James Amber has major wood for wood. This entire room could have been carved out of a single, massive tree trunk. Wooden cabinets with metal handles rest beneath wooden shelves bearing rows of velvet-colored law books with wood-themed trim. A golden statuette next to an expensive-looking flat screen TV catches my eye: it's a trophy holding another trophy with the words "BEST DAD" etched into a gold-plated plaque on the base. That's some pretty zen shit, there, giving yourself a trophy that gives itself a trophy. I shake it to see whether it's actually solid—something rattles around in the base. Turns out there's a key in there. A key that opens the locked bottom right drawer of James's work desk. I set aside a wooden cane propped up against the metal handle and slide the drawer open.
A bottle of sherry with the price tag still on it: $10. Letters addressed to Rachel from Sera, each envelope split open at the top, bundled into rubber banded stacks. Checks addressed to Sera from James tucked inside each letter, the word "VOID" written on them in thick, black marker. A cell phone in a plastic bag, one of those newer models that doesn't flip open. I thumb in Rachel's birthday at the lock screen and almost wish I hadn't—the background is set to a grainy picture of Sera with her wet hair hanging down over her face. She sits in a plain wooden chair with her arms pressed behind her. A scary-looking dude with tattoos all over his arms and face holds a knife to her throat. I check the messages.
[5/4/2010 02:28PM] Pitbull: Give me a name.
[5/4/2010 02:29PM] Darcy: I held up my end of the deal.
[5/4/2010 02:30PM] Pitbull: You need to remember who you're dealing with. A name.
[5/4/2010 02:31PM] Darcy: Gillespie.
[5/4/2010 02:32PM] Pitbull: Son of a bitch. I always knew he was soft.
[5/4/2010 02:33PM] Pitbull: Burn the evidence.
[5/4/2010 02:37PM] Darcy: Done.
[5/4/2010 02:38PM] Pitbull: Are you new at this shit? Show me the proof.
[5/4/2010 02:40PM] Pitbull: Good. Don't ever fuck with me again.
[5/4/2010 02:41PM] Pitbull: Your package is at the mill.
[5/4/2010 02:41PM] Pitbull: One year of sobriety down the drain.
[5/4/2010 02:42PM] Darcy: That wasn't the agreement.
[5/4/2010 02:43PM] Pitbull: Fuck you is the new agreement. Enjoy.
"Chloe?"
The unlocked door opens up into the room.
"James, I can expl—Eliot? What…what are you doing here?"
"Did you break into Rachel's house?"
"No, I had the key. She gave it to me. Did you follow me here?"
"Yes, Chloe, I did. You said you were going to the police station. You lied to me."
"So fucking what? Why are you stalking me?"
Eliot slams the door shut behind him. I jump. His face is a thundercloud.
"Stalking? Stalking is defined as repeated, unwanted interactions. How long have my interactions been unwanted?"
"Since you followed me to my friend's house and walked in like you own the place."
"And you didn't? This isn't your office, is it? There's a keypad security system, a locked file cabinet…" Eliot pulls on the handle of the top drawer, nearly tipping the entire thing over. "…law books everywhere. Have you been deputized?"
"What?"
Eliot walks right up to me. I take a half-step back.
"No, you haven't Chloe. You haven't. And that's the point—you've been acting really strange ever since you started hanging out with Rachel. Her father doesn't know you're here, does he?"
"What business of that is yours?"
"It's his business, and I think it might be better for me to tell him exactly what's going on. Chloe…" Eliot was cute, once upon a time, with that slicked back James Dean hair and those dreamy green eyes and those baby fat cheeks. "I'm worried about you."
"Should I be worried about you?" My voice shakes. "You've started acting really strange, too, since I started hanging out with Rachel."
He puts his hand against his forehead and shakes his head. He slams his fist down on the desk, leaving small fragments from the plastic face of his wristwatch on the surface. He doesn't even notice.
"Don't you remember those concerts we went to?" His face is contorted. He's getting louder. "The after-parties? Those nights we spent together? Or did you just throw all those memories away like you did with Max?"
"What the fuck?"
"Chloe, I care about you. Rachel doesn't. She's using you. I need you to see that."
"The only thing I see is you freaking out because I'm not head over heels for you."
He clenches his fists at his sides. My chest burns white hot with fear. He relaxes his hands.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he says. "I'm here to help you."
"I need to leave."
I try to go around him, but he moves to block me. I try going the other way—he moves toward me, forcing me to shuffle away from him until my legs hit the desk and I fall backwards onto an oversized planning calendar. The small of my back hurts against the desk's rough wooden edge.
"Eliot, you're hurting me," I say. "You said you wouldn't hurt me."
His face is calm, like a lake on a breezy summer day. But his eyes—I see flecks of eerie darkness in his eyes.
"You were violent at the Firewalk concert," he says. "Aren't you used to this?"
"How do you—how do you even know about that?"
"You turned me down on a date for The Tempest. Sure, maybe plays aren't your thing. But it's just…" He leans over me with his hands on either side of my head. He smells like pine needles and hair pomade. "…your double standards are frustrating. Why is it okay when Rachel ambushes you at the front doors of Blackwell, but when I show up somewhere, it's creepy?"
