HERE'S A BIT OF ACTION - I'D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK. LOTS MORE TO COME.
Henry didn't know what he was expecting as the apartment manager fiddled with his keys to find the right one. Standing there, in the hallway outside of the apartment that he'd had dinner in numerous times – the steps behind him that he'd climbed up an exhausting number of times when he'd helped Emma move her stuff from the White House into her first apartment – the "welcome" sign that he and Elizabeth had given the girls as a housewarming gift.
Familiarity perhaps numbed his uneasiness.
Still searching the keys, the burly apartment manager continued the annoyed rant he'd begun the moment Henry informed him of the reason behind his visit. "Normally we just apply a cleaning fee onto the bill, but this one…" The man's accusing eyes found Henry's. "… your daughter was into some weird shit. It's been a few weeks since we changed these locks, but… you'll see."
Henry put his hands in his pockets, something to distract him from the condescending tone that flamed the anger Henry felt rising in him. "Like I said downstairs," He attempted to keep his tone as neutral as possible, "I just want to take a look so I can have the cleaner come in and help get the bill down to a more reasonable rate."
"Look," The man said, finally stopping the key search, "I'd be happy to hire a cleaner and just bill you privately." With a slight nod of his head to the security agents that followed Henry everywhere, the man raised his eyebrows, "With who you are, I would have to pay for discretion, but…"
"No." Henry said, brushing off the obvious hint at a bribe, "I want to keep things above board and without any hint of favoritism."
As the man turned and put the key in the lock, he said, "Well, I would just hate for this to get out to the public."
Sometimes. Actually. Most times. Henry hated how public their lives already were.
Glancing down at his shoes and clenching his jaw, Henry said, "At the beginning of the lease, there was a clause included" then he added, "a normal clause for public figures and their families that is completely legal – a clause that mandates the confidentiality of the tenant and any issues that arise…" The man put his hand on the unlocked door and looked back at Henry, who chose that time to gladly use his intimidation tone, "I would suggest that any breach of that contract would, as stated in said contract, bring some lawsuits that would be completely warranted."
That seemed to shut down the man's audacious grab for money. Instead, he gestured to the door and said, "You're going to need some professional cleaning company for this hellhole they turned this into." The man brushed past Henry as he walked towards the stairs. "Take whatever time you need. Stop by the office to let me know you're done so I can lock it back up."
"Thank you." Henry bit out, and he breathed a small sigh of relief as he heard the keys jingle as the man walked down the stairs. To his security agents, Henry said, "If you'll just wait here…"
They must've known from his tone of voice that he just needed some time. They agreed.
And Henry turned the knob to the apartment, steeling himself for what he'd find.
But nothing could've prepared him for that.
Despite the warm summer sun outside, the apartment was dark, with the blinds pulled closed on every window he could see. But there was enough light for him to understand what he was walking into.
With the first step, his foot hit two glass bottles, and as he looked down, he saw they littered the living room. Trash was everywhere BUT the trashcan – take-out containers with rotting food in them, generic paper bags, and empty bottles of liquor. Vodka. Whiskey. Tequila. Rum.
Stepping farther into the space, he saw patches of the carpet that were dark. Stained. He guessed from the smell and color – vomit. Multiple places around the living room. He walked through, his heart falling into his churning stomach as he reached the coffee table.
Shot glasses mingled with water glasses, both with dried remnants of a dark liquid in them. Like the shot glasses had been too little – why not use a bigger glass if you were going to drink more alcohol.
Then he snapped his eyes closed, willing the next sight to not register with his brain.
But he could still see it.
Probably would for the rest of his life.
Aluminum foil. Spoons. Lighters.
Oh, Emma, what have you done?
When he reluctantly and necessarily opened his eyes again, he saw, shoved between dirty couch cushions, lazily pushed under the couch and the coffee table – bottles.
They were easy to distinguish from the liquor bottles.
The orange pill bottles.
At least seven or eight of them.
And all he could think as he walked through the rest of the space – through the mess and junk – through the smells that brought bile to the back of his throat – all he was scanning for – all he wanted to see – was nothing. He just prayed as he looked into the bedroom, into the bathroom, into the tub, into the kitchen – he just prayed he wouldn't see what his brain was telling him was a possibility.
God. He prayed silently. Please don't let me find her body.
When he found that he was alone in the apartment, he wished he felt more relief.
