Sweet Little Lies (7 page)

“‘It was that high-yella heifah. I just know it’,” Kelly imitated the voice she’d heard. “Seriously?”

Kelly had been dealing with that high-yellow crap her whole life. Kelly, her sister, Stacy, and her mother, Candice, were light-skinned, their father only a few shades darker. Her chocolate-skinned cousins who lived down south had tortured her and Stacy because of their so-called “good hair,” lighter skin, and hazel eyes, by throwing rocks at them, pushing them down, and calling them “Nightlight.” Growing up in Evanston, her hue hadn’t really been an issue; no one really cared what your skin color was; as long as you were cool, no one bothered you. However, when she started modeling, the insults ignited once more. There was so much backstabbing in that world anyway, but some of the duskier girls made snide comments because she was perceived as getting better bookings because of her skin color.

Fuck ‘em. Who had a multimillion-dollar cosmetics company and who was doing two-bit catalogs because they couldn’t get off the blow and no respectable house wanted them wearing its clothes? She couldn’t help but laugh wearily at the irony of this thought. She might not have that company for too much longer, and her fate would be worse than modeling polyester pants for third-rate catalogs.

Kelly circled the block around Mark’s Loop office building a few times. The Loop, seat of Chicago’s financial district, bustling during the week, predictably dead on the weekends, especially this far from State Street, likely wouldn’t pose too many problems for her little mission. Satisfied the cops weren’t crawling the area looking for her and that she was over her first hurdle, she pulled up to the parking garage of Mark’s office, waved the pass in front of the sensor, and waited for the arm of the gate to come up. She proceeded to the fifth level, parked near the door leading to the elevator, and leaned over to open the glove compartment to retrieve the access card. Once again, the sound of her heels echoed as she hurried toward the door of the building. She flashed the card in front of the lock, and the green light came on indicating success. The bank of elevators for the main lobby of the building was immediately to her right, and she waved the card again. The front desk guard in the lobby merely smiled at her and said a soft hello before going back to his book. Kelly offered a terse smile in response, knowing he was used to seeing the odd building tenant come in and out of the parking garage elevator at all times on the weekend.

Hurdle number two.

The doors for the elevator slid open, and she got in, pushing button thirty-five for Mark’s floor. Finally, it reached its destination, and she stepped out.

It was dark and eerily quiet. She padded down the carpeted hall toward Mark’s office, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds. She wouldn’t have been surprised if some bleary-eyed lawyer popped out of his office, having spent Saturday night curled up on his couch after working all day. Portia’s desk was right outside Mark’s office, and Kelly stopped to peek over the half partition where she sat. Tidy to the point of nausea. She even had a cover for her computer keyboard. Kelly shook her head. Portia was so strange. She was only twenty-seven but looked and acted like she was fifty. Her jet-black hair was always pulled away from her brown face and tucked into a scrunchie, revealing a forehead littered with black acne scars. She wore horn-rimmed coke bottle glasses that were about three sizes too big for her face and ill-fitting synthetic suits Kelly was sure she’d gotten from some bargain bin back at some discount shop specializing in clothes from 1982. She knew Portia lived alone somewhere up north. West Rogers Park? That was it. Mark said she spent a lot of time with her parents who lived in Skokie. Maybe if she spent less time with her parents, she wouldn’t be so weird.

Kelly swung around towards Mark’s office. His door was closed, and hoping it wasn’t locked, she slowly turned the knob and opened it. It wasn’t quite the corner office but pretty close. The spacious office was decorated in a minimalist style with a huge glass desk, coffee table, and a couch. Mark had been profiled in numerous magazines and newspapers, but he only displayed two news stories on his wall. One was an article
Sports Illustrated
had done on him as someone athletes should know. The other was when
Cosmopolitan
had named her one of its Fun Fearless Females due to the phenomenal success of Runway. The magazine had praised her for bringing supermodel savvy to the masses with innovative skin care products and make-up. Mark had come home with fifty issues and a bottle of champagne, bursting with pride over her success. He had Portia frame the article before he hung it up in his office.

