by Zara Cox
I stop and think about the answer. Everything inside me shakes. “No. I’m not.”
She nods, and her assessing gaze lingers on the bruise on my temple. “Well, let’s see about reversing that, shall we? The ambulance is here. We’ll get you some medical attention.” She beckons me closer.
My numb feet move toward her.
“Oh, and your lawyers are here.”
“My lawyers?”
The male officer thumbs a black limo idling on the curb. “Yeah, they insisted on being here, and since they were instrumental in giving us the phone number we used to track and find you, we obliged their request…”
His words fade away as the back door opens and a sharp-suited black guy I’ve never seen before steps out. Closely behind him, Fionnella steps out.
Then the door on the farthest side opens.
Quinn steps out. Rushes round to where the other two are standing.
Across the street, rabid silver blue eyes spear into me. His hair is spiky, his unshaven face holding a million more shadows. In his eyes I read remorse, fear, determination.
He starts to cross the street toward me. “Elyse…thank God you’re okay.” His gravel-rough voice is grittier. Bleaker than I’ve ever heard it.
I don’t want to hear it now.
“No!” I take a step back.
He keeps coming.
Everything I saw on the laptop in the basement rushes back. I stagger back until my shoulder bumps hard into an iron railing. Both FBI officers halt, their gazes swinging between me and Quinn.
Q.
Whoever the fuck he’s decided to be today.
“Elyse, baby. Please, let me explain—”
“Stay away from me!”
The female officer’s hands fly out towards Quinn in a halting gesture.
The male officer frowns. “Miss Gilbert—”
“Officers, I don’t want those people anywhere near me,” I yell shakily.
Quinn’s eyes flare in alarm. One hand spikes through his hair. “God, please! I need…please, don’t do this…Elyse.”
The sound of my name on his lips freaks me out harder.
“No!” Hysteria ravages my voice, but I’m past caring. “I don’t care if you have to arrest me, but please keep Quinn Blackwood away from me!”
40
AFTER PARTY
Three months later
I stand at the fence, coffee in hand, and watch horse and rider canter in a perfect circle. It’s far too early on a Sunday morning to be inhaling horse manure, but the opportunity to spend time with Petra is a godsend. An impossibility I never dreamed would come true.
My baby sister laughs as her mare throws her head. I find myself laughing too. How can I not? Her laugher is the most beautiful sound in the world.
Doris and Paul join me at the fence. I smile at my sister’s adoptive parents and we watch her in silence for a few minutes.
“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” Doris’s voice radiates pure maternal pride.
I nod. “She sure is.” I look over at her. “Thank you.”
The older woman squeezes my arm. “Thank you for all you did to protect her. At least now that man is behind bars, we can all rest a little easier.”
That man.
Clayton Getty.
The road to his incarceration wasn’t easy. He had too many officials in his back pocket and tried to call in favors far and wide, stalling for as long as possible the FBI’s attempts to bring multiple charges.
Eventually, it was his own deputy who proved instrumental in putting him away.
Turns out, the FBI had their eye on what was going on in Getty Falls for a while. Sadly, none of the cops were willing to stand up to Clayton. Not until Deputy Rick Daniels stepped into Clay’s shoes and decided he never wanted to take them off.
Daniels convinced a few key people to come forward with the promise of immunity from prosecution. After that, Clay’s corrupt empire started to tumble. He’s now behind bars for fraud, prostitution, racketeering and kidnapping. There were a few dozen minor charges thrown in too, but suffice it to say, he won’t be breathing free air for at least thirty years, which is fine by me.
For myself, the FBI decided not to press charges after I confessed to what happened at The Villa. As it turned out, Ridge Mathews wasn’t the golden boy Clay made him out to be. He was dishonorably discharged from the army for raping an underage girl in Iraq. And with Clay having already documented his death as accidental, the authorities were happy to let the matter rest in return for my testimony.
Now that the danger is behind me, I know I have to come to terms with killing a man.
Being here, in Vancouver, with Petra, helps me a little in thinking I did the wrong thing for the right reasons.
Petra waves from across the field. I smile and wave back, and my soul settles a little bit. She canters over with Winnie, her favorite mare, the newest gift to arrive at the farm.
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you into riding with me?” Her light green eyes blaze with enthusiasm and happiness.
I wrinkle my nose in mock horror. “Uh, no. After falling off three times last week, I need a huge ego boost, and several layers of padding before I’m tempted to try again.”
She laughs and trots off again.
“Breakfast in half an hour,” Paul shouts after her.
As they discuss what to have for breakfast, the phone in my pocket buzzes.
My heart wobbles, but I make no move to reach for it.
I know who it is. I also know it’s time to change my number. Again.
Four times in three months. Each time, it takes about a week before he discovers the new number. I probably shouldn’t bother.
Maybe it’s a game we’re playing.
Maybe this is destined to be my life.
When the buzzing continues, Doris glances over at me. “Everything okay?”
I nod.
She doesn’t push.
We drift into the warm, sunny kitchen for breakfast, then I head upstairs to take a shower. In my room, I sit on my bed and take out the phone.
