Black Lies

  “All what? The blackouts? Or my stepping into another persona altogether?”

  She holds up her hands, and I stop. Realize how close I am to her. How the wide white of her eyes is fear. Of me? A laughable thought. I will my fists to relax and focus on my breathing.

  “I don’t know anything about another persona. All I know is that you’ve been doing perfectly. Your work has never been better, your focus more crisp, your creative insight more in tune.”

  “Fuck the work. I’m talking about my life, the person I am when I lay my head down to sleep.”

  “You don’t mean that,” she straightens. “Your work is everything, Brant. You and I… we’re changing the world.”

  “We’re building computers, Jill.” I reach out. Grip her shoulder and force her stare to meet my own. “What’s going on with me? Is she right?” I beg with my eyes for truth and see a falter of indecision in her own.

  Fury boils through me at the tell, ripping apart the veins of my composure and I grip her other shoulder with my left hand. Rattle the small bones of a woman I thought I knew. “Tell me!” I scream into her face. “Is there someone else inside of me? Tell me!”

  I watch, in slow motion, the snap of her chin, its jerk as I shake her shoulders. The feeling, an overwhelming hatred of the unknown, shatters every tie of self-control that I had in place. I notice, for the first time in decades, the strip of my world as it breaks into pieces. The dark sweep of oblivion as it takes my anger and dissolves it into a sea of black.

  Black.

  Nothing.

  Maybe it is another personality taking over. Or maybe it is the injection stabbed into my back, Jillian’s eyes leaving mine for a brief second to look over my shoulder and nod.

  I wake up restrained, my wrists and ankles given a limited range of movement, about two inches, best my drugged mind can determine. I jerk and pull, the action worthless, other than earning movement from the man in my room. Turning my head works, the movement free and unrestrained, my head lifting easily as I crane my neck to see the bald man move closer, his features coming into focus, the cloud of my mind recognizing everything about him in a second. “Dr. F.” I let my head fall back as he moves closer, his hand resting with reassurance on my chest, his face looking down on me with concern. “Where am I?”

  “You’re at Jillian’s home. She thought this would be a better place to keep you, away from the press or public eye.”

  “Untie me.” I try to ask with as much civility as possible, but am certain he hears the expletives behind my tones.

  “Not yet. Jillian told me what happened… for our own safety we need to keep you restrained a little longer.” His hand pats my arm as if he is turning down my request for a popsicle, not my God-given right to freedom.

  “Let me the fuck up. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve done nothing to allow you to restraint me like an animal.” I spat out the words, yanking with all my might at the restraints, feeling claustrophobia swell through me.

  “Brant, forget the restraints for a moment. We need to talk.” He returns to his seat, ignoring my personal alarm, pulling a pen out and clicking it open.

  I close my eyes and will my muscles to relax, to cease the press of skin against restraint. Envision the motherboard of Laya. The components that connect to make it run. The pieces of nonsense that communicate to breathe life into an inanimate object. Peace. I open my eyes. “Talk.”

  “What happened when you blacked out?”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. Here. You blacked out in Jillian’s den.”

  “It’s not a fucking den. It’s a formal room designed for uninteresting chitchat. And it couldn’t have been yesterday. Had to be today… I—” I notice the light streaming through the windows. It was yesterday. “Where is Lana? I want to see her.” I need to explain the things I don’t yet know.

  “We don’t think you should have any visitors until we figure this out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We don’t think—”

  “I heard you. I just can’t believe you would speak to me as if I am a child. I am an adult. I don’t care what you think.”

  “Mr. Brant, you’ve been declared incompetent. For the moment, I am your personal physician, unless Jillian appoints another one. And Jillian is your personal representative.”

  Oh my God. I’m going to break again. I can feel the creep, can see dots in my vision… “I can’t have been declared incompetent. There is a process involved. Probate court. A psychological examination by a medical practitioner.”

