Miranda’s mouth curves into a satisfied smile. “They will,” she promises me. Her eyebrows furrow. “But the only way that’s going to happen is for you to get out.”

“What?” I breathe out. My chest deflates.

“Give me a few weeks and I’ll have Liam eating out of the palm of my hand. I know his type. I know what he likes. Hardworking executive, just wants a pretty young thing to help work out the kinks of his day,” Miranda says cloyingly. “But in order to get Liam to even
look
at me, I need you out of the picture.”

I can feel my back begin to stiffen at her words.
 

Oh, she
knows
him, does she?
I think angrily.
What can she
possibly
know about Liam? She’s barely talked to him. She hasn’t seen his passion and his playfulness, like I have. She hasn’t looked into his blue eyes and seen the sincerity that lies deep within them.
 

If she had, she’d realize that Liam Hawthorne is not his parents’ son. He may share the family name, sure, but there’s a doubt that stirs within him. I’ve seen it. And this doubt, this hesitation—
this
is the source of his urgency when he puts his hands on me.
This
is why he owns the rope, the paddles, everything. I understand it now. It’s his attempt to reclaim control over his maelstrom life.

But Miranda doesn’t know all of that. She’ll chew him up and spit him out, just like any other mark. She’ll tread all over him in those razor-sharp stilettos in her attempt to scam the Hawthornes for all their worth.

A chilling thought occurs to me, shivering up my spine. How can I trust Miranda to keep going after Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne? With me out of town, what’s to stop her from settling her sights on the easier, more accessible, and equally lucrative target?

After all, for Miranda, there are no wrongs to avenge, no villains to punish.

There are only targets.

“No,” I hear myself whisper.

Miranda’s eyebrow arches. “Excuse me?”

“No,” I repeat, this time more loudly. “I’m staying.”

Her face slowly begins to contort: first her arching eyebrows, then her wrinkling nose, then her quickly flaring nostrils. Her teeth, pearly-white, flash at me as her mouth stretches into a snarl. I notice a stray smear of lipstick on her back tooth.

I’ve witnessed the full extent of Miranda’s temper only a handful times in my life, mostly when we were kids. As infrequent as they were, her hair-pulling and shin-kicking episodes were enough to convince me to stay on her good side. As we grew out of our adolescence together, her fevered tantrums became increasingly rare. I assumed that, since we were finally adults, she had finally mellowed out.

But as her talon-like nails dig into my hair and pull violently, I realize that her anger was there all along, just simmering beneath the surface. Tears prick at my eyes from the sudden pain.
 

“Do you know how many hours I’ve sunk into this job? Do you know how many strings I’ve pulled, to bring in our partners? Do you know what they’ll
do
to me if I back out?” she shrieks. “
You
were the one who begged for my help.
You
were the one who pulled me into this scheme in the first place. And, of all people, it’s
you
who’s standing in my way!”

“It’s not
about
me, Miranda. Or you, for that matter,” I retort, pushing her away. My hands fly to my head, smoothing down my hair and massaging my aching scalp.

“No, apparently now it’s all about
Liam
,” she seethes.

“It doesn’t have to. And that’s on you, you know,” I shoot back hotly. “Maybe if you were a better criminal, you’d find a way to get to his parents that didn’t involve him. Maybe we wouldn’t be stuck in this situation.”

Wrong thing to say.
 

Miranda rushes toward me, shoving me towards the door with a surprising strength.

“Get out, get out, get out!” she screeches. With a final, violent push, she knocks me into the hallway. My heels give way beneath me, and I stumble to the carpeted floor.

Her door slams shut loudly. All along the corridor, doors begin to open. Heads poke out of their rooms, curious about all of the commotion.
 

With difficulty, I clamber to my feet. Desperate to flee this damn building and retreat to the safety of my own hotel room, I begin to walk forward. But as soon as I do, my ankle twists and I stumble once more to the ground.

I glance down at my feet, confused, and notice the swinging hinge of my left heel. It’s nearly snapped in two, hanging on by a thread.

Great
, I think bitterly.
Icing on the cake.

11

The call comes the next day. Thinking that it’s Miranda calling, I let it go to voice mail at first. I know she’s only calling to further berate me; when she loses her temper like this, it tends to last for a few days. I tug the hotel comforter up around my ears to muffle the sound of the ringing.

But when it rings a second time, and then a third, my curiosity gets the better of me.
What could be so urgent?
I wonder, flinging out an arm towards the night stand.

My eyebrows rise in surprise when I see Riley’s name on the screen. I answer.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “I thought you were my cousin.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Riley says. “Did the two of you have a falling out or something?”

“Something like that,” I say vaguely, moving my hand to my head. My scalp is still tender from the hair-pulling yesterday. “Anyway, what’s going on?”

“I found them,” he says simply.

I sit up abruptly in the bed. “Where? Are they all right?”

“They’re at my apartment, above the bookstore, for now. They’re shook up, but they’re unharmed,” Riley says. “Listen, how soon can you get here?”

I’m already shimmying into a pair of jeans. “Ten minutes.”

“Good,” Riley says. I’m about to hang up the phone when he adds, “And April?”

“What is it?”

“Make sure no one follows you.”

Gulp.
 

“You can count on me,” I promise. “I’ll see you soon.”

I yank on a fresh t-shirt and quickly gather my things, checking them twice before I leave: keys, cell phone, wallet, and a notepad and pen to take notes.
 

On second thought, better make that two
, I think, and pluck another stationary pad off the desk before finally hurrying of the room. I don’t know how much the Benzes will be willing to talk, but I’m feeling optimistic. It’s too bad I hadn’t thought to bring an audio recorder with me for this trip back home.

