Bitter Retribution

by Rachel Sharpe

  “I . . . I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His eyes focused on the gun. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand—”

  “You really are that dense.” Rosalyn laughed bitterly. “Well, let me spell it out for you. Nikole Leigh died in childbirth nine months after your disgusting little one night stand. Get it now? No? Fine. Here it is. You’re my father.”

  27

  “I’m . . . what?”

  “Believe me, I share your sentiments.” Rosalyn tilted up her chin and took a deep breath. “When my grandmother first told me the truth, I didn’t believe her. She never spoke of you when I was growing up. Not once. I grew up watching Red Steel because it was the only connection I had to my mother. I don’t care how horrible the dialogue or plot was. My mother’s in it. She’s there. I never would have dreamed her co-star was my father.”

  Roch stared at her in stunned silence.

  “I always assumed my father was some sort of war hero or something equally valiant. When I finally got up the nerve to ask my grandmother about my father a few years ago, I learned you were not the hero I imagined. My father was nothing more than a selfish womanizer who used women and disposed of them like week-old garbage. Not only had you destroyed my mother’s life and career, but you broke her heart.”

  “I . . . I—”

  “What’s this? The great Roch Turner is speechless? Someone, quick! Call Hollywood Minute!”

  “Hold on . . . please. You gotta give me a minute here.” He massaged his swollen jaw. “I . . . I never knew. She never told me.”

  “Oh, so now you remember her?” Rosalyn laughed coldly. “It’s funny how a gun can refresh your memory.”

  “What do you want? I don’t understand.”

  “What I want is my mother back. What I want is for my grandmother to have not died of debilitating cancer, alone, filled with rage and sorrow at her daughter’s senseless death, crippled by the knowledge the man responsible was living the high life!”

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “Dr. Grace . . . I mean, Rosie, I . . . I had no idea. You have to believe me.”

  “I don’t.” The gun wavered in her hands as tears filled her big, brown eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, holding his hands up defensively. “I really, really am. I mean it. I had no idea. After the movie wrapped, she . . . she disappeared. I tried calling her. I did, but her mother told me she didn’t want to speak to me. When I tried again a few weeks later, her number had changed and she had moved. I didn’t even know she had died until after the film was released . . . and I had no idea she was ever pregnant.”

  “Just shut up!” Rosalyn’s finger hovered over the trigger. “My grandmother told me all about you. About the lies. About how you manipulated women to get what you want. You may have tricked my mother, but you won’t fool me.”

  From across the clearing, I saw Jon mouthing something to me again. I strained my eyes to read his lips, but I couldn’t make out what he said. Shaking my head, I threw up my hands in frustration. He frowned, his brow furrowing with similar agitation as he attempted to pantomime his strategy. Again, I shook my head.

  “Rosie, please—”

  “Don’t call me that! Don’t ever call me that. You have no right!”

  “I want to make this right.” Roch looked at her, the gun, and back at her again, his Adam’s apple quivering. “What can I do?”

  “How about die?” She aimed the weapon at him.

  Behind her, Jon was almost jumping up and down, his bound hands shaking and his green eyes animated. My attention was divided between him and the mentally-unhinged doctor, preparing to murder her father in honor of her late mother and grandmother.

  Under normal circumstances, I suck at charades. When someone is trying to engage me in a game and someone else’s life is on the line, well, it becomes exponentially harder. Finally, I was able to make out one word. Talk.

  “Hey, uh, Rosalyn?” I called out. The gun still trained on Roch, she glanced at me sideways. “You . . . you asked me yesterday what my favorite psychology class was, but I didn’t answer the question. Are you still interested?”

  “No.” Her eyes narrowed as they returned to Roch’s. I realized, looking at them together, that she had his eyes. Big, brown eyes that drew you in and that, even under such hostile circumstances, appeared almost welcoming.

