Sara Jane

This office becomes my solace. Who knew I’d find more comfort among the dark walls that belonged to a monster than in the place my Alexander used to call home.

I’m lost without him and becoming angrier each passing day. I want to throw things, hack down the rose bushes, and burn this manor to the ground. I want to be rid of all the reminders this place represents. But Alexander will still be gone.

Without a word.

Without knowing what happened.

He just left.

Left the manor.

Left me behind.

“Is this how he felt with me gone?”

“No,” Jason replies easily, his heart not strung on a line with no beginning or end like mine.

My emotions are sails caught in the winds of change. I’m pulled to the left, and the breeze blows me right. Fuck the darkness. I’d rather have his damaged soul to comfort me at night, than feel the holes he’s left behind.

I look over my shoulder when he says, “He knew where you were. He knew how you were doing. He knew you were safe.”

“He was letting me find my own way. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do the same for him.”

“Because you don’t have the information he had at his fingertips.”

“How do I get it? How do I find him?”

Jason sighs, redirecting his coffee-colored eyes over my shoulder. “I’ve tried.” When he stands, he looks back at me, and says, “You need to think about living again. There are worse ways to be stuck than with access to billions of dollars and a mansion.”

Legally, I probably have none of it, since we’re not officially married. “It came with a price.”

“A price you’ve paid, Sara Jane.”

“I’d rather have him.”

Disappointment flits across his face, but like always, he steadies his emotions. Indifference is quickly back in place. “If you don’t take control, April will.” He walks to the door. “You’re stronger. It’s time you prove it.”

The door closes behind him, and I sit down in the chair and spin slowly around in circles. Clues. Clues. Clues. I need answers or hints. Clues to where he went. Clues to why.

The book on the table catches my eye and I plant my feet, stopping the chair. I go to it and flip it open to the page where Alexander’s birth certificate is hidden.

The details remain, but what bothers me is the obvious mistake.

Father: Alexander Roman Kingwood II.

I pull my phone from my back pocket and call the only person who may be able to help me. It’s been a few weeks since we last spoke. I don’t know if she’ll take my call, but it’s worth a shot. “Shelly? I need your help.”

Forty-five minutes later, Shelly’s black jacket slides down her arms to reveal a black sweater dress fitted over gray tights and high-heeled knee boots. Her large Jackie O sunglasses are positioned on top of her head, holding her red hair back from her face. She’s not the same Shelly I’ve known more than half my life. Another variation in a life constructed of stages and transitions brings the more grownup version to my door.

I feel silly standing before her in a coral maxi dress and bare feet. But life has changed us both, obviously in different directions because of our own experiences. My dress is deceiving, almost convincing me I haven’t struggled, that life has been umbrella drinks on the terrace, full of laughter and close friends.

Any onlooker wouldn’t know that underneath the breezy cotton I’m hiding a physical wound related to an emotional trauma. Or that I’ve been abandoned by the one person who vowed never to leave me. My casual walk from the foyer into the living room doesn’t hint at the disappointment I’ve been to my parents, who just want to help me. Their helping me means leaving Alexander. I refuse to do that. Never again.

We may look pulled together on the outside, but the loss of our friendship strikes me deeper than the flair of a coral dress will ever reveal.

She looks around the manor and asks, “What’s going on, Sara Jane?”

“So much,” I whisper. “We’ll talk when we’re alone.” My eyes slide to her as we weave through the living room to the office. When I close the door behind her, she flops onto the loveseat, exhaustion sewn into the lines of her face. She looks older than the last time I saw her. Sitting on a chair next to her, I say, “I miss you.”

“With all the stuff that’s happened, why?”

“I wish I could take on your pain, but it’s time for us to be the friends we once were. I’m truly sorry, Shelly. With all that I am, I’m sorry. I never would have involved you or Chad or anyone else other than Alexander. I never meant to. But I’m not going to throw away all these years of friendship, meaningful sisterhood, without fighting to save it first.”

Her sadness diminishes a little, relief relaxing her shoulders. “I don’t want to be angry at you anymore, Sara Jane. I don’t. It’s exhausting. I just . . .”

