by Jason Pinter
“I am. They know if the civil suit goes to trial, they could end up paying multiples of what we proposed in the settlement, not to mention the public relations catastrophe and media coverage of a trial. The lawsuit has been snaking its way through Connecticut Superior Court, but I just got a call from Ariel Nesbit at the Darien Law Department saying they wanted to talk.”
Rachel sat back, closed her eyes. “Tell me you’re not kidding.”
“You know I wouldn’t do that to you. Not after what you and those kids have been through.”
Rachel felt tears spring to her eyes. “How much, then?”
“Six.”
Rachel’s jaw dropped. Her fingers felt tingly. “Did you say . . . six?”
“Six point two, to be precise.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God.”
“Now, if it goes to trial, there’s a chance the jury sympathizes with you, sees those kids, knows the full extent of what the police did—and didn’t do—and awards you more than we’re asking. But that’s not a given. And the amount of time and, frankly, money it would cost you to go through with that isn’t worth it, in my opinion. This gives you a chance to move on with your life. Start fresh. Find a new home, get out of that furnished rental you’re in right now. Get your life back.”
“Money won’t give us our life back,” she said.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It was a poor choice of words. But this will give you a chance to move forward without worrying about groceries, clothes. You won’t have to worry about any of that for a long, long time.”
“Is this before or after taxes?”
“After.”
Rachel paused, let it sink in. “It’ll pay for their college.”
“And then some.”
Rachel felt tears welling up. “Now I just have to worry about raising them.”
“I think you’ll do splendidly,” Franklin said. “If I can make a suggestion, with the money you have coming, I would recommend starting up a 529 account for both children. I can send over the paperwork as soon as the money clears.”
“Thank you, Jim. I’m sorry for snapping. As you can imagine, I’m still not dealing with all of this very well. Strange to think about money, given everything.”
“Who would deal with this kind of situation well?” Franklin said. “I can’t speak about the emotional side, but I know you’ll take care of those kids. And the money will allow you to go back to work on your own terms.”
“I will, eventually. Something without a lot of responsibility where I don’t have to take my work home with me at the end of the day.”
“I think that’s a good idea. Just make sure that when you do go back, you get health insurance. Six point two seems like a lot, but if something happens, there’s nothing more expensive than a lengthy illness.”
“I’ll make sure of that,” Rachel said. “Also, I’ve been thinking. I think it’s time to leave the East Coast. Start all over somewhere else.”
“I can help with that,” Franklin said. “I know some Realtors.”
“Fine. But it would have to be someone we can trust. I don’t want a trail he can follow.”
“I may know someone here in Darien,” Jim said. “Whenever you’re ready, we can talk about getting you settled elsewhere. Do you have a place in mind?”
“Maybe somewhere in the Midwest. Someplace quiet. I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll await word.”
“Thank you, Jim. I’ll be in touch. And send over the paperwork for the kids’ accounts. They need to be taken care of first.”
“You got it. Be well, Olivia.”
“Jim?” she said.
“Yes, Olivia?”
“Just one more question. Do they . . . know where he is?”
She heard a long, drawn-out breath on the other end.
“The official word is that the police and FBI are currently unaware of the location of Harwood Greene. And given the circumstances surrounding his arrest and trial, they are not looking for him and will not look for him unless he becomes a person of interest in any further criminal activity.”
“And the unofficial word?”
“They don’t want to go near this guy. Having to let him go was an embarrassment not just for the department but for the FBI and mayor’s office too. It’s not just you: half a dozen other widows want answers. And they probably won’t get them. A contact of mine in the district attorney’s office tells me they have it on good authority that Harwood Greene left the country following the trial and is currently laying low somewhere in eastern Europe.”
“Do you think that’s where he really is?”
“I couldn’t say. I pray to God he’s a million miles away or, better yet, rotting in a ditch somewhere being eaten by maggots. But the truth is I don’t know. But I also don’t think he’d come within a thousand yards of you or any of the other women. He’s one of the most recognizable men in the country, and there are probably a fair number of people who’d want to off him. If he’s smart, he’s working on a farm somewhere in Moldova.”
