Deception Page 26

  Slowly, I stood and made my way to the bathroom and opened the drawer of my vanity. Through squinted eyes, I caught a glimpse of the woman in the mirror. Surely she wasn’t me. Her hair was uncustomarily disheveled. And her eyes… I pushed against the bags that seemed to have grown beneath. Why were they so puffy?

  What the hell?

  Once this headache was gone, my plastic surgeon would be on speed dial.

  It would only take a few of my Vicodin to ease the pain. After all, I hadn’t taken any for quite some time. I’d been saving them for another use. And then, Jane found them…

  I rummaged around the drawer, pulling bottles out and throwing them onto the counter. The clatter tore at my nerves as one by one, large and small plastic containers littered the vanity. They were the same as any found at a common drugstore. Acetaminophen. Aspirin. Even ibuprofen. There wasn’t one prescription bottle, not one amber container with my name printed upon the label.

  No Vicodin. No Percocet. Not even any codeine.

  Damn Jane!

  This was her doing. I knew it.

  Not only had she taken the pills I’d had in the glass, she’d come into our suite, my room, my bathroom, and rid the drawers and cabinets of all my narcotics. Hadn’t she seen the progress I’d made since that night, since meeting with Stephen?

  My body trembled as I imagined calling and yelling at her.

  I’d call first and yell later. I wasn’t sure my head could take the volume. Even the thought of speaking above a whisper twisted my stomach and increased the throb in my temples.

  A knock at the outer door of my suite echoed like a jackhammer off the marble tile of the bathroom.

  Thank the sweet Lord. This had to be Jane.

  Reaching for the doorjamb, I steadied myself, tightened the robe I’d found hanging near the shower, and made my way toward the outer door of our suite.

  This would save me the trouble of calling.

  I smoothed my hair as I trekked across the front sitting room.

  Another knock.

  “Stop,” my request was barely audible as I reached unsteadily for the doorknob.

  “Jane—” I stopped speaking as Dr. Beck’s solemn expression came into focus.

  “Adelaide.”

  My eyes squinted as I tried to make sense of his presence. “Dr. Beck, why are you here?”

  He reached for my hand and held it gently in his as he assessed its movement. “Let’s get you seated. You’re shaking.”

  I didn’t move from the doorway. “Who called you?”

  “One of your staff. She said you needed me, and I can see she was right.” As he spoke he moved toward me, causing me to step backward until we were both inside the suite. Quietly he shut the door. “How are you?” His words came quietly with an inflection of sympathy.

  I reached for my temples. “I have a migraine, and I can’t find my medicine. I was about to call Jane. I think she knows where it is.”

  Dr. Beck’s head moved back and forth. “Adelaide, I’ve prescribed over two months’ worth of Vicodin in the last thirty days. I understand that things can be misplaced, but this is getting out of hand.”

  “Yes, I know. I haven’t taken it. I don’t need you to give me more. I need Jane to bring me the medicine I have.”

  “Why would Jane have your medicine?”

  “Because… she takes care of me.” I straightened my shoulders. “It’s her job. Now tell me why you’re here.”

  “I was called and asked to come,” he said again. “I was told you needed more medicine. That you weren’t waking and with Mr. Fitzgerald out of town, your people were concerned.”

  Out of town? He hadn’t said he was going out of town.

  I should call Stephen and see if he’s learned any more. I could call Alexandria and go to New York. The thoughts came and went… fleeting moments of cognitive comprehension. I turned to Dr. Beck. “What time is it?”

  Dr. Beck looked down at his watch. “It’s nearly four.”

  My eyes opened wide, only to have them close again. Inhale. Exhale. “In the afternoon? No. It can’t be four. I have a luncheon at the museum.”

  Dr. Beck’s hand covered mine. “How many Vicodin have you taken?”

  “I haven’t taken any. I haven’t needed them. Not since you prescribed the daily medication. Well, not since it started working. This is the first migraine in months, maybe longer.”

  “Yet you called the office yourself for more Vicodin only a few weeks ago.”

  I let out a long breath. “For situations like this. To have it on hand.” I shook my head. “Doctor, how did this happen? I-I don’t recall last night.”

  “What do you mean you don’t recall?”

  “There are gaps, like blackouts.”

  “I’ve spoken to you about the side effects of narcotics and alcohol.”

  “But I haven’t taken the narcotics. And…” I spoke louder than I intended, “…my alcohol intake is down.”

  Dr. Beck looked down at my hand under his. “Adelaide, you’re still shaking. I was told you haven’t eaten. You need to eat.”

  The confusion and fog added to my unease. “One Vicodin, please, Dr. Beck. I know you have one. You never come to see me without it.”

  Dr. Beck opened the bag he’d placed on the floor near his chair. “You haven’t taken any today?”

  “I just woke. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  He pulled an amber bottle from the bag. The sight was like showing a cookie jar to a toddler. My heart rate increased in anticipation. Dr. Beck turned the childproof cap and sprinkled a palm full of white oblong tablets into his hand.

  My mouth watered as I raked my bottom lip between my teeth and swallowed. Those were 5-milligram tablets. I’d recognize them anywhere.

