The Veritas Deception Page 8

  “I’d have pegged you more like Prissy,” Jack said.

  She laughed and was surprised to find that the familiar mischievous look in his eyes lightened her heart. For a split second, it was like old times, before any of the complications, when they were just two best friends looking for their next adventure.

  She pursed her lips. “And you bring to mind the dashing Charles Hamilton.” That would fix him.

  Jack fell back against the cushion and clutched his heart. “Ah, Scarlett, you have cut me to the quick.”

  She became serious. “So, we need to go to Claremont and find the book to get the actual address for Jeremy’s place. We can figure out the number: her maiden name is O’Hara, five letters times six equals thirty plus seven means the street number is thirty-seven.”

  Jack nodded. “So, the town. He said where her true love returned. Where did Ashley go?”

  Taylor shook her head. “Her true love. Ashley was only who she thought she loved. She didn’t realize until too late that she really loved Rhett and that’s when he left to go back to Charleston.” She was annoyed that she had to explain it. Everyone knew Scarlett never really loved Ashley. Even Malcolm got that. She realized Jack was talking.

  “What?” she said a little too snappishly.

  “There’s a Charlestown on the map, that must be what he meant. It’s not far from here.” He circled the two cities. “We’re a little more than an hour away. Now all we need is the street name.”

  “We need the book. Let’s hope no one’s checked it out,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Need to use the bathroom.”

  She closed the bathroom door and took a deep breath. She had actually been flirting with him. What was wrong with her? They weren’t away on vacation. She was angry at herself for letting her guard down so easily. Remember what he did. He is not the Jack you used to love. She pulled down her jeans and sat down on the toilet seat. It took a few seconds for her to register what she was seeing. Blood.

  No. Not again.

  She grabbed the counter to steady herself.

  “Jack,” she yelled.

  He came immediately.

  “I think I’m losing the baby.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Crosby glanced down at the alert on his phone and saw the tweet from Hamilton. He pressed the intercom for his secretary. “Get me Winters.”

  She buzzed back and let him know he was holding.

  Crosby picked up the phone again. “We need to change the lineup on Behind Closed Doors Friday night. Slot in the episode of the family with the disabled kids.” He clicked off.

  Crosby Wheeler took a sip of his water and waited for the video to load.

  * * *

  Red letters slowly appeared on his computer monitor until the title of the show filled the screen—Radical Reality: Regrets, Recriminations, and Reflections.

  The camera zooms in on a stark-white kitchen with bare counters. A harried-looking woman stares at the camera, runs a hand through disheveled hair, and begins to speak in the voice of one battle weary and defeated.

  “It’s Friday morning, but it could be any morning. One day dissolves into the next, the same as the one before, our one and only goal to make it through until we have the blessed reprieve of sleep. I’m Monica. Welcome to my personal hell.”

  The camera follows her into the living room, where two children, somewhere between eight and nine, sit, strapped into their individual wheelchairs, heads tilted, eyes unseeing, drool running from their mouths.

  Monica ignores her daughters and sits down on the worn-out sofa, sinks back and closes her eyes. The sound of her footsteps has elicited a moan from one of the children. Monica opens her eyes and points to the girl nearest to her.

  “Meet Cindy.”

  Cindy knocks her head back against the chair and moans again.

  Monica rises and walks over to the child, pushes the hair from her forehead, and whispers, “It’s all right. I’m here. Everything is okay. Shh.”

  A shrill yell interrupts her ministrations.

  “That’s Cindy’s twin sister, Lydia. She doesn’t like it when I talk to Cindy.”

  Lydia continues to scream.

  Monica raises her voice in the direction of Lydia. “You have to wait your turn.”

  Finally, she gets up and goes to her other daughter, cupping Lydia’s cheek with her hand, and Lydia lifts a hand and clumsily swats her mother’s away. “Nah nah nah,” she continues in a keening wail. Monica speaks reassuringly to her until she at last quiets down.

  “How about listening to a nice television show while I get breakfast?” Monica forces a cheerful tone, then changes the channel to a cartoon. Looking at the camera, she whispers, “Follow me into the kitchen, and we can continue our conversation.”

  She begins to cut up fruits and vegetables for a smoothie she will make for her girls, explaining they have a hard time chewing. She sits at the table again, puts her head in her hands, and heaves a heavy sigh. “People tell me all the time that I’m a hero.” She shakes her head. “I’m no hero. I had no idea of the kind of life I would have to lead to care for two seriously disabled children.”

  The woman holding the camera is an attractive woman in her fifties with warm, compassionate eyes. She reaches out to cover Monica’s hand with her own. “Monica, I know this is terribly difficult for you. We so appreciate your giving us a glimpse into your life.” She pauses and then continues. “Can you please share your story with our viewers?”

  Monica wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “When the girls were in utero, everything looked fine. Their development was on track, and the ultrasounds showed two normal babies. Most people who meet them think that they were born prematurely, but that’s not the case. It wasn’t until they were born that it was discovered that they both suffer from a rare genetic anomaly. If the genetic testing had been done in utero, it would have been discovered before they were born and all this could have been avoided.”

