by Mia Sheridan
Back in his room, there was a green light at the top of the flip phone. Huh. It still held some charge. He opened it, pacing in front of his window as the screen lit up. No passcode. That made things easier. Did these old phones even have passcodes back then? He couldn’t remember.
She had a few text strings and he opened them one at a time. One from her mom. He pictured her blind mother using some speech-to-text feature as she tried to reach her wayward daughter. He’d been thankful when he’d received an update from Neal McMurray, the contractor he’d sent and knew her place was being restored right that very moment, including new furniture and appliances an interior designer Neal had recommended was arranging. Mrs. Kershaw deserved some ease in her life, some comfort.
There was another string from a contact simply listed as “K” and he opened it, scrolling through. There were several “Meet me” and “It’s Thursday. What time will you be here?” and when he got to the top of the string, there was an address. Was that some kind of drug exchange? Or possibly, prostitution services being arranged?
He knew Amanda Kershaw had participated in plenty of unsavory activities for a fix. He’d spoken of them in lurid detail in front of a courtroom of witnesses. He’d seen her shame, her regret. He’d paraded every vile misstep to create reasonable doubt.
I know that some do, but me? No, I never blamed you. You didn’t kill her.
And in any case, from what I hear, you paid your price.
Mrs. Kershaw’s words rushed back to him, flowing over his soul like a balm. Grace. Jonah took a deep breath and opened another thread, drawing away from the phone in shock when he saw his brother’s number. There was no name attached to it, but he knew that number well. It was the one he’d avoided in those last days, sliding decline, as his phone rang over and over. Justin. What the fuck?
The string was short. Justin asked to meet with her several times and that she at least call him back. She never responded via text message. Whether she’d ever called his brother, and for what reason, Jonah had no idea for her call history only went back to the week before she’d died.
Nerves vibrated through him, the feeling that something was wrong, that he’d been left in the dark and finding out why was going to hurt.
“Get a grip,” he said aloud, forcing himself to enter that unattached state he’d adopted so many times when dealing with a disturbing case. “Relax and focus on all the information available to you first.”
Having looked through the text messages, he opened her photo stream, his eyes widening.
For a moment he simply blinked as his mind caught up with what his eyes were looking at. Sex. And lots of it.
He sat on his bed, dragging his finger down the tiny screen, looking at what was obviously Amanda Kershaw herself, with man after man in various sexual positions. It looked as if most of the photos had been snapped discreetly while the men were either in the throes of passion—for lack of a better word—or in a position where they couldn’t see the phone she’d obviously been holding.
What the hell was this?
Jonah stopped scrolling when he saw a face he recognized. Holy shit. Was that . . . he squinted, drawing the phone closer. It looked like . . . he couldn’t be sure, the photo was blurred and from a strange angle, but he swore it looked like Judge Rowland, the man who’d presided over the Murray Ridgley case. Jonah dragged his fingers through his hair, holding his scalp for a moment as his mind raced.
When he opened one of the individual shots, he saw that Amanda had titled it with his first initial and last name. Each photo was like that, even the ones of the men he didn’t recognize.
She had kept proof of each sexual interaction with these men, each picture titled with a name and a date. What was this? Had Amanda Kershaw been planning to blackmail them?
Completely confused, his gut churning with anxiety, Jonah scrolled through the last of the pictures, stopping immediately when he recognized another face. Shock hit Jonah. The acidic smell of his own sweat filled his nostrils. Holy shit.
It was Murray Ridgley, the man who had been accused of raping Amanda and attempting to murder her. But these pictures told another story. These pictures said in no uncertain terms that she’d been with him willingly . . . at least at some point. She had lied on the witness stand. Why?
Jonah opened the texts again, going back to the address at the beginning of the string with the unknown, K. He didn’t recognize the street name, nor know why the word Vortex was spelled out below it, but he brought his own phone out and typed the location into his GPS.
