Rise - Part Two (Rise #2)
Deborah Bladon
Chapter 1
––––––––
I've long had a fear that one day I'll be in line at the bank and it will be robbed at gunpoint by masked bandits. It's an irrational anxiety. My logical mind knows that the likelihood of it happening is akin to the chance that I'll win a million dollars on one of those lottery scratch tickets I always buy on the last Friday of each month.
Even though I know that I'll be able to walk into the bank and walk out with little fanfare, I always hold tightly to my smartphone. My fingers are at the ready to dial 911 if I notice anyone acting more suspiciously than being disappointed that the loan for their mortgage wasn't approved. I feel confident that I'd be able to discreetly make the call as soon as I notice a gun. That misplaced belief has always stemmed from the fact that I've never actually seen a firearm other than on television or in the movies. Guns haven't been a part of my life, until now.
As I stand in the lobby of Landon Beckett's apartment building I see the first flash of a gun barrel just seconds before another cuts into my line of sight. My eyes dart from Landon's father's shocked face, to the two men in suits who brusquely pushed their way closer to the elevator doors just a few minutes ago. The fact that they are both speaking calmly, as they wave their guns in the air, does little to still the instant commotion that has engulfed the space.
The woman and two young men, who arrived just moments before I stood up from my seat in the lobby, are all clinging to each other. The sallow expression on the face of the more burly of the two men pushes me to take three steps back. He's either going to unload the contents of his stomach right here on the polished marble floors or he's going to faint.
I can't deal with either possibility so I inch backwards wanting desperately to catch Landon's gaze but he's focused solely on his father. His left hand is clasped tightly around his father's forearm while his right hand is pointed at the floor just outside the elevator's doors.
He's whispering something to his father. His words are lost in chaos. The two men with guns drawn are repeating in similar monotone voices that they are detectives with the police department. No one moves an inch and in that instant I feel a flurry of emotions race over me.
I want to pull Landon from the elevator and onto the safety of the Manhattan sidewalk outside this building. I need to understand how his father, who the world believed died more than a decade ago, ended up in the same elevator as him. I crave the knowledge that he didn't keep this from me. I lived a lifetime of half-truths in my relationship with Ansel Rinaldi. I won't willingly stay in any relationship, casual or not, if its foundation is layered in dishonesty.
Frederick Beckett nods as his hand moves through the air swiftly before it lands on top of Landon's. He pats the fingers of his son's hand softly before he reaches up to scoop his long fingers around Landon's neck. His eyes close as he leans forward, resting his lips against his eldest son's forehead.
Landon freezes briefly before he steps back, his expression stoic and impassive. He motions towards the two detectives and as they step into the small space, his eyes catch mine. He doesn't say anything. There are no words that could fill the physical distance that separates us. Instead, he steps towards me, pushing past the detectives, ignoring the pleas of his father to help him and as I wrap my arms around his waist, he clings to me tightly. The tremor that is racing through his body and the sound of his labored breathing answers virtually every question I have.
***
"I have to go with them." He gestures towards where the two detectives are standing next to a non-descript black sedan. It's the same car they ushered Frederick into after they read him his rights and handcuffed him. "I need to make a statement."
A small, and intensely curious, crowd has gathered across the street behind a hastily thrown up police barricade. The flashing lights of the NYPD cars that had pulled up as we all exited the building has drawn onlookers who are busily taking pictures and tossing out questions about who has been arrested and what crime they've committed.
I didn't hear the mention of the charges against Frederick as Landon pulled me out of earshot of the elevator. He hadn't asked why I was there. There weren't any words beyond his breathless urging to tell him that I was okay. He hated that I saw that, he said. He wanted to protect me from all of it until he had a chance to sit down and absorb what had just happened.
I pull back not more than a touch so I can look up at him. Sweat has gathered on his upper lip. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen. I don't need him to tell me that he's been crying. The evidence is there, not only on his face but also in the way his shoulders slouch forward. The strength that he naturally carries within him has disappeared. This man, standing before me, looks like he's been to hell and back. As I stare up and into his face, I'm struck with the realization that if I hadn't come back looking for my keys, I never would have witnessed that brief moment of tenderness as Landon leaned into his father's embrace before he signaled for the police to arrest him.
"I can get you a taxi to take you home." He nods towards the steady stream of cars that have slowed to a snail's pace as they move along the street in front of his building. "I can do that right now."
"I can't," I say without thought before I pull in a deep breath. "I can't go home. I left my keys in your apartment."