Truth We Bear Read online

  “Well, it was great meeting you, Miss Tate. Thanks so much for answering my questions.”

  Time slowed as the sound of that voice enveloped me. I was sure I’d remember it until the day I died. It haunted me in a way I could never escape. It reached for me, offering a firm grasp around my neck, suffocating me while I stood, shocked, silent, stationary. It hurt to breathe, to blink, to swallow. These moments were eerie and often left for the likes of horror films, not real life.

  I watched as Jezebel’s lips moved, but I heard nothing. I was stunned, paralyzed, terrified of seeing her so close to the woman I loved, to the woman who had no idea that my past was literally mere feet from her. The noose was tightening, and only when Jezebel spoke my name did I free myself from it.

  “James? You okay?” She rested her hand atop my own, which had, shockingly, not dropped the glass I was holding. Suddenly, I desperately needed something stronger than champagne.

  “Who was that?” I asked, still unmoving.

  She shrugged as she sipped the bubbly pink liquid from her glass. “A journalist. She’s publishing an article on me, I guess. She looked really familiar, though. Maybe I’ve met her at a signing?”

  The world fell silent as I finally faced her. She’d already walked away, but in the distance, just before she crossed the galley’s threshold, she turned, a devilish grin plastered on her face. Her nefarious glare spoke volumes in the moment of deafening silence when our gazes met.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Now

  I downed my champagne, slammed the glass onto a waiter’s tray harder than intended, and offered a weak excuse to Jezebel. By the time I reached the door and ran down the street, Abigail was gone. Still, I walked a few blocks, frantically scanning the storefronts and alleyways, ignoring those who begged for money, their signs for help nothing but blurs.

  When I reached the end of the block, I decided I’d never find her this way. She was baiting me, I was sure. I just needed to play her game, but I found it nearly impossible to think straight. I’d been searching for her for so long, and now she was right before me, taunting me with a powerful, yet risky, move. How had she known I hadn’t told Jezebel all about her? How had she known she wasn’t on some refusal list?

  I gasped. The list! Tara had hired an amazing event coordinator to ensure tonight was successful, and the coordinator required everyone to flash an ID or ticket to get into the event. After all, this was an exclusive party. Only invitees could attend. So how had Abigail scored a pass?

  I ran back to the gallery, my feet pounding the slick pavement. It must’ve rained while we were inside. I hadn’t noticed. I was missing so many details lately that I was embarrassed to be looking for work as a bodyguard. Sure, Jezebel didn’t really need my expertise anymore. Miller was gone. But a new demon had entered this hell. Jezebel just didn’t know that yet. Again, I’d let my guard down. I wasn’t sure what it was about Jezebel that made me lose all control of my faculties when she was around.

  I reached the gallery just as the sting in my chest was becoming annoying. I gasped for breath as I scanned the crowd. Jezebel was talking to Tara—probably about me. I couldn’t worry about that now. I had to find the coordinator. I’d seen her when we arrived, but I hadn’t paid much attention to her. Mentally, I retraced my steps to the party, trying to recall her face. She was young, but her hair was gray. An intentional dye job, I remembered thinking when I saw her.

  “Can I help you find something, Mr. Blakely?” someone asked.

  As if God Himself were listening—and for once, He was welcomed—the gray-haired beauty was staring back at me, a wide smile on her face. I was so happy, I could kiss those lips.

  “Yes. There was a girl here today. She had long red hair, pale skin, blue eyes. Do you know who she is?”

  Her brows wrinkled as she thought about my question. She shook her head. “I don’t remember her name.”

  “But you remember her?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. I remember everyone’s face. It’s a curse, really.”

  “How did she get in without a pass?”

  Her nose wrinkled now. “What do you mean?”

  “She wasn’t supposed to be here.”

  With wide eyes, she said, “But she had a pass.” She scanned her list of names. “Yes. Yes! Here.”

  Abigail Martin. Press.

