The Last Loyalty
A Mason Timeline Short Stort
After Sunder of Time, but before Fissure of Worlds, The Last Loyalty is a standalone short story set in the alternate 2144.
When news broke of the “accident” at Jaramillo-Diaz, the one that claimed Isabella’s life, every television network in the country, even the ones devoted to cartoons, broke through regular programming to inform the public, prompting a collective wail of despair.
None of them knew Isabella, but they seem to think they did.
Thousands of people who had no clue about what Isabella was really like have uploaded a constant stream of videos mourning her. Some went crying to reporters about how much Isabella meant to them, while others refuse to even believe she is dead. She is alive and will be found, they say.
Alternating with the performative grief are pictures of Isabella flashing across the screen. In every one of them, I am there—standing next to her, holding an umbrella, talking into a phone, or shielding her with my body, chastising a member of the press or public who got too close to her.
They all know my face. They all know my name, and they all think they’re mourning with me.
I was fired from the Jaramillo household six hours ago, and I’ve spent the intervening time at that all-night diner off the interstate, the one with the fat baby on the sign. I have nowhere else to go.
I had hoped to be the only patron, but there are four others who, for one reason or another, are up at this ungodly hour. They all pretend not to see me crying. On another night, one of them might have asked me if I was all right, if I needed help. But tonight, they all think they know why I’m crying, and they know they can’t do anything to comfort me.
They know what I did today, and thanks to the television blaring from the front of the diner, they know what it cost me.
My entire life, I have always been Elizabeth, the trusted family servant to Alfredo Jaramillo and his daughter Isabella. Now I’m just Elizabeth. I’m not sure any of these people know my last name.
The footage of me slapping that reporter outside Isabella’s front door is playing right now. The newsreader has his eyebrows raised as he speaks to the camera, looking genuinely surprised. The network producers show the slap, zooming in on how my nails raked across “my victim’s” face, but of course, they don’t show what prompted the slap in the first place.
I don’t imagine anyone would care. It’s much more amusing to show the footage over and over, then cut to the panel discussion of what made me do it, how I must be feeling, how close I really was to Isabella, and what on earth I will do now that I’ve been fired.
I imagine they’re all thrilled about my little stunt. It gives them an excuse to talk about the Jaramillo family and the last time they made the news.
I was only ten years old when I found Isabella’s mother floating face-down in the swimming pool.
Four days after her death, my mother left me.
Alfredo met me at the front door and kneeled down to explain that my mother was so very sad at Mrs. Monica’s death that she had returned to Italy to be with my father. Even at ten years old, I knew that was a lie. My parents had separated shortly after I was born, and my mother had never once contacted my father, or even allowed me to.
Alfredo assured me that my mother loved me, but she just couldn’t take care of me anymore. She had signed papers making him legally responsible for me and I would always have a place to come home to, he said.
Another lie.
I was moved into the main house that very day—into a bedroom across the hall from Isabella. Alfredo surprised me that evening by coming into my new room to say goodnight. I had never really spoken to him before. He was our employer and I knew he was very important. What right did I have to speak to him?
As he placed a teddy bear gently on my brand new bed, he asked me if I understood what loyalty was. Of course I did.
He then gave me a smile I will never forget and said, That’s good, Elizabeth. Because Isabella needs your loyalty right now. There are people who might ask you how her mother died. If they do, what will you tell them?
I assured him I would tell them the truth… that Mrs. Monica had died from falling and hitting her head. He had smiled warmly and hugged me tightly, whispering good girl into my ear.
Sometimes I would hear Isabella cry at night. At first, I went into her room and got into bed with her. She was two years older than me, but those nights I would hold her like she was one of my dolls, petting her hair and telling her it was okay. I wanted it to be okay. I wanted her to be okay.
For a few brief moments, she found some solace—some shared suffering in that my mother was gone as well. But it didn’t take long for that to morph into a burning hatred. You don’t know anything! You still have your mother!