It looked to be in an industrial area of New Orleans and was only about twenty minutes from Jonah. It had been almost nine years since that text was sent, and chances were, going to that address would lead to nothing, especially if it was some empty warehouse where she’d met a drug dealer. But it was Thursday, so he knew where he was heading.
**********
The rumble of his motorcycle idled away to silence, Jonah taking a moment to look around before he slowly lifted his leg over the bike, removing his helmet and donning the mask.
The night was cold and still, a metallic smell hanging in the air. The massive building in front of him, once some sort of shipping warehouse, was dark and deserted, or so he thought until he saw a light move slowly past one of the windows as though it’d come from a hallway beyond, illumination of some sort slipping under the doorway for a brief moment.
He moved toward the building, looking around. There were no other cars in the parking lot, but if he strained his ears, he swore he could hear music coming from somewhere close by, the steady pulse of bass threading through him and matching his quickened heartbeat.
When he reached the entrance, he knocked on the heavy metal door, three loud raps that echoed in the emptiness. He didn’t really expect anyone to answer, so when the door was pulled open moments later, Jonah startled, stepping away as a large man with long black hair pulled into a low ponytail filled the doorway. He peered out at Jonah, nodding once as he took in his mask. “Password?”
Fuck. But then he remembered the random word that had been spelled out under the address. “Last I was here, it was vortex.”
The man raised a brow. “Man, that was years ago. No one even wore masks back then.” He nodded to Jonah’s covered face. “Who invited you?”
“Rowland.”
The man narrowed his eyes slightly but then nodded, opening the door wider so Jonah could enter. “Have fun.”
Something in the bouncer’s tone caused Jonah to pause, but then he nodded, moving into the dark interior of the building.
“And hey,” the guy called, looking out at the parking lot, “if that’s your bike, park it in the back next time.”
Jonah didn’t bother to answer, walking down the hallway lit only by weak lights along the baseboards.
The bass grew louder, music pumping steadily as lights pulsed from a room beyond. Jonah had the sense that he was entering a dream, or a nightmare perhaps, something dark and unknown that already felt disconnected from reality.
“The good stuff’s that way tonight,” a man said, startling Jonah as he walked past. He was wearing a mask, something black and white and distorted that Jonah didn’t get a good enough look at to identify before the man was moving away from him.
Jonah walked in the direction the man had pointed, pushing the door open to the room with the pulsing lights.
There were four different groups, naked or half-dressed women in the center of each, men performing various sexual acts on them, some, one at a time, and others, in tandem.
Jonah was briefly stunned, his eyes moving everywhere, taking in this scene. A masked orgy? Some type of exclusive sex club?
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting, he noticed that the girls looked very young, maybe not underage but very close to it. And they all looked mostly zonked out, not necessarily finding enjoyment in what was happening to them, but then, not protesting either.
Jonah felt sickened, confused.
This place, the dim lighting, the bright red walls, it was the background of the photos on Amanda Kershaw’s phone. She had been one of these girls. She’d photographed it, obviously before the men began wearing masks as they did now. He could see how easy it would have been to slip a phone out of a robe pocket like the silky black one the redhead in the corner was wearing. To snap a shot, to record what happened.
“Join us,” a hand slinked around Jonah’s waist, dipping toward his groin and then pulling away as a blonde girl walked past him, her eyes foggy and half closed, three masked men in tow.
Jonah waited for them to pass by and then turned, exiting the room and heading in the opposite direction from where he’d entered.
He passed by room after room, sounds of music and sex coming from beyond, the sounds of both pleasure and what he thought to be pain. He heard noises he couldn’t identify, the slashing of a whip maybe, chain running over a concrete floor.
He moved faster through the dark labyrinth, finally spotting a double metal door and pushing through it, out into a back parking lot, his breath bursting from his lungs right before he sucked in another.
What the fuck was that? And what did Murray Ridgley have to do with it? Judge Rowland? His own brother maybe? His mind was spinning in a million different directions, and he wanted answers, answers he knew had to be on Amanda’s phone if he could figure out how the evidence fit together.
