Accepting his need to control my life under the guise of protecting me is the stumbling block that consistently trips me up. The overwhelming need to keep me safe clouds his judgment and drives me away.
I swing into an empty parking spot in the parking garage under my apartment building, grab my night's reading material, and head to the elevator. My heels click against the cement, echoing through the cavernous space. A second, heavier set of footsteps offset mine. I glance around the garage, empty—quiet—utterly eerie. I pick up my pace, my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes glued to the elevator. My head is telling me I'm being paranoid again, until I hear the other footsteps—in perfect time with my accelerated pace.
My hand is shaking, dancing around the elevator call button. I manage to push it in, the light a welcome beacon through the dizzying fear swirling around in my head, followed by the sweet sound of the ding as the elevator doors open. I dart inside, push the door close button, and chance a glimpse into the garage. No one is there. At least, no one I can see.
The elevator wall is cool against my back, I close my eyes, and rest my head against it. My breathing slows, almost normal again, and I laugh. One step away from the straight jacket fitting. The thumping in my head usually indicates a lack of caffeine, but I think I've had about three pots of coffee today. Probably the overwhelming nervous tension coursing through me. My stress level continues to rise incrementally, a roller coaster on it's ascent to the clouds, the apprehension growing with every tick up the long track.
Unlocking the apartment, I practically fall through the door. Dumping all the files, my briefcase, and purse on the table, I head to the wine rack and pull out a bottle of Chilean Carmenere. Filling the glass nearly to the rim, I take a large sip, and savor the chocolatey flavor with notes of plum. Allowing the wine to sit on my tongue, I close my eyes, and tip my head back before letting it slide down my throat. It's as close to an orgasm as I will get tonight—or any night in the near future—and I silently thank Alex for teaching me the subtleties of wine.
Opening my eyes, I lift the glass to my lips, when my eyes fall on a long box laying on the counter. "Ryan and Paul must have left flowers for me," I mutter, grab the small white envelope taped to the top of the carton, and remove the card.
Soon you will suffer the same fate…
I turn the card over in my hand, my mind grappling with the meaning of the cryptic message. No signature. I pull the box closer to me, lift the lid, discard the tissue paper. A thick black ribbon is tied around a bunch of long-stemmed roses—all of them dead.
I stumble backwards, and cover my mouth to stifle a scream. My hands tremble and the card floats effortlessly to my feet. Visions of the decapitated cat John sent me a few months ago flood my mind, and I'm right back in the same tailspin. The only thing that kept me centered then was having Alex. He allowed me to fall apart, while simultaneously giving me strength. I need him now—but things are too complicated. Calling him will muddy the waters. He'll expect forgiveness, and reconciliation—two things I'm unable to hand over just yet.
I snatch my purse from the table, roll through the contacts, and press the call button.
It rings twice. "Reyes."
"Hi, it's Kylie." I utterly fail at masking the tremors in my voice. "I have a problem and I'm hoping you can come to my apartment and help me figure out what to do."
"Yeah, sure. Is everything alright?" His voice is soft, but laced with concern.
"I don't know." Tears break the lower lid barrier and roll down my cheeks. I swipe them away and clear my throat.
"What's your address?" I give it to him, and he says, "I'll be right over," and ends the call.
I grasp the back of the couch and limp around to the front before my knees buckle and I fall onto it. Too many questions swirl around in my head demanding answers I don't have, and forcing me to consider the irrational as reasonable. John is behind this—he broke into my apartment, left the flowers, along with the promise. My death at his hands.
Loud knocks at the door startle me, and for a moment, I fear John is here to make good on his threats.
"Kylie, it's Reyes. Open the door."
I scramble to my feet, rush to the door, and yank it open. Deep lines wrinkle his forehead, his eyes squint, a grimace across his face. He steps inside, closes the door, and turns the deadbolt. He's locking me in. Forcing me to remain here against my will. He doesn't want to help me—he wants to destroy me. A knot forms in my stomach, a rush of adrenaline courses through my body, and I consider whether or not I can flip the lock and get the door open before he can stop me. My head is spinning, visions and thoughts are a jumbled mess, and I can't stop the loud warning bells clanging in my head. There's no one I can trust.
