Los Angeles, CA – September 2014
It's not unusual for Lisa to spend her morning this way. Coffee, light. Eggs scrambled. The Pacific is glistening in the orange morning sun. Mornings move slower in LA. She remembers DC, up at five and rushing to get to Langley by seven. But not here. Here, she gets to relax, mosey about, and do the crossword.
She sits cross-legged on the floor between her couch and coffee table in her spacious, much-too-expensive loft. It keeps her house poor, but she can't bear to leave here. The beach outside her floor-to-ceiling windows, the crisp white of the walls, and her fluffy duvet– it's clean and pure. The opposite of her concrete prison with a metal locked door. She never feels closed in or trapped. It has become home as much as a physical place can be home.
This is her ritual: crossword and coffee before checking her emails. There are many days in which she misses her old rituals: sleepy kids and good morning songs. A quick kiss before they're out the door and lazy weekends spent reading on the porch, a cup of hot tea beside her. She misses her old life some days—well, most days.
Lisa keeps Elizabeth locked away in a safe drilled to the floor in the corner of her closet. Her photo of the kids and their smiling faces, her wedding ring, and journals—the words written detailing her innermost horrors. Her writing habit has not ended. It's her only true outlet. A journal she knows she can burn after writing in if necessary.
Her life has become quiet and habitual. Her days are the same, but not in a monotonous way. More so, a comfortable, predictable way. But she's lonely. She has friends... a few people she's close to, but no one is truly close. And no one in her life knows her story... the real one. The story still haunts her dreams and makes her keep a gun by her bed.
Ever since the election, she has spent a lot of time looking over her shoulder. All it would take is Conrad deciding to tie up his loose ends, and she'd be gone. Or worse, her children would be gone. She may plan on never seeing them again... but they keep her going. The thought of them keeps her sober and alive. She hasn't laid eyes on them in years. She keeps her distance for their safety. For her safety. She knows what a monster looks like. And she does not want them to see it in her. And there is a monster in her now- a restless, mean, bitter monster. It's always at work clawing at her newfound shield, wanting her to let it free. It's a constant power struggle… but she's still winning.
She tries not to think about it. She has her job and her routines. It helps. And she has the crossword. It's the perfect distraction, one that challenges her. She doesn't have much that challenges her anymore. Her job is mundane: legal billing. It's the same every day. She hates it, but she's not ready to make a move, not ready to step outside of her safe, predictable life. She doesn't know if she ever will be.
Washington, DC – September 2014
There are times when Henry is in complete awe of his children. Those moments are far from few and far between. But this moment brings a surprise tear to his eye. His first baby is now a woman competing on the biggest debate stage for the collegiate level in the country. And she's good, great even. Her responses are fast and polished. She oozes empathy and passion… She sounds exactly like–
"She's just like Bess."
Henry turns, startled at the semi-recognizable voice.
"George?" Mild affection joins the surprise in his voice, and George smiles nervously. He shouldn't be here. It was a decision made on a whim. He knows her wishes, and he's respected them for years. But as November closes and December approaches, he knows she's lonely. And she's ready. She's maintained her sobriety for five years. She goes to therapy once a week, willingly. Whether she knows it or not, she's ready for the fight. And he knows it will be a fight. Every time he hears someone praise a war criminal who is now their president, he wants to shout what he knows from the rooftops. But he can't. Elizabeth needs to be in control of her story. So he's doing this. Maybe he can light a match and bring Bess back to life.
"Hi, McCords," George says. He's shocked to see how big Allison and Jason are. They are no longer little kids who would fall for his magic tricks. He extends his hand to the redhead, "George."
"Jessica…" She replies, keeping her face as neutral as possible. Her heckles immediately stand to attention. What's he doing? This is her family. Hers.
Henry can't explain it, and later, he will deny it, but he feels the tension rise in his wife's body. The way her hand twitches in his and how she presses closer to his side, almost as if she's rearing for a fight.
Jessica doesn't understand why Henry's face lights up. Jessica had successfully erased Elizabeth from her family's life. And here is her best friend—one of the only people who knows the truth. Does he know about her part in it? What does Elizabeth know? She has no time to contemplate. The audience is clapping. The moderator calls for a fifteen-minute intermission.
But even while watching him like a hawk, she doesn't notice the business card that Peters slips into Henry's coat pocket during their intermission catchup and exchange of pleasantries. She was too focused on Stevie's excited "Uncle George!" expression.
…X…X…X…
Henry paces the floor of the hotel lobby at three am. Elizabeth is alive. He can't shake the thought. It's a continuous echo that ricochets around his head and won't go away. He runs his hand over the card he found in his pocket at dinner. George's handwriting adorns the back. You need to call her. Do it alone. He doesn't know why he's even considering the request, but the nagging thought about his wife, the woman he loves and thought he'd lost forever, is overwhelming his sense of reason. The logic that is trying to scream at him, you buried her, she's dead. But the card in his hand is potential proof otherwise.
Lisa Aldin
Accounting Associate
Price and Associates
Los Angeles, CA
Cell: 213-555-7265
He takes a deep breath and steps out onto the veranda. The early autumn air fills his lungs as he dials the number. He takes a deep breath and presses call, ready for the shift of reality he can feel coming. It rings twice before someone picks up, and a voice stops him in his tracks.
"Hello?" She's just woken up. Her raspy voice is laced with sleep. He can picture her as if she was the same as the last time he saw her. Her blonde hair spread across the pillow, a peaceful look on her face. His heart aches, and a lump rises in his throat. His knees go weak, and he can't speak. It's her. He can feel it deep in his bones.
"Hello?" the voice becomes more insistent, and Henry's eyes snap open. "Who is this?"
His mouth opens and then shuts. His heart is heavy, with every emotion swirling around his head. He is beyond shocked. His brain is screaming at him to say something before he loses her again. But he can't make words.
"Who is this?" Lisa's voice is more demanding and frightened, and her tone startles him. He thought he knew what she sounded like when she was scared, but her tone is beyond that. This is real terror.
"Elizabeth..." He breathes. Without knowing it, their hearts pound in time together in their separate chests. At least until his line goes dead.
Los Angeles, CA – September 2014
Lisa throws her phone against the wall. She can't breathe. Her chest is tight, her mind racing. The phone rings again. She doesn't dare make the move to retrieve it from the floor. She can't make herself answer. There's no way. It couldn't have been Henry. Conrad is fucking with her. That's what it must be. She can't bring herself to answer, and the phone falls silent.
She stands in the center of her room, staring at the phone on the floor. The otter box prevented the device's screen from shattering with the force of her throw.
"Shit!" she yells and starts pacing her room. Her heart is pounding. She can't breathe. A full-blown panic attack has set in. It has to be a prank, some asshole with too much time on his hands, except George's words from their last conversation echo in her head. I have to do something... You're not going to like it. What has he done? Why now? What is she going to do? She finds herself in the fetal position, checking her pulse and trying to regulate her breathing. She's not ready for this, not by a long shot.
