Hush Hush #2 Read online

  Little did I know that there would be so many more.

  I can feel my heart patter excitedly as I wonder what they could possibly be. I shove the folded contract into my purse, eager to read it once I’m back at my hotel.

  But I’ll have to wait for that. At least for a little while.

  There’s something else that I want to do first.

  I hurry towards the door, following the path Liam took mere moments ago. Back in the bright light of the hallway, I turn an ear this way and that, hoping to catch the stray sound of conversation. Hoping for some kind of indication of where Liam went.

  I need to know—what’s happening tonight? There was something unsettling about the stiffness of Liam’s tone, about his urgency in returning the call.

  There’s something that feels nefarious about this. I just know it. He is a Hawthorne, after all.

  I need to hear more.

  My footsteps are cautious but quick as I make my way down the hallway. I flit between each room, pressing an ear against the wood of the doors, hoping to hear the muffled murmurs of Liam’s voice.

  Door after door, I am met with only silence—until I have reached the last door in the hall. It’s at the opposite end from Liam’s sex room. From the outside, it looks exactly the same: white door, beveled inset.

  But as for what lies behind it—I haven’t the faintest idea.

  I lean in close, holding my breath, daring not to make a sound. I can hear Liam’s soft, low voice, punctuated by the creaking of floorboards. He must be pacing around the room. I can just picture him on the other side of the door: restless and feral, like a caged animal.

  “You need to talk to Robinson about that,” he’s saying irritably. “That’s not my responsibility.” He’s quiet for a moment, presumably while his companion is speaking, and then snaps, “He’s not going to like that. You know he has a certain way of doing these things.”

  A pause.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be there to supervise. I’m leaving shortly. Let’s hope that I don’t run into any midnight swimmers.”

  Another pause, and then a protracted groan.

  “It was a joke. I was joking. Look, I’ll be in touch when it’s all said and done.”

  I linger at the door, unsure of what I’ve just heard. I’m desperate to hear more, but the house has fallen into silence. Liam must have ended the call.

  The floor creaks again. And as though I’ve been jolted with a thousand volts of electricity, I leap back. It’s time to slip downstairs and into the safety of the moonlight, before he catches me.

  2

  I’ve had the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign hanging from my doorknob for over a week now. I’m not sure what the housekeeping ladies would make of the walls, covered in scraps of newspaper and scrawled notes, but there’s one thing I’m sure of: it would raise far too many questions. Better to make my own bed, and re-use my bath towels. Better to be certain of my privacy.

  After all, Liam’s not the only one keeping secrets.

  Having just come back from Liam’s house, I make myself a mug of powdered decaf coffee using the ancient hotel coffee maker sitting atop the desk, and then take a step back to survey my research.

  There’s a print-out of an old Financial Journal cover story on Mr. Hawthorne, detailing how he launched his company, and about the seed investment that propelled it into a billion-dollar business; I’ve taped up the papers side-by-side, like sheet music. There’s an excerpt of a profile on Mrs. Hawthorne from the New Orleans Home & Garden Monthly, with phrases I’ve highlighted in yellow:

  …beautifully decorated pied-à-terre in the heart of Paris…

  …serves on the board of trustees for the Oscan Art Gallery…

  Beside that, I’ve taped up an announcement for an upcoming reception at the gallery, for which Mrs. Hawthorne is committed to attend.

  There are newspaper clippings from my parents’ trial, the ones I cut out with trembling hands fourteen years ago. The paper has turned yellow and flimsy over the years. The names leap out at me: Charles Hawthorne…Barbara Hawthorne…District Attorney Robert Chaisson…witnesses Kimberly and Eric Benz…

  I have notes on them, too. Up on the wall, there’s a photo from the celebration of Robert Chaisson’s twentieth year of service: Robert’s broad, toothy grin as he wedges a gleaming knife into a chocolate box cake. There is a brief newspaper profile to go along with the photos, which I scan again briefly. Golfer. Recently divorced. Member of the Knights of Columbus, for three days only—the rumor was that it was a bet. Regular at the Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro.