"Jesus, Kylie, what the hell is going on?" Reyes pulls my hands away from my ears. I peer at him, expecting to see the same evil grin on John's face when he knows he has scared the shit out of me. But his expression is soft, a small smile brightens his eyes, which keep steady contact with mine. His fingertips brush away a strand of hair from my face and he lets his hand linger and caress my cheek.
I take a deep breath and hold it. What is wrong with me? How could I possibly think Reyes was here to harm me? I called him to come over and help me. I sigh, my slump under the heaviness that weighs them down. I point to the box on the counter. Reyes approaches it, tentatively pulls back the tissue paper, and peers inside. I scoop up the card from the floor, and hand it to him as he turns toward me.
"They were here when I got home," I say. "I don't know who left them or how they got into my apartment."
Reyes takes the card from me, his eyes lift to meet mine, his eyebrows scrunch together.
I shift back and forth on my feet. "It's John."
Reyes' mouth opens, but he shuts it without saying whatever he inevitably wants to convey. I can only imagine it starts with, "you're crazy" and ends with, "you need help." He blows out his cheeks, shakes his head, and releases a long breath. "That's impossible."
"It's him—I know it's him. This is what he does. You were there when he sent me the dead cat. And he left a note, threatening to kill me. And now he's done it again. Tell me you see that?"
"Yes, it's similar, but John is locked up. Do you seriously believe he escaped and broke in here, just to leave you a dozen dead roses?" His hands run up and down my upper arms. He cocks his head to the side, and offers a small smile. "Think about it, Kylie. It just doesn't make sense that it was John."
I wrap my arms tighter across my chest. My jaw is clenched tightly. God, could he be anymore condescending? He has no idea what's it like to live in constant fear that John will appear, trap me—rape and murder me. He doesn't have to endure the nightmares that force me to relive the abuse, torture, and humiliation by a man who enjoys making me beg for my life, who sneers and laughs when I scream for help—or mercy. The man who tossed me to the floor, smeared his come all over my bloody, broken body, and then left me there, nothing more than trash he kicked to the corner.
"Who else could it have been?" I ask.
Reyes looks down at his feet and shakes his head before he gazes at me, his eyes sympathetic. "I don't know, but there has to be another answer."
I exhale and look away. I can't stand the pity I see in his eyes. The total disbelief in his demeanor.
"Hey, Kylie," he reaches for my hand and squeezes it. "I'll take everything with me, and have the lab check it for fingerprints, or anything that might point to whoever did this. I'll make some calls and see if I can find out where the flowers came from, and who paid for them. Okay?"
I'm not really comfortable with the intimacy of his actions tonight. We barely know each other, our relationship is purely professional, yet he's acting as if we have a burgeoning romance. I gently extricate my hand from his. My shoulders sag and I nod my head. "Okay. Thank you."
"No problem." He walks into the kitchen and glances around. "Trash bags?"
"Under the sink."
Carefully, he places the
card and envelope on top of the roses, replaces the lid on the box, and slides it into the trash bag, tying it shut. I hold the door open as he leaves. In the hallway, he turns to me. "Lock the door. I'll see you in the morning."
I smile and nod as he steps onto the elevator and the doors close. I grab my wine off the counter on my way to the bedroom. I change into lounge pants and a tank top, grab the TV remote, and curl up under the covers. I regret calling Reyes instead of Alex. All I want right now is to feel Alex's strong arms around me, the way he covers my face with soft kisses, and whispers that he will protect me and keep me safe. He comforts me like a warm blanket on a cold night. Reyes tried to console me, but I don't know him, and I don't want him. Alex is my rock, the light that guides me to shore when my life is tossed around like a boat on an angry sea.
