by RC Boldt
My spine goes ramrod straight. Surely, he’s not asking me to pimp myself out—
“Just to put her at ease around you, so you can be sure everything is truly on the up-and-up,” he tacks on smoothly.
My muscles relax a fraction. I was just inferring incorrectly, that’s all. Sometimes, I’m a dumbass. “Yes, sir.”
A woman murmurs in the background, and I catch something about “interview due to air soon” before the Vice President says in a quick clip, “I need to go, son, but I appreciate your hard work and dedication.”
“Thank you, sir.”
We say goodbye, and I set my cell phone on the arm of the couch, feeling almost dazed. Linking my fingers together behind my head, I stare up at the ceiling and cycle through the conversation in my mind, trying to pinpoint what the hell has me on edge.
Dammit, this is one of the things I hate about dealing with politicians. They’re way too smooth. Not that I’m some shit-for-brains dipshit, but hell…
Something doesn’t sit right with me about this, and it makes me think he knows something else about Dr. Alexandre that he’s not letting me in on.
What if he knows something important, like if she isn’t unbiased but has an agenda to put an innocent man behind bars? A family man, no less. The mayor of D.C. is a widower with two college-age sons.
He doesn’t project the widowed playboy image, nor does he give off any indication he has depraved sexual vices. And, not to judge a book by its cover, but the mayor doesn’t give off those vibes at all. In every interview he’s given, he always mentions his love for playing chess in his spare time, for fuck’s sake.
So, I have no choice but to wonder… What’s the missing piece to this puzzle? The only way I can determine whether Dr. Alexandre is really all academic-minded and unbiased or if she has ulterior motives and plans to smear the reputation and integrity of anyone who’s innocent is to watch her like a hawk.
Which means I need to stick by Dr. Alexandre’s side like white on rice.
Chapter 20
Kennedy
“My, how the tables have turned, haven’t they?”
Moments ago, he’d been self-assured. He’d had the audacity to threaten me.
“You fucking bitch! You won’t get away with this.”
My smile is sinister. “Oh, but I’ve planned for this. For years, in fact.” A few keystrokes are all it takes to access the mecca of child porn on his computer.
Ones he either filmed or took part in.
Or both.
“You wouldn’t want anyone to know about all this, would you?”
I watch him closely as I hover over one of the older videos. Specifically, the one he’d filmed of his own daughter. His firstborn.
The daughter he was supposed to cherish and love.
The one he was supposed to protect from all harm.
His eyes dart around wildly as if searching for a way to escape. How the hell he thinks he’ll retaliate against me is both hilarious and pathetic.
When his gaze settles on the computer screen, it doesn’t have the effect I expected or wanted. Not in the least.
How could I have ever thought that I was prepared for this? For extinguishing a monster of this caliber?
I was delusional in assuming so because the expression that bleeds onto his face is one of pride and heady arrogance. He enjoys reliving the torture he inflicted on his own daughter.
I knew this—this is a fact about every pedophile who records their abuse, whether it be by photograph or video, so I shouldn’t have expected any different from him.
I shouldn’t have expected even the barest ounce of remorse.
Fury builds within me like a violently unmanageable wildfire, overtaking everything in its path. He doesn’t deserve another second on this earth. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the air.
Taking his chin in my hands, I hold it in the most punishing grip, forcing him to look me in the eye.
Just as I prepare to extinguish his life, a man calls my name. When I look up, that’s when it happens. The bullet leaves the chamber of his gun and hits dead center of my chest.
Momentum has me reeling backward, and I slam back against the wall, dropping my weapon as I clutch at my wound. Blood pours through my fingers as the burn of gunpowder sears my skin.
Shadows conceal the other man’s face, but when I blink, I see that he’s freed the bastard I attempted to kill. They stand over me, laughing as my lungs burn and my heart struggles to beat.
I’m dying. I’ve failed.
I haven’t only failed myself but every child out there who’s been victimized.
Grief intertwines with remorse, and I silently plead with the universe that they help another person take my place. I can’t be the last one.
Those kids deserve better. They need their voices to be heard.
My breath wheezes out, and my vision grows blurry, but it becomes evident my death isn’t fast enough.
The man whose face I can’t decipher raises his gun once again, aiming for my head, and fires the final shot.
I jerk awake, and the older businessman in the pinstriped suit beside me smiles kindly.
“The landing was a bit rough, wasn’t it?”
I force a smile, attempting to calm my racing heart, and peer out the airplane window at his side. “That it was.”
It was only a dream. I repeat this internally, unable to suppress the urge to touch the center of my chest as if I need reassurance that I’m not fatally wounded.
This recurring dream is one I’ve had for the past year or so. It was more intense this time, however, with the violence and pain increasingly palpable and potent.
