Chapter Five: Ghost in the shell

"There's something I must do, please. I need one of your cars..." I hadn't finished when he cut in.

"Take any one you want... will you be back today?"

"I should," I replied, and asked for his phone. I saved my number and dialed it. It went through and I handed it back. "I will let you know if there's any change of plans," I added, about to turn when he grabbed my wrist. I stared blankly at him, while his eyes traveled from my eyes downward.

“Is there something else?” I cleared my throat and asked, a part of me wishing to disappear in a blink.

“Yes.” His eyes went down slowly, without an attempt to mask the hunger in them.

“I should go now.”

“I could drive you...”

“No.” I cut in, my eyes snapping away from his. I pulled my hand free and ambled away, my heart throbbing so hard inside that I had to pause outside to catch my breath.

Hours later, I parked the blue Cadillac yards away from the home I had always known. The lawn of my mother's old friend and neighbor stretched out before my eyes. Her porch was a little more deserted than it usually was by this time. Just like the overgrown lawn, the porch had weeds forming a sere. Her flowers had grown taller and branched more than her industrious hands normally permitted. I looked around, my eyes scanning the environment with concern. It was quiet here. Not only odd for a crowded neighborhood, but Mrs. Gretchen Ross had been a hub for little gossips, worries, and emergencies. Then I noticed the stretch of silence hanging in the air. Minutes passed and not a single car went by. I checked the time. 2 on the dot. Most people were at work. That should explain it, but what about the kids?

I was about to get out of the car when I saw a flash come from the house. Just once.

One flash: stay put. Two flashes: stay alert. Three flashes or more: run.

Rules my mom had made when we went camping with a few of the neighbors. Mrs. Ross happened to be one of those neighbors. Thankfully, the windows were rolled up, but I still slid down on the seat as Mom taught me. I scanned the premises, and that's when I saw them. Two men on a motorcycle. One had his hand ready to start it, and the other had a hand lodged by his side. I checked all angles I could see from my position. It was not them alone. There were about five more motorcycles. Each with two men, but one particular bike had a female driver. I drove away and joined the traffic, waiting for the green light. Moments later, a boy on a bike drove past, music blasting from a small speaker tied to his back. Somehow, the music cut through my thoughts like a warning on its own.

"Somebody's watching me. It's my anxiety..."

I was deep in my thoughts when the red light flipped to green. Honks snapped me back, and just then, I saw one of those motorcycles drive past. I looked ahead and something told me they were after the boy. Or maybe I was getting paranoid. It was likely to be the latter.

Taking a detour, I texted Godric and my brother the same address. No. 16 Louvre Estates, GoldenCity. One of the elite areas in the city, and home of Elizabeth West, Lawrence's mother.

“Sorry I came by without prior notice,” I apologized, gauging her expression with mixed feelings. A part of me suspected she knew what her son had done to me, but the distant look in her eyes… like a worn-out, distressed stare, punched my thoughts.

She motioned to a leather couch and excused herself. She returned with a cup of water. Not glass, not plastic, nor ceramic. It was stainless steel. My eyebrows creased, a momentary discomfort overcoming me. I grabbed the cup expecting it to be full. It was almost empty. I chuckled softly, drank it up, and set the cup down in front of her. My jaws clenched on their own, raw anger building up in a pit within me. I shrugged it off and forced a smile.

“So, what brings you here unannounced? You must already know that I don't have time to spare for inconsequential people. So, why are you here? Do you want money? Is that it?”

“Mother...”

“Elizabeth West. I am no mother of yours!”

A sharp sting of tears cut through my lenses, the growing pangs hitting hard in my chest. I took a deep breath and leaned closer toward her. “Do you know what your son has done to me?”

She let out a cold, derisive laugh and stared at me, seemingly amused, but it didn't reach her eyes. “My son? What wrong has my son ever done that anyone should accuse him of anything?” She clicked her tongue in disdain, leaned closer with an audible sigh, and shook her head. “You modern ladies are always so hasty to talk. So hasty in everything. Whatever happened to you is totally your fault. My Lawrence had no hand in it.”