“God help the Moldovan women, then. Thank you, Jim. Take care.”
“I’ll be in touch, Olivia. We’ll talk soon and put together a plan for the money.”
She hung up the phone.
Olivia. For some reason, the name didn’t seem to fit anymore.
Her head was swimming. She hated allowing that monster Harwood Greene to occupy a molecule of space in her head any longer. But Eric still woke up at night screaming. If her child was in pain, she was in agony. She prayed Franklin was right, that Greene was decomposing somewhere. That would be better than all the money in the world.
But that kind of money—millions—it could change their lives. Following Brad’s death and his meager life insurance payout, she had become their children’s sole provider. Being a widow to two young kids hadn’t been a cakewalk to begin with. And to have to do it while also coming to terms with her husband being torn away like a page from a magazine? But now that hill was not insurmountable. Money could not bring her husband back. But it could alleviate a great deal.
Maybe moving would give them a chance to start anew. Get the kids into a school where they wouldn’t be subjected to daily taunts of Hey, are worms eating your dad’s face? or At Halloween does your dad’s ghost haunt your house?
The cruelty of children could be shocking.
A fresh start. That’s what they needed. And now they would have the money to do it. Once the payment cleared, she would take Jim Franklin up on his offer. Find somewhere else to live. Buy a house. Begin a new life.
Rachel.
She’d gotten used to the name.
She turned the volume on the news back on and finished her coffee. An electrical fire had claimed two lives in a brownstone downtown. Police were searching for a man who’d mugged an elderly woman in the vestibule of her apartment building. A group of schoolchildren put on a talent show at an old folks’ home, cheering up the residents. And if she stayed tuned, she would learn how not flossing regularly just might kill you.
She poured another cup of coffee, then heard the anchor say, “In a stunning development, the Torrington PD was forced to relinquish custody of Stanford Royce, the man suspected of several rapes and numerous armed robberies throughout the city.”
When she turned around and saw the photo of Stanford Royce on the television screen, Rachel dropped her coffee mug. It shattered on the white linoleum floor, scalding brown liquid spattering everywhere.
She knew that man. She recognized the oily goatee, the scar that cut across his right cheek like a cut from a drunken surgeon. Royce was the man who had pulled a knife on Rachel and Evie as they were leaving Slugfest Boxing—the last time she’d seen Evie. That name. Evie.
The news feed cut to video of Royce leaving the TPD precinct. Royce still wore the same Tiger Eye bead bracelet he’d had on that night. His arm was in a sling, still recovering from the injury Evie had dealt him.
Those brownish-yellow Tiger
Eye beads. For some reason, that damn bracelet made anger burn in Rachel like wildfire.
Evie had wanted to maim him, possibly even kill him. She could still picture Evie holding that knife, blade down, ready to plunge it into the man’s flesh. But Rachel had stopped her.
And for what? Because she didn’t think the response to violence should be more violence. But armed robberies? Suspected rapes? She remembered what Evie had said that night.
One day you’ll be faced with a choice like this. And you’ll sleep well at night knowing you prevented this from happening to someone who couldn’t defend herself.
Rachel felt nauseous. She ran to her computer and googled Stanford Royce. The results made her ill.
There were accounts from nearly twenty people claiming Royce had robbed them at either gun- or knifepoint. And five women identifying Royce as their rapist. The man was a monster.
When Royce had accosted Rachel and Evie that night, he’d already had a slew of victims under his belt. But some of the claims were more recent. An elderly man claimed Royce put a knife to his throat and stole his wallet. A fifty-year-old mother of three claimed Royce followed her home, forced his way into her apartment, and sexually assaulted her.
