Sara Shepard - Twisted

“This isn’t about Bikram.” Ms. Marin sounded exasperated. “Your father’s on the phone. He wants you to meet him at his office. Now. ”

The previous night zinged into Hanna’s head. The weight of that stolen money in her bag as she hopped a late SEPTA into the city. Checking her phone over and over again—for a response from Mike, for a note from A—and receiving nothing. Meeting the flower seller, Pete, who had dirt under his fingernails, a tattoo on his neck, and looked at Hanna like he wanted to shove her behind the springy bouquets of tulips and have his way with her. Handing over the envelope of cash. Looking over her shoulder for A, but seeing no one suspicious.

She hadn’t felt satisfied just giving the money to Pete, so she’d skulked around the train station until Patrick had shown up, accosting him and demanding that he erase the photos from his camera and hard drive in front of her. “Fine,” Patrick sighed dramatically, pulling out his camera and laptop. Hanna watched as the photos disappeared from the folder and the camera memory. Before she left, Patrick groped her boob, and she elbowed him in the ribs.

Hopefully, she’d done the right thing. No scantily clad images of Hanna had appeared on the Internet overnight. She hadn’t received any red-alert phone calls from Jeremiah, telling her she’d ruined everything. With any luck, Patrick had taken the first plane to Mexico and Hanna would never hear from him again.

Ms. Marin shifted her weight in the doorway. “Why is he bothering you on a weekend?” she asked suspiciously. “Is this something about the campaign?” She said campaign with an eye-roll. Hanna doubted her mom would be a Tom Marin supporter on voting day. Whenever there was a mention of him in the paper, she sniffed disapprovingly and quickly turned the page, saying that he’d better not participate in government the same detached way he participated in their marriage.

“I don’t know,” Hanna mumbled. She rose from her bed, patted Dot’s tiny, diamond-shaped head, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her skin looked pale and puffy. Her lips were cracked at the corners. Her hair was wild and knotted around her face. Perhaps her dad was summoning her to his office because of his campaign. Maybe they were doing an impromptu brainstorming session. Would they do something like that on a Saturday morning?

She threw on a pair of Citizens jeans and a Juicy hoodie and drove to her father’s office building. Some of the campaign posters from last night’s party still littered the atrium. The air reeked of catered food and men’s cologne. The elevator dinged loudly in the empty space. When the doors slid open on the third floor, Hanna was surprised to see that her father’s office was lit up like it was a regular workday. Her dad sat on the black leather couch, a mug of coffee in his hands. Hanna pushed through the double doors nervously, trying to keep her knees from knocking together.

Her father looked up when she came in. “Hey, Hanna.” He didn’t stand. He didn’t rush over to hug her. He just sat there, staring.

“Uh, what brings you here so early?” Hanna tried to sound light and joking. “Did another focus group say they loved me?”

Mr. Marin didn’t crack a smile. He took a long sip of coffee, then sighed. “There’s money missing from my campaign petty cash fund. Someone stole it from my office during the party last night. Ten thousand dollars. I counted it myself.”

A gasp slipped out of Hanna’s mouth before she could control herself. He kept that good a count of the petty cash?

“I know, I know, it’s terrible.” Mr. Marin shook his head. “But you have to be honest with me, Hanna. Do you know anything about this?”

“No!” Hanna heard herself say. “Of course not!”

Mr. Marin set his coffee on the table next to the couch. “Someone saw you go into the stairwell at the benefit last night. Did you come up here?”

Hanna blinked. “W-who told you that?” Kate? A?

Her father looked away, staring out the window. The tracks that creepy car had made in the snow last night were still there. “It doesn’t matter. Is it true?”

“I-I did come up here,” Hanna said, thinking on her feet. “But that was because I saw someone else come up here first. He was acting shady. I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong.”

Mr. Marin leaned toward her like he was watching the cliffhanger scene of a thriller movie. “Who did you see?”

A lump formed in Hanna’s throat. This was where her whole plan either came together or crashed and burned. “Jeremiah,” she whispered.

Her father sat back. Hanna licked her lips and continued, hoping he couldn’t hear her heart banging in her chest. “I followed him up here. He didn’t see me when he came out. Then I went in after him and looked around. But, Dad, I never imagined he’d actually steal from you . ”

“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

“Because . . .” Hanna stared at her lap. “I’m sorry. I should have.”

She covered her face with her hands. “I’m so, so sorry. I would never take anything from you, Dad. I’ve been so happy that I’ve been able to help you . . . that we’ve bonded. Why would I jeopardize that?”

Tears filled Hanna’s eyes. It wasn’t just an acting job to garner his sympathy—it was, in so many ways, the truth. In so many ways, she wished she could have just told him about Patrick and that it was an honest mistake—then they could’ve gone to the police and settled this the right way. But she couldn’t bear to think of the disappointment on her dad’s face if she told him about the photos—especially not now that she was in his good graces. It would undo everything.

Mr. Marin sighed. When Hanna dared to look, she saw a sad, conflicted expression on his face. “I’m happy we’ve bonded, too, Hanna,” he said quietly. “We haven’t done much of that lately.”

Then he rose and paced around the room. “Thank you for telling me. I appreciate your honesty. Full disclosure, I found something of Jeremiah’s by the safe—something potentially incriminating. He denies everything, of course, but he’s no longer part of the team. This is a serious crime.”

“Are you going to call the police?” Hanna asked, terrified. She’d figured her dad would just fire Jeremiah and that would be that. Did they really have to get the cops involved? What if they could trace that money to Patrick?

Mr. Marin patted Hanna’s shoulder. “Leave that to me, Hanna. But you did the right thing. So thank you.”

Then his phone rang, and he told Hanna he’d see her later and darted into his office to take the call. There was nothing more for Hanna to do except leave. The elevator dinged once more, and she stepped inside and slumped against the wall.

As if on cue, her phone buzzed. Hanna pulled it out and checked the screen. She had a new text . . . and she had a horrible feeling she knew just who it was from.

The past is never far, Hannakins . . . and sometimes it’s even closer than you think.

–A

“Huh?” Hanna whispered, staring at the screen. Then, just as the elevator began to descend, there was a horrible screeching sound and the car bounced to a stop. She froze. There was no longer that telltale whir of the motor running and the cables moving. The elevator was as silent as a tomb.

Hanna pressed the DOOR OPEN button over and over. Nothing. The LOBBY button. Zip. She pressed every button on the keypad, including the one with the fireman’s hat on it. “Hello?” she shouted, hoping that her father might hear her through the shaft. “Help! I’m stuck!”

The lights snapped off.

Hanna shrieked. Only a small stripe of light at the top of the car was visible. “Hey!” she screamed, pounding on the door panels. “Someone! Please!”