What the hell did we drink last night? I don’t even remember going to bed.
Tequila and lots of it.
Are you sick?
Yeah. So sick. In fact, I gotta go.
He responds with a frowny face. Yuck.
My Steven is a regular Florence Nightingale.
I drive my rental all the way out to Apple Valley this time. The church is quiet, though I can hear people in their offices working down the hall. Pastor Hepsworth’s secretary isn’t at her desk, so I knock on his closed office door.
“Yes?” he calls.
I open it a few inches and stick my head in.
“Jane?” he sits up straighter. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to apologize,” I say.
He cocks his head, puzzled. “Apologize for what, my dear?”
“For lying to you yesterday.”
“About what?”
“I don’t want you to be angry . . .” I drop my head in shame.
“I promise I won’t be angry. I’m here to help you in any way I can.”
I swallow hard and raise my gaze to meet his. “You were right, sir. I . . . I did text you this weekend.”
His gray eyebrows fly high. “The picture. It was you.”
“Yes. It was me. I was . . . I was just scared to admit it to you, Pastor Hepsworth. I’m sorry.”
“My word, Jane.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I sent it! You’re just such a great man, and I wanted . . . I wanted . . .” I break off and take a shuddering breath. “Can you forgive me for what I’ve done?”
He tilts his head a little, looking past me toward his secretary’s desk. It’s still empty. “Maybe you’d better come inside, my dear,” he says, his voice deepening. “I think we need to have a talk.”
“Yes, sir.” I hit a button on my phone; then I slip into his office and close the door behind me.
CHAPTER 47
I’ve taken my time and really thought this out. I think audio is the way to go. Hidden video is just a little too menacing for the public to deal with. They might feel a twinge of sympathy for the subjects, and I don’t want even a hint of softness to mar this day.
Also, it’s really best if there’s a buildup. Everybody likes a slow reveal. So I’m forcing myself to have patience and plan this out minute by minute. It’s not easy.
On Friday I don’t bother calling in sick to work. I’ll never return there again. I spend the day packing up the few personal belongings from my apartment and loading them into the SUV. I close my cat into her carrier and I put her in the rental too; then I drive to the InterContinental Hotel in St. Paul and check into a suite. It has a great bathtub.
No cats are allowed in the hotel, of course, but I leave the maid a fifty every morning so she doesn’t see anything, not even the litter box.
On Saturday I carefully set up a new email account through a relay server and enter all of the contacts I stole from Steven’s phone. His siblings are in there, of course, and I assume a lot of his church members are too. I recognize two of the names as fellow deacons. I add some of his friends from work and all of his bosses.
I order room service. I sip champagne in the bathtub. I watch boats passing by on the river. What a relaxing day.
On Sunday I get up early and head to church. I’m not wearing a flowery dress today. Instead I wear jeans and a tight sweater. I put my hair up and slide on dark glasses. I stay in my car as people file into the building.
At 8:55 my email alert dings. Sunday service hasn’t quite started yet, but Steven will be in place at the front of the hall with the other deacons. He won’t be checking email or texts. He’s busy setting a good example.
I open the email titled “Hepsworth Family Values Part One” and click on the attached audio file to listen to Steven telling me to pose for him, to touch myself, to get on my knees.
It’s not that scandalous, really. I mean, it’s pornographic, but mostly harmless. Nothing the other men inside the church wouldn’t do, given half a chance.
And there’s no video of Steven, no picture or visual evidence, so at most this file is something to titter over and discuss. I say his name several times in the recording, but he can deny it’s him and a lot of people will give him the benefit of the doubt. That’s fine.
Behind my vehicle, a man and his wife are hurrying across the parking lot when she stops dead in her tracks with her phone to her ear. She gapes openmouthed for a moment, then snaps the phone away from her ear. “Brent!” I hear her yell, but her husband is already at the church door, holding it open and waving her in.