  On the Benzes, there is significantly less information. There’s a brief quote from Eric Benz in a print-out of the Times, which discusses an impending steelworkers’ strike. The quote is so brief I might have missed it, if it wasn’t for Google. There is Kimberly’s name on a decade-old roster of PTA members. An announcement of the birth of their granddaughter. And that’s it. I guess it makes sense that there wouldn’t be much, at least compared with a district attorney and local public figures.

  Still, there’s something about the lack of detail that seems…odd.

  I sip my stale coffee and sweep my eyes across the scraps of paper, searching for any mention of someone called ‘Robinson.’ The name is unfamiliar, but still a part of me hopes that it’s tucked into one of these articles, that I might have come across it earlier without realizing.

  As I pore over the notes, I can’t help but wish that I could pick up the phone and ask my parents if they’ve ever heard of this person. But of course, that’s not a possibility. You can’t call inmates in a prison whenever you please. The only way I’d be able to speak to them is if they called me collect, but in order to do that, they’d have to have my number in the first place.

  But they don’t. I can still clearly remember what Miranda said to me, back when this all began: No one can know you’re back in New Orleans. Not even your folks. Someone might overhear. It’s too risky.

  So I’m on my own.

  After a few minutes of searching, I pull away in resignation. There’s nothing here. No mention of a ‘Robinson.’

  Fine, I think disappointedly. This might not help me now, but maybe it will be of some use later. I’m quickly learning that this process is something like cleaning out a dusty old closet, one that hasn’t been touched in years: you have to unpack it all first before you can make any sense of it.

  There’s a notepad on the desk, stamped with the logo of the hotel. I tear off a piece and write down: ROBINSON?? I tape it to the wall, next to Mr. Hawthorne’s feature story.

  My phone suddenly starts vibrating beside the notepad, making the whole desk tremble. I pick it up and glance instinctively at the screen, even though I already know who it is: my cousin Miranda.

  “How’s it going, you saucy minx?” she asks when I answer.

  I roll my eyes. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

  “What would you prefer, then? Madame Morrison? Mistress of pain?”

  “I’ve actually just decided to go by ‘April’ these days,” I quip. After a moment’s thought, I add, “Or ‘Sophia,’ depending on who you are.”

  “How is our dear Sophia doing?” Miranda asks. “And more importantly, how is her paramour, the indomitable Mr. Liam Hawthorne? How did tonight go?”

  “You’re having way too much fun with this,” I tell her, somewhat regretting having informed her about this evening’s date. “Anyway, it went well. He wants to keep seeing me.”

  “Perfect,” says Miranda approvingly. “What’d he say? Give me details.”

  Details? I can feel a small, involuntary twitch between my legs. If I gave her details, I’d have to start charging her by the minute.

  “Well,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “he told me that he wants to discuss the terms of our relationship.”

  “He actually used that word? Relationship?”

  “He did.”

  “That’s great news,” squeals Miranda. “You know what that
means, don’t you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s time to move on to phase two.”

  My heart skips a beat. “All right,” I say slowly. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, you know that I’ve been giving it a lot of thought since you ran into him. I knew he was our ticket, but going after Liam obviously meant I needed to re-think the details of the original plan,” she says. “I was considering the idea of having you nick some personal documents so we could get access to their bank accounts—but it occurred to me that anything we take, the Hawthornes will just get reimbursed through their insurance anyway. Which is fine enough if we cash out quickly, but it doesn’t jive with your vengeance crusade, right?”

  “Right,” I say. There’s a nervous flutter in my chest, and I can’t seem to get rid of it.

  “Now that he likes you, and more importantly now that he trusts you, you need to leverage this.” Her voice lifts with excitement. “So I’m thinking we do something…bigger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We have a couple options,” she says. “The first one is the simplest—you find a way to snap some photos of Liam’s naughty little room, then threaten to sell them to the paper and expose his dark, deviant secret if he doesn’t pony up some hush money.”