But I didn’t. My mother had run off to Europe, and by that time I had accepted she would not be coming back. After that, there were no more nights caressing Isabella’s hair.
Alfredo was publicly lauded for his act of charity—taking in the child of his feckless maid who had just run off one night. He was always kind to me, and frequently mentioned the great care he took in my upbringing when giving interviews, but to say he was anything other than my keeper would be an overstatement. He housed me and fed me, and even gave me an allowance. But I ate my meals with the other servants, and there was more than a hint I would be sent packing on my eighteenth birthday.
I didn’t want to leave. This was my house, and all the money in the world wouldn’t soften the blow of being cast out, however politely.
So when I was sixteen, I found a surefire way to stay in my home, with my family. I quit school and became Isabella’s assistant. She was eighteen and, in her first year at Coronado University, found herself overwhelmed with balancing her social obligations with her studies. Alfredo was so pleased with me that he had actually kissed me on the cheek and beamed with pride. You’re such a good girl, Elizabeth.
It was that same year Alfredo announced he would be demolishing the old bungalow on the grounds I used to share with my mother. Even after she abandoned me, I couldn’t bear the thought of any of her things being lost, so I devoted an afternoon to looking for any tokens she may have left behind.
As it turns out, there was one thing she had forgotten as she hastily packed her things. I can see how she overlooked it, or maybe she left it on purpose. Few people use paper correspondence anymore. So when I saw the folded letter, I couldn’t help but read it.
I wonder if everyone feels stupid when they discover they have been lied to.
Do we all have that moment of chastising ourselves for believing the words of another, even if it is a trusted friend or family member? For me, even before anger or hurt, shame was the first thing I felt upon reading her words—shame for my own stupidity.
The words of that letter so perfectly captured the love in her heart that I had always remembered, the way she saw so deeply into other people. It should have been beautiful. But it wasn’t. It was disgusting—she was disgusting.
Every word I read chipped away at the wall I had built around that day by the pool, the images I was ordered to forget.
More so than the words—those loving words she had written to Alfredo—the date at the top of the letter was what struck me: three days before I came home from school to find Monica, Alfredo’s wife of twenty-one years, floating in the dark red water, the razor she used to open her veins reflecting brightly from the bottom of the pool.
I had crumpled to my knees and sobbed when I read that disgusting letter—that revolting fantasy my mother laid out, how Alfredo was going to divorce Monica and move my mother and me into the house.
She said they would marry and Alfredo would adopt me, that Isabella and I would be just like sisters. She imagined the day when, after Isabella and I were old enough, she and Alfredo would sit us down and explain that we really were sisters, that they had loved each other even while they were married to other people.
Being so young, I had never appreciated how delusional my mother was, how stupid and tragic.
I’m not sure when Alfredo entered the bungalow. I can only assume he heard me crying, because suddenly he was behind me, looking at the letter in my hand. The expression on his face was one of unadulterated terror, confirming that every damning word was true.
I’m sorry, Elizabeth, he had whispered. I never wanted you to know.
By that point I had already spent a good amount of time crying; logic dictates I should have been too drained to be angry. But that was not the case, and I jumped to my feet and screamed at my employer…my father. That’s what you’re sorry about? That I found out?
His head had dropped in shame and his hands reached out to his sides in a helpless, desperate gesture. The day is not long enough to list all my regrets, Elizabeth.
His lamentation of the day’s insufficient hours was oddly prescient. The sun had nearly disappeared into the horizon by the time he finished telling me the long and ugly truth.
He had loved Monica so deeply, but she had become depressed after Isabella’s birth and never really shook it. If anything, it only got worse as time went on. My mother, with her warm spirit and astonishing beauty, had been a welcome respite from his crumbling marriage. It never occurred to him, he said, that Stefania was not on birth control.
He said it right out loud. I was a mistake—an unwanted error in judgment. Perhaps he even viewed my existence as some sort of punishment from God.
Is she really in Italy, or is that a lie too?
