Hush Hush #2 (12 page)

Eric’s brow knits in confusion. “Threaten? No, not at first. That came later.”

“Then why did you go through with it?”

“Because they paid us.”

I exchange a startled glance with Riley.

“You mean to say,” I begin slowly, “that you were
employees
of the Hawthornes?”

Eric nods.

“For a few years, that’s right. When they decided they were done with us, they sent Mr. Robinson when it was over, to be sure we kept our mouths shut even after the paychecks stopped coming,” he says. “And then the Morrisons came along.”

I stare at him numbly. On some level, I understand what he’s just said. But it doesn’t register, not at first—with the exception of my right knee. It twitches violently in reaction to Eric’s words.

I lay a firm hand down on my knee and ask him, “What do you mean? What do you know about the Morrisons?”

“Ron and Darla, those were their names,” Kimberly murmurs. Her voice is sad and slow, lost in memory. “They were good friends of ours. Ron had a way with people, you know. Always chatting people up, laughing—he could make friends with anyone. And Darla—she was the sweetest person you’d ever meet. Always smiling. Before it started.”

“Before
what
started?” I say, scooting forward. My body is poised at the edge of the chair now, every muscle clenched.

Eric is the one who answers me.
 

“I thought you already knew. I thought that’s how you knew about Mr. Robinson,” he says, looking at me curiously. “Ron and Darla were working for the Hawthornes. They picked up where we left off.”

I feel like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. My body sways, and for a wild moment it feels like I’m about to fall off the ottoman. Because suddenly, my entire world is shifting into focus. And all at once, I remember where I’ve seen the black eagle insignia.

On the thrifted wooden desk in my parents’ bedroom.
 

My mom used to keep her mail there—bills, credit card offers, bank statements, and other things that were totally unappealing to my childhood self. But I had been entranced by the letters with the black eagles. There were dozens of them, stacked neatly on top of each other on the desk—every wide, glaring eye looking back at me. But despite my fascination, I never asked my parents about them. I knew they’d only tell me that it was “grown-up business.”

I can’t help but wonder now—would it have made a difference, if I
had
asked? Would I still be here, in this room with the Benzes under an invented identity? Would the world still have fallen apart so wholly and irrevocably?
 

Sensing my shock, Riley swoops in to carry on the interview.
 

“So what went wrong with the Morrisons? How’d they go from employees to supposed con artists?” he asks.
 

“They were never con artists. It was all a front,” Eric spits out. “The Hawthornes were close to getting caught and they needed someone to take the fall.”

“And they forced you to lie under oath for them,” Riley says. “To support their story.”

Kimberly nods. In a faint, trembling voice, she says, “Mr. Robinson can be very…convincing.”

“You can’t imagine how hard it was to get up on that stand,” Eric says. “To look into the eyes of your best friend and tell those lies. But what could we do? The Hawthornes threatened us. They threatened our daughter.”

Riley looks at them sympathetically. “Once you did what they said, did they leave you alone? Was it over?”

“More or less,” says Eric unsteadily. “We kept to ourselves after that. We stopped seeing our friends, stopped being active in the community. Kim and I thought that if we kept under the radar, they would leave us be.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “But Mr. Hawthorne still comes and checks up on us from time to time, to keep us good and scared. To make sure we’re keeping our silence.”

“Charles Hawthorne visits you personally?” Riley says, looking confused.

Eric shades his head. “No, not Charles. The younger one.”

I can feel my blood turn cold. A chill runs down my neck.

I draw in a sharp intake of breath, and everyone looks at me. When I speak, my voice is a whisper.
 

“You mean Liam.”

12

My legs stagger unsteadily beneath me as I lurch towards the front door of the apartment. Riley follows me to the doorway. His hand reaches out and catches me by the arm.

“April,” he whispers, keeping his voice low so the Benzes can’t hear. They’re still sitting on the couch, looking at me with expressions of deep curiosity.