  “I am a medical practitioner, Brant. And Jillian had some strings pulled. We have a provisional application in process, which has been approved by a local judge. It will stand until the courts open on Monday. Please relax and let us treat you.”

  My brain tries to grab at straws it can’t reach. “I need my medicine,” I gasp. “Please.”

  “We are going to hold off on any medication until we see the frequency of your switches.”

  “My switches?” My chest hurts. Stress leaning on my chest until I fear it will break.

  “Your switches into other personalities. We can’t understand them until we observe them.”

  “Other personalities?” So it is true. I need Layana. Need to explain…

  BLACK.

  Chapter 58

  I’ve woken up in fucking old lady luxury. Lee shifts in the bed, his gaze moving over ornate wallpaper, his mind trying to place where he is. How drunk he got to take home a senior citizen and end up in her bed. Moving his head slowly to the left, he comes face to face with an old bald man. He blinks, the man staring at him like dissection is planned. He tries to sit up and realizes that his hands won’t move, a hard jerk of wrist doing nothing but alerting him to the fact that his arms are sore, like he has struggled for hours.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he snarls.

  The man smiles, a patient gesture. “Let’s get your name first. Then I’ll tell you mine.”

  “Lee.”

  “Lee what?”

  Lee frowns, not sure what he is getting at. “Lee Let-Me-The-Fuck-Up-Before-I-Kick-Your-Fucking-Ass.”

  Baldy has the guts to laugh. “Oh, that Lee. Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Finzlesk.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Wouldn’t be the first time he’s woken up in a jail cell. Though most jail cells don’t have hardwood floors, twelve-foot ceilings, and framed art.

  “No. I’d just like to ask you some questions.”

  “How’d I get here?”

  “Is that a question you often ask yourself?”

  He stares at him. “Answer the fucking question.”

  “You grew violent; you were sedated. We restrained you so that you wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”

  “I hurt someone?”

  “Not too badly.” The man smiles at a time when a smile seems off. Looking through his answer, Lee tries to figure it out. His head hurts. He closes his eyes.

  “Whose house is this?”

  “A woman named Jillian Sharp. Do you recognize that name?”

  “No.” Sharp. “Is she related to Brant Sharp?”

  “Yes.”

  Yes. So helpful. Baldy’s bedside manner sucks. So he had hurt someone in the house of someone related to Brant Sharp. Maybe he’d finally snapped. Tracked down that rich fuck and kicked his ass. Fought for the woman he doesn’t really deserve the likes of.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  Screw this asshole. Who ties someone down, wants to examine their head, and won’t provide any information of their own? He stares at the ceiling.

  “Lee? What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Fuck you. Give me my phone call.”

  It is the last thing he says. Hours come and go, Baldy sticks by his bedside, and Lee keeps his mouth closed. Ignores every question that comes. At some point, the windows dark, the hour unknown, the man stands with a sigh. Setting down the blank notepad, he opens his bag, removes an item, and
approaches the bed.

  Lee jerks at the hot prick of metal, turning a furious face to the doctor, his arms jerking, muscles pulling at the unforgiving restraints. “What was that, you fuck—”

  BLACK.

  Chapter 59

  It has been two days. Brant won’t answer his cell, neither will Lee. Funny how, even now, I still think of them as separate individuals. I drove to Jillian’s yesterday. Stood on her front step and stared into her eyes. Her pupils red, her face as strained as my own. We both love him; I understand that. Understand that she has dealt with this for decades longer than me. I understand that she is upset with me for breaking the balance, for shoving the truth into his face despite the consequences. I may be responsible for losing him. I may have tipped the scale and caused his psyche to crash. Fall to a depth that it is unable to rise from. I could have, in my moment of confession, lost the man I love.

  It is an unthinkable thought, but one I must consider.

  She didn’t know where he was either. He hasn’t called her, hasn’t responded to her texts. She didn’t say it, but I could feel the blame. This was what she warned me of, and her face clearly stated her opinion of me. For the first time, I feel I deserved her scorn.