  Martin. Her last name was Martin. I exhaled slowly, relief washing over me. Knowing her last name would make my search for her much simpler. I prayed it wasn’t fake.

  “Yes, I remember now. She was with the press. She’s writing an article on Miss Tate. She was really excited her request to attend was approved, because she was writing a story about Miss Tate, not about her book. She thought for sure she wouldn’t be invited.”

  I ran a hand through my hair, my fingers tangling in the gelled strands. “She left.” I spoke more for myself than for her.

  The coordinator shook her head. “No, sir. She hasn’t checked out yet.”

  “I watched her leave. She’s gone.”

  “But…her coat,” the girl turned slightly, pointing to a closed door. “You have to check out with me to get your belongings back. She must still be here.”

  For the first time in weeks, relief flooded over me. She’d wanted to be invited so she could leave me a clue. She wanted me to find her, which meant she knew I was looking for her. She was leaving breadcrumbs, hoping I was smart enough to find my way back to her.

  “Show me her belongings.”

  The girl nodded and showed me into the small room. “That’s it.”

  I grabbed the coat and started emptying the pockets.

  “Umm… I should get back to the party.”

  I nodded without looking at her. I probably looked like a crazy person, but I was Jezebel’s security. Ensuring her safety was my first priority. Sometimes, that meant riffling through someone’s belongings and looking like I was having a psychotic break. For all I knew, I was having a breakdown. I made a mental note to have myself admitted after I stopped my past from destroying everything I’ve built.

  All the pockets were empty save for one. In it, I found a crumpled business card of a private investigator. I ran a finger over the faded text. I didn’t know many private investigators. When I needed someone found, I used my personal connections, but I wasn’t surprised Abigail needed to hire such help. I shoved the card into my jacket pocket and hung the coat back on the hanger. I desperately wanted to go to the investigator now, but I’d already missed a good chunk of the party. Against my better judgment, I’d have to wait to pay him a visit until tomorrow.

  I exited the storage area. The door slammed shut to the silent room. Jezebel had been making a speech, and now all eyes were on me. I’d missed it. I’d missed the party, the reading, the speech. And one look at Jezebel was a blade to the heart. She was crushed, and that look of despair, of regret, was there because of me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Then

  Today’s sermon was about forgiveness. The pastor explained that God would forgive our sins if we bared our truth to Him, and the pastor asked the community to forgive him of his.

  I scanned the group, hoping no one would forgive him. Almost as soon as the feeling came, a sense of dread washed over me. I wasn’t behaving the way God would want me to behave. I was angry, hateful toward the pastor—never giving him a true chance. I prayed that God would forgive my sins, and I promised I’d be nicer to the pastor. After all, God chose him for a reason, and I shouldn’t doubt God.

  Bobby smiled at me when our gazes met. I offered a small wave, hoping not to attract any attention. It was against the rules not to pay attention during the sermon. He made a funny face at me, and I covered my mouth with my hand to stop myself from laughing. His mom must’ve seen it, though, because she smacked the back of his head. He sat upright, gaze darting forward as he listened to the pastor give his sermon.

  I glanced at my mom. She was watching the pastor, but she looked…different. I thou
ght she was still angry with him. Maybe she would ask for God’s forgiveness today, too. Everything would be okay. I reached for her hand, cupping it beneath my own. She glanced over and smiled.

  Her eyes were the color of the sky. Father’s eyes were the color of the grass. Once, I told them that was why God brought them together and told them to start Living Light. They laughed, but I saw something pass between them when they looked at each other again. I think they knew I was right about God’s work. I wondered why they doubted His plan for Abi and me now.

  The breeze picked up, blowing my hair from my eyes. It was a hot summer day, but I welcomed it. It was almost autumn. I loved how nature changed in autumn, but I hated the cold. Once, I’d asked my parents to move Living Light somewhere that was warm all year. That was how much I hated the cold.