  “Are you sure?” I persisted, my heart pounding as I tried to think of another way to distract her if this attempt failed. Although I had no idea what Jon was planning, I did glimpse a grin flash across his face when I began talking to her. “You said—”

  “Last night was last night. Everything was different then. I don’t care what you have to say, especially considering the fact this is a pathetic ploy to distract me. You may have a psychology degree, but you don’t have a psychologist’s mind.”

  “I don’t have a psychologist’s mind?” I repeated, trying not to focus on the gun in her hands as I began to babble. “Are you kidding me? I went to Brown! Brown’s one of the greatest universities in the country. Their psychology program’s phenomenal. I studied under the Dr. Holt Preston and—”

  “I don’t care.” Her chest heaved as she gripped the gun with both hands. Suddenly, she turned it on me. “Do you ever shut up? You are incredibly annoying. You’ve been nothing but a nuisance since we met. You’re the only person who has constantly questioned me. You and your little boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “I don’t care!” She waved the gun for emphasis. “You two have been nothing but trouble. I’ve counseled serial killers less irksome than you.”

  “I’m not sure how to take that.”

  “Everything about you irritates me.” The wind blew her blonde hair across her face. Brushing it back, she glanced down at the gun in her hands. Slowly, she lifted it, aiming it at me. “You know, I’ve never had much experience with a gun. In fact, except for a little training at Quantico, this is the first time I’ve actually used one. It’s quite invigorating, really. How such a tiny object can change the course of a person’s life . . . even end it.”

  Staring at the gun now aimed at my heart, I swallowed hard.

  Have you ever found yourself wondering if you’ve secretly got a death wish? Sometimes, I can’t help thinking that very thing. Especially since beginning my own private investigation firm. When the number of times you find yourself on the wrong end of a Smith & Wesson comes close to requiring two hands to count, it’s understandable for a person to begin questioning her life choices, speculating if she’s brought this bad karma on herself or if she’s just plain cursed.

  “Everyone’s days are numbered, my dear.” A slight smile crossed her supple lips. “It looks like you’ve reached your last one.”

  “Not tonight, psycho.” Jon appeared behind her, wrapping the chain from his handcuffs across her throat.

  Her eyes widened as she began choking. Leaning forward, she grabbed hold of his hands and dug her nails deep into his flesh. He cried out as blood droplets formed and fell to the ground, staining the pure white snow crimson. Still gasping for air, Rosalyn managed to elbow him in the stomach and kick his shin. Despite all this, he refused to let go. Wheezing yet undeterred, she lifted the gun and tried to aim it at me.

  “What are you? Xena Barbie?” He tightened his grip and shook her as she continued to kick him. “Drop the gun!”

  Instead of complying, she glared at me, her eyes filled with blind rage. Fighting against Jon with all her strength, she pulled the trigger. The shot echoed through the cold night air. As it sounded, a ringing filled my ears and all the anxieties brought on the memories of the past few months.

  Of London. Of the last time I saw Rick and how we ended things. Of Jon. I stood there, paralyzed, as the bullet aimed for my heart hurried toward its fina
l destination. It’s amazing how slowly time moves during those moments. Those moments in life when your world is about to change.

  The milliseconds crawled by. Death reached for me with its icy fingers. A tall, dark figure rushed at me, moving swiftly through the frozen moment. He wrapped his arms around me and together, we fell to the ground. Hard. The first thing I became aware of, vividly aware of, when I realized I had not been shot, was of the burning sensation caused by the cold, wet snow on my bare skin.

  My cheek throbbed as I blinked snowflakes out of my eyelashes. Slowly, I realized that my hero was resting on top of me. Craning my neck, I saw it was Roch. Roch Turner had rushed into the bullet’s path. Roch Turner had saved my life.

  As my brain attempted to process what happened, a blood-curdling scream perforated the silence. It was Rosalyn Leigh. Straining my eyes, they adjusted slowly and focused on her. She stood above us, no longer restrained by Jon. As the smoking gun fell from her hands, she dropped to her knees. That’s when I saw the blood and time sped up. In an instant, we were surrounded.