Music rises up inside. The door closes as the woman rushes in, her hands waving as she tries to explain the email to her husband. Even with the doors closed, the muffled sound of the choir beginning to sing leaks past the glass. I get out of the SUV and stroll across the parking lot.
The vestibule is nearly deserted by the time I enter. A woman is on her feet, rocking a fussy baby in her arms. A little girl comes out of the bathroom and heads for the doors to the hall. Just as she’s going inside a man stalks out of the doors, his phone to his ear, face stunned. A few seconds later another guy follows.
“What the hell is this?” he hisses.
Sliding my sunglasses off, I peek through the slowly closing door to the great hall. Most of the parishioners are singing along with the choir, but here and there I see pockets of people whispering. It’s not enough of a disruption to stop the service, but it’s enough to start a vibration of conversation.
I creep closer and prop open a door with my foot. Steven is oblivious at the front, his face raised toward his father, who stands at his lectern listening blissfully to the glorious music behind him.
Steven sings along. His world is still intact. He can’t see the cracks working through the foundation beneath him. I watch the scene for a little while. The people closest to the front are the most pious and obedient and none of them know yet, but the back rows are aflutter.
My email dings again. I hear the buzz of one of the other phones in the vestibule. I can’t stop the chuckle that rises in my throat.
The Hepsworth Family Values Part Two file is a little more scandalous. In fact, it’s downright disgraceful. Steven sounds so arrogant, so drunkenly pleased with himself as he tells the story of his sordid affair with his stepmom, the pastor’s wife, the matron of this faithful, pious community. Oh, Steven. How could you? How could you betray your father this way?
I cut out his tearful regret at the end, of course. He can express that on his own if he wants to. And he will want to, I’m sure.
An actual screech gurgles up from the crowd. Several people stand up. I back away from the doors and let them shut, but they soon swing open again. The choir is still singing, but most of the congregation has realized that something terrible is happening. Some have phones pressed to their ears, but most are huddled in groups in the pews, communicating in frantic gestures and rumbles of words over the music.
The doors stay open almost continuously now as people trickle out. The choir begins a new song, but the sound is weakening as the people in the choir begin craning their necks at the jumbled audience.
I spy Steven standing at the front of the room, turning in a slow circle, totally confused by the uproar. Pastor Hepsworth looks mildly concerned and moderately puzzled, but he still has no idea what’s coming.
As more people surge into the vestibule, the roar becomes deafening. Just before I turn to walk out, there’s a break in the crowd and I see Steven approaching his father at the lectern, his brows drawn down in concern. In that sweet moment his gaze touches mine. His eyes widen. I smile at him.
Jane? I see him mouth in confusion. I let my smile widen to a grin. I let him see my pure, heartfelt joy. I hope he’ll remember this smile for the rest of his life. Then I wave and turn to walk away.
As I reach the door, I hear a dozen more phones buzz. My email dings. I head to my vehicle and start the engine.
&nbs
p; Safe in the warmth of my big black SUV, I listen to the last audio file. Hepsworth Family Values Part Three is a real barn burner.
Is that Pastor Hepsworth, our Pastor Hepsworth, telling a woman to lie down on his desk? My God, is he praying for her as he takes her in his church office? Is she . . . ? Oh my God, is she calling him Daddy and begging for forgiveness for her sins?
I giggle over that. I’d really played that part up, and he’d loved it, groaning and growling with pleasure at my subservience, calling me his sweet girl as he pounded me. My performance sounds so sincere. I do my best work when I know there’s an audience. And what an audience it is.
A woman bolts from the church, sobbing. She’s the only one fleeing so far. Most of them will stick around for quite a while to watch this play out.
It’s not every day you get to see a man destroyed. It’s not every day you get to watch a whole family burn. This isn’t one isolated incident. This isn’t a simple transgression that can be forgiven.
I roll down my window. The music has stopped. Now the church rumbles as if boulders are tumbling through it. It’s the sound of a mob.
