The Secrets I've Exposed Read online

  The Secrets I’ve Exposed

  Inside Their Minds Book One

  Kyleigh Hemmingson

  Copyright © 2019 by Kyleigh Hemmingson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my grandmother Constance

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Not everyone deserving of a prison sentence will find themselves behind bars.

  Many have weaseled their way through the cracks in our justice system, or they’ve done just enough to not have gotten caught.

  These elusive, morally bankrupt monsters live among us.

  They play the role of a friendly neighbor. They sit beside us while we dine out with our families. They exist with smugness on their faces and self-centered apathy in their hearts.

  Journalist Phil Harrison has made a career inflicting irreparable harm on innocent people. For too long, he’s profited off of the lies and slander he spews, but the buck stops here.

  He’s earned himself an early death sentence, but carrying out his murder is more difficult than anyone could have ever imagined.

  Part One

  Phil

  An excruciating, all-consuming silence infiltrates my dead-tired brain, leaving me stranded on the brink of emotional insanity.

  Most nights, I’m thankful for the quiet.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, the complete and utter absence of everything has unleashed my “bad” thoughts —the devastatingly destructive ones— the vicious brain worms of doubt and worry that penetrate you, eat at your insides, and eliminate every ounce of stability you have left inside you.

  A half-empty bottle of vodka tempts me, calls to me, begs me to drink its toxifying insides that will, without a doubt, soothe me into a drunken oblivion. Only a very little amount still resides at the bottom, telling me I'd overdone it this week. I've tried, unsuccessfully, to numb the pain emanating from the wounds I'd inflicted on myself. In my chosen profession, some days are more stressful than others. Liquor usually helps.

  Tonight, I’d convinced myself that drinking would do more harm than good, as it would prevent me from driving home.

  Feeling regretfully sober, I use all of what little willpower I have to press the power button on my computer monitor.

  I force myself up onto my feet, willing my jellified legs to walk the few steps to the window. The view from my 28th story corner office is an almost perverse peek into the goings-on below, it almost instantly releases some of my stress.

  I love being up here.

  No one knows I’m watching.

  People do all sorts of things when they think no one is paying attention. They fly through red lights, run into traffic to catch the last cab, I even saw a hit and run the other day. If lawbreakers think they won’t get caught, what’s stopping them? To be a fly on the wall for all of that is nothing short of invigorating.

  A sheet of fresh snow has blanketed the entirety of downtown Minneapolis. On the various scattered rooftops of buildings shorter than mine, the snow is still and beautiful. The roads, though they may look peaceful, in practice are a disaster waiting to happen. Some have been plowed, but most are still pristine, tainted only by tire tracks of those reckless enough to still be out in such conditions; Soon I will be one of them. The act of driving will evolve into an absolute nightmare, I'm sure of it.

  My winter jacket hangs carelessly from the coat rack, to my left. I release it from its hook, my keys singing from my pockets as I whip it over my shoulders. I place my laptop inside the bag, adjust the bag onto my shoulder, then make my way toward the elevators.

  All but one has a sign reading “Closed for Maintenance” hung against their metal-framed doorways. So, I firmly press the arrow to call the single elevator still in service, and instantly a lit halo surrounds the button. Reminded of the time I checked my watch—2:36 AM. Damn.

  I jolt in place. A painless spasm electrifies my entire body. I spin on my heel. There's a man I don't recognize. I thought I knew most of the custodians? He's wearing blue overalls, standing thirty or so feet away, raising a hand in a silent apology. A rusted red tool chest lies upside down at his feet. He must have dropped it.

  I take a long deep heavy breath.

  How stupid am I for being "scared" by something so trivial?

  I’m jumpy from being so extremely exhausted.

  Nothing is wrong.

  I’m not scared, just tired.

  Overtired.

  Without thinking, I start walking towards him, but he waves me away, not wanting any help. So I turn myself back around and within a second a beep indicates the elevator’s arrival. When the doors finally open I step inside, take another deep, stabilizing breath, and second guess whether I should camp out in the office tonight. It would spare myself an hour or more of anguish that driving will put me through, but if I continue my elevator ride I could sleep at home.

  I decide that's what's best, the comfort of my bed making the choice an easy one.

  The numbers above the door start going down, but then, after what could only be a few seconds, the elevator stops moving, the number 25 now lingering above the numbered panel. After a split second the doors part, revealing a blonde-haired businesswoman. She steps inside and throws me a forced half-smile. Unconsciously, I follow her hand as it reaches for the buttons, but then she hesitates as her button, the one for the garage, has already been pressed. After everything starts moving again, I catch an embarrassed smile form over her lips, and notice the exhaustion sprinkled frantically around her features. Bags hang under her emerald green eyes, her cheeks are flushed, and her hair sprawls over her back, unkempt and unruly. She’s probably around my age, definitely not older. But before I can give a tired but polite “hello,” everything goes to hell.