He walked around the side of the building, heading for his motorcycle as he pulled out the flip phone. He scrolled to the text identified only as K and dialed the number as he strode toward his ride.
A woman answered on the second ring. “Knowles residence, May I help you?”
Holy fuck.
Knowles.
He knew the name well, because once upon a time, that man had hired him, had welcomed him to his firm.
CHAPTER THIRTY
November, 1861
Angelina entered the parlor where she’d been summoned, a dishtowel still in her hands. The sweet, yeasty scent of baking bread followed her from the kitchen. “Yes, Mrs. Chamberlain?”
Mrs. Chamberlain rose from where she’d been sitting, a man standing along with her. He turned and Angelina blinked. He looked like John, only he was thinner, the bridge of his nose narrower, his eyes more deep-set . . . Still, the resemblance made her heart flip in her chest, and her grip tighten on the towel in her hands.
“Angelina, this is Mr. Lawrence Whitfield. He’s come bearing correspondence for you.”
“C-correspondence?” Angelina whispered, a tremor of hope and fear shimmering through her. Was it from John? And if so, why would he expose their relationship by writing to her directly? That wasn’t safe.
Mr. Whitfield gave her a thin smile, taking the few steps to where she stood as he removed a letter from his pocket. “My brother, John, asked that I give this to you. It came in a bundle of mail for our family.”
Angelina reached for the letter but Lawrence pulled it back. “John explained that you’re unable to read. He asked that I read it to you.”
Her eyes met his, her heart beating wildly. She didn’t know how to read this man’s expression, this stranger, and she felt so weak with anxiety, that for a moment all she could do was stare. “Al-all right. Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Whitfield unfolded the letter and Angelina felt a gasp of joy rise in her throat when she saw the handwriting. She swallowed it down with effort, watching as Mr. Whitfield donned a pair of spectacles.
That handwriting . . . the tiny precise letters mixed in with the large, sweeping ones. She’d seen it at the boathouse where they met. John had brought along correspondence to work on as he’d waited for her—hours sometimes, depending on when she’d been able to get away—and she’d glanced at the papers on top of the old crates he’d used as a desk.
At the sight of that script, longing swept through her, along with the deep relief that he was alive. Unharmed. Oh how she’d yearned for him. How she’d prayed for his safety. Wished fervently for the news that he was coming home. To her.
“Angelina,” Mr. Whitfield read, “I write this letter regretfully and with the knowledge that my words will wound you. But I must be true to my heart. My time away from you has made things abundantly clear. Our trysts were pleasant, but lack a future. When I return home, I will marry Astrid. Surely you can see that anything else is impossible. You must accept your place in the world, Angelina. Only in this way will you live a satisfying life. Sincerely, John.”
Mr. Whitfield cleared his throat, folding the letter slowly. Angelina’s heart had sunk during the reading and now it lay heavy in the pit of her stomach, misery gripping her.
She raised her eyes slowly to Mrs. Chamberlain’s and Mrs. Chamberlain looked back at her, her lips curved into a small smile. This pleased her. Of course it did.
Mrs. Chamberlain brushed her hands as if all that nasty business between John and Angelina was now over and she could move forward with her life.
But Angelina’s life had ended. Just a few brief lines had destroyed her heart.
Our trysts were pleasant.
Pleasant.
How could this be true? Had the war somehow convinced him that she was not worth fighting for? He’d told her he loved her.
Know who to trust. And who not to trust.
Mr. Whitfield handed the letter to Mrs. Chamberlain and she took it, tossing it into the fireplace, but drawing back quickly when a spark flew at the sleeve of her gown and it caught flame. Mrs. Chamberlain let out a scream and beat at her sleeve as Mr. Whitfield moved to help her.
