A Perfect Lie Read online

  “You have done what you needed to do,” he says, lacing his fingers with mine. “Don’t stop now. Okay?”

  I can’t look at him. I can’t bear to see the coldness I know I will find in his ice blue eyes. Or the hardness in his perfectly chiseled face that defies any real fatherly tenderness in his touch. Not now. Not this day. So, I simply say, “Yes.”

  “If you feel this is going to be a blow you can’t handle, you need to come stay with us.”

  Us.

  He means him and Susan.

  This isn’t an invitation to go home. It’s about going to his home, with her. The woman who replaced my mother. “I’m better here.”

  “Look at me,” he orders.

  I do it. I’m trained to do whatever he says. He studies me a moment and releases my hand. I’m relieved, as if captive, and freed, in some way. “I’ll call you when I know the details for Danielle’s service,” he says. “We’ll attend together.”

  The funeral service, I think. If you call it that when someone has been burned to ash. Maybe it’s a memorial service. I just want it over with in the same breath that I don’t want it to happen at all. “Do you have any idea when that will be?”

  “None yet,” he says, cutting his stare for several beats before looking at me again. “Is there anything about that night in Austin we need to discuss?”

  Unease rolls through me. “What does that mean?”

  “You heard the question. Is there anything we need to discuss?”

  “I was drugged. I don’t remember what happened.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing,” I say, because that’s what he wants to hear, perhaps a little too much but then, this is all about me not screwing up his promotion.

  “And if that changes?” he challenges.

  “My story doesn’t change.”

  “Who knows you don’t remember that night?”

  “You. Rudolf. Your attorney.”

  “Tobey?” he presses.

  “Not unless you told him.”

  “Tobey understands the value of stories that align in facts,” he states. “Your memory was irrelevant when we discussed what would be spoken about that night. Keep it that way.” He doesn’t wait for my assumed confirmation. “Are you coming home with me or staying here?”

  In other words, get out. I don’t. “What happened that night? What is the ‘more’ in this story?”

  His eyes darken and harden. “You left your best friend in a bar and a homeless man killed her. What more do you need?”

  I want to hit him, but I’m the perfect future First Daughter.

  I get out of the car.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The funny thing about suffering is that some of us do it silently and with inaction. I am not one of those people.

  ***

  THE PAST—THE MEMORIAL SERVICE…

  I stand in front of my closet mirror in my apartment and stare at the girl in the reflection, who I may or may not know. She—no, I—am wearing her latest version of my black uniform of grief that I’ve maintained for days, even when I’ve jogged on a treadmill four times in two days. The color of my attire is a symptom of my mood. Me trying to get out of my own head, because what’s in it isn’t answers, but potential alternate realities related to that night in Austin. For instance, that I, or rather the girl in the mirror, that I may not know as well as I think, killed Danielle, being the predominant fear I’ve battled, though I really don’t know why. I wouldn’t kill my best friend, but would the girl in the mirror?

  I do not like this thought, and I narrow my gaze on my reflection, looking for a killer, and I haven’t a clue if that is who stares back at me. All I know is that she’s guilty. If not of murder, of leaving Danielle behind in that bar to die only I do not believe the story is that simple. Not the real story that my father, and perhaps even Tobey—who, after careful consideration, I do not believe is being honest with me about that night, knows, but I do not. I can’t deal with that story until I say goodbye to Danielle. I just have to get past goodbye.

  My phone buzzes and I grab it from the bathroom sink to find a text from Rudolf that reads simply: Downstairs.

  I’d say that the short, direct message was a product of someone who didn’t like me, but it’s efficient, gets the point across, and does so with the same winning personality he presents in person. I grab the small black purse I have sitting on the sink and slip on the bracelet next to it that had been a gift from Danielle years ago. I stare down at it, willing it to trigger my lost memories, but it does not. I never remembered how I got to that park years ago. I don’t know why I think this time will be different.

  I head through my apartment and make my way to the elevator. When I exit inside the garage, a car is waiting on me. I steel myself to endure my father’s “family,” which I clearly am not, but when I climb inside the car, I’m alone. I glance at the back of Rudolf’s head. “Where’s my father?”

  “There was a campaign crisis,” he says, placing us in gear. “He’s meeting you at the church.”

  My father is officially two for two.

  Strike one: He didn’t call me about the memorial service as promised. Step-mother dearest did, right along with an offer of a dress. “It’s appropriate for the occasion,” she’d said.

  “The occasion?” I’d asked, in disbelief. “You mean death?”

  “I didn’t want to say that.”

  “I have a dress,” I’d said and disconnected.

  Strike two: He’s not here in this car with me. Attend the memorial service together means we’ll start and finish together, at least by normal standards for such an “occasion” as Susan had called it. Ultimately though, I decide, as I sit in that back seat alone, it’s better this way. Every moment I’m with him, I’m focused on what he expects from me. I don’t know if I have that capacity today. I don’t even know how I will face Danielle’s father today. Imagining in my head how that will play out, consumes me the rest of the drive.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at the church, entering what has been turned into a secure parking lot; a necessity thanks to the press’s obsession with my father and murder, a biting thought that takes me back to my suspicious mind. Rudolf maneuvers us to a preferred parking area. My father does not meet us there. I know this even before I step out of the car, and Rudolf claims a spot beside me. “I’ll escort you to your father.”

