Empire of Lies - Whitney G. Page 0,61
it was you, if someone told me, but—”
“It’s your fucking father,” he says, clearly upset at the last line I’ve said. “You’ve been crying all these tears about him, but he’s not interested in seeing or hearing from you again. He couldn’t care less about you being gone. If you call him, the last thing he’ll be is elated. He’ll pretend to be, and then he’ll just call someone else to finish the job.”
“No…” I feel the ground shift under my feet, feel my entire world shift on its axis. I haven’t heard anything past, “Your father…took out a hit on your fucking life.” “You’re lying,” was all I could say. “You’re lying…We’ve had our moments, but he would never—he would never do that.”
He pulls a phone out of his pocket and holds it up to my face. Then he hits play.
It’s a grainy video, with two men. One is a young blond—the flower delivery guy who once came into my office every day to deliver Michael’s daily roses. The other man is my father.
“Once we do this, there’s no going back,” Flower Guy says.
“I know. I don’t want her to suffer, though. Nothing too hurtful, okay?”
“Whoa. We’re just making her disappear for a while. There’s nothing too hurtful about that at all.”
“You don’t understand,” my father says. “I want her gone gone. Not just missing. Missing for good, if you catch my drift. I don’t want her body found for at least five years.”
Flower Guy shakes his head. “I’m not authorized to discuss that type of a job with you. You’ll have to take that up with the next guy in the chain.”
“Then get him on the phone or have him meet us here.”
They continue talking, but I have to stop listening. I can feel an unfamiliar heaviness in my chest, and I can’t stop the tears from falling if I tried.
Michael places the car in park and unfastens his seatbelt, leaning over and holding me in his arms for what feels like forever.
I want her gone-gone…
The next several hours pass by in a hazy blur, marked by a few stops at gas stations and off-road coffee shops, but no words are spoken.
There’s nothing to say.
As the sun sets in the distance, we approach a bridge—where an abandoned grey Honda sits idle.
Michael pulls over to the side of the road and turns off the car. Motioning for me to sit still, he steps out and pops the trunk. Taking out our bags, he moves them to the parked car ahead of us.
After securing the bags into the new trunk, he opens the passenger door and motions for me to get out.
I don’t ask questions. I’m still trying to process the idea of my father wanting me murdered, and I don’t think I’ll ever understand. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.
Settling onto the seat of the newer getaway car, I stare straight ahead and wonder what the hell I could’ve done to make my father want me permanently gone. My heart refuses to accept it, but the wheels in my mind are spinning overtime.
I comb through all of our most recent conversations, the proud look in his eyes when he gave me away at the wedding, the well-wishes he gave at the reception. It’s not until I think back to the night of my impromptu flower delivery from him, that his written words cross my mind. They remain suspended in a freeze frame for several seconds, and a part of the puzzle becomes somewhat clearer.
‘Everyone wants to vote for someone who makes them feel something. Sometimes even sympathy…’
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I swallow. I can’t believe I never questioned him about that before. Never even asked him to prove that he was really dropping out of the campaigns.
I look through the rearview mirror and see Michael stepping out of his old car—him shutting the door as the car rolls forward and down into the lake.
He waits until the roof is completely submerged, and then he walks to our new car and cranks the engine.
“Are you cold?” he asks, pulling onto the road.
“Only on the inside.” I cross my arms. “Is my father still campaigning?”
“He is.”
“So, you were hired to kill me and you chose not to?”
“I think that’s quite obvious, Meredith,” he says, looking over at me. “Seeing as though you’re still breathing.”
“Is that what you do when you’re not running your nightclub and investing in Broadway plays? Take out people?”
“I