When her pause in thought extends, she drops her head to her hands. “I know. You miss him. I do too. Chad was an amazingly good person. He loved you so much.” Tears fill her eyes as I reach over and cover her hand with mine. “I love you too. I miss you, and I need you in my life.” Alexander told me never to beg, but in this instance, I think he’s wrong. I want Shelly back. “Please give me another chance. I really want to heal the pain we’ve caused each other.”

She’s on her feet and bending over, her arms around me before I have a chance to stand. “I’ve missed you too. I’m so sorry I said such hateful things and pushed you.”

I stand and hug her back. It feels good to be in her soft embrace again. My own tears threaten to match hers, but I have other stuff—Alexander—on my mind so the tears don’t fall. “Thank you.”

When we sit back down, she asks, “How can I help?”

My body feels lighter, as if having my friend and confidante, someone who is willing to carry my burdens with me, can help calm some of my anxiety. “You’re my family, like Alexander and Cruise. I’ve missed you so much.”

Shaking her head, I see the friend I’ve always had return, her regret ever-present on her face by the way her lips turn down at the corners. “Cruise? I didn’t know you were so close?”

I desperately want to tell her that Alexander and Cruise are missing, but I know I’ll break down if I start there. “I think we’ve come to understand each other better.”

“That’s good. So, what can I help with?”

“I need your help with this.” I pull out the certificate and point to the father’s name.

Looking it over, she nods. “Oh my God. That’s the same thing I found. I gave King Chad’s password. There was an email I thought he should see.”

King. She calls him King. Fascinating. “He knows?”

She swallows, hesitant to talk, but seems to convince herself because she says, “The day of our fight I’d been on the phone with him. He was adamant it was a mistake because it happened all the time.”

“I thought so too at first, but now . . . what if it’s not?” Her hazel eyes go wide. “What if Alexander the second is really King’s father? That would make Alexander the third his brother. Why would Alexander the third raise my Alexander as his son? Why would he do that to Madeline? Why would Madeline accept that?”

At the same time, we turn to each other and say, “April.”

“She’s brought this guy around a few times.”

“Who?”

“Her nephew. Apparently, Alexander’s cousin, April’s sister’s son. He’s come around almost every day since—”

“Since when?”

My eyes meet hers, and I see the same person who always stood by my side. Take away the lies they told to protect me, and this is my best friend. “Since right before he disappeared.”

“Who disappeared?”

“Alexander . . . and then Cruise.”

“What?” She gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”

Her arms fly around my neck again. “I’m so sorry.”

“I think they’ve been taken.”

“Have you called the police?”

“I can’t.”

She’s not a dumb girl. Her expression settles into resolve. “Yeah, that’s opening up a can of worms better left closed.”

“This is why I need your help, Shelly.”

“I’m here. What can I do?”

“Can you do what Chad did? I need a background check on Garvey Penner. Let’s start there.”

* * *

April’s name has become synonymous with hate to me. I avoid calling her by her name or any name at all because every time I do, Bitch comes out instead. But I realize she plays a bigger role in this mystery we’re trying to unfold. She’s a key player who has gone undetected, until now. And as for her nephew, the jury is still out on him. I don’t trust him, but I’m not positive he’s all bad either, so while Shelly begins research on my laptop, I flip through the rest of the papers, trying to find something else to back the certificate.

April’s security grows each day. She feels she deserves to be here. Are the years of drug abuse talking or is it a misplaced narcissism? She was discarded by the Kingwoods. Is she deluded to think the rejection has been reversed? The woman confuses me, but I hate that her malevolence is present in the air of the manor.

Now I need her.

My stomach acid inches higher up my throat until it burns my tongue. I knock once and step back from April’s bedroom door. When she doesn’t answer, I knock again.

There’s no response. I don’t hear any movement from the other side. I wonder where she went.

Just as I start back for my room the door swings open, and she spits, “What do you want?”

“I didn’t know you were home.”

“Then why would you knock?”

Trying to turn this around into a positive exchange, I smile. “I was hoping you were here. Maybe we can have tea or a cocktail together on the terrace?”

A flicker of an emotion I haven’t seen since the night Alexander III killed himself flashes by—kindness. It flickers back, and I’m left with the hate I’ve grown accustomed to. “I’ll take a glass of wine. White with two ice cubes.”