  Of course he will.

  We start walking, my gut knotting with the certainty that I must face the accusation in the eyes of Danielle’s father in the near future. With that in mind, too soon, we are inside the glorious spectacular church appropriate for the send-off of a girl who liked everything big and glamorous. My worry over the moment with Danielle’s father quickly fades into the sorrow filled church, tissue and tears, and hordes of people around me, but the part that cuts me the deepest: neither myself nor Danielle, most importantly, knew most of them. They’re here because she was my father’s employee and my friend, but ironically, I’m not sure Danielle would care.

  She enjoyed the crush of admiration when near my father. She never understood why I did not. She would never have understood why I’m going to school at Stanford, and I’ll never have that fight with her now. A thought that twists a knife in my chest but I do not feel the urge to cry. I didn’t cry at my mother’s funeral, either. I think, perhaps, this bothered my father, who didn’t handle that day well. I’d watched him struggle with his emotions and crumble into tears over the loss of my mother. It was, in fact, the last time I thought of him as human. I think it was also the day he ceased being human. The thing is that I didn’t need to fight my emotions. I couldn’t access anything real. Maybe he disliked what he perceived as me having more control than he did.

  Rudolf guides me to a seat near the front of the chapel and I sit down at the end of a row, next to my father and thankfully no one else. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t touch me
. He’s also not touching Susan and I notice that when my step-mother touches his leg, he shoves her hand away. That’s when I know that he is indeed, remembering my mother’s funeral. His beloved wife’s funeral and the daughter that made it possible. He loved my mother. That’s why he hates me this much.

  Tobey sits in front of me but I don’t realize this until he stands and kneels beside me. “Can we call a truce for today?”

  He extends his hand and I do not immediately reach for it or him, and with good reason. Recent days have lent to my assessment that Tobey is more with my father, than he is with me. Driving home the point that I am alone, in my grief, guilt, and in a church full of people.

  “Hailey,” he presses when I don’t immediately respond, his tone low but fierce.

  I am reaching my limit of conformity, of which I’ve done too much in my life, but this is not the time or place to start making changes, especially when I believe him to have information I need. I accept his hand. “Truce,” I confirm.

  He gives me a probing stare, his grip tightening slightly, as if he senses he’s losing me, if it’s not already too late. “I’ll take you to get drunk on chocolate when this is over,” he offers.

  In this he knows me, which of course, is the point. He wants me to remember this. He wants me to know that now that Danielle is gone, the one person who knows that I don’t drink, as I did in Austin, under stress, is him; I’ll gain five pounds. Of which, I then run off while beating up whatever made me pig out in the first place, in my mind. I nod my agreement, simply to have an excuse to avoid my father at some point in the next few hours, not to mention my need for real answers that he might be able to give me. Tobey kisses my hand and then stands long enough to reclaim his seat.

  It’s not long until the service starts, and the fact that in each eulogy, it’s clear that I am the only one who knew the real Danielle, which tells me that she too was alone in this world. I wonder if she has some consciousness to know this now. That I do, I decide, was her parting gift to me, when I deserve no gift at all. It’s rather liberating. Why would I battle for companionship that is simply a placeholder in time? Or the love of a father that will never love me?

  The ceremony continues, and I sit through it all and not once does the urge for tears find me, nor does any urge to share a look with my father, one he doesn’t attempt to offer. I can’t win in this, after all. I didn’t cry for my mother. If I’m dry-eyed for Danielle, I remind my father of this, which he hated. If I’m teary-eyed for Danielle, I create a question of why would I cry for her and not my beloved mother.

  When finally, it’s time for Danielle’s father to speak, he’s at the podium all of sixty seconds, and his pain is radiating through me with such intensity that my stomach rolls. My fingers dig into my leg, nails biting flesh, and I can barely breathe. When he’s done, the ceremony is over, and we are all invited to walk the adjoining courtyard, where random photos of Danielle will be displayed in the garden. I’m not sure how I feel about this odd format, but it doesn’t matter really. It’s how Danielle’s father wishes to say goodbye. This type of thing is for the living, not the dead.

  We all stand and my father turns to me, though he doesn’t actually look at me but rather through me. He’s good at this technique, really an expert, worthy of a gold medal. “I’m going to say something to her father and then depart.” He doesn’t offer an explanation. I don’t ask for one. Why would I? He can’t even say Danielle’s name. Just “her.” “Rudolf can see you home,” he adds.

  “I’m leaving with Tobey,” I announce.

  He inclines his head and I turn away, stepping out of the way to allow his exit, and meeting Tobey in the aisle. I give him an “I want out of here” look, and to his credit, he understands. He nods, lacing his fingers with mine and leading me through the crowd. I think about his hand on my hand, and I wonder if people in love feel a spark when they touch. I feel nothing with Tobey, not that this is new. I’ve never felt anything with Tobey except comfortable, which is more than I can say I am with most people.