  “Oh, God.” She covered her mouth with manicured nails. “Oh, my God, what have I done? What have I done?”

  “Everyone back up. Back up!” the medic exclaimed as he knelt down beside us.

  My eyes widened as I stared up at Roch’s heavy, motionless form. When the adrenaline subsided, I became aware of the full weight of Roch’s two hundred forty pound frame and its agonizing impact on my own body. Gritting my teeth, I felt tears well up in the corners of my eyes. They rolled down my frozen cheeks.

  The medic snapped, “I need someone to help me move him. Now!”

  “I’ll do it,” I heard Jon say. “Uncuff me. Come on! Uncuff me!”

  “Fine, but be careful. Watch his neck. Keep him steady.”

  Seconds later, Jon’s face came into view, the studio lights creating the illusion of a heavenly aura around his head and shoulders. He stared down at me, promising I would be all right, as he and the older guard helped the medic lift Roch.

  Someone pulled me out from beneath his weight before carefully helping Roch lie down again. As I began to sit up, I saw a hand appear. It was Heather’s. Accepting it, she helped me to my feet. Neither of us said a word. I knew then, despite everything that had happened, we were going to be all right. It would take a lot more than some crazed, murderous therapist to ruin our friendship.

  The next few hours were a blur. Based on past near-death experiences, I’ve come to attribute that to shock. I remember the helicopter flying in and airlifting both Roch and the redheaded guard, who was lucid by then, to Mercy Regional in Durango. I also remember the paramedic checking my vitals, something else I’ve become way too accustomed to in my line of work, and saying that I was fine.

  The older guard handcuffed Rosalyn, who, it appeared, was also in a state of shock. Nancy canceled the day’s shoot without mention of when filming would resume. As the guard hauled Rosalyn away, our eyes met and, for the first time, she did not appear to be the calm, collected, and confident woman I had met only twenty-four hours earlier. For the first time, I glimpsed the real Rosalyn Grace Leigh – a broken, scared girl, lost and completely alone.

  Somehow, in the midst of all the confusion, despair, and panic riddling the set, I found my way back to our suite, but I don’t remember how I got there. I lay on my bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling’s pristine, five-inch thick white crown molding, exhausted, but unable to sleep. From the darkness, I heard the sound of Heather’s soft breathing across the room. In spite of all that had happened, the girl was sound asleep.

  I didn’t blame her; I was actually jealous. The day had been an emotional roller coaster on crack. Despite my cell phone informing me it was well past midnight, I knew this was far from over. The repercussions of events that occurred decades ago, events that ended the life of one young woman while bringing into the world another, events that led Rosalyn Leigh to such desperate and destructive straits, would not fade beneath the sun’s bright light. Trip was dead. The young guard, injured. And Roch? The fate of my dark angel was still unknown.

  Lying there, I was again reminded of how precious life truly is. Life is such a gift and one we usually take for granted. Equally precious are the relationships we form with those we love. Thinking about the people I had met this week, the celebrities with more fame and money than I could ever imagine, I realized I had something far more important than celebrity – I had family and friends that loved me and were always there for me.

  Alson Andrews’ own mother didn’t want to spend the holidays with him, opting instead to pawn her minor son off on some stranger in exchange for a week-long spa vacation. And Roch Turner had more ex-wives than Emmys and no children, other than a psychologically-damaged daughter he had never known. She was now facing jail time for criminal charges brought on by his absence. Lying there, thousands of miles away from home on one of the greatest of all family holidays, I began to feel guilty about my decision.

  My life wasn’t perfect, but I had a lot to be thankful for. Twice in six months I managed to evade death. And I didn’t mean that figuratively. If there were nothing else, the fact that I was still alive and in one piece would be a pretty awesome reason to celebrate. But, that wasn’t it. There were many good things in my life – my career, my family, and my friends. I just never stopped to appreciate them. Realizing I would not be falling asleep anytime soon, I grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand and pushing back the cozy covers, got out of bed and tiptoed out into the dark and freezing living room.