I suppose I should’ve expected vivid nightmares. Being back in D.C. means being that much closer to the life I left behind. Closer to the monsters who haunted me.
To those who haunt me still to this day.
The main safeguard I have here is my appearance. I have no doubt that, should I encounter any person I once knew, they wouldn’t spare me a second glance.
People often tout their intelligence yet fail to detect the things that are right under their noses.
I’m a prime example. Though my hair is white-blond now, I’m always well-dressed in business attire, so no one thinks to take a closer look. Especially not those who coast along on the broad wings of their own arrogance.
Once I exit the airplane, my laptop briefcase and purse slung over my shoulder, I weave my way through the terminal toward the baggage claim. As I pass the various shops and restaurants, a particular bar with mounted televisions catches my attention.
I slow, veering carefully to the side as I venture closer to the bar, my eyes riveted to the image displayed on one of the TVs. The closed captioning is on to combat the din of conversations and overall noise of the airport, the words ticking at the bottom of the screen.
Interviewer: (narrates) “They’ve recently opened up to us about their struggle to finally accept the death of their daughter and gain closure to move on with their lives.”
She dabs at her glistening eyes with a tissue even though not one tear actually falls. Her husband rubs her back, a concerned frown marring his face.
Of course, the interviewer eats up their performance like a feline to catnip.
Eleanor: (cries softly) “We tried to help her, but it was no use. Her addiction made her run away.”
So that’s what they’re calling it. An addiction. What a fucking joke.
An addiction made her husband shove his penis inside a young girl night after night? An addiction made him clamp his hand over her mouth to stifle her screams?
Charles: “She was a danger to herself and to others, and we tried to help her, but…you can’t help those who won’t help themselves.”
The scene shifts to show the couple in their home, sitting in oversized armchairs and sipping on what is assumed to be coffee while they smile and chat with one another.
Interviewer: (narrates) The family has been in therapy fo
r quite a while now, only recently embarking on a bold and courageous choice to open their hearts and take another chance at being a family of three.
Interviewer: “Can you tell me what brought about your recent decision to adopt another child?”
Ice-cold piercing needles attack my skin as I read the words on the screen.
Eleanor: “We’ve finally mended our hearts and feel whole again.”
The view changes to show a young girl, wide-eyed with an aura of innocence that radiates through the television. Her long hair is dark blond, and her eyes are a light brown, her smile happy but shy.
My heart ricochets against my rib cage at the sight of this poor girl. She has no idea of the horrors in store for her.
Goddammit, how could they do this? After they ran off their other daughter—after they subjected her to the vilest treatment—now they’re adopting another child?
The camera returns to the couple holding hands, serene smiles in place.
Interviewer: (narrates) The family is still going through the necessary steps and hopes that the adoption process will be finalized in time for Christmas.
Eleanor: “We’re very excited and look forward to her joining our family. She will be the best Christmas present we could ever ask for.”
A particularly high-pitched voice of an airline employee draws my attention from the television interview. “Attention all passengers of flight 2409 departing at 7:05 for Houston…”
With one final glance at the television now displaying what America likely assumes to be a happy family of three, I head toward the baggage claim area as lingering doubts and worries plague my mind.
I knew that coming back here would be risky. I knew it would dredge up every fragment of my past and illuminate it in a near-blinding way. Perhaps what I didn’t anticipate is the universe throwing the biggest sign in my face that I need to end this once and for all.
But in a place like D.C. that thrives beneath a veil of corruption and power, I don’t know that I can do it. I’m not sure I can step closer to the fire of my past and endure the flames of betrayal. Do I have it in me to combat it? To finally destroy the last few demons?
As I pass beneath the large decorative letters saying, Thank you for visiting Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, a prickly sense of foreboding assaults me. But trailing after it are the wise words Kat and John delivered during our final conversation before I left.
She had reached across the dining room table and taken my hands in hers, her expression softening at the automatic tensing in my palms.
Not once did she ever make me feel like a reject for not being acclimated to touch that was simply affectionate. She never let it stop her from trying to show me in small, gentle ways that there was a form of touch that was wholly innocent.
“If you leave here running hot and seeking nothing but revenge, you won’t do anyone any good. You need to be smart, or you’ll fail every victim out there.”
John’s blue eyes drew my attention as he added in his deep yet subdued voice, “Prepare yourself for what’s to come, but always expect the unexpected.” He’d leaned his arms on the table, his gaze intense but thoughtful. “You’re smart, and you’ve trained well. But you can’t let your emotions overrule you.”
“And,” Kat interjected, “the most important part is to remember that we’re always here for you.” With a little squeeze of my hands, she offered me a smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “We’ve come to think of you as one of our own.”
“It’s true.” John’s affirmation was firm, as if it was an undisputed fact. His brows drew together fiercely. “And we don’t take well to anyone fucking around with our people. So, don’t let pride stop you from calling us if you need us.”