I shook off the tears in my eyes and lifted my gaze to meet hers. “Would you say the same thing to me if I were your daughter?”

Her smile fell, and a cloud thickened over her face. Then it disappeared. “I don't have a daughter now, do I?” She quizzed with contempt.

“And if you did? Would you say the same thing to her, knowing the monster you have sheltered?” My voice cracked, fingers digging into my skin the same moment I shot up to my feet, pulsing with rage. “How could you? How could you do this to me?”

Lawrence and I had spent two days with her after we got married because he wanted us to be closer. I had lost my parents. I looked up to her in many ways, a part of me willing to let her fill that hole in my heart that had left me yearning for my mother in utter loneliness. I got closer to her. She smiled often. She hugged me often. She offered a hand every time I entered the kitchen. I easily called her mother. It came naturally to me, because that was who she had become to me.

Her back was turned toward me, but her balled fists did not escape my notice. She turned with a shaky breath and a triumphant smile. “What are you going to do? Arrest him? Good luck with that.” She said it and went into her room. She returned a few minutes later and met me collapsed on the chair, hands cupping my face.

“That's all you lots do. Sob, cry, and throw a fit at the wrong people. Get up and go home,” she said to me, and handed me a folded newspaper. “Open it.”

I did as she instructed and found a diamond necklace with an emerald embedded around every case of the choker. I chuckled bitterly. “Is this some kind of payment for everything? Is this supposed to pay for everything?” I queried, my composure slipping for a moment.

“I suggest you take it.”

“I suggest you keep it,” I retorted. She smiled and shrugged, her eyes dropping to the cup like something was lodged within it. I looked closer, and my knees sagged. I clasped my two hands together, deliberately taking a closer look at the image reflecting on the surface of the cup. Behind me, the old maid stood, lodged by a wall, head peeking out like a spy monitoring the conversation.

“What? Have you suddenly changed your mind?”

“I'm curious... why haven't you asked about the details of what he has done to me?”

She sniggered. “And why would I do that? You chose to marry him. No one forced you.”

I shook my head and grabbed the newspaper, folding it back and shoving it into the right pocket of my pants. “I lost too much to your son. This is nowhere near enough,” I rasped and picked up my pace to leave, but I bumped into the maid at the corner.

“Are you leaving already?”

I nodded and walked away, but on second thought, I returned, my footsteps barely hitting the floor this time around. I was still yards away from the sitting room when I heard the hoarseness of the maid's voice. “That was good. Next time do not give her anything. Dismiss her quickly. And do not give her anything. What a waste!”

My stomach churned. I froze by the wall and quickly stepped out the next moment when I heard footsteps hurrying my way. It was too late to run.

Her eyes widened for a moment. I looked away from her to the woman in the middle of the room. “I wanted to know if you are aware that your beloved son has returned to the country.”

Her gaze darkened. I scoffed. “So, do you still think I cannot arrest him?”

“Is that all, Celeste?” The maid quickly cut in.

“Is there something else you're expecting?” I snapped at her and loped away, but my knees nearly gave way. The second I got into the car, I opened the newspaper, my eyes searching for some clue or puzzle or anything she might have left behind for me. Then I saw it. Not only a written line. It was an obituary, and the name of the deceased read “Lawrence West.”

“Dead?” I thought, reading the heading again. An accident. A fire. I checked the date. Nov. 6, 1990. Twenty years ago. Then I saw the image of the affected house. Burnt beyond recognition, but something stood out. The address attached to the photo. No. 16 Louvre, Goldenberg. The former name of GoldenCity.

Same house. Same owner, but a different person listed as Lawrence West. I could only conclude that the man I married was not the real Lawrence West. He was not Elizabeth's son, but somehow he had stepped into the man's identity.

I was about to fold the newspaper when the scribbled lines in red ink caught my attention. “Leave. They will know.”

I turned the key and drove away, my heart thrashing against my ribcage. If my husband isn't Lawrence West, who is he?