  The elevator starts to shake.

  At first, it starts as ripples, but almost immediately jarring mechanical waves are thrashing us around the small room.

  My fingers wrap forcefully around the handle jutting out from the elevator’s wall. I steady my legs to keep myself vertical. My knees weaken, and buckle under my weight. I hunker down into a crouch, chin to chest, my hands gripping forcefully onto the bar above my head. Vomit spews up my throat and into my cheeks. I do my best not to throw it up as this mechanical earthquake manifests itself around us. I will myself to force it back down.

  It has me screaming, burning on the inside, begging for our safety, pleading for my life to be spared.

  Then suddenly, my laptop bag is pulling at my neck.

  I’m choking!

  I can’t breathe!

  I grip the strap with one hand, rip it over my head, and throw it hard against the ground, frantically trying to catch my breath as I continue to hang on for dear life. A cacophony of ear-splitting scratching and scraping reverberates around us, and thankfully the elevator is finally slowing down.

  I force giant breaths of air into my lungs and clutch at my chest. When I’m able to breathe normally again, I open my eyes. The woman is barely an arm’s length away. She’s bent over, her hands also clutching the hand railing above her head. She’s physically unscathed but frazzled.

  “Are you…Are you okay?” I ask, my voice hoarse, as I settle the nerves that continue to gush through my veins.

  “I’ll be fine,” she mutters with a quick shake of her head, but by t
he look on her sickened face, I can tell she’s too holding back from getting sick.

  After a few more deep breaths, the color returns to her cheeks and her breathing returns to normal.

  I take a seat on the elevator’s floor attempting to cease the dizzying feeling taking over me. It feels like someone reached inside my skull, grabbed my brain, and gave it a good couple shakes.

  But I am alive.

  Better a massive headache than the inability to feel anything ever again.

  “Oh, it’s all right, you don’t have to,” she says, as I hand over several of her things I had collected from the floor. She grabs at a pen near the center of the elevator, but it’s beyond her reach. I grab for it too, as it is closer to me, and hand it over, which brings on an empathetic smile and a small, breathy laugh.

  “Something funny?” I ask.

  “Just this. All I wanted was to go home, eat some pizza, relax, guess that’s not happening.”

  For me it’s vodka, not pizza, I can’t help but to yearn for, especially now, especially after all of this.

  I check my phone for service, but there isn’t any. She does the same, also coming up empty. I force myself back onto my feet, another bout of light-headedness striking through my brain, but I barrel through. I walk to the elevator’s panel and push the emergency call button.

  Nothing.

  No dial tones.

  No answer.

  I push it again and again.

  Then I press every other button.

  Nothing.

  With a deep breath, I plop back down onto the floor, wishing now more than ever that I would have had that drink.

  I wipe my slimy, sweat encrusted hands on my pant legs, and use the backside of my sleeve to clean off my forehead. Desperately, I want to rid myself of the sweat that had poured out of my skin in droves.

  “So, you’re working late? Boss must work you hard,” she says, as she crosses her legs over one another, pretzel style, placing her purse in her lap.

  “Oh, he does.” I laugh. “But, actually, I’m the boss, so being here late is on me.”

  There’s a jarring calmness about her as she sits against the wall. She’s closed her eyes and dropped her head back, so it too rests against the metallic surface.

  “Lucky you,” she says, with a smile and a hint of sarcasm.

  “Well, when you run your own company, you're given the illusion of freedom of deciding when to work, but if you want your company to be successful you end up working pretty much all the time.”

  “Can I ask what company?”

  “Phil Harrison Reporting,” I mutter, instantly regretting my words.

  “I thought I recognized you.”

  Nerves and annoyance rush through me. Sometimes, I wish I could be a “normal” person, someone who doesn’t have his face plastered on the sides of busses or the covers of magazines. What I would give to have a can’t-quite-place-it face. Sometimes I crave the normalcy of having a job no one cares about.

  “You’re Phil Harrison, right?” she asks, though I know it isn’t a question. It’s a statement.

  “I am.” I breathe out.

  “I used to watch your show.”

  “Yeah?”

  Her eyes flip open and she sits herself up, taking everything in, everything but me, and just as quickly, they are closed again. When I realize she isn't going to treat me any differently, I’m grateful.

  At the office, I’m the boss, the man in charge, the guy my employees speak to about work and not much else, staying professional at all times. Then there’s how I’m treated in the media, like some exotic animal to be photographed and ogled for others’ enjoyment, with absolutely no respect for my boundaries. For this woman to treat me like a normal human being is a blessing, one I would have never thought to ask for.

  “So, you know my name. What’s yours?” I ask.

  “Kate.” Her attention turns to the elevator doors. Mine continues to linger on her. “Should we try to force them open?”

  “It couldn’t hurt to try.”

  We both stand from the floor. I catch her looking at me, but it’s not some star-gazed look you give a celebrity, it’s one of concern.