It all sounded easy—far too easy—because even after the few years I’d stayed with them, I still kept my guard up. Not because I ever thought for one moment that Kat and John were bad people waiting to take advantage of me, but because of the years of conditioning I’d experienced.
Conditioned to expect betrayal, I anticipate pain—both emotional and physical.
“I know,” John had murmured softly, his eyes watchful. And I had no doubt that he knew exactly what I was thinking.
The man had an uncanny sense of intuition. One side of his mouth tipped up in his trademark lopsided smirk. “But you’ve got to consider this old man’s heart. I can’t take it thinking you won’t let us know if you need our help.”
My shoulders slumped even at the levity he injected into his words because I knew he meant every word. They both cared.
Hell, they cared more than the people who had raised me, and these two had only known me a short time.
I breathed out a quiet, “I promise I’ll let you know if I need help.” Not because I’d caved to their demands, but because I recognized the worry in their eyes and words. And after all they’d done for me, a promise was the least I could offer in return.
But now, as I wait for my suitcase to arrive on the baggage carousel, I wonder if this trip will result in them regretting making me promise that.
Because, if my dream is any indication and this trip snowballs the way I expect it to, they won’t be able to save me.
No one will.
Chapter 21
Agent Landon Lattimer
“You’ve gotta be fucking shitting me.”
The irritated way he squints at me clarifies what I already know, even before he says it. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the dull ache at my temples to subside. “Like I don’t have enough shit to do.” Hell, I’m already reporting to the Vice President.
Sarcasm drips from his words. “But I thought Agent Lattimer was a one-man show. The FBI’s very own superhero.”
My glare doesn’t faze him one bit. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You need to do this, but you need to tread lightly. That means no fuckups along the way, no matter how self-righteous you might get.”
Exhaling slowly, willing the tension to leave my body, I counter, “What makes you think there’s anything to this?”
He leans back casually in his seat. “Let’s just say, where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and leave it at that for now.”
His defiant gaze proves that not only is it pointless for me to push him for additional information, but there’s more to this than he’s let on.
I figured he hadn’t clued me in on every detail, but this shit pisses me the hell off.
“You need to work your magic, Lattimer.” He rises from his chair, staring down at me with steely eyes. “Get this taken care of before it’s too late.”
Chapter 22
Kennedy
Washington, D.C.
2:30 p.m.
The red brick building housing Chad Denowitz’s office is conveniently close to the Library of Congress. The well-known and successful attorney’s secretary greets me with an odd mix of reverie and urgency.
“Dr. Alexandre.” She rushes around her large mahogany desk with an outstretched hand. I accept her handshake, and she nearly jerks my arm from its socket with her energetic pumps. “I’m Sonya. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“I appreciate the opportunity.”
She relinquishes my hand and flashes an apologetic smile. “I apologize, but he’s finishing up a call that ran a bit late.”
“I completely understand.”
The sound of a door opening has us both turning to see Chad emerge from his office. He’s taller than he appears in the photo on his website as well as the dozens taken by the press after each successful trial. His thin wire-rimmed glasses paired with his expensive, tailored suit complete the picture of the well-known attorney.
“Dr. Alexandre.” He approaches, his long legs quickly eating up the scant space between us, and extends a hand to me. “Thank you for agreeing to come on board with us.”
I shake his hand. “Call me Kennedy, please. And I’m looking forward to it.”
He gestures toward his open office door. “Why don’t we sit for a moment, and I can bring you up to speed and supply you with everything we have?”
“Certainly.”
He closes the door behind us, and I settle in the simple armchair across from his desk and set my laptop briefcase beside me. Circling his desk, he takes a seat in his high-backed black leather chair. Resting his elbows on the sleek surface, he steeples his fingers.
“As you requested, you’ll be able to access the full encrypted digital file from our server in a moment.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
“The mayor refutes these accusations, but the evidence brought to us by our client is…quite disturbing.” He slips off his glasses and sets them on his desk. “She’s adamant about the validity and truth behind her statement.”
He slides his glasses back in place and reclines in his chair, his eyes boring into mine. “As I mentioned in our earlier conversation, be prepared for threats. It’s only a matter of time before it’s discovered that you’ve come on board.”
He heaves out a sigh brimming with disappointment and disgust. “The media hasn’t been holding vigil outside our doors just yet.” With a frown, he shakes his head. “In my experience, that indicates that someone doesn’t want them to catch wind of this. And I’ll be honest. None of it helps to paint the mayor in a favorable light.”
“You don’t have to worry about me getting spooked by anonymous bullies.”
“While I admire your courage, I’d like to remind you to take the necessary safety precautions.”
“Of course.”
His secretary’s voice erupts from the speaker on his desk phone. “Sir? I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have an urgent call on line one.”