Royce had been arrested several weeks ago near the Harwinton Senior Center after robbing a seventy-eight-year-old man in his apartment, then fleeing out the fire escape. A patrol officer stopped Royce’s car for a busted taillight and, on a whim, opened the trunk to find items stolen from nearly a dozen different robberies. Watches, jewelry, antique coins.
Royce’s lawyer claimed the arresting officer had no probable cause to search the trunk. A routine traffic stop should have ended with a ticket and a fine. Royce followed the officer’s instructions to a T—the dashboard cam backed it up. Everything the officer found in Royce’s trunk was deemed inadmissible. The judge had reluctantly sided with the defendant. Which meant Stanford Royce was a free man.
Rachel remembered knocking Evie off Royce. She’d believed she was doing the right thing. But now, she wasn’t so sure. If she’d let Evie plunge that knife into Stanford Royce, maybe no more people would have gotten robbed. Maybe nobody else would have been assaulted.
She thought about Stanford Royce. And she thought about Harwood Greene.
Rachel needed to learn everything she could about Stanford Royce.
Somebody could have stopped Stanford Royce, she thought. Just like somebody could have stopped Harwood Greene.
Rachel had made the wrong choice once. She wouldn’t a second time.
CHAPTER 27
Today
Rachel opened the door to her house for the first time since an armed gunman had entered it with the intent to kill her. Now that man was dead, and two of his friends were in police custody for trying to finish the job.
The back window had been replaced. The alarm system rebooted. Officers Lowe and Chen sat in an unmarked police car just across the street. The 24-7 security would be in place until Aguillar and Steinman were arraigned.
Eric and Megan ran upstairs. Rachel heard the familiar thump as Megan jumped on her bed. No doubt a book would soon be splayed in her hands. Moments later Rachel heard the irritating bleep blorp kapow! as Eric booted up Alien Commando Pilot Shooter Brigade Face Splattertime 18 or whatever it was.
As for Rachel herself, she stood in the hallway, the lights in the foyer still dim, listening to make sure the house was empty. She felt unsettled. As though Christopher Robles shattering that window had destroyed the protective barrier that she’d carefully constructed around her family.
As her children played upstairs, Rachel thought about what Detective Serrano had said. She couldn’t imagine the devastation of losing a child, how your entire world would simply cave in. She’d already lost one person she’d loved, and it nearly broke her. But to lose a child, a life you’d created, a child you protected, fed, clothed, whose heart was connected to yours in the most intimate way imaginable—that was a loss that Rachel could not imagine ever recovering from.
She thought about what she’d said to Serrano that day at the Drummond house.
Neither of you know the first thing about loss. Maybe one day you will.
She felt so ashamed she could cry. She knew, in that moment, the way he’d looked at her, that she may as well have plunged a knife into the man’s heart.
Those two heartbeats upstairs were her whole life. Serrano wanted her to back off. Stay uninvolved. But if not for her, Constance Wright would be cold in the ground, people assuming she had been just another sad woman who couldn’t deal with life.
Somebody had to speak for the Constance Wrights.
Rachel cooked dinner: roast chicken with glazed carrots and labneh mashed potatoes. She even let the kids have dessert: two scoops of ice cream each, with sprinkles. She read some of Megan’s latest Sadie Scout story, then made sure Eric put the digitized blasters away to finish his homework.
Then, when Eric went to bed, Rachel went downstairs. She spent two hours working her body, then another sharpening her mind. When she came back up at 2:00 a.m., she was wired.
Still coated in dried sweat, Rachel pulled out her laptop, poured herself a glass of water, and got back to work.
She scoured the internet for everything she could find on Nestor Aguillar and Stefanie Steinman. Now that they were both in custody, it was only a matter of time before their social media accounts were taken down. So Rachel saved every photograph, took a screenshot of every post, and wrote down the names of everyone who liked and commented. She did this on all their feeds: they both had Facebook, which was semiprivate. Nestor had Twitter but had not posted since June 2016, and most of his posts seemed to be innocuous. Comments about favorite musicians, rappers, TV shows, and liquor. He also loved Downton Abbey. Go figure.