But then again, you weren’t planning for any of this
, I consider. Originally, back when I first returned to New Orleans, the job seemed simple: not-so-accidentally cross paths with Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne and make pleasant conversation, warming myself to them until they let their guard down. Nick the wallet out of Mr. Hawthorne’s back pocket, or maybe Mrs. Hawthorne’s purse—whoever was the easier mark. Bring the credit cards back to Miranda. Then make the score.

I think about this as I drive the few short blocks to Riley’s bookstore. I wonder: at what point, exactly, did this all get so complicated? When Liam slid his business card toward me during the country club’s Mardi Gras party? When Miranda declared that seducing Liam would be a more efficient way of reaching our goal?
 

Or was it later—when I learned the Benzes were victims too, or when I realized that, when it comes to Liam, there’s more than meets the eye? Is it possible, throughout all of this, to pinpoint a single moment when our plan began to unravel?

Eric and Kimberly are sitting on the edge of Riley’s couch when I arrive. They clutch tall glasses of water; the surface of the water in Kimberly’s glass is rippling gently—a result of the slight tremor in her hand.

“How’d you find them? Were they with your parents?” I whisper to Riley as we linger by the doorway.

Riley shakes his head. “My parents didn’t know where they were, and the Benzes weren’t answering their cell phones. But my parents made about a thousand calls, trying everyone they could think of who knows Eric or Kim. Eventually they got a lead.”
 

“So where were they?”

“In an empty apartment in Bywater. It belongs to one of Eric’s former colleagues from the plant. He has an extra apartment he rents out to tourists, and was willing to put them up for a few days,” Riley says. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “Smart idea, really. I had guessed they’d be with their daughter and her family, or with friends. But the apartment was better. Eric and Kim didn’t have to risk putting anyone they cared about in harm’s way.”

“So you decided to put
yourself
at risk, then, by bringing them to your house?” I ask faintly.
 

He seems surprisingly fearless for someone who’s essentially just drawn a bull’s eye onto his forehead.

“They’re only here to talk. And that was after a
lot
of convincing,” he says. He points to his watch. “They gave us an hour before they have to head back.”

“Right,” I say.

Without wasting another moment, I walk into the living room, with Riley hot on my heels. Eric and Kimberly look up fearfully when I approach them.

“I’m so sorry about what happened to your house,” I tell them earnestly. “I was in the neighborhood when it happened. I saw the flames.”

“Thank you,” Kimberly says hoarsely.

“Are you hurt? Did you go to the hospital?”

Eric shakes his head. “No need. We got out of there before the fire began,” he says in his gruff voice. He notices my curious look and explains, “We were in the backyard when we heard the footsteps inside the house. We realized someone had broken in, and from the racket he was making, he didn’t seem particularly concerned about getting caught.”

“Mr. Robinson,” Kimberly says, her small frame visibly shuddering as she says the name. “He told us that he would come back, and he finally did. And we knew what he would do to us—“

Her hand flies to her mouth, holding back a sob. Eric rubs her back, gazing at her with a consoling expression.

“So we ran. It was all we could do,” Eric says. He takes a nervous sip of his water.

I take a seat on the ottoman across from them. “Do you mind if I ask you,” I say slowly, “
why
Mr. Robinson came to you all those years ago?”

Their anxious eyes shift toward each other. Kimberly’s hand begins to shake more powerfully, slopping water over the rim of her glass. Eric takes it from her and sets it down onto the coffee table with a heavy
clunk.
 

Riley, who is standing nearby, steps forward. He says, “You’re safe here, Eric. You can tell us.”

Eric’s eyes shift from Riley to me, and then back again, debating.

Finally, his posture deflates. “Oh, what the hell.”

“Eric!” Kimberly says, looking shocked.

“The worst has already happened, so why not?” Eric says to her resignedly. He turns back to me. “The Hawthornes sent him.”

Part of me feels like leaping out of my seat and hugging him with excitement. Finally, for the first time in my life—simple, incontrovertible
truth
of the Hawthornes’ criminal dealings. Someone’s finally said it out loud.

But I know that I can’t stop to celebrate. Not just yet. I need more than truth—I need
proof.

“Why? Why did they send him?” I press.

“Insurance,” says Kimberly shakily. “To make sure we’d keep our silence.”

“The Hawthornes had us take care of a few transactions for them for a few years,” explains Eric. He sees the astonished look on my face and hastily adds, “But that was a long time ago. We don’t do it anymore.”

Transaction.
There’s that word again. I’m reminded of all those mysterious, highly time-sensitive “transactions” that Liam was talking about. I lean forward, anxious to learn more.

“What do you mean?” I ask them. “What kind of transaction?”

Eric looks into the bottom of his glass. “It was just a bank transfer, at first. Two hundred thousand dollars. It was more than any amount of money we’d ever seen all at once. They gave us a piece of paper with an account number and told us to transfer it as soon as the funds cleared.”

“And they never told you what it was for? Or why it had to go through you?”

Eric shakes his head.

“All right,’ I say. “What about the other transactions?”

“Those were in person,” he says. “They’d have me drive out to some designated location in the middle of the night, either by the river or in some empty parking lot. Someone would be waiting for me with a briefcase when I got there. I’d have to hand the briefcase off to the Hawthornes the next day.”

By the river
. I remember Liam saying something about midnight swimmers, then claiming it was a joke. I shiver.

Eric continues, “It was eerie business, meeting some person in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, accepting a suitcase with God knows what inside.”

“What I don’t understand,” Riley pipes up, “is how they forced you to do this in the first place. How come you didn’t go to the police? Did they threaten you?”