He'd never been so glad to get out of that place as he was that day.
After assuring the apartment manager that he would be in touch, Henry wearily climbed into the SUV.
One decision that came easily. He called Charlotte and asked for her banking information. He explained to his daughter's ex-girlfriend that he would send her the fee, because, after seeing the place, that was the better deal. Henry didn't tell her any details. Probably because he couldn't put it into words. But he insisted that she allow him to pay for the apartment, not just the fees, but the entire thing. She'd pushed back, but he wouldn't budge. After what he saw, he couldn't let her pay for it. Assuring her that if he heard from Emma, he would let her know, he ended the call.
That was the easy part.
Because after what he'd seen, he knew he couldn't hide it from Elizabeth any longer.
Because now, not only would he have to explain that he'd given their daughter an exorbitant amount of money without any sort of verification, but he'd have to tell her how long ago that had been.
Because now, he'd have to sit down with his wife and go through the evidence of what their daughter was involved in.
Because they would have to talk.
The rest of the day, he'd stayed in the Residence. That was one place he knew she wouldn't be during the day. And he needed to figure out how the hell he was going to go about this conversation. The silence had become an uncomfortable normal in their lives. They could put on a good act when the had any public appearances. Photo ops. Special dinners. Those didn't require anything more than pushing down any feelings – just plastering on a smile and holding her hand.
When they'd had arguments, back at the beginning, they'd aired their feelings. She'd been resolute in her refusal to admit wrong in how she'd handled the situation. He'd been unmoving in his opinion that Elizabeth had cost Henry his relationship with their daughter. She'd yelled about her resentment that Henry had taken Emma's side. He'd screamed about his distain that her pride had clouded any sort of logic.
Then. They'd just. Stopped yelling. Stopped screaming.
As the day passed into night, Henry didn't know what to expect when Elizabeth came home from the office.
And he still hadn't figured out what he was going to say when she finally did.
Emma hated waiting in line. All the people around her – in front – in back – people excusing themselves as they walked in and out of the line to see different things on different sides of the line. All the movements around her – the conversations – the eyes – always the eyes.
But she always went during a busy time. Sure, she had to wait in line. But then she didn't stand out.
She'd hoped it had been long enough since she'd been in the news – but she never could be sure. People had weird memories for some reason.
At first, she'd tried the normal ways of disguising herself. Dying her blonde hair brown. Dark eye makeup. Bright lipstick. Fake glasses. She wanted to look as normal as possible. As boring. As… unremarkable as possible. She couldn't have the people behind the counter think she was anything but a person there to pick up her medication.
But now – now she just cared about not being recognized. After months of having no problems, she'd allowed herself to cover up as much as possible. She had this routine down to a science.
Sunglasses inside. Hoodie pulled up over her head. Long sleeves in the middle of summer.
And the longer she waited, the more she needed what she was there to buy. She shoved her hands into her hoodie pocket, afraid that the way her fingers were twitching would be noticeable. Switching from one foot to the other, she just wanted what she'd come for.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she was the next one in line.
Looking at the elderly man in front of her, she just wished the old fart would hurry up and pick up whatever he was there for – probably Viagra or something like that – hurry up and move faster. Her mouth was dry – her heart was pounding – not from fear like at first – but just…
She needed that white bag.
With the orange bottle.
When the person at the counter called "next" Emma quickly made her way to the small booth. She had everything ready in her hands, pulling out her fake ID.
"What can I…"
Emma didn't have time for the things they always said. She barely noticed where the voice was coming from. Just a body standing between her and what she needed.
"I have a prescription to pick up." She interrupted.
"What's the…"
"Johnson." She again interrupted, sliding the ID across the counter. "Erin Johnson."
The ID looked as legitimate as possible – she'd paid three hundred dollars for it, so it should. She had two others. She rotated them each time. She knew what she was doing.
The person at the counter typed away at her computer.
But Emma noticed when the typing stopped and then the person didn't say "Let me go get that for you." Then Emma looked up. And, through the tint that she viewed the pharmacy through, Emma could see the uncertainty on the woman's face. This was when the person would go and get what Emma needed. This was when Emma was close to being able to walk away with the bottle.
Instead of the normal response, the woman looked at her, and then excused herself, "Let me check with the pharmacist."
Emma tried to tell herself that maybe the prescription had taken longer to fill. Maybe this place was more backed up than the other places had been. That was all. Right?