I need him so badly, but he betrayed my trust, and I'm left to face this threat on my own.
Chapter Twelve
Lisa and I sit in my office, going through files, and chatting about her upcoming midterms. It feels like old times, when she was my legal assistant. She has been with me for the last ten years, through my harrowing relationship with John, and when I first met and fell in love with Alex. So much has changed in such a short amount of time, my heart aches whenever I think about all the good times Alex and I shared. I miss them. I miss him.
Reyes appears at the top of the steps and bounds into my office with a smile that covers his entire face. He reminds me of a dog that's just happy to see the owner—tail wagging, tongue hanging out. Lisa stares at him as if he's lost his mind and fearful he'll turn into a psychotic killer in the blink of an eye.
"Hey," he says, a little out of breath. "Good news, I have the nine-one-one call from the night Ellen Wells died."
"The one Alex made?" I ask.
Reyes nods, his eyes darting back and forth between Lisa and me, waiting for one of us to acknowledge this as a truly wonderful moment. I catch Lisa's eye, she shrugs, and turns her attention back to Reyes.
Okay, I'll bite.
"Um, didn't we already have that? I thought it came with all the trial evidence."
Reyes claps his hands and rubs them together. "Yes, but it was an old analog tape. The IT geeks at the DA's office converted it to a wav file, filtered out all the static, amplified the audio so it's clearer. Then uploaded it to my computer—"
I lift my arm and put my hand out in front of me. "Stop talking. I don't speak computer tech shit. Are we able to listen to it?"
"Yep," he answers, the grin even wider across his face, which I wouldn't have thought impossible.
I shrug and glance at Lisa. "Let's do this."
Reyes is hooking his laptop up to some speakers he brought with him. I've actually been dreading this. I'm not sure my heart can handle hearing Alex on that night. It nearly destroyed him when he finally opened up and talked to me about it—and that was eighteen years after the fact. To hear him having to relay that his mother was brutally beaten by his father and was dying on the floor in front of him—it's going to be one of the hardest things to sit through and remain professional and objective.
The sound of a phone ringing breaks the silence in the conference room.
"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" The female dispatcher asks.
"I need the police." Alex starts crying heavily into the phone.
"Okay, I need you to calm down and tell me what's going on?"
"My mom."
"What's the matter with your mom?"
"I think she's dead." The desperation in his voice nearly rips my heart to shreds. Tears build and it's everything I can do to keep them at bay.
"Is she breathing?" the dispatcher asks.
There's scuffling sounds in the background. Alex's voice sounds distant, as if he has pulled the phone away from his mouth. "No, she made some gurgling noises, and blood is coming out of her mouth…and her nose. But she's not making any sounds now."
"What's your name?"
"Alex."
"Okay, Alex. I'm Delia. Can you tell me what happened to your mom?"
"It's my fault. She's dead and it's all my fault."
"What?" The dispatcher's voice raises an octave.
Nothing but the sound of sobs can be heard. My heart skips a few beats. It's becoming harder to breath. God, I want desperately to hold him in my arms, close to my heart, and whisper to him that it's going to be okay.
"I couldn't protect her," Alex says through broken sobs. "I couldn't stop him from hurting her."
"It's okay, Alex," the dispatcher says, her voice calmer, softer. "Help is coming, but I need you to tell me what happened. Who couldn't you stop?"
"My dad…" Alex's voice trails off, replaced by whimpers. "He kicked her, and punched her over and over. She was crying and trying to get away. Then he started banging her head against the floor."
"Is your dad still in the house?"
"No, he left."
"Is there anyone else in the house with you?"
"Yeah," Alex's voice softens. "My brother and sisters."
"Are they in the room with you and your mom?"
"No! I never let them see him hit her."
"Alex," the dispatcher's voice is quiet, tentative, "did your dad hit you?"
There is a long pause. "Yeah…I only wanted him to stop hurting my mom…but I couldn't help her…" His statements are broken up by short, breathy sobs.
