Elastic Heart

I shoved the map back into my pocket and began my trek. The air inside the tunnel was stale, smelling of old dirt and mildew. The only sound was of my feet padding along the now decrepit stone. There were various theories about the tunnel systems in Utah; some of the more conspiring ones involved the Mormon church.

Anyone who grew up in Utah, had lived a few years in Utah, or owned a television, knew of the Mormon church. A church leader founded Utah, thus Utah was pretty much home base for Mormonism. Growing up non-Mormon in Utah was…a unique experience.

For the most part, I had no issue with Mormons. I grew up in Utah, so Mormons were my friends. Mormons were my schoolmates. My first kiss was with a Mormon. So, just like you’d forget about anyone’s religion when friendship became front and center, you’d forget a person is Mormon. You’d forget only for a little while, though, because the hard truth is that the majority of Mormons only associate with other Mormons.

When it comes to marriage, when it comes to friendship, when it comes to family, unless you’re a part of their faith, you’re not going to be a part of their life. Which is understandable. It’s easier that way. A lot of their religion has to be kept secret. It’s hard to be friends with someone when you can’t share secrets.

It wasn’t as if Mormons were the first group of people to stick close to their kind. Assuredly, they wouldn’t be the last either. Their closeness and unyielding support of one another is usually something to be admired. In a world of many questions and lonely answers, they offer their truth: family, traditions, and values. Yet their strength is also their weakness; because Mormons are so close, they are also blindly trusting of one another.

It was unfathomable to them that a man so high in the faith would disgrace himself, especially with someone like me, a non-believer: Mitch Morris had spent years cultivating his image and curating his friends. He had a beautiful blonde wife and a lovely family of five children. He was the epitome of Mormon life. I was the opposite. I was sin and debauchery because I drank on the weekends, smoked weed occasionally, and had casual sex.

The Mormon Church owned the media. They owned the newspaper and the TV stations. They even owned a mall. The police went to church with Morris and Morris helped get the sheriff elected. You got used to this kind of thing, growing up in Utah. You forgot that the church literally owned everything. So when it happened to me, I wasn’t prepared.

I never stood a chance.

Holding up my phone to examine markings on the tunnel wall, I couldn’t help but remember every Mormon I’d been friends with. I remembered ditching school with those friends and looking for similar tunnels to explore. They’d told ghost stories and tales of old Mormons who’d built the tunnels to connect them to the temple. Back then they’d talked about their faith with skepticism. Now, they seemed lost to it.

We’d lost touch after high school, when they started having babies and really getting into the faith. It had seemed so weird to me. In high school they’d been rebellious and carefree and had gone on crazy adventures with me. I often wondered what they thought of me now.

I thought of them as changed. I thought of them as traitors to their previous selves, but perhaps they held the same view of me. More than likely, they shook their heads and wondered what had happened to the Nami DeGrace from high school.

I turned a corner and pulled out my map again. If I was correct with my highlighting, this was the final stretch. Down this tunnel lay Becca Riley’s home. Fear and apprehension curled in my belly like frozen lead. I’d done the research, so I knew that today, Saturday in the middle of December, Riley was asleep upstairs in her bed. It was the one day Riley slept in.

The night before she would take a sedative in combination with a benzo and sleep for a full fourteen hours. She sent her staff home and turned off her phone. Riley likened it to “recharging her batteries”. It was the only time in the year that she wasn’t working. It was pretty much the only time I could strike.

I reached the end of the tunnel, my light slowly illuminating the walls around me until an outline of a door appeared. I placed my hand on the rough, damp feeling wood and held it there for a bit, trying to gain some courage. I knew it was now or never, but part of me wished I could hold on to never.

Inside Riley’s house I quickly tiptoed out of the cellar and into the kitchen. From there it was a quick walk down the hallway to her office. I was lucky that the door was open, but my luck ended there. Her desk was lo

cked tight and all the files I needed were deep inside.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for. I was hoping for something I could manipulate to make Morris look corrupt or—if I was really lucky—something I didn’t have to manipulate at all. Perhaps the files would be proof of Morris’s true character.

I glanced hurriedly around the office, looking for anything I could use to break open the drawer, when my eyes landed on a pair of scissors. Sliding the scissors into the gap in the drawer, I bent them back until the lock snapped open. Quickly, I stuffed whatever files were inside into my backpack. As I moved to the next locked drawer, my phone went off. The loud ringing was cacophonous in the silent house.

“Shit,” I said aloud, digging through my backpack to find my phone. I thought I’d put my phone on silent, but apparently not. I prayed Becca was drugged enough that the ringing didn’t wake her. As I pressed silent, the text that had sounded the alarm caught my eye.

“I wonder if you told all your secrets and now you have nothing left to say.” Frowning, I read Huck’s message once more before typing a reply.

“You don’t know anything about me.” Before I could put my phone away, he responded.

“I know. And you’re making it fucking hard to learn.” I shoved my phone in the sleeve of my backpack, resolved to deal with Huck later. When I looked up, Riley was in the doorway. My breath escaped me in a silent gasp.

“Nami DeGrace?” Riley asked, shock marring her perfectly made up features. “Whatever are you doing here?” I stood up from her desk, folding my arms. I’d only met Riley a few times as an intern, and each time had been the exact same. She’d given me a brilliant megawatt smile and thanked me for my dutiful service. Then she’d returned her attention to her smartphone and walked off, barking orders.

Becca Riley was a viper, probably more venomous than Morris. After all, she was the reason Morris was in office. I didn’t buy her surprise for a minute. Even though she was supposed to be resting, her face was still impeccably made up. Every bone was highlighted and contoured, her lips were sealed with red, and her lashes were long and much too luxurious to be real. She wore a satin nightgown and robe, like a fucking nineteen twenties movie star.

“Cut the shit, Riley.” Quicker than I could blink, Riley’s face turned cold. She eyed me with contempt and loathing and advanced forward. Placing a pointed finger on her wooden desk, she trailed the edge around to face me. With one eyebrow raised and two lips puckered, she regarded me.

“What game are you playing, DeGrace?” She smiled thinly through her question. I slammed the drawer shut just inches from her finger. She snapped her hand back. There was no pretense between us any more. She glowered at me and I returned her look with just as much gusto.

“I’m not playing a game,” I seethed. “I’m going to prove your boss to be the twisted pervert he is and you as his accomplice and cheerleader.”

Becca shook her hair out lazily. Sighing, she walked away from me and toward the window. I watched, my entire body posed for a fight, as she carefully pulled aside the drapes. Light poured in as Becca tied them up, taking long moments to carefully tie each knot. At last Becca turned to face me, her back leaning against the now exposed glass.

“Are you—oh, I don’t know the proper nomenclature any more…” Riley waved a hand frivolously. “Are you off the wagon? Is that why you broke into my house—because make no mistake, that’s what has happened here—and attempted to steal my valuables? Are you high, DeGrace? Should I call the police, or the professionals? Or perhaps the media would like another attempt at your psyche before the psychiatrists have a go?”

I placed both hands on the desk, refusing to relinquish my stare. “There’s proof of your depravity somewhere.”