  We’re almost to the door when suddenly, Danielle’s father is in front of me. “Hailey,” he breathes out and before I know his intent, he pulls me close and hugs me. “She loved you so much,” he whispers at my ear, all the fears I’ve had that he hates me seemingly nonsense. Now, my eyes prickle.

  He pulls back and looks at me. “Are you coming next door?”

  “I can’t,” I breathe out, and mean it. “I just—I can’t.”

  “I understand,” he says solemnly. “But I have some of Danielle’s things I want you to have. Come by the house soon.”

  “Okay,” I whisper, but I know I won’t be going to see him. Not now or ever.

  He gives me a look that says he knows this, and the instant his sad eyes turn away, I hurry into the crowd and toward an escape, avoiding everyone who says my name with a wave of my hand. Once I’m at the back door exit, Tobey is there with me again, pushing it open. He motions to his black Mercedes that he’s thankfully parked here, not out front. I run toward it, not dignified and politically correct at all. Tobey doesn’t stop me. He unlocks the doors and in a few moments, we’re sitting inside. “You sure you want to leave?” he asks.

  “Completely,” I reply, without hesitation, the very idea of staring at Danielle’s photos, and thinking about how dead she is, pure insanity to me. “Take me home,” I order.

  “How about we grab one of those chocolate volcano desserts you love first?”

  “Home,” I say. “I need to go home.” I mean those words, though the word “home” has never felt quite right on my tongue, most certainly, not now.

  To his credit again, Tobey does not argue. He simply starts the car and sets us in motion. We don’t speak on the ride and it’s not Danielle’s memorial service that’s between us. It’s that night. It’s her death. He pulls into the parking garage and he parks, but has the sense not to reach for the door.

  “Let’s talk about what really happened in Austin,” I say, baiting him before I turn to him.

  He whirls around to face me. “You mean the part where you accused me of being gay because that asshole attorney in the bar—Drew, or whatever his name was—who wanted to get into the future First Daughter’s pants, told you I’d do him?”

  I don’t react. I don’t tell him that I don’t remember a word of what he just spoke to me. “For someone we both know craves a future in the White House, you bait easily,” I taunt instead, trying to pull more from him.

  “Why would you bait me?” he demands.

  “We all have to audition,” I say, “now don’t we?”

  “You mean to be your husband?”

  “You mean my father’s son-in-law,” I correct, putting into perspective what he really wants.

  “I think we both know the answer to that question,” I say.

  “We’re back to that again?” He shakes his head in disgust. “This is exactly where trouble started in Austin.”

  “What does that mean?” I demand, jumping on that. “What trouble?”

  “What trouble? You and your accusations. I’m gay. I’m using you. I’m ten other things other than the person you’ve dated now for two years who gives a damn about you. All because of that asshole Drew who was—”

  “Who is Drew?” I quickly demand, because this is twice he’s mentioned him.

  “That asshole attorney.”

  “What asshole attorney?”

  “You were flirting with him in the bar,” he bites out.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You with him was ridiculous,” he bites out.

  “I wasn’t with him,” I insist. “You said yourself we came to my room after the bar.”

  “You were all in his personal space and him in yours,” he corrects. “I’ve earned my place by your side.”

  “You mean by my father’s side?” I snap back. “You talked to him before you talked to the police.”

  �
�The press is brutal. I protected you.”

  “Me? Or you? No wait. It’s him. You protected him from me.”

  His jaw sets and there is a flicker of something in his eyes before he grabs my arm and pulls me to him. “It’s done and we need to put it behind us,” he says. “Do not speak of it again. Do you understand?”

  I am unfazed by his temper that is not new, but rather a wicked flare, here and there, and too often, as far as I’m concerned. “What’s done and behind us, Tobey?” I demand. “Should we just spell it out? What is it we want behind us?”

  “What we should do is stop talking about it,” he says, releasing me and facing the steering wheel. “It’s over.”

  “Because Danielle’s memorial service is finally out of the way?”

  He cuts me a look. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he bites out.

  I know nothing about this man I want to know, nothing. “Go home, Tobey.” I grab the door. He grabs my arm.

  “Don’t do this,” he orders.

  “My best friend is dead, Tobey. I need space.” He studies me several long beats, and when I think he might drag this out, his jaw sets and he releases me.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says.

  I don’t reply. I get out of the car, and start walking, with those words “it’s over” in my head. It’s over. It’s over. What is over? There is more to Austin than I’m being told, and I have to know what. By the time I exit the elevator to my floor, I’m rushing to my apartment. I hurry inside, lock up and then throw items in an overnight bag. By the time I’m done, I’ve made reservations, both for a flight and a hotel.

  I’m going to Austin.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The answers are always hiding in plain sight.

  That’s something my father used to say. Work the equation and the numbers, he’d add, and you’ll find the answer. He meant that quite literally because, you see, before my mother’s death, he would help me with my homework. Back then, we weren’t broken, any more than any father and daughter are broken. He mentored me on all things, especially math, because you see, while I’m skilled at math, my father was an Ivy League expert. His capacity to work out difficult equations, unbelievably genius, and he’d share that genius with me. He was even remarkably patient when he explained the equations, full of brilliant insights, to both math and life.