Riley moves forward, closing the distance between us. He speaks quietly into my ear. “You’re not going to do anything rash now, are you?”

“No, I just—“ I sense myself beginning to stammer, and I pause and take a breath. I try again: “This is all just too much to process right now. My parents. Liam. I need to go somewhere. Get my thoughts together.”

“You want me to come with you?” He’s already reaching for his coat.

I bring up a hand to stop him. “Thanks, but I think I should be on my own for a little while.”

His hand falls to my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I know you’ll figure it out,” he says, giving me an encouraging smile. “If you need me, just give me a call.”

I nod. “Thank you. For everything.”

I walk into the narrow hallway, down the twisting stairs, and out onto the street. The air today is soft. A warm, gentle breeze combs through the tree branches, making their shadows tremble on the pavement.
 

Up until now, I was absolutely certain that Liam was different from his parents. I had looked into his eyes and thought I saw a kindness in them. I had staked my plans on it. Risked my vengeance on it.

But was I wrong? Has he been manipulating me? Have
I
been the fool all along?
 

I can’t help but feel a sense of betrayal at the thought. It’s like a cold, angry pinch at the back of my throat, choking me. It’s almost too much to bear.

I want an explanation. I want to see him, face-to-face, and ask him about all those long hours he spends in the “office.” I want to ask him about all those secret phone calls.

More than anything, in this moment, I need the truth.

My hand reaches for my purse, rummaging frantically through the loose change and tubes of lip gloss. When my fingers finally curl around my phone, I yank it upwards and eagerly turn on the screen. I’m hoping to see a message from Liam waiting for me. Some instruction about our next meeting.
 

What I find, however, is a blank screen. No messages. Nothing.

I bite my lip. Could I send
him
a message? I’ve never been the one to initiate contact, but if there’s ever going to be a first time, it’s now.

I begin to type out a message asking to meet him, but then quickly delete it. It’s too direct. I try out a few other messages, but reject them for being too angry, or too flirty.

What I finally settle on is this:
At this rate, a girl’s never going to get trained.
 

As soon as I hit
send
, it’s like someone has punched a “slow motion” button. I wait for his response, counting out the seconds with agonizing effort. I’ve never been so desperate to receive a text message.

And then, finally, the phone lights up.

Patience is a virtue, you know,
he replies.
 

I can almost
hear
the smirk in his words. And while that used to enthrall me, now it only makes me feel annoyed. I glower at the screen.

Maybe that’s one more thing you’ll have to teach me,
I type out.

Always so eager, aren’t you?
he texts back.
Fine—I’ll teach you some patience. Ten o’clock tonight, my house. Thomas will let you upstairs. You will take off your clothes and get on your hands and knees, facing away from the door. You will wait for me there.
 

How long?
I ask.

For as long as it pleases me.

At precisely 9:55 that evening, I find myself at Liam’s doorstep. Adrenaline pumps through my body. Every single one of my nerves is popping, like little fireworks going off across the surface of my skin.

Here we go
, I think, taking a deep breath. I push the doorbell.

A moment later, the door swings open. Thomas is standing on the other side; he gives me a polite smile of recognition.

“Ms. Moore,” Thomas says affably, stepping aside to let me pass. “Mr. Hawthorne is expecting you.”

My shoes make echoing
tap-tap-taps
across the floor as I head toward the staircase. But when my hand meets the railing, I pause.
 

A voice is speaking faintly from somewhere in the house. I tilt my ear toward the sound. It seems to be coming from the first floor—the dining room, maybe? I had assumed that Liam would still be in the office when I arrived, with the intention of making me wait upstairs during his commute home. But apparently he’s already here.
 

“Can I help you with anything, Ms. Moore?” Thomas’s voice breaks through the silence of the foyer, making me jump.

“No, thank you,” I say breathlessly.
 