  I did like looking at the snow, though. I’d watch it fall through the windows. Fireplaces heated all of our houses during the winter, and Father had been working tirelessly all summer to gather enough wood for everyone. I glanced at him, wondering if I should help him chop wood after sermon instead of playing in the fields with Bobby.

  My gaze shot to the pastor’s the moment I heard my name.

  “My loving daughter, Abigail, and James Blakely are no longer engaged to be married. I’ll admit, my appreciation and admiration of the Blakely household stirred an excitement within me. I made the announcement without coming to a clear, beneficial decision for both our families and for the community. I am deeply sorry, and I do hope you all will forgive me for a rushed decision.”

  When the pastor met Mother’s gaze, she smiled and nodded, but underneath, I could see it. She was no longer happy. I worried what that meant for our family and for Living Light. They’d said they’d leave, but would they really? I didn’t want to leave. Living Light was all I knew. It was home.

  “Mrs. Blakely,” the pastor said. “Mr. Blakely.”

  “Pastor,” Mother replied. Her voice sounded pleasant, but I knew she was faking it. I’d learned all of Mother’s tics over the years. I always knew when she was upset, and today, she was hiding her anger.

  “Again, I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies. I didn’t handle the situation well. You were right; they are too young. Our focus should be on the current community, not on growing its future generation.”

  Mother snorted, rolling her eyes.

  “Have you reconsidered my offer to stay? I’d hate to lose such prominent, resourceful members.”

  “No,” Father said.

  “We’re leaving,” Mother announced.

  I gasped, as did several others. We were leaving? I glanced back and forth between Mother, Father, and the pastor. No one had told me we were leaving. I wanted to cry, to scream, to beg them to reconsider. I wondered if they doubted my ability to follow God’s plan. I’d have to show them that I could do it. I could marry Abi. I could lead the community so they didn’t have to anymore.

  I gripped Mother’s hand, and she squeezed mine in return. I knew that squeeze. It told me not to speak, not to make a scene. I swallowed my pain, my questions, and waited.

  “May I ask why? I’ve called off the engagement. Is that not what you wanted?” the pastor asked. He looked hurt, as if his words pained him. His eyes were sad, but I wasn’t sure if he was upset because Mother said we were leaving or because leaving meant I couldn’t fulfill God’s plan.

  “Living Light was supposed to be a peaceful place, a refuge. That wasn’t supposed to change after we relinquished leadership to you. You’ve turned it into…something else,” Father said, finally speaking.

  I glanced at him. He frowned, his lips pressed firmly together. I knew that look, too. He wanted this conversation to end. Father was a gentle man, so I didn’t see it often. What was it about the pastor that brought out so much anger in our family? No one else seemed afflicted.

  “Something we want no part of,” Mother added.

  The pastor nodded. “I do apologize. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I ruined your life’s work.”

  Mother brushed away his concern with the wave of her hand. I’d seen that many times, too. She was also done with this conversation, and if the pastor knew what was good for him, he’d leave her alone.

  “We’re leaving in a few days,” Father said.

  I gasped. In a few days? They’d already made plans? I’d hoped they’d only spoken in anger, but maybe they were serious. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t want to leave. I loved it here; I had friends and Abi. I didn’t want to move somewhere else. I didn’t want to leave Living Light.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Now

  The silence in the taxi ride back to the apartment was deafening. Jezebel wouldn’t look at me, and when I reached for her hand, she pulled away. I understood she was furious with me. I’d been a terrible boyfriend. I’d lied, hidden my past, and broken my promises to her. If only she could understand that I was doing this to protect her. But she couldn’t. Not until I came clean.

  “It’s the white one. Thank you,” Jezebel said to our driver. He pulled over, and she opened her door, exiting without me. I paid the man and slammed the door. She was inside the building, so I took a moment to gather my thoughts.