  “That’s blackmail,” I say. My voice cracks.

  “Well, yeah,” Miranda says, as if what I said is obvious. “Crime ain’t pretty, honey.”

  “Still, I don’t know about that,” I say nervously. “The whole point of all this, at least for me, is to get back at the Hawthornes. And I’m not going to do that by embarrassing their son.”

  Miranda sighs. “I had a feeling you would say that. Fine. Here’s our other option—you manage to get Liam to introduce you to the parents, then you introduce them to me, and I’ll handle the rest.”

  “Why does that sound way simpler than I know it really is?” I say suspiciously. “And besides, his parents aren’t exactly crazy about me, remember?”

  “Nothing that can’t be fixed by a glowing endorsement from their only son,” Miranda replies breezily. “Ask Liam to take you to Sunday dinner with his parents. Tell him that it would mean a lot to you. And then be on your best behavior and dear God don’t mention your parents again.”

  “Right,” I say meekly.

  “And when you’re chatting with them, you’ll casually mention how your friend from college just received an incredible return on an investment. Their ears will be perked up at this point. You’ll say that you don’t know much about the details, only that the investment company is extremely selective about taking on new clients. They’ll be nearly salivating at this point. And then you’ll offer to introduce them to me.”

  “My old college friend?”

  “Your young and gorgeous college friend, you mean,” she corrects me. “And yes, that’s right.”

  “And, what, you’ll have some kind of mock-investment company set up? Have you ever done anything like this before? I thought your schemes were always a little…lower-key.”

  “I know a few people who are experienced in this kind of thing. They might be interested in helping us, if I pitch this to them in the right way. And if we split the profits, of course,” she says. “I think this could be big, April. If we do this right, if we convince them to invest enough, we could bleed them for almost every penny they have. Permanently.” Her voice is giddy.

  My hand rises to my mouth, which has just dropped open. The possibility of bankrupting the Hawthornes is incredible. No, it goes beyond incredible—it’s more satisfying and exhilarating than I ever expected.

  “Okay,” I breathe out. “Call your friends. Let’s do it.”

  “Excellent,” Miranda says, sounding pleased. “Keep me updated on how things progress with Liam. I’ve started up a new scheme over here—there’s this guy I have my eye on, with the perfect combination of good looks, zero brains, and a fat inheritance—but I can drop it and come to New Orleans if you need me for anything. Just say the word.”

  At this, I pause. Miranda doesn’t know about the research collection mounted on my wall. I can just imagine her walking into my room and casting a critical eye to the array of newspaper clippings. She’d accuse me of losing focus.

  On the contrary, probing more deeply into the story of my parents’ unjust incarceration is exactly what I need to keep focus. I need to understand what happened to my parents, and why. Knowledge, more than anything, is what keeps me motivated to carry on.

  But I know Miranda. She wouldn’t understand, and it’s not worth the attempt to explain this to her.

  “I told you before that I’m fine here on my own,” I say hastily. “But thanks.”

  “If you say so,” she says. She’s quiet for a moment, and then says thoughtfully, “So what were the ‘terms’ of the relationship that Liam wanted to talk about, anyway?”

  “Well…” My voice trails off. I can’t bring myself to mention the contract.

  But still, my eyes flick over to my purse, which is resting in a heap on the edge of the bed. In my frenzy to identify this mysterious “Robinson” person, I had shoved Liam’s contract to the back of my mind. But now, as I pace toward my purse and withdraw the crisp, white paper, I can feel the curiosity stirring within me.

  “You know, more or less what you’d expect,” I say vaguely. “Listen, I’m really beat. I think I’m going to rest. Talk to you later?”

  “Definitely,” she promises, and then hangs up.