He nods, then begins to stride toward the sound of Liam’s voice. Probably to inform him that I’ve arrived.

Right. Time to get a move on.

I hurry up the stairs and down the hallway, making my way to the familiar door. When my fingers wrap around the knob, I half-expect it to remain firmly in place—but the door is unlocked, and the knob twists easily.

My eyes take a few moments to adjust to the dimness of the room. I close the door carefully behind me. In the hush of the room, I can hear the quiet
thump, thump
sound of my pounding heart.

I take a few tentative paces into the room. My hand curves behind me and finds the zipper of my dress. I pull it down. The dress falls to the floor in a heap around my feet; my bra follows shortly after. I nudge them away with the tips of my toes.

My eyes sweep across the room, as if somehow there’s any difference in where I choose to kneel. It’s all the same cold, hard floor. So I begin to lower myself to the ground, right where I’m standing, right in the middle of the room. I press my palms against the floor.
 

And I begin to wait.

My ears are pricked for any sound that might possibly echo up through the floor below. And there
is
something—an ambling murmur, too low and distorted to understand.
 

I close my eyes and try to concentrate on the sound of his voice. Is Liam speaking to someone else in the house? Or is he on the phone?
 

And more importantly—
who?

The voice fades to silence, and I am left with only my swarming thoughts to occupy me. My mind shifts back to Eric and Kimberly, sitting on Riley’s couch and grasping their water glasses as if clutching on to dear life.
 

What did Liam say when he visited them, I wonder? Did he mean it?
 

Did he
enjoy
it?

After what seems like an eternity, at last I hear the click of the doorknob. Light spills into the room. The silhouette of Liam’s body stretches across the floor, but only for a few seconds; he shuts the door and the room plunges back into near-darkness.
 

Liam’s footsteps are slow and purposeful, coming up behind me. The floorboards creak softly with each step. My breath becomes more ragged, hitching with anticipation.

He traces a hand lightly across my back. My body reacts without thinking, curving to his touch. He gathers my hair and scoops it over my shoulders, and I can’t help but shiver intensely when his fingers graze my neck.

He pulls his hand back suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” he says.
 

I glance up at him. A muscle in his neck twitches as my eyes lock onto his. His hair is tousled, and the stubble on his jaw has grown thicker. The expression in his eyes is dark and troubled.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I say, deflecting him.

The corner of his mouth flicks.

“Yes, but in here,
I’m
the one asking the questions,” he says.
 

He looks at me playfully, as if the whole world hasn’t just changed over the past twenty-four hours. As if this is still a game.

I resist an impulse to leap from the floor and demand answers from him. I know that’s not how it works. Not with Liam, anyway.

First, I have to give him what he needs. And then, when he’s relaxed and his defenses are down, he’ll tell me everything.
 

Once, this tactic made me feel guilty.
 

But not anymore.

Liam walks over to the wooden coffee table that stands in the middle of the room. He runs his hands lightly across the surface.

“All day, I’ve been brainstorming ways that I can help cure you of that pesky impatience. And I came up with a few ideas…some more
challenging
than others, shall we say,” he says with a devious grin.

His hand reaches underneath the table and presses something. The top of the table suddenly springs up on an invisible hinge. So it was never just a coffee table after all.

Liam lifts the lid all the way upward, surveying the contents inside. He reaches in, pushing past a few items. Something metal make a loud
clink
.

“But I think, for this round, we’ll start simple,” he says, withdrawing something long and pink. As he walks back towards me, I catch a better glimpse of the object in his hand. A gasp escapes my lips.
 

I’ve never used a vibrator before, though I’ll admit I’ve been curious. The idea always seemed titillating—something so mechanical, so dispassionate, serving as the source of such pleasure.
 

But since Miranda was my roommate all through college and in the years following, and since she had an annoying habit of picking through my things, I was terrified that she would come across it. It seemed to me that owning such an object would essentially guarantee a lifetime of teasing.