  The street was dark, the lights only illuminating small patches of the outside world. Bumper-to-bumper cars lined the street of historic homes. All were brownstones save ours. After Jezebel bought the top-floor apartment, a former tenant bribed the building manager to paint the brownstone white, and now, she affectionately refers to her home as a “whitestone.”

  Slowly, I took the stairs to the building and walked toward Jezebel, who was waiting for the elevator.

  “My feet hurt,” she said as an explanation for not taking the stairs, and I nodded. “Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment, Blakely? As if I’m in the wrong here!”

  I cringed at her use of my last name. When we first met, she’d only ever called me by my last name. I knew it was her way of keeping me at a distance, and I welcomed it. I hadn’t been in a rush to admit my feelings for her were deepening, and being referred to by my last name had kept our relationship physical, not emotional. But now, it stung.

  “I can’t believe you,” she said, shaking her head. She pressed the call button again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. You’re always sorry. I just… What the hell is going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

  I exhaled slowly. “I can’t, Jezebel. Please…”

  “Does this have something to do with the detectives who showed up?”

  I said nothing. I didn’t want to lie. Not again.

  “Talk to me!” she yelled. “Say something.”

  Her voice cracked, and I knew she was on the verge of crying. I couldn’t handle knowing I’d made her break. For over a year, I was her rock. She’d come to me when the nights became too dark, the days too long. I’d held her while she cried herself to sleep more times than I could count. I’d begged her demons to take hold of me and release her. Eventually, they did.

  “Just tell me what’s going on,” she said, a sob escaping her lips.

  Again, I fell mute. I was ashamed, embarrassed by the role I’d played in the death of my parents, in the annihilation of my community. I’d been a pawn, and I’d played the part well. I couldn’t admit that to her. I feared her reaction. I wouldn’t let my past be the reason she looked at me differently. And I couldn’t bear the thought of admitting I’d been lying to her this whole time.

  The door to the elevator opened. I watched as she walked inside and pressed the button to her floor. My feet, suddenly anchored to the ground, didn’t move.

  Between hiccups, she said, “I don’t understand why you aren’t saying anything. Obviously you don’t trust me.” She pressed the button again.

  “I have to protect you, Jezebel,” I whispered.

  She met my gaze. “This is about me? Then don’t you think I have the right to know?”

  I shook my head. I w
asn’t sure which question I was answering, but I was desperate for her to end this conversation. Almost as soon as I made my internal plea, someone answered my prayers. Was it God giving me an escape, or was it her demons, clinging to my soul just as soon as they released hers?

  “Fine. Maybe you should get some space for a couple of days so you can figure this out since it’s obviously more important to you than I am.”

  When the doors closed, I didn’t stop them.

  Almost as if I were truly a spineless droid, I found myself outside the private investigator’s office. It was late, well past midnight, but a soft-yellow light illuminated a window. He could be in there. She could be in there. I fidgeted with the cuff of my jacket sleeve, stalling for time.

  I should be back at the apartment, confessing my sins to Jezebel.

  I should be getting some space away from this mess, maybe checking into a hotel to give Jezebel some time to rethink things.

  I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be thinking about Abigail. I shouldn’t be standing outside, in the middle of the night, in the suit I wore to celebrate Jezebel’s success, in Brooklyn’s shadiest neighborhood, where garbage was piled high, the buildings needed fresh coats of paint, and a homeless man just defecated on the curb.

  Mindlessly, I took the few steps to the front door and knocked hard. I heard someone curse before footsteps approached, and I took a step back, readying myself for what was to come. A middle-aged man opened the door, his shirt damp with a fresh coffee stain. His graying beard was overgrown and bushy. His eyes were wide with surprise as he took me in, but they were tired, with bags deeply ingrained in his skin. His remaining hair was white and frayed.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. I didn’t miss his annoyance.

  I handed him the card I found in Abigail’s coat. He scanned the card, grimaced, and told me to come inside. Without hesitation, I did. I didn’t worry about my safety anymore. I just needed answers.