Tapping her broken fingernails against the counter, she watched as the receptionist walked over to the man in a white coat. The woman said something, looked over to where Emma was standing. And the pharmacist looked over too. Then he nodded, put down what was in his hand, and walked over to where Emma was.
Where Emma was waiting. Anxiously.
She would've swallowed, but her mouth was so dry.
"Ms. Johnson?" The man asked.
"Yes?" Emma confirmed, and, just to legitimize herself, she slid her driver's license across the counter towards him.
He cleared his throat. And she could see how his eyes moved over her. Looking at the picture on the ID and then back to her. After what seemed like an eternity, he said, "We haven't finished filling your prescription yet."
She tried to keep the agitation from showing. "I dropped it off two hours ago."
"Yes, ma'am." He said. "We just had a problem with the prescription."
That was impossible. Emma knew how to write them out. She needed it.
"What problem?" She said quickly. "My doctor said that I needed to be on it as soon as possible."
"Yes, ma'am." He said again slowly. "We got a new computer system, and we just need you to confirm a few things, if possible."
Irritation bubbled up. These stupid small pharmacies. With their outdated systems. She shifted onto her other foot, her fingers tapping again on the counter. "What do you need to know?" Then, without waiting for him to ask the questions, she recited the details, "My birthday is 6/19/1999. Address is 104 California St NW. Zip code is 20008." She knew these details.
"What's your doctor's name?"
Emma rolled her eyes, "Dr. Adams." Then, she asked, "Isn't that right on the prescription? I came in and dropped that off two hours ago." She didn't care what she had to say, she needed what she needed. "Dr. Adams said I needed to be on that within two hours. So, what's the problem?"
She saw him staring at her. Staring and not moving to get her prescription.
He didn't answer fast enough.
So she repeated, "What's the problem?"
He cleared his throat.
"Gosh, you should seriously get something to help with your throat issues." She snapped. "Do you want me to call Dr. Adams? I can do that." She pulled out her phone. "I know he'll be angry that I'm not on this already."
Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped her phone.
Then he said the first thing that made Emma realize something was actually wrong and not just due to the incompetence of the asshole standing in front of her.
"The script you were given came from a physician that's been flagged in our system."
"What?" She asked loudly. "I just saw him. He'll…"
"We do want to figure out what went wrong." He said, looking over at the receptionist – who Emma hadn't even noticed had walked up beside where he was standing. "Shirley can take you to one of our private consult rooms so you can wait in private."
Alarms began sounding in Emma's brain – one's that weren't just about needing the drugs. Real ones. She took a step back and shook her head. "Why was it flagged? Why would my doctor give me something" Emma knew she was rambling, "… Doctor Adams, who's name is on there… why would he give me something that was wrong?" She shook her head again. Maybe too much. "Your system must be fucked up. Come on, dude." Now she leaned in, tapping the top of her shoes against the floor, "I've got a lot of pain in my shoulder…" Then she grabbed her shoulder, "He wanted me to…"
The pharmacist interrupted her, "How about you go and wait with Shirley, while I work on getting that for you?"
"The oxy?" She said quickly, and then corrected herself, "I mean, whatever the medication is that he prescri…"
And she saw it. She saw the look the man gave the woman. And she knew she'd been caught.
And she knew she had to go.
She backed away, "Look, I'll come back later." And she pulled the hoodie down farther on her face. "It's ok. You are busy."
"It will only take a few…"
He was too patronizing. Too accommodating about having her wait.
She looked around, half expecting there to be cops waiting for her. She reached over and ripped the ID from the counter, shoving it in her pockets while she shook her head, "You know what, just forget about it. Must've been the…"
Backing away, she watched him reaching for the phone on the counter.
And she turned and ran. As fast as she could. Shoving past old men with canes. Women with carts full of boxed wine, chocolate, and tampons.
Over the intercom, she heard, "Code 354."
And, while she twisted around one aisle and down the next, she could see the cash registers – and then the door.
And people who worked there – people with weird colored vests – quickly moving towards the exit.
Fuck. Her heart pounded.
With as much energy as she had left, she sprinted – seeing them moving to lock the doors.
But with a quick shove using strength she didn't know she had left in her body, she sent one of the associates blocking the door tumbling to the ground. She pushed the door open, running out and into the parking lot as fast as possible.
Then she heard the sirens in the distance.