  The interviewer looks shocked by the statement. “Are you saying that you wish they had never been born?”

  Monica returns her stare without flinching. “I am saying that I wish they didn’t have to have a life of suffering. They can’t see. They will never walk or speak or have any semblance of a life. I don’t know what they are thinking or feeling. All they do is sit in those chairs all day and scream and moan. Do you have any idea what it’s like to change the diaper of a nine-year-old? To have to treat the diaper rash and painful sores that come from sitting in a wet diaper?”

  “I am so sorry. Of course, I have no right to judge. Please go on.”

  Monica stands up and begins to pace. “What is going to happen to them when their father and I are gone? Who will take care of them then? All of our money is tied up in caring for them now. We’ve spent a fortune making this house wheelchair accessible, so that we can take them out occasionally. And when we do…the stares…you wouldn’t believe how cruel people can be.”

  The reporter shakes her head. “That’s why it’s so important for your story to be told so people can understand what it’s like. We are so grateful to our sponsors for their support.”

  * * *

  Crosby shut the laptop. The show was perfect. He just needed to check one more thing.

  He buzzed his secretary again and told her to get the executive producer.

  “Louis, how are you handling the legalities surrounding the mother on RRR show?” he asked once he had him on the phone.

  “We have a disclaimer in the rolling credits stating that she is the stepmother. We were very careful with the dialogue, so that she never makes a claim that she was pregnant or is their birth mother.”

  “You’ve taken measures to ensure she won’t abandon them in the middle of the season?”

  “Yes, sir. Her contract is solid. She’d have to pay back all the money. But if for any reason she breaks it and leaves, we can use that to our advant
age, show how this has devastated their marriage. By the time we reveal the entire story—that the mother died in childbirth and Monica is a latecomer to their care—it won’t matter. Everyone will be invested in the story by then.”

  “Good.” Crosby hung up.

  He rose and, grabbing his cashmere blazer from the credenza, slipped it on as he walked out the door. “Call my driver and tell him I’m ready,” he told his secretary without breaking stride, and inserted the key into his private elevator.

  “Yes, sir. Before you go…”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  She tilted her head. “Would you like me to have dinner sent over for you and Mrs. Wheeler tonight?”

  “No, Millicent. I’ll cook it myself this evening.”

  He didn’t miss the look of sympathy on her face. She said nothing—she knew what a private man he was. After ten years, they both knew no more about each other than they did on day one. She had never asked him what was wrong with his wife, knew only what he had told her—that she was confined to a wheelchair and under the daily care of nurses. She had tried to probe once, but he had cut her off. He wasn’t blind to her attraction to him. Nor did he miss the looks that told him she’d be more than happy to fulfill any duties his wife was unable to. He made it very clear that a personal relationship was off-limits and that he was prepared to fire her if she didn’t take the hint. She accepted her role and things remained professional between them.

  “Good night,” he said briskly and entered the elevator.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Institute, 1975

  August

  I am being held prisoner in a beautiful room high in the castle, like a princess in a fairy tale, alone and forgotten. Maroon velvet drapes with thick, gold sashes adorn the windows that reach to the floor. Murals of kings and their ladies watch me from the walls. My bed looks as though it was hand carved. The beauty in its detail would bring me joy if I were here under different circumstances.

  He has left me alone for three weeks. The only contact I have is the cursory greeting from those who bring me my meals and take me to the gym for my exercise, and from the doctor, whom I assume will be following my pregnancy. I am a caged animal. He does allow me to keep a journal, and before I go to sleep at night, I pour my frustration out on to the page. I have no illusion of privacy, but do it nonetheless. I have missed a period. Still no scientific proof that I am pregnant, but I know that I am with child. My body feels different.

  He comes into my room, and the very air changes. I can barely breathe. He gives me one of his cold smiles and sits in one of the velvet-cushioned chairs next to the ornate, wooden table.

  “You seem calmer, Maya. Are you beginning to settle in?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “What indeed? To set your expectations, I will tell you what lies ahead. You will stay here during the entirety of your pregnancy. If you do as you are told, you will earn some freedoms. For one, I will continue to provide you with paper and pen. Two, you will receive a menu and may choose your meals. Three, you may use my library—when escorted of course. When you have delivered my child, you will be set free.”

  “And if I don’t cooperate?”

  He frowns. “If you don’t cooperate, you will find yourself very uncomfortable indeed. Needless to say, you will enjoy none of the aforementioned privileges, and you will be moved to a padded room where you will be restrained in order to keep the child safe.”

  “I’ll cooperate,” I lie.

  “Wise choice, Maya. I will return tomorrow. I think you will be most interested to learn what awaits the child.”

  He leaves.