Kelly sat down now at Mark’s desk, remembering the last time she’d been there two weeks ago. As usual, he was working late, and she’d come by with a trench coat and a smile, something she often did when she was missing him. She ran her hand across the edge of the desk, her mind flashing back to him hoisting her up as he flung the coat across the room and they’d had a quickie.

Just one of the many ways she’d thought she was keeping her marriage hot.

A tear dropped from her eye as she noticed their wedding portrait in the silver frame in the right-hand corner. They’d had their pictures done in black and white, lending a more romantic feel to the photos. She was wearing a strapless A-line dress and a tiara, the chiffon veil spilling out of the top and down to her knees; Mark wore a navy blue morning suit. They’d just been pronounced man and wife and were making their way back down the aisle, facing each other and laughing as they walked. It was a beautiful wedding, and Kelly couldn’t remember a happier day than that one. Mark had
always
made her happy.

Damn…the night they’d met. She and Shelia had gone to a photo exhibit for the protégé of an old photographer friend of Kelly’s. She hadn’t even wanted to go, since she’d just come back from a two-week business trip to L.A. and just wanted to crawl into bed for thirty consecutive hours. But Eduardo really wanted the guy to have a good showing, and he was a good friend, so Kelly gave in and said she would go. She’d called Shelia and asked her to come with her to make an appearance, pose for a few pictures, and then they’d leave. They were leaning against the bar, each sipping a glass of Chardonnay, when Mark walked in with some cha-cha on his arm. It was so corny, but their eyes met from across the room and Kelly bent over to Shelia and said that even though she didn’t do one-night stands, for him, she’d make an exception. Shelia sized up Mark and said if she wasn’t married,
she’d
snatch him up. Kelly continued to sip her wine and waited for Mark to make his move, as she knew he would. He asked what she did and just to play with him a little, convinced she’d never see him again, told him she did a little modeling. She had to stop herself from laughing over the way his eyes lit up over what he thought was his incredible luck at walking in with one model and going home with another. Within twenty minutes, the cha-cha was fending for herself, Shelia was getting her own cab, and Kelly and Mark were heading to her place. The next morning, in the light of day, he looked at her, nonplussed and more than a little suspicious, and asked again what she did. She only offered him a coy smile, and then he laughed and said, “You’ve done more than just ‘a little modeling,’ wouldn’t you say?”

And that had been it. Nine months later, they’d gotten married in a posh ceremony at the Drake. Professionally, she still went by Kelly Ross, but personally, she went by Monroe. It had always given her a little thrill though when people referred to her as Mrs. Monroe.

Kelly snapped out of her reverie and set about taking care of the business at hand. She started opening drawers in the desk, searching through the files but finding nothing other than stuff about his clients. Frustrated, Kelly tapped her nail against the desk when she turned to look at the computer. She flipped it on, wanting to look at his email, but the whole computer was password-protected, and after ten tries she gave up and shut it off. Kelly then looked across the room at the massive black and white framed print of the city’s skyline on the wall opposite her.

The safe.

She’d forgotten all about the safe.

R
ummaging through her purse, Kelly pulled out her wallet and searched until she found the combination tucked in the pocket behind her checkbook. She took out the dingy blue piece of paper and unfolded it. Mark kept copies of all of their joint financial papers there and had given Kelly the combination, although she’d never once used it herself, letting Mark maintain it.

Maybe he counted on the fact that I never used it. Maybe there’s a clue in there.

She stood up, walked across the room, and unhooked the frame from the wall, laying it gently against the couch. Shifting her attention between the safe and the combination, Kelly’s fingers nimbly turned the knob. Praying that she’d gotten the number of turns right, she crossed her fingers and turned the lever.

Bingo.

