Chapter 1

September 19th, Houston, Texas

Even though it was a Saturday, and I had another day of relaxing inactivity to look forward to, I was already moody after the thought of having to go back to work on Monday popped into my mind. With the school year starting up again, all the rich pricks we catered to were back from their ski trips in the Swiss Alps, their yacht trips to Monaco, or wherever else they go these days.

Don’t get me wrong, I actually love my job. As a young man, I never imagined myself working in security someday, and I never even considered specializing in the investigative part of the job, but it turned out to be surprisingly rewarding. I get to actually help people, and the people I work with are all awesome. It’s the people we’re working for that make the job so taxing. If we’re providing general security in their homes, they feel spied upon despite being in danger, and, especially their younger offspring, make no effort to hide their discontent with our presence. If we’re in personal security details, it lasts maybe a week before they seemingly forget that we’re human beings working a job. A job that should not include being their packing mules on shopping trips, or errand boys for social gatherings. But, every now and then, I get to catch stalkers and reunite families, which kinda makes me happy.

I had just looked through my Netflix library for the third time, while waiting for my pizza to arrive, when the doorbell rang. When I opened the door expecting the delivery boy, however, I was confronted with the sight of a man whose face looked like he was in his mid-thirties, but with already graying hair, wearing a suit that looked half a size too big for him. He was holding a leather pilot’s case in his left hand and a picture with my face on it in his right. He studied my face, checked the picture, and then looked back at me before his expression curiously relaxed as he released a sigh.

“Paul Anderson?” he asked in a tone that communicated hope and relief.

“Name’s ‘White’. As you can see on the little plate next to my doorbell,” I answered gruffly. Somehow, while I was ready to close the door in his face, his face morphed into an expression of eagerness upon hearing my name.

“Son of Yvette Anderson, formerly White?” he continued with a nod, his eyes widened in excitement before I had a chance to follow through with my plan of shutting him out.

“ ... Yes. Who are you and what do you want?” I felt my wariness grow and slyly checked the hallway for waiting surprises.

“James Breston, Attorney at Law,” he beamed while handing me one of his business cards. “I’m representing your mother and would like to ask for a few minutes of your time.”

While I was moody before, that stranger mentioning my mother had my weekend ruined completely.

“What does she want?” I asked gruffly, causing his happy expression to waver as I took a quick look at his card.

“What does she...” he repeated with a questioning tone, clearly confused about my blatant disregard for the woman. “Don’t you know what happened to her?”

“Oh, I do know what happened. I just don’t care,” I shrugged. “I try to not involve myself with her and her chosen asshole, but her case was all over the news for the past six weeks and hard to avoid.”

“That is an awfully cold way to speak about your own mother, Mr. Anderson,” he said in an insecure tone. He obviously didn’t expect me to be so reluctant to help her. “I still need to speak with you.”

“We’re speaking right now, aren’t we? And I already told you, my name is White, not Anderson. Now get to the point, please. I got more fun things to do.”

“Are you sure you want to discuss this in the hallway? Maybe we should step inside first?” he offered with a fake smile. “I can’t imagine you would want your neighbors to overhear your family business.”

“Ah, you’re one of those,” I sighed, recognizing the usual tactics used by police officers and ambulance chasers alike to get a foot in the door, causing his brows to knit up in disapproval. “Fine, come in.”

I waved him into the apartment as I turned and walked into my living room, leaving him to close the door after stepping inside. Once he entered the room himself, I gestured for him to sit down on the couch from where he looked at me in anticipation as if waiting for me to offer him something. It merely took a few seconds of me staring at him with an expressionless face before he sighed again and opened his pilot’s case to place some papers on my coffee table.

“First, I’d like to point out that you were surprisingly hard to find, Mr. Ander ... White,” he corrected himself as he began to arrange paperwork on my coffee table. “No forwarding address. No social media accounts. No contact with any relatives or old friends...”