  “Are you..” She points to my neck, which I can only assume is red from the strap of my case. “..Okay?”

  When I instinctively touch it, it burns.

  “The strap of my laptop case choked me a bit, but I’ll be alright.” I point to the case lying in a heap, not brave enough to check the laptop for damage.

  “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Could've been worse.”

  I wedge my fingers into the metal crevice dividing the two doors, attempting to pull them apart from each other, but they don’t budge. I shake my hands, place my fingers back in the divot, and pull as hard as I possibly can, but it ends with the same disappointing result.

  “It was worth a try, I guess. I’m sorry,” she says.

  “There is absolutely no need to apologize,” I say. “Unless your idea of fun is trapping people inside of elevators.”

  “If it was, I wouldn’t be doing a very good job getting myself locked inside too.”

  I laugh.

  I actually laugh.

  It’s become such a foreign feeling, it startles me at first.

  “Can I tell you something?” I ask, as I sit back down.

  “Uh, sure,” she says sitting opposite me.

  “I’m glad you’re not treating me any differently. It’s a welcomed change.”

  She nods. “Do you know the show Homecookin’ with Harriet?”

  “I’ve seen a few episodes here and there, yeah.”

  “My dad was a runner up a few seasons back. He deals with his fair share of crazy fans. He’s even said part of him wished he hadn’t done the show because of what it’s done to his life. Strangers approach him on the street, obsessed ladies flirt with him, it’s uncomfortable for everyone.

  “I’ve dealt with my fair share of that. It comes with the job, I guess.”

  My neck throbs, but I try to ignore the pain.

  Kate focuses her attention on her bag, and starts shuffling through it. I use the distraction to look her over.

  Her clothes are disheveled, and her navy-blue dress is now fully exposed under her knee-length coal-black jacket. She has pulled at the edges of the dress letting the fabric hug over her knees, so as to stop lingering eyes.

  “Wanna piece?” she asks, offering me her pack of gum.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Wish I had more to offer,” she says, as she hands me a stick.

  “You’re lucky you have that bag of yours. If I kept gum in my pocket, I would fear for the woman who would want a stick.”

  “What are you talking about, random guy pocket gum is the best, especially when it has been-sat-on-all-day flavor.”

  I laugh, and again it feels incredible.

  “So, what's the work that's kept you here so late?” I ask as I carefully chomp on the minty-fresh gum.

  “I didn’t feel like coming in tomorrow.”

  “Oh, what is it you do?”

  “I’m an accountant, nothing too exciting, not like running your own business or anything.”

  “Well tonight, I figured you could use some company,” I joke. “But really, when you run a business, there's no such thing as work hours. It’s work until you can barely move, then take a break, maybe, if there’s time.”

  “You enjoy it, though, right?”

  “Love it—can’t imagine doing anything else.”

  The lights begin to flicker above us, a slow strobe light, bringing us light then dark, then light again, then back to dark. It isn’t long before they burn out, leaving us stranded in complete darkness.

  “You alright?” I ask.

  “I’m fine, though it would be a perfect time to have my teddy bear night light,” she jokes.

  I grab my cell from my pocket and use the flashlight feature to bring back some light to th
e space. I look over at her and somehow, she looks comfortable. Her dress has acquired several wrinkles, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She wears little to no makeup. I wonder if it’s an intentional choice, or if it had dissolved away with the passing of the day. Whatever the answer, she holds her beauty without it. She is "simply” gorgeous, as opposed to women who need a little more help to obtain the same level of appeal. Erica, my wife, is one of those women, or at least she thinks she is.

  We’ve been married six years, and I can count on a single hand how many times I’ve seen her without “her face” as she calls it. To her, makeup is a necessity, like breathing or food.

  I understand the need to take care of yourself, but lately she’s been taking it to an extreme. Spending an hour on her makeup, another on her hair, and at least twenty minutes picking out an outfit; She’s become the epitome of high maintenance. She hadn’t always been that way, but those days are far away, almost forgotten, a memory barely remembered.

  “As much as I would like to not sit in the dark, I would hate for you to waste your phone’s battery. Who knows, we may pick up a signal soon.” Kate says.

  With the press of a button, I bring us back to darkness.

  A feeling of uneasiness courses through me, and a flare of goosebumps envelop my arms. In the light the situation feels less frightening, but in the dark it’s as if we’re slipping into the abyss, consumed entirely by its absence of everything.

  “What does your usual Friday night look like, assuming all this craziness isn't a part of your regular plans?” I ask her.

  “Well, when I finish my paperwork, I go home.”

  I have no idea how she is staying calm. Her voice is steady, outwardly unfazed by our situation.

  “And…”

  “Well, on Fridays, I enjoy a drink, maybe order out, put on a movie. Nothing too exciting.”

  “I wish I had the time for stuff like that. My nights are a little less than relaxing.”