She opened the safe door, grabbed the numerous accordion folders, and spread everything out on the coffee table. She sat down on the couch and began to sift through the paperwork stacked in front of her. Nothing out of the ordinary. Their life insurance policies, the deed to the condo, the titles for their cars, assorted joint investments they had, Mark’s individual investments. She used to tell him they should get a safety deposit box for all this stuff, but he would just laugh and say he was lazy, that it was easier to keep everything at the office where he could get to it if he was in a hurry.

She kept sorting through everything. She knew about all of this. This didn’t tell her anything. She sighed abruptly, determined there had to be something there. She continued to shuffle through the papers, looking for something, anything. Nothing. She flopped back on the couch, frustrated.

“Might as well put all this back,” she murmured to herself as she stared at the pile of papers that held no answers.

She gathered up a handful of papers and tried to stuff them back into the accordion folder. She did it with such force, she ripped the side and some of the papers came spilling out.

“Goddamn it,” she mumbled, annoyed. She walked back over to Mark’s desk in search of a folder to house all those papers. She remembered a stack of empty file folders in the back of one drawer and pulled some out. As she did, her finger brushed up against something. Frowning, she leaned down to inspect it.

It was a key, taped inside the drawer. She scraped off the tape and pulled it out. She held it up, fascinated by what it might fit. It was tiny, so it wouldn’t be to a house. Maybe he
had
gotten a safety deposit box after all. Or…Kelly peered around her shoulder to the other framed print hanging on the wall immediately to her right. She stood up, walked over, and hoisted the picture off the wall.

Another safe, and this one had a key lock.

Kelly slipped the key into the lock.

It fit.

Her heart pounding, she turned the key and opened the safe’s door. Similar to the other safe, there were stacks of envelopes and folders, which Kelly grabbed and carried over to the coffee table. She shoved the other envelopes aside and plopped this new batch on the table. She opened one and gasped.

A trust for Mark Monroe, Jr.

She scanned the page. There was close to a million dollars in the trust, and it looked like there had been consistent deposits made into it for quite some time. The way the money was growing, the kid would be able to
buy
a college by the time he was eighteen.

Kelly leaned back against the couch, fighting to understand. A son. Mark had a son. They’d talked about starting a family of their own sometime next year. How…? How could he talk about having a family with her when he already had one? How could he keep something like this from her?

Kelly threw down the statement and picked up another envelope. She opened it and saw it was another bank statement. Again, there were consistent deposits made for…

Geneva Monroe.

Mark didn’t have any sisters.

Geneva Monroe.

His parents were only both only children, so a cousin was out.

Geneva Monroe.

Mark Monroe.

Geneva Monroe.

Mark had married this woman.

S
he felt herself choke.

Pain shot through her stomach like a missile. She doubled over, grunting in pain. Another wife. Married…married to this woman, with a son. Kelly let out a guttural howl, rocked by what she’d discovered. Her breath coming in short bursts, she straightened up and put her hand over her mouth in an effort to keep anything from flying out.

Geneva Monroe.

Kelly fought through the tears and picked up another piece of paper. It was a lease for somewhere in…Olympia Fields.

708. Olympia Fields had a 708 area code.

Kelly wanted to pass out. She wanted to run back to that no-tell motel and pull the covers over her head until this whole nightmare was over.

She crumpled up the paper, the tears falling faster now. Mark, Mark, Mark. Married. Married to…that meant her marriage to Mark was probably invalid. Kelly sobbed loudly, her whole body convulsing now as she pulled one of the champagne-colored couch pillows over her eyes. She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, but eventually she forced herself to go through the rest of the papers she found in the safe. Credit card statements, checking and savings accounts, all in the name of Geneva Monroe. It was obvious the other Mrs. Monroe was well taken care of.

She began to methodically collect papers—the lease for the place in Olympia Fields, the credit card statements, the bank statements for both Mark Monroe Jr., and Geneva Monroe and the deed to their condo, statements for their own accounts—and crammed those into a folder. As she was putting all of the papers she’d found about Geneva and Mark Jr. away, she changed her mind. She didn’t have room in her purse for these, but she’d throw them in the trunk of her car. She didn’t want anyone to find out that information before it was necessary—if at all.