Tears break free and roll down my face. Alex—always the protector. Of course he would put himself in harm's way to keep his siblings safe. If he could have figured out how to take the beatings for his mother, and spare her the pain and humiliation, I have no doubt he would have without a second thought or a single regret.
The sound of police arriving on the recording can be heard and, soon after, the call is disconnected. The conference is quiet. I'm not sure any of us is still breathing.
Reyes shifts in his seat, runs his hand down his face, and releases a long, heavy exhale. "Jesus, how could anyone listen to that and think he had anything to do with his mother's death?"
"It's clear that Alex never confessed to killing his mom," Lisa adds.
I'm frozen—no, I'm numb. I'm completely and utterly wrecked.
I clear my throat. "Hey, can I have a minute?"
"Of course." Lisa stands, squeezes my shoulder, and walks around the conference room to the door. Reyes follows her, glancing over his shoulder at me. I'm sure he'd like some sort of sign that I'm okay, but I can't give it to him. A little piece of my soul is sobbing for Alex, and for his mother, and I can't believe that I will ever be able to get the sound of Alex's voice out of my head.
When Alex finally opened up about his mother's death, I thought I understood the pain he felt. What I understood was how much pain he was in retelling the story. But now—hearing his voice—being transported back to when the incident was taking place, it finally struck me how horrible his life must have been. He lived in a world of alcohol-induced violence. Forced to watch the life drain out of his mother, knowing he was powerless to prevent it.
She was the first woman he ever loved—the only woman, until me. My father's death destroyed me, but I didn't have to witness it. What if I had? Would I be the same person I am now? Would I be strong? As strong as Alex?
He's told me so many times that his greatest fear is not being able to protect me—save me—and I belittle him for it. I scoff at it when he tries to explain why he let me believe for so long that John died.
I amble into my office, drop into my chair, and grab my cell phone off the desk. My screensaver pops up—my favorite picture of Alex, head tipped back just a little bit, laughing while he tries to fend off my incessant picture taking. My emotions are all over the place. I love Alex, but even though I understand his compulsion to protect me, I'm not okay with how he determines what I need and how much I can handle. I want to forgive him, but I'm not sure I can let go of the pain of his betrayal.
And, somewhere deep, I know I am being unreasonable—and that I
may lose more than I will gain by holding so tightly to this resentment.
After a quick lunch by the water, the walk back to the office clears my head. The nine-one-one call still has me reeling, but sitting on the dock, sharing my sandwich with the ducks, provides a much needed nudge to get me through the rest of the day. A cool breeze rushes past me, but the sun is shining, reminding me that so many things in life look one way, but are deceptively different—including the change in seasons.
There are only a few cars on the road, the onset of cooler weather is slowing the influx of tourists in the area. A horn blasts behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin as I turn to see what the hell is going on. A man in a truck with a ridiculously high lift is screaming and gesturing at an old man driving his Cadillac, seemingly oblivious that he's the cause of such a commotion. I chuckle, and continue on my walk. A man across the street catches my attention. He's tall, dark hair, suit…he looks like ninety percent of the men on this street of almost exclusively law offices. The man's face is obscured, but there is something in the way he is standing with one hand in his pocket and the either oddly straight at his side. I suck in a breath, and my heart stops. There's only one other person I know who stands in such a uniquely odd manner.
John Sysco.
It can't be! Every ounce of blood drains from my extremities and pools at my feet. John's locked away. He can't be here! The man finally lifts his head, and confirms my worst fear. Even from this distance, I'm his prisoner, unable to move, and helpless to look away. He advances toward me, a smile as demonic as he is darkens his features, and I'm reminded of the depths of his depravity. Visions assail me, one on top of the other in quick succession—the flogging, the blood, the assaults—and I'm wracked with fear and humiliation, as I always am during these episodes.
Revenge: Tri-Stone Trilogy, Book Two Page 10