“Obviously not hard enough,” was all I cared to comment, causing him to shake his head.

“Your mother warned me about the possibility of you being ... less than eager to help.”

That piqued my interest.

“Really? Did she care to comment on why that would be?” I asked with a single eyebrow raised. My second eyebrow quickly joined the first one on its journey toward my hairline when I could see a look of genuine empathy on his face.

“She didn’t,” he conceded, another insecure expression creeping on his face. “Nonetheless, after working with her during her initial trial, I have a few suspicions about the reasons for your reluctance. And we need your help.”

“Well, then I’m curious how you plan on getting my help,” I replied with still-raised eyebrows, causing him to sigh before he answered.

“Five weeks ago, your mother was arrested on charges of economic espionage. Allegedly, she sold some sensitive data regarding ‘Schrader Bank & Trust’, the privately owned bank your stepfather worked for before starting his political career. And, as she got arrested, your stepfather immediately started the divorce proceedings,” he said, after fixing me with a determined look.

That actually did pique my interest.

“Huh. The divorce part didn’t make it into the news.” I mused. “Well, good for her.”

That last comment caused him to show me a mirthless grin before he continued talking.

“The moment she was arrested, a server showed up to throw the divorce papers in her face. The grounds for the divorce were listed as adultery, which could explain the curious coincidence of having her served the very minute she gets arrested. Then, however, he must have made use of some special connections, because, after only a single court date, the divorce was granted and your mother is not getting anything.”

I stared at him for a minute, trying to comprehend what I had just been told, before finding my voice.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I said, more to myself than to him.

“Indeed, it doesn’t. I don’t claim to know the woman especially well, but even to me, after spending only a few weeks as her defense attorney, it is clear that she would never dare cross that man.” When he said that last part, he gave me a portentous look. “Which brings me to the reason for my visit, despite your mother’s reluctance to involve you. I was hoping you could provide me with a ... clearer picture of what we have to expect when dealing with the senator.”

“I’m sorry,” I said after realizing what he just said. “What ‘we’ have to expect? I sure as hell won’t be included in that.”

“Surely, you’re going to help? Despite whatever happened between you two, she is still your mother,” he exclaimed.

I was SO not going to discuss that part of my past with a total stranger. It didn’t matter to me whether he claimed to be my mother’s lawyer, since all I had to support that claim was his word. My apparently Ex-Stepfather was a U.S. Senator with sizable resources, and it wouldn’t be beneath him to send a fake lawyer just to record me making defamatory statements about him that he could then use against me.

The simple truth was that I hated both of them. My mother and the bastard. I hated him for destroying our little family, and I hated her for letting him. She was all I had left after my father died, and we supported each other to get through that loss. It wasn’t easy, given how my Dad lost his health insurance halfway through his chemo, and his life insurance had barely covered his piled-up medical bills, but we made it work. We still had each other, and that was enough for me. That is, until she met him.

Senator Richard Anderson. Or, how I liked to call him during my youth, the Dick.

She had always been the timid type. Emotionally needy, somewhat indecisive, and submissive. So, it wasn’t exactly shocking that she felt drawn to the powerful and rich guy who liked to take control. But I simply couldn’t understand how she could allow it to escalate that much.

When he started beating her, she just took it. When I tried to comfort her, she defended him. And it drove me crazy. I remember how powerless and desperate I felt when my pleas to leave him wouldn’t reach her. So, I tried to defend her, but that just made it so much worse. Because, after he finally lost his patience and beat me down, both of us saw the conflict in my mother’s eyes. The battle between her innate submissiveness and her need to defend her child.

And her submissiveness won.