Angelina’s eyes went to the letter where it had fallen next to the grate and she moved swiftly, taking advantage of the commotion and scooping it up. She slipped it beneath the towel she was still holding as Mrs. Chamberlain turned around, the fire on her sleeve having been extinguished. Angelina looked at her blankly.
“Well, go on then,” Mrs. Chamberlain said, glancing at the roaring fire. “You’ve been dismissed.”
Angelina turned without another word. She walked to the door on legs of jelly, Lawrence Whitfield’s whispered words to Mrs. Chamberlain following her down the hall: “You see, Mrs. Chamberlain, my brother’s foolhardiness is resolved. I look forward to toasting to John and Astrid at their wedding.”
The pressure in her head grew, the tears she’d held back in the parlor now streaming down her face. She gripped the letter tightly, a small, small spark of hope still burning in her belly. She swiped at the wetness on her cheeks and tried to keep that small light aglow in her mind’s eye.
I love you. I will come back to you, do you hear me?
Nothin’ but danger. Nothin’ but danger.
“Lina?” her mama called as she walked past the kitchen, catching a glimpse of her daughter’s expression, her own draining of color. “Lina?” she repeated, though weakly the second time. Angelina ignored her, walking on, climbing the second-floor stairs and knocking on Astrid’s door, entering without waiting for a response.
Astrid was sitting on her window seat reading a book and looked surprised when Angelina entered. “Angelina? What is it?”
Angelina thrust the letter in front of her, the paper shaking in her grip. “Will you read this, Astrid? John’s brother read it to me and states that John’s affection for me has ceased.”
Astrid stared at her for a moment, several expressions flitting over her face. Expressions that Angelina was too distraught to read.
Astrid stood, walking to Angelina and taking the letter from her. She unfolded it slowly, glancing at Angelina as she did so, a frown marring her forehead.
Her eyes moved down the lines as she read and Angelina held her breath, a lump swelling in her throat. Please, please. Tell me they lied, she thought desperately. I trust you, John.
“I’m sorry, Angelina,” Astrid said softly. “It says what Lawrence told you it says.” Astrid handed the letter back to Angelina, stepping closer, wrapping her arms around her half-sister.
Angelina sagged into he
r, the tiny light inside of her extinguishing, hope draining. She felt empty, devoid, a moan climbing her throat, but not seeming to have any sound.
“It’s better for you this way,” Astrid said, pulling away and gripping her upper arms, her gaze intense. “Safer. My mama . . . you have no idea what she’s capable of, Angelina, the way hate has carved itself so deeply into her. If she sees you . . . hoping for things, planning for things, she’ll hurt you, or your mama, maybe both of you. It’s better this way,” she repeated and Angelina had the distant notion she was trying to convince herself as much as Angelina, but she was too sick with grief to consider it any more.
Nothing mattered, nothing at all, especially her. Especially her. She was merely something to discard. Something to hurt and throw away. Her mama was right, there was no place for love in Angelina’s life. And there never would be.
And Angelina, she couldn’t live a life without love.
She nodded, turning slowly and exiting Astrid’s room. Astrid didn’t try to stop her. She hesitated outside of her father’s room for just a moment before going inside.
She felt nothing. She wanted to feel nothing.
When she stepped back into the hallway, her father loomed before her. “What are you doing?”
She looked at him, her eyes beseeching, hoping against hope to find that tenderness that used to be in his gaze when he’d bounced her on his knee as a child. “Nothing, Mr. Chamberlain.”
His eyes narrowed as he glanced toward his closed door and then back at her. “Well then, get on back to the kitchen, girl.”
Girl.
She’d tried so hard to emulate him, like the other Chamberlains who lived and ruled this house. She’d sat upon her father’s knee, listening as he’d read her stories. She’d learned to speak like them, even to adopt the same mannerisms so they might come to love her.
But her mama had been right. Her efforts were in vain. It didn’t matter what she tried to be . . . and it never would. He’d found her charming once upon a time, perhaps a novelty, but now she was a woman and . . . to him, she didn’t even have a name.