  “Doctor, those are only fives. I need two.”

  Begrudgingly, he pinched two from his hand and poured the rest back into the bottle. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  I pointed toward the highboy across the room. “There’s water over there.”

  Dr. Beck held the pills captive as he went to the highboy, no doubt assessing the bottles of alcohol. It was, after all, the place where as of late Alton had decided to prepare his evening cocktails. After filling a glass with water from a bottle, he lifted a re-corked bottle of Montague Private Collection. “Have you had any of this today?”

  “No. I just woke.” Exasperation and desperation were evident in my voice.

  He returned and handed me the glass of water. I took a sip and then held out my hand for the capsules.

  “Adelaide, I think I should run some tests. The memory loss. The sleeping all day. This isn’t like you.”

  The fingers of my hand opened and closed in a silent plea for the pills. After a moment of hesitation, he placed the capsules in my palm. Before I could place them in my mouth, he held my clenched fist.

  “Come to my office tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t a request. It didn’t matter though. At that moment I’d agree to anything. It could have been the devil himself—I knew him intimately. I would have said yes no matter what the request or command as long as I got the pills.

  “Yes.”

  I SENT CHELSEA another text message. It was my daily routine: each morning before class and each afternoon on my way home. I was beginning to wonder if she’d changed her number. That was the thing with text messages: the sender had no way of knowing if the recipient actually received the message. It wasn’t like email that would bounce back a non-receivable message. And it had.

  Chelsea’s email address, the one she’d had the entire time we were in California, was no longer active.

  I scrolled back through my text messages. It had been over three weeks. Not only couldn’t I reach Chelsea, but I also couldn’t reach her mother. All of my calls to Tina Moore had gone straight to voicemail where her mailbox was full. In desperation, I looked her mother up on the Internet. I didn’t know why she wasn’t answering my cell phone calls, but
maybe she still had a house phone.

  My heart leapt with a flicker of hope when I found a number.

  With Clayton driving me back to the apartment, I programmed her number and called.

  “Hello?” The voice answered.

  I recognized Tina Moore immediately. “Mrs. Moore, this is Alex Collins.”

  “Alex.” Her normally gregarious tone dulled. “It’s nice to hear from you. I’m surprised you called.”

  My fingers gripped the phone tighter. “Why would you be surprised?”

  “It’s that Chelsea told me what happened. I don’t blame you for being upset. Sometimes things happen. I was shocked myself.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been trying to reach Chelsea for nearly three weeks. Her email is changed, and I’m not even sure she’s getting my texts.”

  “Probably not,” Tina said matter-of-factly. “She has a new phone now with her job. I don’t think she’s using both.”

  That knowledge made me feel better, in a way. At least Chelsea hadn’t been ignoring me, but why hadn’t she called? “Her job?” I asked. “The last time we spoke she said she didn’t get the job in DC.”

  “No, not DC. She’s in Savannah.”

  I blinked as Clayton drove us through late-afternoon traffic. “What? She’s in Savannah, as in Georgia?”

  “Yes, dear. You really should talk with her. This is rather awkward.”

  Since when did Tina Moore worry about anything being awkward? “I’d love to talk to her. I don’t know why she thinks I’m angry. I’m worried. I’ve been worried sick since our last conversation.”

  “There’s nothing to be worried about. Chelsea’s fine. She’s working for some large cigarette company in the human resources department. Silly me, I thought a psychology major would go into counseling or something, but apparently it’s a good background for HR.”

  Cigarette? Did she mean tobacco?

  I had to be somehow misconstruing. “The company, do you know the name?”

  “Yes. Goodness, she’s said it a few times. Milburn or Montgate… something like that. You know like the old Shakespeare play everyone reads in high school.”

  “Montague?” I asked. Acid bubbled from my stomach as I said the name. “Montague Corporation.”

  “I think that’s it!” Tina declared triumphantly.

  “Chelsea is working for Montague Corporation?”

  “Yes, in their HR department.”

  I didn’t give a shit what department she was in. I was more concerned with why in God’s name my best friend would be working for Montague. She had to know it was my family’s company. Or did she? I’d purposely avoided all things Montague while at Stanford. Chelsea knew my name was Collins and my parents’ last name was Fitzgerald. I couldn’t recall if I’d ever mentioned Montague. But without a doubt, she knew I was from Savannah.

  “Mrs. Moore,” I asked, “why does Chelsea think I’m angry?”

  “Well, like I said, you two should talk. Are you still seeing that incredibly handsome gentleman?”

  Subject change!

  “I am. Please don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m not. That’s the point. That’s what I told her. Really, you two should talk.”

  I took a deep breath and held the phone between my shoulder and ear as I unzipped my backpack and searched for a pen and a piece of paper. “Would you please give me her new number?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t you know if you can give me her number? She’s my best friend and something isn’t right. I can feel it.” I was getting more worked up than I’d been before I called.

  “You know, I believe in those things.”

  “What?”

  “It’s like a sixth sense. I think they’re real.”

  The woman was batshit crazy.

  “Her number?” I asked again.

