Inside Out

Hello. My name is Clare d’Lasalle. Well, that’s what it is today. It can change any day, any time. I would still be me (sort of) but with a different last name and living in a different town and state. (It’s called “relocation.”) I know it sounds confusing and kind of awful, but it’s not that bad. Really. At this point in my life, I’ve grown used to it. So, whatever. Here’s the scoop. Over 12 years ago, my husband and I entered my father’s version of the federal government’s witness protection program. Why? Rest assured, we weren’t gang members, murderers, or drug dealers (the government’s usual applicants). We didn’t have criminal records, and we weren’t the victims of or had witnessed a crime and later testified for the prosecution (i.e., snitches). It’s because we were at the scene of a horrific murder. The truth is that we didn’t actually see the crime before, during, or after it happened. All of it went down behind us. We were simply there … in the wrong place and at the wrong time. Kind of. In the beginning, my name was Caron d’Gregorio. A little backstory … When I was a junior in law school at Stanford University, my roommate, Clare Piwo, and her boyfriend, Donny Benton, were gunned down in a parking lot as the four of us (the two of them, Paxton (my fiancé), and I) were walking from the student union to our dorm. We weren’t walking together as a group. Paxton and I were a couple of rows over and slightly ahead of them. See, Clare was wearing the luxurious sweater I had gifted her earlier in the day. Something I could afford but she definitely couldn’t (even though it was off the rack). Why did I give her the sweater? Because my Dad’s security team thought I was in danger, and this plan seemed to be a good way to confuse the lowlifes whom, he believed, were intending to harm me. Confusing? Trust me, I’ll clear up everything as we go along. Clare’s basic wardrobe consisted of oversized sweatshirts, sweatpants, and jeans. (Gross.) To be fair, she did the most with what she had when it came to her clothes. It’s kind of sad that what she had was all she had. No one should go through life like that. In contrast, my wardrobe was a coordinated collection of designer pieces that were stylish, attractive, and tailored specifically for me. When I arrived at Stanford, I didn’t even own a sweatshirt or sweatpants. My god, they were always too large on me and, well, too hideous. Working for my father, Donny and Paxton had a go-to look – polo shirt, khaki slacks or jeans, and a leather bomber jacket, when needed. It was the dress code for their jobs and one they didn’t stray from unless it was necessary and approved by my father. No matter where we were, I needed to be able to pick them out quickly in a crowd. But, after a year or so of dating Clare, Donny’s wardrobe changed. His “go-to” look went bah-bye, and he picked up her sense for style – sweatshirts, sweatpants, and jeans. To me, her so-called sense for style was more like a sense for yuk. The more time they spent together, the more they dressed alike. That night in the parking lot, however, the fashion tables had turned. Clare and Donny were dressed smartly (like we always wore), and Paxton and I were the ones in floppy sweatshirts (over bulletproof vests, mind you) and jeans. Sidenote: I haven’t worn another sweatshirt since that night. They’re disgusting. The gunman’s natural assumption was that Clare and Donny were Paxton and me. I’m not sure he even saw us as we ran from the mayhem, but, if he did, he could have easily assumed we were Clare and Donny. (Never assume anything. That’s what my Dad always tells me.) It was merely a coincidence that Clare and I resembled each other physically – same height and body structure, almost the same color and length of hair ... except hers was usually messy and mine was always styled perfectly. Donny and Paxton were almost identical, too. Same height, same build, same haircut, same swagger. To put it bluntly, the parking lot fiasco was a simple bluff that was played perfectly. Because of the sweater, the murderer mistook Clare for me – pop! – and with his cool, tough-guy look, he presumed that Donny was Paxton – pop, pop! When Paxton and I heard the gunshots, we didn’t dare look back. We just ran like crazy and leaped into the black limousine that came roaring to our rescue. The car stopped briefly, the driver leaned out the window, focused, and shot the gunman. Everything happened in a blur of seconds too fast to count. Then, we sped away. Sounds pretty cut-and-dry, right? Bing, bang, boom. The crime went down, and we fled the scene. Unfortunately (actually, fortunately for us), the entire thing appeared to be an act of unprovoked gun violence. But, don’t jump to conclusions because … What you see from the inside is nothing like what’s waiting for you outside. My Dad’s spin to the police and press was that Paxton and I had been killed. For the reports, he made sure that the subjects of witnesses and traceable evidence left at the scene didn’t exist and that there was no need to bring them up or to investigate. To this day, none of these have surfaced … anywhere. That’s because they don’t exist and never did.