Originally, she had been in Italy. But then, Alfredo said with an air of relief, she had joined a Dominican nunnery in Portugal. It was only last year she took her final vows. Alfredo had received an announcement in the post. He had burned it—along with all the other letters she had written me.
Stefania had left me all alone so she could join a convent to atone for her sins—atone for me.
The power had been cut in the bungalow in preparation for its demolition, so I could no longer clearly see the expression on Alfredo’s face, but there was no mistaking the tone of his voice.
Isabella must never know, Elizabeth. You have been wounded by the truth today—the truth of what your mother is. Help me spare your sister the knowledge of what a bastard her father is.
He was not making a request.
Sometimes I wonder why he kept me in the house at all. There were plenty of orphanages Alfredo could have quietly deposited me into, or—if he were so inclined—a multitude of boarding schools he could have shipped me to. He could have done so many things, but he chose to give me a bedroom across the hall from Isabella’s. More than that, he told me a truth he could never share with Isabella.
He wanted to take care of his secret daughter. He wanted me.
In many ways, he was a son of a bitch, just like he said he was. But as I grew from an angry sixteen-year-old-girl into a woman—a professional, a highly-esteemed servant and trusted ally to the family—that rage at Alfredo faded.
It was misplaced. It was my mother who had abandoned me, she who had seduced him without taking precautions. He was the one who had taken care of me.
Even when Isabella married Etienne and I moved into their house, I found I missed living under Alfredo’s roof. I knew that I would always be a reflection of him, no matter where I lived, and I worked to always maintain control, always be a placid picture of professional civility.
But when that reporter ambushed me in front of Isabella’s house and tried to manipulate me into spilling dirt on Alfredo, I snapped. That disgusting greasy man had trespassed into Isabella’s home and grabbed my arm like I was some scullery maid and hissed Aren’t you sick of cleaning up his mess? You know all his dirty little secrets. Don’t you know how powerful that makes you? You might be the only one who can break his grip on this country.
Maybe it was his exhilarated smile that drew my hand back, or maybe it was the affront of being manhandled. But I hauled off and slapped his face with every ounce of strength in my arm, allowing the tips of my hard acrylic fingernails to cut into his face as I drew my hand away.
His revolting statement was almost a word-for-word recounting of the thoughts I had in the weeks after Alfredo’s revelation. I had laid in that bed across from Isabella’s room, smug in the knowledge that I had power over that family. I could bring them down whenever I wanted to.
I was ashamed of those dark thoughts. To hear them out loud from that horrible man’s mouth only a day after my sister was killed… I could not abide it. I knew full well I was on camera, but I didn’t care. The Jaramillos were my family, Isabella was my sister, and it had always been my job to stand up for her. But all that was over now.
I’m not sure Alfredo knows I’ve been fired on his behalf. Ten minutes after the footage hit the airwaves, Padre Lopez-Castaneda called me, speaking softly and kindly, praising me for being a godly woman, a paragon of virtue. But, he said, my time with the Jaramillo family had come to an end. Your service will be well-rewarded, Elizabeth. Have no fear for your future. As if money could just fix everything.
Twenty-five years I have lived, and every second of it was spent living only for my family. My sister is dead, my mother may as well be, and my father… would he even protest when he discovered I had been fired? I have nothing. I am nothing.
“Miss Elizabeth?” The too-thin waitress breaks me out of my thousand-yard stare.
I look at her with puffy eyes. “Yes?”
“There are two men in Agency uniforms standing by your car. They’ve been there for quite a little bit. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to go speak with them.”
It is, in fact, my car—the only thing I truly own—so they could not be here to repossess it. I suppose I’ll have to go out there and see what they want. I’ve been here long enough anyway.
I go to the counter to pay the waitress, who tries to tell me the coffee and pie are on the house. But I will have none of it. I know what food service people make, and if not for Alfredo’s mercy, it could be me wearing that powder blue dress with my name on the lapel. So I pay the bill in cash, leaving a hefty tip.