Fifteen texts from Quinn, the first one dated five days ago, two days after I got my latest phone. The texts aren’t requests for communication or pleas to be heard. They’re bite-size letters, detailing his life, past and present.
Sometimes he calls me Lucky. Sometimes Elly. Other times Elyse. I guess I’m all those to him. He never calls me Firecracker. Maybe that time is over for him.
Regardless of how he addresses me, the information is inexhaustible. At first I didn’t want to read them.
What he did was unforgivable. I don’t care that I was partly responsible for my epic downfall, Quinn and Q manipulated me with the cunning and talent of Machiavelli.
I can never trust him. And I can’t entertain the idea of being with someone I don’t trust.
The phone buzzes again. I glance at the screen and read the latest message.
6 July: Elyse,
Delilah was charged today. Yesterday Maxwell was formally charged with manslaughter. The DA is ecstatic. She doesn’t have to wait for Maxwell and Delilah to divorce before compelling her to testify against my father. Delilah also finally confessed to lacing Mama’s anti-depression pills with Benzo over a six-month period when she was Mama’s assistant. Those were the pills Mama took that day. The day my life changed forever. I should feel vindicated. Triumphant. Avenged. I feel nothing. I don’t even hurt anymore. But my cracks keep growing. But it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.
Quinn.
I hate myself for the lurching of my heart. Just as I hate myself for scrolling through, reading his other texts…
3 July: Elly,
I wanted you to see me. You saw me. A part of me wishes you would forgive what you saw. A part of me hopes you never forgive. He destroyed her just to gain more power and money. The Blackwood billions and the thirty billion inheritance from her family clearly weren’t enough. How greedy can one man be? He called me from jail las
t week, asked to see me. I went because I needed to tell him why. Needed to not leave him with a sense of righteousness that he’s free of guilt in all this. I sat across from him. And I told him my plan all along was to humiliate him in the worst possible way. Make him want to kill himself like he made her kill herself. If that didn’t succeed I was going to kill him myself. But…Elyse…when it came down to it, I couldn’t kill him. I was a coward. That’s why he’s still alive. He’s breathing and she’s not. That kills me, Elyse. But I take solace in one thing. I’ve destroyed the one thing he loves. The Blackwood name. No one will ever speak of it with pride or awe again. That too was my plan. It was the right thing to do. FOR THE GREATER FUCKING GOOD.
Quinn
2 July: Lucky,
I wanted to be a movie director. Did I tell you that? No, I don’t think I did. That camera…the one… it was my first, a gift from Mama. Anyway, I guess in some way I got to direct the movie of my life. Given another chance I would change one cast member. You didn’t deserve your role. I knew it long before your love touched me for one blissful second. I play that moment in my mind over and over. If I could have one thing in this miserable life, it would be to freeze that moment in time. Forever. Forgive me.
Quinn
1 July: Lucky,
I saw an ad today. For waffles. I thought of you. Just thought you should know. Forgive me. Forgive me.
Quinn
28 June: Elly
I hope you’ll accept the horse for Petra. I hear she loves horses, that she’s a talented rider. In another life I would’ve loved to meet her. Get to know her. But this is my life. I accept it. Don’t send the mare back. Let her enjoy it. Please. Forgive me.
Quinn.
26 June: Elyse,
It’s Mama’s birthday today. She would’ve been forty-nine. Mrs. Harper, our housekeeper, would’ve baked her a cake with pink frosting and daffodil flowers. Mama would’ve wrinkled her nose, laughed and said she wasn’t eight years old. But she would’ve secretly loved it. I miss her. I miss you. I miss you.
Quinn
20 June: Elly,
Found out today that Maxwell might never face charges for what he did. I don’t know what to do with that. I hurt everywhere. I haven’t hurt like this in…forever. He killed her. He killed her. I tried to save her. I tried to save her. I tried. So hard. She told me to let her go. Why would she do that? Why would she want to leave me? It hurts, Elly. So damn much.
Quinn
15 June: Lucky
I never told you my age. I’m twenty-eight.
Quinn
30 April: Elly,
Charges were brought against Dr. Nathanson today. She’s lost her license. Jail is too good for her for abandoning Mama, the woman supposed to be her best friend, when she knew what Maxwell was doing to her. Like me, she could’ve saved her. My efforts came too late. But she chose not to. For her own selfish reasons, she condoned Mama’s suffering. I hope she rots in hell.
Quinn
I drop the phone on the bed, lie back and swipe at the tears dripping down my face. I should be done with these damn tears. Done with Quinn. I should throw my phone away and not buy another one. After all, if I don’t have a phone, he can’t contact me. The thought spears me with anguish so ravaging, I jerk into fetal position. I’m not sure how long I lie there, calling myself a thousand kinds of fool.
The distant rumbling of a vehicle sends me to the window.
The farmhouse is remote for a reason. As is the clear No Trespass sign half a mile down the dirt road. I don’t need to look down the driveway to know Paul will already be meeting the car, his shotgun tucked into the crook of his arm. He scared the living shit out of a bunch of joyriders who took the wrong turn onto his property last week.
Although, looking at the sleek black SUV approaching, I have a feeling these aren’t joy riders.