“I can make that,” I say cheerfully. I lose a part of my soul in the process, but I must make my enemy my friend to get what I need: more information. “I’ll bring it out for us.”

“Fine.”

The wine is easy enough to find in the fridge. I’m not much of a drinker, but if it relaxes her, I’ll have a drink. With two goblets in one hand and the bottle in the other, I make my way to the table on the terrace. She looks as uncomfortable as I feel. We take several sips each before I lean forward and say, “We’ve taken a turn in the wrong direction. I’d like to correct that and tell you we are on the same side.”

“There are sides?” Playing dumb, her smile doesn’t even reach her eyes.

“There don’t have to be. Alexander is missing. He’s your son. Aren’t you worried?”

“Boys will be boys. I may be his mother, but he’s a full-grown man. If he needs time alone to find himself, I’ll respect that decision.”

“I don’t think he and Cruise are gallivanting around the country on their motorcycles—”

A bored sigh overtakes my words and the bottom of her glass lands on the table so hard I’m surprised the crystal doesn’t shatter. “Sara Jane, I have been nice, but your overbearing worries are what drove the poor man away. I have no doubt I’ll see my son again. As for you seeing him, that’s your problem, and one you’ll soon discover is not a problem for him, since he left without a word. Shoo, fly. Go away.”

Fly?

Firefly . . .

The image of Madeline’s stationery pops into my head.

“ . . . Since he left you . . .”

“Have you talked to him?”

Her chin darts into the air in strong opposition of my question. “No.”

“So you don’t know where he is?”

“I didn’t say that.”

April’s cloudy blue eyes leer in my direction when I cover my mouth. Grabbing the cut crystal goblet, I gulp down the shock that my suspicions were wrong. I swallow again, taking Cruise’s concerns with the crisp wine. I’m not good at these games people play—the ones that destroy another human without regard. You’d think with what I’ve been through, I’d know how to, but it seems the ante is always upped when I’m not looking.

“I . . . I’m not sure what to say to that.” I seek the gentler side of her I once saw, and the bond that we as women should have. Hell, I search her eyes for the motherly side of her personality, but it’s not empathy I find. It’s a hollow, inexplicable hate that she easily replicates at someone else’s expense.

“There’s not much to say.” Then she reveals that softer side. I hear it in her tone and see it in her tapping fingers. “It’s time for you to stop playing make-believe games. He’s gone. He left you.”

The breeze is slight, and her hair blows away from her face, exposing a long neck with more than wrinkles co-mingling. Pinprick scars litter the side, reminding me of the life she once had and the one that was taken from her. But I know who I’m dealing with. She’s shown her true colors. Somehow, despite years of drug abuse, she’s capable of cruel behavior toward someone who has never harmed her. Maybe that’s her natural instinct. A life of desperation can easily drag someone down a path of hatred.

I still want answers. “You must have been very beautiful to catch the eye of a married tycoon.”

Invisible lightning strikes; her fury awakens. “Beauty only lasts so long.” Her eyes fixate into a distant memory. “I had it all. I was beautiful.” She closes her eyes. “Everyone told me so.”

“Even Alexander Kingwood the second?”

Her laughter echoes through the large terrace. Whispering conspiratorially, she says, “Darling, Alexander Kingwood the second was a sucker for a blonde who gave good blowjobs. The target was always the third, but he was blind to what was right in front of him.”

“Madeline was right in front him.”

Like a wave, anger rolls over her features, lingering on her lips a second longer. “He struggled to see how good I could be with her always around. In the end, I won. I didn’t get just one night with him. I got her life. I sit on her throne, ruling her empire, and did what she failed to do—produce an heir.”

Her cruelty shows no bounds, and she has no room in her black heart for the light of love. How can she be so delusional to think she achieved something? I wonder if she killed Madeline by how she speaks of her. My nerves clog in my throat, and I’m in over my head when it comes to her. How do I reason with the depraved? I don’t. I just keep going until I get what I need from her. “He believed Alexander was his son?”

“Don’t be silly, Sara Jane.” The scoff comes on the end of a snarl. “His father forced his hand. He would have lost everything—his inheritance, his trust, his status—at the hands of his father if he didn’t take Alexander in.” She sips her wine, as if this conversation is between friends. “Is this where you get me to spill the details of how I pulled off the greatest caper in Kingwood history?”