  “Alex, dear, I’ll tell her we spoke. I’ll tell her to give you a call. You really don’t sound as upset as she said.”

  “Not with her,” I clarified. “I’m upset that I can’t reach her.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll let her know. I need to go now.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Moore.” For nothing.

  I held my phone as I peered out the car’s window. The skies were gray and a cold rain had been falling off and on throughout day. It was the perfect weather for the way that call made me feel.

  What the hell?

  Chelsea was working for Montague. Maybe that was why she thought I’d be angry. Maybe she did know it was my family’s company, and I knew without a doubt that she knew how I felt about my family. But a job is a job.

  If she’d gotten hired solely based on her degree and qualifications, I didn’t give a shit. I was happy for her. What concerned me was the rodent of suspicion that began to claw to life in the recesses of my mind: the belief that everything wasn’t that simple.

  Why would my roommate, Chelsea Moore, whom my mother never seemed to like, be offered a job at Montague?

  Someone was up to something and I feared that Chelsea would be the one who’d end up hurt in the process.

  Once I was back in our apartment, I went to my office and Googled Montague Corporation. The picture on the website of the CEO made my skin crawl. It was probably taken over ten years ago. Alton’s hair still had a hint of blond, but his eyes were just as beady as ever.

  It had felt good to be honest with Nox about things from my childhood. I’d been truthful, but not too explicit. Seeing Alton’s picture filled me with the dread I used to feel knowing he was home, under the same roof. It wasn’t only the corporal punishments or that I was a constant disappointment. It was his need to demean and belittle everything from my choices to my accomplishments. It was as if doing it made him more powerful.

  I knew Alton had nothing to do with the daily hire of employees at Montague Corporation. That job was beneath him, unless it was to hire his own assistants. He liked having a part in that. Youth, big breasts, and long legs were the main requirements. I was pretty sure those particular attributes rated more than the ability to read and write.

  My stomach churned at the thought of Chelsea working near him. Thank God she was in HR and not in administration.

  I scrolled the website until I found an information telephone number.

  Deciding if I would use my entire name, I programmed the number into my phone and hit call. It took an incessant amount of number-pushing, but I finally reached a real person.

  “Montague Corporation, how may I assist your call?”

  “I’m trying to reach one of your employees,” I replied.

  “Ma’am, this is the general information number.”

  “Then I need the number for your human resources department.”

  “If this is a job inquiry, we ask that you visit our website at www—”

  “No,” I said, interrupting the receptionist, “this isn’t a job inquiry. I need to speak to an employee who works in HR.”

  “Do you know the party’s extension?”

  “I don’t,” I said incredulously. “That’s why I called you.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Your name?” I asked, using my most authoritative tone.

  “Kate.”

  “Kate, perhaps you’d like my name?”

  “Ma’am, I can’t—”

  “Alexandria Montague Collins. I will mention your lack of assistance to my father, Alton Fitzgerald, the next time we speak.” I spat out the words, not wanting them to remain on my tongue any longer than necessary. Kate didn’t need to know I had no intention of speaking to him anytime soon.

  “Miss Collins, I’m sorry. May I connect you to human resources? Who is the employee you’d like to reach?”

  “Chelsea Moore. I believe she was a recent hire.”

  “Yes, she’d still be in our directory…”

  Suddenly, Kate and I were best friends. She couldn’t do enough
to help me, other than actually connect me to Chelsea. According to the person who answered in HR, Miss Moore was out of the office, but they would take my message.

  As I hung up, I contemplated my new knowledge. At the very least I’d confirmed that Chelsea was all right. She was living in Savannah and employed at Montague Corporation. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of why, but that information was more than I knew this morning. I also knew to stop sending text messages to a phone she was no longer using.

  I considered calling my mother or Jane and asking them what they knew, but what were the chances that either one of them knew anything about Chelsea? I was most certain that my best friend and mother weren’t frequenting the same establishments. I imagined Chelsea with a plastic ‘to go’ cup on River Street. My mother had never been to River Street after dark, and she’d lived in Savannah her entire life.

  I had one last hope.

  Since none of it made sense to me, I decided to call the one person who made sense out of everything.

  “Deloris,” I said when she answered.

  “Alex. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, fine.” As the words came from my lips, I heard the front door of the apartment open. I stilled and listened, knowing it was too early for Nox.

  “Hello?” The friendly female voice came from the living room as the alarm system beeped with the input of a code.

  I covered the mouthpiece. “Lana, I’m in my office.”

  In merely a few seconds, she was stepping through the threshold. Lana was a nice-looking woman in her early forties with shoulder-length brown hair and a fit build. Whenever I saw her, she was dressed casually in blue jeans and Sketchers. I supposed there was no need to dress formally to cook, clean, and do laundry.

  “It’s just me,” she said with a smile. “I’m never sure if anyone is here.”

  “Only me,” I confirmed. “But I’ll stay out of your way. Mr. Demetri has made it perfectly clear that your cooking is preferred to mine.”

  Her cheeks rose as she beamed at the compliment. “I’m sure if you had more time…”

  I waved her off. “No. Time won’t help my culinary skills.” I pointed to my phone.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said in a whisper. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”