From that day onwards, he knew he could do as he pleased with the both of us. I only learned that lesson after my first trip to the ER. A consequence of him once again “disciplining” me. I told the doctors exactly what happened, who then immediately called social services ... but nothing ever came of it. Next, I tried to call the cops when he started beating my mother again, but, after they showed up, they just asked him what was going on. His story of me being a jealous child, rebelling against the man who tried to replace my dead father, was taken at face value because, to my horror, my mother corroborated it as soon as she showed up with a fresh coat of makeup on her face. After that, whenever I tried to make waves, it was just shrugged off as another episode of me “throwing a fit”.

I later learned that he had already risen to a position that allowed him to make powerful friends, and they covered for him. There was shit-all I could do. I was too weak to stand up to him, too poor to offer my mother a viable alternative, and too insignificant to get help. It was a dark chapter in my life that I had thankfully left behind. At least that’s what I thought until this damn lawyer knocked on my door.

I shook the memories off and turned back to Breston.

“Listen,” I said, getting audibly annoyed with his continuous demands. “There’s only one thing you need to know. The day before I turned eighteen, my loving mother showed up in my room, handed me an envelope containing four grand in cash, and told me to get out of their house. So, I happily did. By now, I’ve made a life for myself as Paul White, and I will not risk that to help her out of the mess she created. I tried, I failed, I moved on!”

He stared at the papers in his hands for a few seconds. For an untrained person, his eyes darting around may have looked like he was searching them for a specific piece of information. For me, however, it was clear that he was frantically trying to figure out how to appease me.

“Don’t you think it is possible that your mother had been ... coerced or forced into compliance?” he asked quietly.

True to my resolve, I didn’t actually say anything to answer his question. I did, however, lift a single eyebrow and gave him a look that surely answered his question regardless.

“But then, why...” his voice trailed off, but the question in it sounded genuine. That confused me. He obviously wasn’t used to this kind of situation. I got the distinct impression that he wasn’t a particularly good lawyer if he lacked that kind of experience and insight.

“I work security, Mr. Breston. I have seen my share of abusive spouses and parents. And, no matter how insensitive it may sound, at the end of the day, staying in an abusive relationship is a choice you make. She chose to stay with the man who beat her. And then, when he...” I caught myself mid-sentence. I had to remind myself again not to get caught in my anger, and not to reveal too much to this man until I knew for sure who he was. “She chose to rather send me away than to leave with me. A friend of mine, who also had to live with a set of assholes as his family, once told me that the worst punishment you can hand out to people is to simply let them suffer the consequences of their own actions.”

He thought about my words for a moment, before he nodded and spoke with newfound conviction.

“Sounds reasonable. But here’s the deal, Paul.” I noted the sudden shift to being on a first-name basis when he tried to appeal to me on an emotional level, but chose not to comment on it. “I am convinced that your mother didn’t do what she’s being accused of. So, if I’m right, you would let her suffer the consequences of someone else’s actions. Your stepfather’s actions, to be precise,” he said, and he undoubtedly saw how these words had the desired effect on me before he hurriedly pressed on. “Look at it this way. If you don’t want to do this to help your mother, then do it to hurt Senator Anderson. If we can prove that this is all a ruse to get rid of his wife for some reason, he will have to take responsibility for what he did.”

I just stood there with an expression that showed how unhappy I was with the situation, but, again, he knew he had me as soon as he mentioned the possibility of sticking it to the asshole. After a minute, I released a frustrated groan before walking into the kitchen, got two beers, and plopped myself down into my armchair.

He accepted the beer with gratitude, though I noticed that he never touched it while he informed me of my mother’s fate.

She was arrested on August 28th, and he had spent most of the month since then trying to locate me. On September 16th, after merely five hours in court, the divorce was granted. It was clear to the court that she had betrayed her husband, a widely respected political figure, in every conceivable way. Not only did she have an affair with another man, whom she apparently met multiple times per week on a regular basis, but she also stole sensitive data from her husband’s former employer and sold it to a competitor in exchange for four million dollars.