  We agreed not to call the police. To wait and hope for him to surface. She is monitoring his credit cards and bank accounts. Sooner or later, he should use one.

  I returned home afterwards. Paced every floor of our home and prayed into the wee hours of morning.

  At 4 AM, I wake with an idea. Toss and turn over it before my brain functions enough to iron out a plan. I consider and discard Don, then call Marcus. “Where are you?”

  “In bed. It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I’m coming to you. Text me your address.”

  “Is this about Molly?”

  I hang up the phone without answering, shove my feet into Uggs and grab my keys. Take the elevator down and step into the garage. My phone dings with Marcus’s address at the same time that the garage bay doors open.

  Marcus had gotten rid of Molly. Hopefully he would help me find Brant.

  Marcus answers the door in nothing but pajama bottoms, the view of chiseled abs doing absolutely nothing for me. I move into his house, bee-lining for the kitchen and slap a piece of paper on the counter.

  “This is what I need.” I explain the plan, then push my cell toward him. “Call them.”

  He looks at me with speculation. “A phone call? That’s it? For a thousand bucks?”

  I shrug. “It’s five am. I figure I’m paying graveyard rates. Sell it.”

  He lets out a rumble of a sigh, pulls the paper closer, and dials the number.

  “Put it on speaker,” I whisper.

  He obliges, giving me a look that many would classify as disrespectful.

  “Eurowatch Assistance, how may I help you?”

  Marcus glances at me. “This is Brant Sharp. I need help in locating my car.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Sharp. I will need to ask you a series of security questions to first verify your identity.”

  “Go ahead,” Marcus says with a wary glance in my direction. I nod at him.

  “What is the VIN number of the car you would like to track?”

  “J2R43L2KS14JD799F” he recites, reading the line of numbers off the paper.

  “Excellent. Please hold while I pull up your profile.” There is a series of keystrokes before the interrogation continues. I cross my fingers and hope that I have enough information. I had cleared the safe of as many files of importance as I could grab, getting the file on the car as well as the personal file that holds copies of all of his identification documents. I can’t imagine that Aston Martin knows much more than what was presented at the time of purchase.

  “Mr. Sharp, may I have your address please?”

  “23 Ocean’s Bluff Drive.”

  “And your driver’s license number?”

  There are three more questions that Marcus passes with flying colors, us both breathing easier when the representative moves on.

  “Please hold while we locate the vehicle. Would you like us to also notify local police?”

  “No,” Marcus said with an easy laugh. “My nephew was due home two hours ago. Borrowed it for a date. We’re thinking he’s sleeping off a party somewhere. I’ll just breathe easier knowing where it’s at.”

  “Excellent, sir. One more minute on the location.”

  I give him a thumbs up and he rubs his fingers together. Digging in my pocket, I come up with and toss his cash across the counter. Pulling the paper closer, I grab a pen. Wait for the voice to tell me my soulmate’s location. Cross my fingers and pray he has stayed with his car.

  “Mr.Sharp, if you have a pen, I have the location.”

  “Go ahead.”

  I pose over the paper.

  “8912 Evergreen Trail, San Francisco, California. Please know that, if you wish, we can remotely disable the engine.”

  Marcus glances at me, and I shake my head in response. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you for your help.”

  “Thank you for calling Eurowatch, Mr. Brant. And thank you for being a member of the Aston Martin family.”

  Marcus reaches out and ends the call. “That help?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I key the address into my phone, grabbing the papers, my mind mentally walking through the next steps. I should call Jillian. Get her involved, or at least in the loop before I head to wherever Brant is.

  I come to a sudden stop before the door, his body hitting me from behind. “What?” he says, stepping back. “Everything okay?”

  I stared at my phone, at the first search engine result: the property appraiser site for San Francisco County. 8912 Evergreen Trail is a home. A large one, purchased for $6.5 million seven years ago by one Jillian Sharp.