I sit in my car and watch for a long time. People begin to drift out, all of them upset and angry and betrayed. Even some of the men are crying.
I hear shouting through the glass. The children’s Bible study classes are led out to the grassy area beside the church as if a fire alarm has gone off. The teachers want to get them far away from the flames of scandal. They lead the kids in a round of “Jesus Loves Me,” but then one of the teachers breaks into sobs and runs back inside. The children grow quiet for a moment until they’re finally allowed to wander over to the church playground.
When a few more worshippers bolt through the vestibule doors into the parking lot, I decide to leave before the traffic gets too bad.
My work here is finally done.
CHAPTER 48
Steven is crying again. I pop a room service nacho into my mouth and put my feet up on the hotel desk to watch tiny Steven on my monitor as he paces around his kitchen island.
“I told you I don’t know!” he yells into his phone. “She’s just someone I met at work. I don’t know why she would do this! I went to her place, and I . . . I think it’s empty. I think maybe . . .”
Steven rubs his face, then shakes his head as the person on the other end of the line says something. “I know. I know. Just . . . will you please ask Dad to call me? He won’t answer my calls and I . . . I . . . I don’t know how he is. Ted, please! Please, I was drunk and I didn’t know what I was saying. Please!”
He slides down to the floor and curls up into a ball to sob. I guess Ted didn’t have anything helpful to contribute.
I turn off the sound and watch Steven lie in a heap for a few minutes before he pushes himself up and stumbles to the fridge for another beer. I pick through the last of my nachos with a sigh. It’s not that I’m not enjoying myself, but it’s been three days, and his weeping is getting a little boring.
All I’ve thought about for months is getting revenge, and now I have it.
On Monday, Steven’s company suggested he take a leave of absence. I’m not sure they have grounds to fire him, but there’s no doubt they won’t let him come back. No one wants to look a man in the face after they’ve listened to him get a blow job and brag about sleeping with his stepmom.
On Tuesday he kept leaving the house and then returning. Leaving and returning. It seems he was driving to his father’s house, but no one would answer the door. He apparently stopped by my apartment as well, but the lights aren’t on and no one is home. I like to imagine him banging on the door and furiously screaming my name. I hope the old barfly down the hall read him the riot act and told him to get lost.
It’s Wednesday now and I guess I’ve seen all I need to see. Amazingly he doesn’t seem to suspect that there might be cameras in his house. The audio files really fooled him. Any American can make a secret recording on a smartphone these days. Privacy is an illusion, and people have accepted that, though it hasn’t made them any more discreet. Please see recordings number one, two, and three.
What I’ve done is nothing close to murder, but I’ve still braced myself for some sort of danger. Minnesota is a one-party-consent state for recording, but I assume I could be charged with other minor crimes, like stalking or fraud. Invasion of privacy. Even revenge porn, if they’ve put that on the books yet. But if anyone has called the police, I haven’t heard about it. Maybe the Hepsworths don’t want more attention. If this went to trial, it would be a huge national hit.
So now I’m feeling a little . . . deflated. I’m not sure what to do with myself.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m satisfied. It’s not quite an eye for an eye, but it’s darn close.
On the monitor, Steven puts his phone to his ear. I turn the sound back on in time to hear him rasp my name. “Jane? You’d better call me back, you evil bitch. Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Why did you do this?” He hangs up and starts crying again.
I blow him a kiss. “That was all for Meg, sweetie. Love you bunches.” That was how Meg always signed off on emails. I guess Steven never noticed.
I want to tell him. I desperately want him to know that this was all for Meg. I would have if I’d stabbed him in the woods. I’d have whispered it in his ear over and over again. But I’ve let him live, and now I can’t offer him the relief of knowing.
Because it would be a relief. To know who I was and why I did it. Steven would be able to blame it all on Meg. Hang another sign on her corpse and tell himself that none of this was his fault. It was all that crazy bitch Meg and her crazy bitch friend.