  “Help me, God,” I find myself saying aloud even though I have long ago given up any belief in a supreme being. I wish I still retained a kernel of that faith. But then, I reason, what good would faith do me now, and why, if there was a God, would he allow me to be imprisoned here? No. The only one I can count on is myself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Institute, 1975

  September

  Another two weeks have passed. Every day, I tense in anxious anticipation when my door is opened, then fall back in blessed relief when it is not him. I was taken to see the doctor five days ago. This time I didn’t bother to engage him. He drew my blood and gave me a pelvic exam.

  I hear his footsteps, and I steel myself. The door opens, and he enters. His emerald eyes find mine, and I am unable to look away. His gaze holds mine hostage—I am immobilized. It sears me, that look, and I want to scream, to tell him to let go, but no words come. I muster all my strength and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping with everything that I have that I will open them to find it’s all been a bad dream.

  His laughter causes my eyes to fly open.

  “Maya, Maya. A bit childish don’t you think?”

  He smiles that perfect smile, and I marvel again at the beauty of his features. How can someone so beautiful be so ugly?

  “Please let me go. You don’t need to do this.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t let you go. The rabbit died.”

  So, it’s been confirmed, then.

  I shiver and shake my head. I don’t want his child inside of me. The violation is overwhelming, and I break out into a cold sweat. “There must have been any number of women who would have been willing to give you a child. Why me?”

  He sits down on the leather chair across from where I sit.

  “I chose you for a specific reason. Your family has something I want.”

  “What do you know of my family?” My heart skips a beat.

  “Much.”

  His smug manner infuriates me. I want to reach out and scratch his face until it bleeds. I must know. Has he been following me? My parents and my sister? Are they safe?

  “My family has nothing to do with this. What is your interest in them?” I demand.

  A frown mars his face, and his voice is stern. “I am the one who will ask the questions. Have your parents ever mentioned any valuable treasures or relics they brought with them from Greece?”

  My mind races. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He leans back and pours himself a glass of water from the crystal decanter seated on the tray on the table. Taking a long sip, he stares at me the entire time, then puts the glass down. I have to tear my gaze away from his again.

  “Your parents grew up on the island of Patmos, and they left right after World War II.”

  How does he know this?

  He continues. “Patmos is the island where Saint John lived for many years.”

  “So?” I say in a voice more rebellious than I feel.

  “There were a great many religious relics hidden there. The Germans found most of them, except for…” He stands and turns his back to me, weighing, I think, whether or not to continue.

  “That is all I will say for now,” he finally says. “Think, Maya. Think about your family stories. What has been handed down. Try to remember so that I don’t have to pay a visit to your parents and ask them.” He lets the words sink in, then adds, “That would be an unfortunate turn of events for them.”

  I have no idea what he’s getting at, but he has to leave my parents out of it. I try to get more information from him.

  “Then tell me, if you are to be the father of my child. You know about my family. What about yours? Where is your family? Your parents?”

  He seems to consider my question, looking off into the distance. He turns and takes a seat again.

  “Do you want to know about my family? Do you suppose I have a loving family like you? What do you know about need? About cruelty? My father lived to be cruel. Should I tell you one of my childhood memories?”

  He doesn’t wait for my answer.

  “I bet you had a birthday party every year, yes?”

  I nod.

  “Of course you did. Well, I never did. Except when I turned eight. He brought home a dog. A beautif
ul, fluffy white dog. I was too young to know it was a trick. I took care of that dog—fed it, walked it, cleaned up after it, made sure it was no trouble at all because I knew what he did to anything that caused him trouble. I came home late that day, ready to take him out. My teacher had wanted to see me after class. My father was waiting for me. Had the dog on the leash and was sneering at me and I knew it meant big trouble.

  “‘You’re late boy,’ he said. ‘The dog wet in the house.’”

  “I knew he was lying.”

  “‘You know what that means dontcha?’”

  “I ran for the leash, tried to wrest it from his hands, and he laughed.” ‘You scrawny punk. You think you can take this from me?’ “He kicked me hard. Then he started kicking the dog.”

  “My screams filled the air, and the more I screamed, the more he laughed. I covered my ears to drown out the sound of my dog’s cries. After an eternity, all was quiet again. I didn’t want to look. But he made me.”

  “‘Clean up this mess boy. Next time make sure you’re on time. Poor dog would still be alive if you hadn’t been late.’”

  My blood runs cold as my imagination paints the horrific picture. I want to say something, but no words will come.

  He arches an eyebrow, leans back in his chair, picks a non-existent piece of lint from his black turtleneck, and looks at me. “No words of wisdom for me?”

  I feel sorry for him despite myself. I look at him, searching for any trace of that eight-year-old-boy. Sitting in front of me is a man who appears to be devoid of any vulnerability.

  “That’s so terrible. I’m —”

  “Don’t waste your pity on me, I have no need or desire of it. I tell you this so that you may understand my strength, what I have been through to become who I am today. My father paid for his abuse. After my worthless mother died choking on her own vomit, it was just him and me. But I was bigger by then. He couldn’t hit me anymore. I towered over him. He could still make my life miserable, but not for long. Everything changed when I went to work for the only man in town worth his salt. He taught me everything that I needed to know, took me in like I was his son.”