  I lock my phone and yank at the front door, fury propelling me forward.

  “What’s wrong?” Marcus calls after me, my backward glance catching him in the door, his hands braced on either side of the frame.

  I take a step back, rip a page from the folder and scribble down the few items that the Aston Martin representative had asked for. Thrust the paper at him. “Call them back. Invent a new story, but find out how long his car has been there. Then text me it.”

  “For free?” The incredulity in his voice has my eyes snapping back, his hands raising up when he sees the fire in my glare. “Okay. Just joking. I’ll call them.”

  “Now!” I call out, turning and jogging down the hill of his driveway, my car chirping as I plow toward it.

  My suspicions are confirmed when the text from Marcus comes through.

  SINCE FRIDAY NIGHT.

  Bitch. That woman had stood on her front porch and lied to me, his car no doubt tucked away in one of her garages. Let me stand there guilt-stricken and led me to believe that Brant was wandering around lost. Unsure of who he was, in the middle of a psychological break because of my actions. Had stood there with her judgmental Iwasright glare. When he had been inside her house the whole time. Had he stood by the window and watched me? Is he mad at me? Is she using this time to turn him against me? I need to know what is being said, where his mind is. If he is in a strong place or a weak one.

  5:24 AM. I take the exit for her home and kick myself for not instantly recognizing the address the moment it had been announced by the helpful customer service representative with the mandatory British accent. Brant and I have driven by her home so often that I know it by sight, not address. Still. I bite my lip and try to organize my thoughts. Soon, I will see Brant. He is safe, not lost. His mind is intact if he is at Jillian’s. I need to talk to him. Without him, I am lost.

  Chapter 60

  Jillian lives in Nobb Hill, the snooty area of San Francisco, if I have any right whatsoever to call anything snooty. I pull into her drive and park, shutting off the engine and staring at the house. There is a late model BMW parked on the pavers beside me. I look at it with new interest, trying to remember if it had b
een there yesterday. Coming up blank, I step toward the front door. Pause and consider the fact that it is five thirty in the morning.

  Extremely rude to knock at this hour. My manners stop my reach toward the door. I step back. Think. Step forward and try the knob. Locked. Big surprise. I wince, then reach up and pound the shit out of the door.

  My trepidation disappears the moment Jillian answers the door, fully dressed, makeup on. Her puzzled look turns to an impressive show of alarm upon seeing me. “What’s wrong? Is it Brant? Did you find him?”

  I stare at her, slack jawed, my mind furiously working, something it should have done during the drive here. She’s continuing the façade. I had expected, upon my early morning arrival at Casa Jillian, for her to be contrite and honest.

  “No…” I say slowly. “I haven’t. May I come in?”

  Her mouth closes and a regretful look passes over her face. “It’s awfully early, Lana. The staff isn’t even up yet.”

  I can call bullshit on that. Jillian demands secretaries at BSX arrive by 6:30 AM. I’m pretty sure her house staff starts their day before the sun rises. I also notice her use of ‘Lana’—an endearment never extended before. If she thinks I’m that pliable, I’m going to dissuade her right now. I step forward, pressing a firm hand on the door and squeeze by her, a huff of annoyance heralding my entrance. “I just need a minute, Jillian. I’m going crazy with worry.” I allow my voice to wobble, hoping that it passes as hysterical.

  “Well, please keep your voice down,” she says stiffly. “This needs to be a short visit, Lana.”

  Short visit, my ass. I wait for her to shut the door. Watch her turn to me and gesture toward the closest chair.

  I have underestimated this woman. Faced opposite her for three years but I haven’t known the level of her deceptive abilities until now. Now, in a situation where I know the truth yet am almost persuaded by her acting. I sit in her home, listen to her lie, and feed her rope. I feed her foot after foot of rope and watch her, seated in a plush red upright chair, tie a complicated noose around her neck and hang herself.