No, this way is better. Let him wonder for the rest of his life. Let him look into every shadow and worry I’m waiting to hurt him again. Let him believe that any woman might destroy him at any time.
I’ll know I did it all for Meg and that will have to be enough.
Meg.
I still miss her. Revenge hasn’t eased that. I guess I hoped I might wake up Monday morning and feel better. But every morning I wake up and she is still gone and I am still hollow.
I haven’t eased the terrible loss. I haven’t made that better. Is there any way to do that? I know what other people do. Is that the secret? To pretend to grieve like a real person?
I close the laptop and grab my coat and keys. This is something I didn’t want to do, which means I should probably do it.
It only takes fifteen minutes to get to my destination. She’s been so close this whole time.
I park along the narrow, twisting road and walk between stones and trees until I come to her grave. The marker is tiny. I guess there wasn’t money for anything grand. I should have thought of that. I should have offered to pay for something pretty.
Megan Peterson, beloved daughter.
I wish it said more. I wish it sang her praises. That she was pretty, yes, but that her smile made her absolutely glow. That she was kind to everyone, even those of us who were broken. That she never tired of helping her friends, though she finally grew too tired to save herself.
“I miss you,” I say. Then I stand silent.
I don’t believe in prayer. I know she’s not listening. I have no idea why I’ve come. Still, I stand there for a long time. I think maybe I’ll cry, but I don’t. It’s just me, alone, empty as ever.
“Meg,” I finally whisper. “It’s not what you would have wanted, but I made him pay for hurting you. I made him hurt too. Because I love you, Meg. I know I love you. You’re all I ever had.”
Meg doesn’t answer, and I’m empty and dry.
I wish Luke were here with me. He would have told me to bring flowers.
I’m sure he’s been texting and calling, but I destroyed that phone on Friday. I thought I’d leave in a couple of days. I thought I’d have to. It’s time to go home.
But home to what?
My big apartment, my big job, the big parties where I meet men I can use for a week or two? There’s no Meg wai
ting to hear what I’ve been up to. No one I can call and gossip with. No plans to make for visits. No silly surprise greeting cards to remind me that someone somewhere truly cares about me.
I don’t have a Meg anymore. But . . . maybe I could have a Luke.
It’s just now dawning on me that I can stay if I want. Stay here in this city that’s so perfect in the summer and too cold and quiet in the winter. In this place that reminds me of Meg. In the only place I’ve ever felt any sense of family.
If no one files any charges, then I have nothing to fear. I’m free. Even if I run into Steven on the street one day, I’ll just smile with a lot of teeth and watch his face pale. But we don’t really run in the same circles.
I could be nearly real here, at least for a little while. Luke doesn’t know me the way Meg did. He probably never will. But he knows that I’m different. And he likes it. He might even learn to whisper “Be nice, Jane” just when I need it.
Or maybe there’s a chance I could be really real in this life. Is that possible? I’ve never imagined it before.
I enjoy Luke. I like him. And, more than that, I trust him. Maybe that would be enough for me to be in a true relationship. If I can predict his actions and intentions, perhaps I could really understand him in a way I’ve never understood other humans. Maybe I could love and be loved.
But maybe not. I pull up a list of flights to Kuala Lumpur and I wonder.
CHAPTER 49
I get my hair dyed back to its usual midnight brown at a very expensive salon. I have it cut into a sleek shoulder-length bob with a straight line of bangs that fall just to my eyebrows. I go shopping to buy tight skirts and knee-high boots and four shades of red lipstick, each darker and bloodier than the last. I feel almost myself again. Whenever I pass a mirror, I smile and say, “Hello, Jane.”
I’m back.
Even the Hepsworth family might not recognize me if I walked right into their church and said hi. My cat isn’t fooled, though. When I return to the suite after my transformation is complete, she barely glances up from her perch in the window.
Jane Doe Page 22