The driver slows when he spots Paul. When Paul cautiously beckons, the vehicle rolls forward. The passenger side window winds down and a conversation takes place. Paul nods once and looks up to my bedroom window.
A tingling seizes my nape as the door opens.
Fionnella steps out.
I bolt out of the room and charge down the stairs. Paul and Fionnella are on the porch by the time I wrench open the front door.
“You’re not welcome here, Fionnella.” I switch glances to Paul. “She’s not welcome!”
He nods. “I told her that. She wanted to hear it from you.”
I turn back to Fionnella. “You’re not—”
“Five minutes, Lucky.” She holds out her hands. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
I’m shaking my head before she’s halfway through the sentence. “No.”
She sighs. “I have something from him, for you.” She reaches into her pocket, pulls out an envelope and holds it out to me.
“I don’t want it, whatever it is. He already manipulated me into keeping the horse. That’s it, I don’t want anything else from him.”
Fionnella glances at Paul who’s still hovering. Whatever she signals him, he casts me a supportive look, but retreats back into the house. Through the window, I see Petra and Doris staring at me. I try a reassuring smile, but I’m sure it misses the mark.
“It’s the money you’re owed, Lucky. You earned it. Don’t refuse it because of stubborn pride.”
Humiliation reddens my face. “Thanks for the reminder.” I snatch the envelope out of her hands and rip it open. My jaw drops at the sum written on the check.
“Is this some sort of joke?”
She shakes her head. “The two hundred thousand is the remainder of what you agreed. The five million is for reparations.”
“Well, tell him to take his reparations, and shove it.”
Fionnella’s mouth tightens. “Lucky—”
“My name is Elyse. So what else does he want? Please don’t insult me by implying you flew all the way here just to deliver this.” I slap the envelope on the porch bannister.
“He wants to see you. But he can’t, not with that restraining order you have against him.” Her mouth twists. “A little much if you ask me.”
“I didn’t. I don’t want the money.”
She doesn’t respond. Her chin juts forward, her eyes contemplative as they rest on me. “I told him you wouldn’t take it.”
“And he sent it anyway. Of course.”
“It’s a natural reaction.”
“To throw money at everything?”
“To seek what he thinks is the most effective solution to a problem.”
“I’m not a problem! At least not his problem. He can’t pull my strings and manipulate me any more. And how the hell did you two find me anyway?”
“I’m very resourceful. And let’s face it, with Getty behind bars, you haven’t tried very hard to hide your tracks. Or he wouldn’t be sending you those texts within days of buying a new phone.”
“Maybe I should try harder then. Maybe I should take this money and use it to place a few continents between us, hide in a place where he can’t find me.”
“He will always find you, Elyse. There’s nowhere on earth you can disappear to that I won’t find you, if the boss wishes me to.”
“I know who he is now, Fionnella. You don’t need to keep calling him the boss.”
“He may no longer be your boss, but he’s mine.”
“What’s your deal, Fionnella? Why are you here, fighting for him?”
She looks off into the rolling fields and paddock for a minute, before she meets my gaze. “He tried to help me with my son. Michael came home from Afghanistan with PTSD. He was Adriana Nathanson’s patient. You’ve seen the footage. You know how she treats her young male patients. He was under her care for a year before he committed suicide.”
My hand lifts to my mouth as horror drenches me. “I’m sorry.”
Grief blankets her face for a moment, but then her brisk manner returns. “Take the money, Elyse. If not for yourself, then for the sister you gave every dime of
those eight hundred thousand dollars to. Think what this could do for Petra.”
“Please don’t say her name,” I mutter, still caught in Fionnella’s confession.
A dart of hurt crosses her face. “What did I do that was so bad, Lucky? Hmm? You signed up to do a job. I ensured you were taken care of so you could do it. Are you condemning me for that?”
“You knew what he was doing with me. With Elyse. Lucky knew what she signed up for. Elyse didn’t deserve the mind-fucking that came with the deal. She didn’t deserve to have her feelings fucked with.”
“No, you’re right.”
I exhale in disbelief. “That’s all you have to say?”
“It’s not for me to apologize for him.”
“So what, you want me to go have a cup of coffee and a conversation with him?”
“He can’t have a goddamn coffee or conversation with you when you’ve got a restraining order out on him. And he certainly can’t do that when he’s hell-bent on killing himself!”
Icy chains shackle my heart. “What are you talking about?”
She sighs and it’s a weary, hollow sound. “This was his plan all along, Lucky. Expose his father, stepmother and shrink. Then find a way to end it all. Except you came along. You gave him hope! Probably even love. Am I right?”
I shudder in the face of the raw accusation.
“And now you’re withholding it.”
My eyes widen. “Please tell me you’re not finding some way to blame me for all of this?”
She shrugs. “Love comes with responsibility. Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re responsible for him. It’s your name he toasts to every time he gulps down a mouthful of whiskey, and trust me, he does that very often. It’s your name he screams out for in his sleep. You be the judge of what needs to be done. The jet will be at Vancouver International for the next twenty-four hours. I’ll leave your name with the crew. If you’re not there by midday tomorrow, it’ll take off.”
41
SYNC