"I never said you were creepy. But that was before you pinned me down to a goddamn desk."
"Rachel convinced you to skip school. She got you suspended. She drugged Victoria to get back into the play, then tricked you into performing with her so she could show you off to everybody. Do you really think that kiss was real? It wasn't, Chloe. She's manipulating your emotions."
"What the actual fuck? Did you seriously follow us after the play?"
He grabs the top of my beanie, slides it off my head, looks over the lock of colored hair above my forehead. "You shouldn't dye your hair. Strawberry blond is your natural color. Blue…blue is fake, just like Rachel. You're not like her. Your life is in danger, Chloe. You're not leaving until you understand that."
I don't want to be here any more.
I walk into Rachel's hospital room, sit down, stroke her hair, watch her as she sleeps. The door opens. She's sleeping, nurse—it's Eliot, a knife in his hand. He forces me into a corner, takes a pillow, buries Rachel's face in it. She's too weak to scream. I'm too angry to stay still. My body is a volcano.
I grab the back of Eliot's neck and smash his head into mine so hard that I see stars. When my vision returns, Eliot is back by the filing cabinet with one hand against his forehead. I kick him in the balls as hard as I can. He falls to his knees. I race out the door and—no. He'll just keep following me. I go back into the room and stand over him with my fist clenched. Once, twice, three times. The last one bounces his head off the filing cabinet. He sits down against it with his elbows over his head. I retreat into the living room.
Before I'm even thirty seconds into my 911 call, the front door unlocks and opens. James is flanked by a pair of police officers. The officers disappear into the office.
"What happened, Chloe?"
"How did you—"
"Silent alarm. Are you all right?"
"We'll need an EMT for serious injuries," calls a voice from the other room.
James sits down, opens his laptop, and brings up surveillance cameras on screen. It's me and Eliot, everything we just did in black and white, playing out in real time. James folds the laptop shut. He sits back on the couch and temples his hands.
"I think I know what must have compelled you to enter my office without my permission."
"Is Eliot going to jail?"
"What I just saw was you laying your hands on a young man who hadn't touched you. That's assault, Chloe."
"What the fuck? How is that not self-defense? You saw what he did."
"That's not how the law sees it. What I can't see is you sharing a cell with someone like Damon Merrick. Did you never stop to consider who might get hurt as a result of your careless actions?"
"I…"
"I see what needs to be done now. You saw nothing. You will tell Rachel what you saw: nothing. In exchange, I will permit Rachel to meet with Sera one time. I trust that you at least have enough to sense to comprehend the alternative."
"You hired that dude with the tattoos. Damon."
"I did not hire that man. He used me. The sad fact of the matter is that Sera would have used him, if she could have. Perhaps even Rachel."
"And yet you're suddenly willing to let them meet after fifteen years of keeping them apart from each other."
"It will take a long time—years—before Sera truly changes. That is why I did not want her to contact Rachel. Rachel's been through enough already. And now Sera's suffered as well. It's been my professional experience as a prosecutor that drug habits die very, very hard. Damon got her hooked again. I know what happens when Sera doesn't get what she wants."
"Like mother, like daughter."
James nods.
"I know exactly how talented Rachel is. She knows all too well what she is doing, and I'm afraid that that may be her downfall. Protect her for me, and I'll see to it that she meets Sera."
"Maybe she'd be better off knowing the truth. She'd get that if she met Sera on her own terms, not yours."
"Rachel would get a drug addiction. You would get a room in the county jail. I didn't think I'd have to spell that out for you."
I drop myself into a chair across the table from James. Silent alarms, cameras, police, lawyers…I could make a deal with James and still tell Rachel about Sera, but sure as shit James would somehow magically find out about it. Fuck.
"Stop riding Rachel's ass to get perfect grades and dazzle everyone she meets. You do that and Rachel meets Sera."
"Very well. We have a deal."
"It shouldn't have to be a deal, but whatever."
James takes a photo out of his inner suit pocket and shows it to me: Sera, smiling weakly, at a table playing cards with four other tired-looking, underweight women while they snack on apple slices. I look closer at the picture—they're all wearing dark blue, v-necked shirts with white undershirts.
"Where was this picture taken?"
"Suffice it to say that Sera is where she needs to be."
"They look like they're in jail."
"Sera checked herself into rehab. She didn't want to take any chances. I laud her willingness to do the right thing. When you meet with her, Sera will be accompanied by an orderly from the clinic at a time and place of your choosing with my approval. My personal presence would only serve to complicate things."
"I could have told you that. Just not why."
"Sera would try to take advantage of the situation and play to my sympathies. She doesn't know you, but she may try to employ similar methods against you. Don't let her fool you—she is not your friend."
"But Rachel is."
"I don't ever want to see Rachel in a picture like this." He puts the Polaroid back into his suit jacket. "And I know you don't either. You can help her have a normal life."
I have no idea what the fuck that is.