I walk out of the greasy spoon and call out to the two men standing by my car. “Unless you plan to wash it, get your sticky fingers off my car.” I am in no mood for Agency posturing. So many of the employees think they become important when they don the uniform. They are wrong.
But as I step closer, I am able to see the insignia on their uniforms.
These are not Agents. They are Intel. My heart catches in my throat.
“Ms. Giannini?” They certainly know my last name. “We need to speak with you regarding Isabella Jaramillo.”
I close my writing pad, cursing myself for not bringing a bag to tuck it in to. I am fearful a word will catch their eye and they will ask to read it. Police need warrants to search your property, to take your belongings, to arrest you. Intel does not.
“I have already given statements to Miami PD and Agency security. Surely you have access to those?” I address my shaky question to the shorter, more feminine-looking one. He is perhaps my age, young for an intel agent, with well-sculpted eyebrows and pillowy lips. They are not features I seek in lovers, but I instinctively feel safer with him than I do his taller, square-jawed partner.
“I’ve been fired,” I say abruptly. “I need to collect my things from Isabella’s house before my access is revoked. I don’t have much time for questions.”
“That’s fine,” says Square Jaw. “We can speak at Isabella’s home. It’s more private.” He gives me a smile that tells me he is aware of how uncomfortable he makes me.
“I’d like to ride with you on the way, if that’s all right,” says Pillow Lips.
I feel the sweat creep through the material of my blouse. I removed my blazer hours ago and left it in the back seat of my car. Even though I’m so hot I feel like I might pass out, I want to put it back on to hide the sweat marks.
“Am I in trouble?”
Pillow Lips gives me a friendly smile. “Of course not, Ms. Giannini. We just need to make sure we have all available information.”
He looks so nice, I can’t help but relax a little, even though I know he’s lying. They are looking for something specific, something important.
I take a deep, shaky breath and walk to my car door, stepping past Square Jaw, who does not move out of my way. I unlock the passenger door and wait expectantly for Pillow Lips to get in. I’m glad he’s the one riding with me—even more glad it’s only a five-minute drive.
As I start the car, I tuck my writing pad into the small space between my seat and the center console, trying to look nonchalant. Pillow Lips sees me do it, but does not make any inquiry. The gravel crunches under my wheels as I pull out of the parking lot.
My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, looking for Square Jaw’s car. Instead, I see the fat baby on the diner’s sign. It looks like it’s waving goodbye to me.
“Do you mind if I turn the radio on?” Pillow Lips asks.
“Only if it’s music and not news,” I mutter. I have my hands at ten and two on the wheel, hoping my blouse will dry a little with my arms raised. Pulling out on to the deserted road, Square Jaw’s headlights light up all my mirrors. He is following entirely too close.
Pillow Lips turns to a salsa station, the music a little too lively for this time of night, a little too loud for the confines of the car. The music dissuades me from asking him why he and his partner have really come.
I pull in to Isabella’s driveway, waiting for the gate to recognize my car. After a moment, it swings open. I drive in slowly, moving as one with Square Jaw’s car, which is almost attached to my bumper. The house is dark; there are no stars tonight. The only bright spot comes from the reflection of my headlights off the crime scene tape.
I turn off the ignition and sit in the silent car.
“Elizabeth?” Pillow Lips turns to me, leaning over slightly to be closer to my seat. “You don’t need to be afraid. We’re just here to help find Isabella.”
My hands still on the wheel, I hear Square Jaw open his door and step out of his car, and I wonder if they would be mad if I asked the larger man to wait outside. Surely, they didn’t need both men to question me.
“Well, let’s go inside.” My attempt to sound reassured falls flat, and I see a knowing glint in his eye.
He exits the car in one graceful motion, leaving me to hastily retrieve my writing pad from between the seats. I imagine they will watch me pack my belongings once they have finished their questions, so I will have to stash this somewhere in my bedroom.
If they read it, they might think I was planning to do something disloyal. Then the tenor of their questions might change.
The three of us walk up to the door, both men standing behind me as I call for the house locks to disengage. The lights in the house automatically turn on—all of them.