Neither of them had Instagram, Pinterest, Tumblr, or YouTube accounts, at least to the best of her knowledge. She found several old email addresses but could not link them to any other accounts.
She compiled a list of seventeen people who were regular commenters or posters and also lived within driving distance of Ashby. Most of them appeared to be ordinary citizens. No criminal records. Gainfully employed. Many were married and/or had children. Rachel would send the list over to Serrano, just to be sure. Rachel was confident she was more thorough than the cops, but they had more resources.
She didn’t recognize any of the names. Except one.
Samuel J. Wickersham.
Wickersham had liked nearly every photo of Stefanie Steinman, and he’d made sure to post “Happy Birthday!” on her Facebook page every year.
Sam Wickersham was the staffer whose affair with Constance Wright had, in part, led to her divorce and disgrace. How on earth does he know Stefanie Steinman?
A more thorough examination of Wickersham’s and Steinman’s social media feeds didn’t offer any illumination. Their Facebook feeds were private, so Rachel could only see posts they’d been tagged in by other people. She didn’t find anything useful.
Wickersham’s Instagram feed was public, but he’d posted only three times, all several years ago and nothing noteworthy. But then Rachel clicked on the “tagged in” button on his profile—and found half a dozen more photos of Wickersham.
One photo in particular piqued her interest.
It was taken at Rhinebeck Hall, a social club in downtown Ashby often used for high-end parties and events. Three people were tagged in the photo, all primped and nattily dressed in cocktail attire: Sam Wickersham, in a gray suit; Stefanie Steinman, wearing a deep V-neck sleeveless purple crepe gown that showed off her tattoos; and a tall, attractive blonde woman wearing an ombré Badgley Mischka dress. The woman was tagged in the photo. Her name was Caroline Drummond.
Drummond.
A quick Google Image search confirmed that the Caroline Drummond in the photo was Nicholas Drummond’s sister. There were photos of Caroline Drummond from parties, photos with her brother and then mayor Constance Wright, and professional photos on the
website of a firm called J&J Accounting.
Caroline was a few years younger than Nicholas, thirty-seven or thirty-eight based on her college graduation year, with shoulder-length blonde hair and the kind of posture, shoulders, and toned arms that said that the yoga mat was her second home. She was an attractive woman: poised, with deep hazel eyes and full lips. There was a spark in her eyes, a sharpness. Rachel could tell Caroline Drummond was a smart woman.
Then Rachel looked at the date the photo was posted and gasped.
She’d been there that night.
The photo had been taken at the fund-raiser Constance Wright had invited Rachel to after visiting her home. Rachel wore a gorgeous oxblood dress from Rent the Runway and was summarily hit on by a drunken (married) state senator whose cock she threatened to bend sideways if he snapped her bra strap one more goddamn time. She was not exaggerating. And even though Constance had made it clear she didn’t want Rachel’s money, she’d donated $1,000 anyway.
The photo was from the feed of a professional photographer named Tyrone Wheatley, of Wheatley Photography. It was captioned “All out to support Mayor Constance Wright.” He’d used several hashtags: #OurMayor #ConstanceWright #PowertothePeople #NoMorePoliticsAsUsual.
Rachel’s head was spinning. How the hell did Nicholas Drummond’s sister know Stefanie Steinman and Sam Wickersham? It was entirely possible that the photo was simply a candid. Event photographers were notorious for approaching random people and having them pose for photographs.
But Rachel studied the photo. Sam Wickersham had his arm around Caroline Drummond’s waist. And his fingers were slightly clenched, not loose, like he was taking a photo with a stranger. There was a familiarity between the two. They knew each other.
Rachel enlarged the image. Looked at Wickersham’s fingers. They were low on Caroline Drummond’s waist, resting against the curve of her backside. And though it was certainly possible that, as soon as Tyrone Wheatley was done shooting, Caroline turned around and smacked Sam Wickersham across the face, she didn’t appear to mind his touch.