  I take a seat on the bed and put the phone down beside me. I cautiously flip open the folded paper. I hesitate for a moment—just a moment—and then begin to read:

  I, Sophia Moore, of my own free will, offer myself as a submissive to Liam Hawthorne. I will obey him at all times and will seek his pleasure above all other considerations. I offer him unfettered use of my body, at any time, in any place, according to any means as he will determine…

  My eyes widen, but I continue reading. Snippets of phrases jump out at me:

  …safe words will follow the traffic light system…

  …masturbation: Dominant to submissive, submissive to Dominant, and self-masturbation by both parties…

  …the submissive will refer to the Dominant as ’Sir’ at all times, under penalty as determined by the Dominant…

  …agreeing to the following types of bondage…

  The contract trembles between my fingers. I can feel my heart thump excitedly in my chest.

  Here, in my hands, is the price of my vengeance.

  I suppose I should consider myself lucky, in a way. I’m sure Miranda’s never had such an opportunity, to see the terms and tradeoffs of her schemes laid out so plainly. At least with this, I know what to expect. At least with this, I’ll have no surprises.

  There’s a space at the bottom for signatures. Liam’s already signed the line designated for the “Dominant, Liam Hawthorne.”

  I stare at the page, momentarily losing myself in the black scribble of his name, before grabbing a pen and signing the line for “Submissive, Sophia Moore.” I do it before I can stop myself, before my hand clenches from nervousness.

  There. It’s done.

  I can feel my body already reacting the word. Submissive. My blood begins to pump quick in anticipation. My skin twitches, turning hot.

  I fold the contract and place it carefully back in my purse. I’ll return this to Liam the next time I see him, I think. Which will be…well, actually, I’m not sure. He never did give me a date or time for our next date. Just an ambiguous, I’ll let you know.

  Another show of power, I realize.

  Of course. As the “Dominant,” he gets to decide when and where we’ll next meet. And as the “submissive,” I get to—what? Coop myself up in the stifling four walls of this hotel room, until he decides he’s ready for me?

  But that’s the arrangement, isn’t it? That’s what being a “submissive” means, right?

  Fine. Sophia Moore the submissive ca
n cool her heels here. As far as Liam’s concerned, at least.

  But April Morrison has research to do.

  I push myself off the bed, abandoning the purse and the contract. I stride over to the wall of notes.

  Where to begin? My eyes sweep back and forth, taking it all in. They land on the blank part of the wall that I’ve reserved for the Benzes.

  The Benzes from my childhood were happy, active members of the community—from what I recall, Kimberly led a local running group and always seemed to be organizing some kind of bake sale for her church. Eric Benz kept himself just as busy, coaching lacrosse at the high school. And there were plenty of newspaper articles that I had found during my research that mentioned the Benzes and their cupcakes and lacrosse matches, evidence of a life that was once full and happy. I chose not to tape them to the wall because they didn’t seem relevant to my investigation—and because they were too outdated.

  And that’s the curious thing: after a certain point, the mentions in the newspapers just…petered out. Kimberly’s name was dropped from the PTA list. And the reports on the high school lacrosse games no longer included quotes from Eric Benz, but instead from a new coach named Craig Ashby.

  If it wasn’t for Riley mentioning that they sometimes visit his bookstore, I’d have thought the Benzes had vanished into thin air.

  There’s more to the story here. I’m sure of it. The Benzes disappeared from the newspapers less than two years after my parents’ trial. That can’t be a coincidence.

  My adrenaline pumping, I grab my phone off the bed and quickly punch in a number.

  “Hey Riley, it’s me,” I say when the line connects. “What are you doing tomorrow morning? I need to ask for a favor…”

  3

  Riley is already lingering on the grassy sidewalk, with his hands shoved into his pockets, when I pull onto the side of the street. I pause briefly to take in the view of the neighborhood before I shut off the ignition. This Lakeview is different than the one from my memories. Most of the homes look new, freshly renovated—a necessary outcome of Hurricane Katrina, surely. The street seems a little wider, the architecture a little taller.