The living room is a mess. Even though the clutter is due to the police, and not to any slovenliness from me, I am still embarrassed for the Intel agents to see it like this. The police did their best to maintain a tidy environment out of respect, but a thorough search requires nothing short of rifling through everything.
Square Jaw clears his throat. “Is there anyone else here?”
“No. Who else would be here? Isabella is dead, and Etienne is… well, you would know more about where he is than I would,” I mumble out, uncertain of whether I should have said that.
After the explosion, it didn’t take long for the Agency to decide Etienne had been the one to cause it. I’m not sure if they had any conclusive proof or if it was just a hunch, but he had been arrested in this very house yesterday; no one knew where he was or if he would ever be released.
I have tears in my eyes suddenly. Are these men here because they think it’s my fault? Will I be punished for not seeing in advance what Etienne was planning? I should have.
“Why don’t we go upstairs, Elizabeth?” Pillow Lips places his hand gently on my elbow. “My questions won’t take long, and I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable in your room.”
I smile at him gratefully. He seemingly realizes I would be more open with him rather than his burly associate. Likewise, I had also cleaned up my room after the police tore through it. Everything is in its place—fit to be seen by strangers.
He follows me up the stairs, the happy family pictures on the wall staring after us as we climb to the second story. Unlike the pictures being shown on the news, I am in none of these.
I open my bedroom door and feel myself relax. This is my home. I wish I could say goodbye to my room alone, but maybe it’s better that the nameless men from Intel are here. It will keep me from breaking down again—the way I did at the diner.
“Do you mind if I sit on my bed?” I ask Pillow Lips. “I have a chair you can use in the corner.”
He smiles broadly, almost laughs. “That would be perfect.”
We walk into the room, and when he turns his back to get the chair, I lean over my bed and shove my notebook into the crack between the bed and the wall with all my might.
But it does not fall down the whole way. An edge remains visible above the comforter and I am out of time.
I whirl back around, sitting on the bed to block his vision of the notebook protruding from the covers.
He positions himself to sit, but then stops and furrows his brows, looking at me sharply.
“What?” Did he see the notebook?
“You have something in your hair. Hold on.”
He walks slowly over to me, reaching out a manicured hand toward my hair. I normally wear it up, but since I left it hanging today, it must have picked up some lint. I lower my eyes in embarrassment as I feel his long fingers gently move through my hair.
And then I feel the sharp sting in my neck.
I cry out and swat his hand away as the pain from the injection moves down my neck. It feels like peanut butter in my veins.
“What—”
I try to ask him what he is doing to me, why he gave me an injection, but my mouth is instantly useless, heavy and clumsy. Is it truth serum? I would never lie to him, not about Isabella! There was no reason for this!
“I’m sorry about this, honey.” His voice is gentle as he stands over me, his face molded into an expression of guilt, maybe even grief. “When powerful people play their games, it’s the innocents who get hurt.”
My father will punish you when he finds out you did this! I try to say the words out loud, but my head lolls and my mouth will not make words, only a dull moan.
I am lying on my pillow, though I did not feel myself fall backward. My feet still hang off the bed. Pillow Lips reaches over, lifting my feet onto the bed, taking off my shoes. I do not feel his touch on my ankles. My whole body is tingling, and I feel sick.
As he shifts my position, my head drops to my right, and through the hazy tunnel vision I have remaining, I see the last tiny edge of my notebook slip down between the wall and the bed, out of sight, out of their reach. Pillow Lips is still looking at my face. He doesn’t see it.
The tingling has stopped; I feel cold and I cannot see anymore.
There is no truth serum. I am dying. They are killing me.
The black overtakes me, and I hear the clink of a bottle dropping onto its side on my nightstand, then a scattering sound. Pills?
Alfredo will see through this. He knows I don’t drink. He knows I would never do anything to embarrass him. These men are here on someone else’s orders.
I hear Pillow Lips, but his voice is so far away. “I really am sorry, Elizabeth. He said you were always such a good girl.”