Of course, both, the “traitorous wife” as the Senator’s lawyer called her, and the competing bank, denied their involvement in these illegal activities. At the same time, however, neither of them was able to explain the money that was transferred into an account in my mother’s name, from an account registered to a former employee of the competing bank. And as if the whole thing didn’t already look bad enough, that former employee who allegedly made that transfer has been dead for over a decade, so the bank must have had a hand in this transaction.

Displaying his great suffering, the “betrayed husband” then described his disappointment upon his wife’s actions, causing the entire courtroom to feel sorry for the respectable, loving, and caring man, who even took it upon himself to care for her child as his own until I fled the nest. I had to scoff as Breston relayed that part to me. Naturally, the court did not grant my mother even a penny in maintenance, nor did she get a share of their marital assets.

Ever since her arrest, the media had dragged her name through the dirt in every way they could. Breston had brought the recording of an interview with Mom’s supposed lover, in which he maintained his story of her being a resigned housewife that barely suppressed her hatred for the man she was married to. He also claimed that she had repeatedly promised to leave her husband for him, to then spend the rest of her life by her lover’s side.

Then Loverboy said something that made me perk up.

“I truly loved the woman. But ... I guess she wasn’t who I thought she was.” He sounded somewhat saddened, but the way he looked at the floor while shaking his head made it look like a scene from a soap opera. Or, maybe, like he wanted to hide his face from the cameras while reciting lines. “Selling those bank secrets ... I can only guess she wanted to hurt the man as much as possible before leaving him. If I had known, I’d never ‘ve gotten involved with her.”

“You know...” I said, pointing at the TV screen. “That sounds more like an accomplice trying to save his own neck than someone who was genuinely in love and now learns that he was being played. What do you know about him?”

“Steven Carver,” Breston responded while reading from his file. “Thirty-five-year-old car mechanic who also deals with used cars he fixed up himself. Not wealthy, not very smart, not special in any way I could tell. Apart from his looks, that is.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing. He’s ... what? 6’3’’? Lean, muscular build, freshly tanned...”

“Not to mention sixteen years younger than your mother,” Breston threw in.

“Yeah, he’s the embodiment of the word ‘Gigolo’. So, it’s clear he’s in this for the money, and it would seem reasonable for a woman to fall for an attractive younger guy. I still don’t believe his story,” I sighed.

“Why?” Breston questioned me, clearly hoping I would finally open up to him.

“She would NEVER betray that prick she married. Her entire life revolved around the guy! She was the pinnacle of the obedient 1950s housewife. The idea of her having an affair is just ... No. Fucking. Way!”

“Well, I’m afraid her... demure nature even worsened during the four years you were gone. So, again, I fully agree with you. And yet...” Breston nodded along in a careful tone while handing me a shoe-carton-sized package from his pilot’s case. “ ... the senator was able to present photographic evidence of her affair.”

When I opened the carton, I found out that it was filled with 6x8s in disturbingly high definition. There must have been around a hundred photographs documenting the development of my mother’s affair with Mr. Carver.

The pictures showed them at different leisure activities in public that, apparently, went on for months. This wasn’t just apparent because of the timestamps printed onto the pictures. Thanks to the high quality, the clearly visible surroundings supported what the timestamps told me. I could see the budding in the trees and bushes the first few photographs showed, placing those in the springtime. Then, based on the changes in the clothes the depicted couple wore, the series of pictures moved on into early summer. And, finally, it showed them in late summer, as they entered a movie theater advertising a movie that came out just a few weeks ago. That photo must have been taken mere days before her arrest.

I felt an involuntary pang of sadness as I saw how much my mother had changed since the last time I saw her. Her black hair, which had always hung down to her waist since I was a child, now reached just to her shoulders. She was still curvy but had clearly lost weight, which was emphasized by the new stylish business attire that framed her body, while I had always known her in leisure clothing. What grabbed my attention, though, were her formerly piercing and expressive blue eyes. Now, even when she was laughing in those pictures, they seemed less colorful and were surrounded by a lot of small wrinkles.