  Closing the door softly, I walked over to the couch. I sat down, grabbing a complimentary, paper thin blanket from the far left cushion and wrapping myself in it. Once I was finally a little warm, I grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on the television, making sure the volume was on low. A five minute search uncovered ten infomercials, two nineties comedies, and one late night talk show. Settling on the talk show, I turned my attention to my cell phone, where I discovered I had missed four calls yesterday.

  Two were from my mother and two from Alicia. And they both left two messages. Instead of being irritated by this, I just laughed. I smiled as I listened to my mother’s messages, filled with hyperbolic holiday cheer in the face of my close-minded and unrelenting grandmother, whose voice was very audible in the background. I cracked up as Alicia recounted the most hilarious and most awkward encounters between my mother and grandmother, careful to quote them verbatim for added humor. She ended the message with, “Love you, sis.”

  Lying there, alone and really, really cold, I found myself, for probably the first time ever, missing my crazy family. Opening my cell phone’s Internet browser, I decided to price flights from Logan to Louis Armstrong for Christmas. As I began my search, I noticed that I had eight unread messages. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, I clicked the link to my account.

  Three were from prospective clients requesting consultations. One was from my free-spirited college roommate, Katie, inviting me to join her on Thanksgiving in Plymouth to protest the destruction of a beautiful culture, the Wampanoag’s. Another came from Michelle, again inviting me to join the Cross family in New Seabury for a family Thanksgiving. After that were several automated junk messages. I almost closed the link when I noticed another message from Rick’s cousin, Arthur, who I assumed was still in London with Rick, with the subject line, “Please read ASAP!”

  I stared at that subject line for a long time, debating whether or not to even open it. Arthur’s name evoked the stinging memory of the image of Rick, leaning in to kiss the beautiful redhead only a week after we broke up. It also reminded me of missing his call and thinking about him, my heart began to hurt. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I took another deep breath as I opened the message.

  Arthur began by apologizing for any confusion his message may have caused. He explained that his father, the ambassador, had invit
ed them to some political event and while there, they ran into an old friend from France, Jacqueline, who they met during their gap year abroad. He said that ever since they arrived in London, Rick had been miserable. All he wanted to do was call me, but Arthur told him to give me some space. When they ran into Jacqueline that night, Arthur suggested they dance, hoping an old friend might cheer him up. Rick wasn’t interested, but he finally agreed.

  The photo was taken after their one and only dance. The camera snapped the shot the moment she was kissing him goodbye. When Rick found out about the picture, he was worried I might misinterpret it and tried to call me. When I didn’t answer, he assumed the worst and became even more upset. Arthur ended the message by saying again how sorry he was, that there was nothing between Rick and Jacqueline, and if I wouldn’t mind, to “help a guy out” and at least reply to the message so Rick would know I received it and maybe then he would talk to him again.

  Arthur’s message, did, in fact, make me feel a little better. But I wasn’t convinced. I searched my inbox for the dreaded email that caused me such heartache. Opening the original message, I scrolled to that picture and stared at it again.

  On closer inspection, I could see they were not locked in some intimate moment, but that she was kissing him as he pulled away, not leaning in closer. I felt like an idiot for thinking, even for a second, that Rick could be like the rest of the jerks I had dated. Returning to Arthur’s most recent message, I was about to reply when I had a better idea. Closing the browser, I pulled up my text message history and found Rick’s name.

  Thinking back on the past few days, I wanted to send the perfect message. I wanted to express my feelings for him. I wanted to tell him how much I missed him and how much he meant to me. I wanted to tell him all that with the eloquence of an award-winning screenwriter, but, at that early, sleepless hour, I couldn’t think of anything better than, “Happy Thanksgiving. I miss you.”