“If this is true, you may have,” I say, deciding to feed her ego.

Sitting back, she looks toward the gardens, that familiar distance reemerging. I wonder if it’s the conversation or the aftereffects of drugs that control her mind.

The memory isn’t sweet as her face contorts in pain that comes like whiplash. “My baby was so beautiful. He had my eyes and a little nose that everyone knew would be noble like his father’s. It didn’t matter that I was from a prestigious family of blue bloods. His reputation was more important than I ever would be. I was nothing to him. My baby was gold though. I had produced a Kingwood heir. Holding my baby in my arms, I remember thinking I didn’t care about money or Kingwoods. I had my Alexander who needed me. Someone who would always love me. And then he was taken from me. They thought they could destroy me. They tried, but I lived, and I survived. And no matter how much you want to bury the truth, it will always come out. That kind of lie doesn’t stay hidden for generations.”

“What happened, April? How did they take him?”

“Alex the third, came to me one night and told me he would take care of me. He would help raise the baby. Instead of being raised as his brother, Alexander Kingwood the fourth would be raised as his son.”

“But why?”

The pain in her expression seems genuine when she replies, “It would save the empire they had built. His father’s affair would never come out, and the third would still inherit the kingdom.” Leaning forward, she adds, “They both benefitted from the arrangement. The third would have the heir he was unable to produce, and the lion’s share of the kingdom until his death. However, I didn’t realize his version of taking care of me meant he’d attempt to kill me.”

Taking another large sip of her wine, she looks me up and down. I’ve somehow earned a level of respect in the last few minutes. “I’m impressed. The little schoolgirl from the north side of town has quite the clever mind. You’ve also managed to do what I couldn’t.”

The little schoolgirl? “Which is?”

“Get a Kingwood to fall in love with you.”

“I didn’t get him to fall in love with me.”

“You’re right. That’s why it’s so painful to go through this process.”

“Process?”

Patting my hand condescendingly, she remarks, “You’re too trusting.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“Trust will be your downfall.”

“And here I thought you were.”

She stands, finishes her wine, and sets the goblet on the table. Taking the wine bottle by the neck, she starts walking for the door. “I am.”

Fuming, I remain to temper my anger. Arguing with her will get me nowhere. When I can’t take it any longer, I go inside, but stop abruptly in the doorway. April is leaning her head on Garvey’s shoulder and whispering, “Thank you. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”

When did he get here, and why hadn’t Neely told me he’d arrived? I remain quiet as a mouse, listening. He replies, “I hope not. I hate getting my hands dirty, and this job is the dirtiest.”

With flair, she holds the bottle up and says, “Not much longer.”

Garvey’s gaze hits me and my heart stops in my chest. “Join us. We’re celebrating.”

My feet move without my permission, but like quicksand, every step is a struggle. “What are you celebrating?”

April’s happiness slips away. “Life.”

“Life is always worth celebrating. It’s something I cherish every day. Unfortunately, I’m tired. I’m going to have an early night and leave you to celebrate.”

He says, “Maybe next time.”

“Maybe.” I walk around them as they settle on the couch and head upstairs.

Once I’m inside the room, I lock the door, not feeling safe with the two of them around. I call Alexander and Cruise like I always do. I hate that I no longer get a ringtone or the chance to hear his voice. His voicemail is full, so I get the automated message and hang up.

Climbing into bed, I lie here, thinking. What’s next? Where do I go now? If he truly left me, I can’t stay. I find no truth in those words, in her words. My heart isn’t ready to submit. My soul’s not wanting to believe darkness finally won. So I lie here, holding the sheet to my nose, willing him to come back to me.

My mind drifts back to the conversation with April, and I analyze the details of everything she said. There’s something movies and books taught me. It’s a lesson we learn and never think will apply to our lives. But maybe it does apply, and I need to heed the warning.

When the bad guy confesses there are only two reasons:

1. They intend to kill you, the secret dying along with you.
2. They are dying and in those last moments of life want to be forgiven for their sins.

I’m certain it’s not number two, leaving me with only one outcome. And that’s an outcome I intend to change.