Resist (Songs of Submission #6)(10)

What happened after was the stuff of police procedurals, but according to witnesses, Jonathan argued with his girlfriend, Rachel Demarest. She grabbed his keys and ran into the rain. Everyone assumed she was keeping his f**ked-up ass from driving. The next morning, Jonathan was found passed out on the muddy front lawn of a house a quarter mile off, and his waterlogged car was found on the beach three miles south with no girlfriend in it. A day and a half later, he was committed to Westonwood after an almost successful suicide attempt. It wasn’t a half-hearted cry for help; he did almost die of heart failure.

Three months in Westonwood. The place was known for its lockdown: no phone, no radio. Nothing. A prison for the rich and disturbed.

But while he was away, his world was not quiet. What had happened during the rains had rippled outward in those months, and the Drazens had deflected and shrouded all of it.

Rachel’s body wasn’t found, and her death dissolved an already troubled family. The police had been to the Demarest house for over a dozen domestic disturbances over six years. Neighbors told stories of sexual abuse by her biological father, and near constant yelling and fighting after her stepdad moved in. Rachel had found solace in her classmate Theresa, who opened the Drazen home to her for study.

In the months before the accident, according to Rachel’s mother, Rachel started coming home with gifts. Pearl earrings. Gold bracelet. A new laptop. She became closed and distant. When police questioned Mrs. Demarest about the gifts, she threw around accusations. She didn’t believe her daughter had had an accident. She wanted the matter looked into because Rachel had been intonating that the Drazen family wasn’t all they were cracked up to be. She called the LA Times, who interviewed her and dismissed her as a crackpot, and the LA Voice, which seemed to be the paper the article was written for.

Suddenly, she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She called everything off and became non-responsive to further investigation. No interviews, and only the required police depositions, which she attended with a very expensive lawyer.

The Demarests had been paid off, that much was clear, and the article ended right there, mid-sentence.

“What the f**k?” I said. “Even this thing is half a f**king story.”

Darren stepped into his shoe. “What’s it say?”

“His girlfriend from sixteen years ago died under suspicious circumstances, and the family paid off anyone associated with it. Or got them fired. For all I know, the rest of the article is about who they killed.”

“You gonna tell him?”

I slid the papers back in the envelope. “How can I? I don’t know if any of this is true. It could be someone’s idea of a short story. He’s got enough shit going on without me coming to him with this....this.... I don’t even know what this is.”

“Gabby’s causing trouble from the grave.” He shrugged on his jacket. “I like that.”

“You would. Can I use your computer? I want to look up some of this.”

“Yeah. Not that I care, but will you be here when I get back? You look like you got your walking shoes on.”

“I’m going home today.” I glanced at my pile of crap, wondering if I could make it on one trip.

“I’m thinking about Gabby’s room.”

“Move in.”

“Did you ask?”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll ask daddy if it’s ok if a boy lives with me.”

I thought that was hilarious. Darren didn’t.

Chapter 9.

The all-knowing internet revealed a big fat goose egg, but I was never much of a researcher. I did find Evert Toth, who had a masthead listing as managing editor of elLAy Rag, a local left-wing free paper picked up in coffee shops all over the city. Though one might assume such a paper was trash from front to  p**n -filled back, it wasn’t. Some of the biggest exposes, blown whistles, and no-bullshit journalism happened inside. I called the paper, got routed all over the place, and finally ended up on voice mail. I left a message.

I walked home, phone in hand, unwilling to put it in my pocket. I had something else to do. Someone else to call.

I was many things. I was submissive. I was masochistic. I was trusting. I was a sexual slave. But obedient?

Not as much.

I rooted around my bag and found a matte white card. I stopped at the corner because if I waited until I got home, I might change my mind. I dialed the number. The voice that came over was silky smooth, betraying nothing, giving nothing.

Hello, you’ve reached the workshop of Jessica Carnes. Please leave a message after the tone, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If you are a curator calling to schedule a studio visit, please press five.

I choked a little. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to probe her plans. I wanted to represent myself as her friend and ally to bring back information to Jonathan, but I suddenly felt highly unqualified to protect him.

I almost hung up, but her caller ID would reveal who I was, and if I hung up, I’d look weak and manipulative. She wouldn’t trust me. She’d use me. I needed her to respect me if I wanted her to attempt to partner with me.

“Hi, Jessica. This is Monica Faulkner. I’d like to take you up on your offer to talk if it’s still on the table. Thanks.”

I hung up before I could say something stupid or laugh nervously.

Fuck.

What did I just do?