by Amarie Avant
“Look, I’m not going to rehash what it’s like to be the victim of a stalker. There’s an abundance of Lifetime movies for that. But I’ll say, there’s no such feeling of hopelessness than finding out that a devil has literally been sleeping in your bed.”
The microphone guy and the camera crew across from me all have bright eyes with interest.
“Jeffrey Peterson slept in your bed and you were unaware?” The host adds emphasis to each syllable ready for me to elaborate.
I sink back, knowing that this was a caveat the media blew up over, unsure if their sources were true. Did Jeffrey Peterson indeed sleep in my bed? “Yes, I moved away from Los Angeles a year after Hosea disappeared. In Willow Bluff, I hid myself in what I thought was a fortress of a home.” I pause for effect, knowing that people are gathering an image of my home. There’s been cameras lurking around there also.
The greatest form of marketing is to allow people to visualize, place themselves with the product. These people want goose bumps, I’ll give them goose bumps. Fingers crossed and placed in my lap, I pray that Lincoln Zager is watching this. That the entire airplane is so enraptured by the story that the pilot nor the flight attendants’ requests penetrate.
“I met with Jeffrey Peterson just a few days ago. It was very eye opening to know that a man whose voice was so utterly familiar to me was actually my stalker.” I begin to explain. The hostess seems ready to jump in and inquire about my feelings about meeting Jeffrey Peterson, which I am not here for. I’m still unsure how I didn’t reach over the table and strangle him. I quickly continue, “It was a very odd encounter. I learned about things he has done. I know without a shadow of a doubt, I would have just given up, if I didn’t have Lincoln Zager.” I turn toward the camera, tears falling from my eyes.
“Tell us about Mr. Zager?” the hostess implores.
“Lincoln saved me from… from myself and from Peterson. He is one of the most wonderful people I have ever met, and I do not speak highly of many.” I lick my lips. “I love him, with every part of me.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Siobhan
I fucked up. Either there was no divine intervention prompting Lincoln to view my feature on Channel Twelve news, or he witnessed it and finally decided that the “bag lady” wasn’t worth the bother. My entire heart is numbed to the core. After the short segment, my cell phone rang nonstop. Lifetime Movie Network again. BET wants to make a movie of it. The History Channel is also in the throes of a documentary on the chronology of infamous stalkers and offered to “squeeze” me in. And there were other friends, family, and social media outlets.
Everybody and their damn momma, but Lincoln, has sought more of me.
My mother is beyond silent while veering into the parking lot for the Ritz-Carlton. I could tell she wanted to mend my heart like when I was a child and I had fallen from my tricycle, but no Band-Aid will do this time.
“Everything will be…” my mom turns to me, “…let’s get out, baby girl.”
I nod, tears blurring my eyes.
A valet opens the passenger door of my mom’s rental. He extends his hand. For fear of falling out onto the asphalt in the fetal position, I take it. I murmur something along the lines of my gratitude while getting out of the car.
“Thanks, Mom,” I utter. For the holiday, it has to be a warm 80 degrees, nothing but sunshine and turquoise cloudless skies.
“Don't thank me.” She reaches over, wraps an arm around me, and we walk through the sliding glass doors at the Ritz.
“No, it’s important to me that I thank you.” I stop in my tracks and take her hand. “I appreciate how you’ve always strived to be there for me. In the past, I've done my share of pushing you away. Dad called me when you hacked away at your precious rose bushes, and I feel like a selfish daughter for all the missed calls. You mourned Sammy alone.”
“Not I.” Mom shakes her head. “You mourned Sammy alone. I had your father. And forget all about the rose garden, that was pure stress relief, though your father looked at me sideways for days after.”
Laughter rolls through me as I imagine my mother hacking away at her rose garden. “Which wig?”
“Girl, you know good and damn well I wore my ‘Tina.’ Rose buds flew in all directions as I sang ‘Proud Mary.’”
I rub the tears from my eyes, laughing even harder. “I swear I can just see Sammy at your side, helping you cut those damn flowers. How many times had you told him not to jump over the porch and your rose bushes?”
“Too many times.” She shakes her head, smiling. “And you’re right, Sammy didn’t want me to be in a rut, so the notion came to my mind to cut that rose bush, and I did. But you, on the other hand, have been wound up tight. Like I said, you have the knack for shunning the ones who love you.”
“I guess that's accurate,” I mumble. The momentary happiness fading fast. I start walking again.
Mom speaks up, “Now where are we going, the elevators are to the left?”
“To the concierge. It's high time we check out of here. We can have them book us a flight, and close out our stay today or tomorrow at the latest.”
“Sounds like you want to leave as soon as possible.”
“I'll come back in a week or two to check on Hosea. We have friends and old college buddies just waiting for the okay.”
“Okay, Mother,” my mom says, emphasis on each syllable.
My lips purse.
“I'm sorry, but you slid right on into that one. Always were such a little dictator. Providing orders for the greater good.”
The concierge books our flights for tomorrow morning. The worker also provides us with information on checking out and comps a meal for this afternoon or dinner since she just saw me on television.
Mom and I head upstairs.
“I might order me a little sumthin’, sumthin’ in a while. I think we really ought to have dinner out before catching up with Deon,” Mom says, flashing the keycard in front of the door magnet.
“I'll probably be hungry for dinner. For now, I might catch up on some showers and sleep.”
She pushes the door open, wry smile on her face. “How does one catch up on taking showers—Lincoln!” she gasps.
“Um, if you want to persuade me to join you for dinner tonight, let's forgo mentioning his name until…”
The door opens wider. Mom steps back, hitching a thumb over her shoulder. “As a matter of fact, I think I'll take my comped meal now. It is Christmas, so there shouldn't be too much of a line, and I'm hungry.”
She stops rambling. My eyebrow arches. I glance into the room. My limbs are titanium. Unmoving. I'm stuck at the door.
Mom gives the middle of my back a little shove, and just like that, my feet work.
He's in jeans. A polo. Legs planted wide, seated on the chair by the window.
The door closes behind me so loudly that my shoulders jerk.
He rises, and he's taller than I recall. It's been ten days.
Lincoln gestures with his hands. “I came here to fight for you. I had it all worked out in my mind to tell you that…” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Look how gorgeous you are. God broke the fucking mold with you, Siobhan, and I don't deserve you.”
You don't?
“That's what my father would say. You little wanker, you aren't shit. My grandfather threw his punches by way of compliments, telling me that a man should never bear a daughter without bearing a son—Grandfather loathed my mother, his only child. He'd mumble about it being his only imperfection. He sent Maggie away for school, when she returned, she had it worked into her mind that she’d test me for Zager Manufacturing—it was what my grandfather wanted. He wanted to show me that women weren’t to be trusted, though he’d backed her into that corner, manipulated her, while all the while, I was to run the family business. That’s the sort of grandfather I had. He'd tell me my father was a barmy pillock. And amongst the chaos, my grandfather would tell me I was the son he'd never had while regarding my mother
with these looks.” In this instant, Lincoln stops speaking for a moment. His shoulders are heavy and anger radiates from his skin. “These looks that made me want to bash that arsehole in the face.”
Damn, on a few occasions, I commended his grandfather and mentioned his wisdom. Lincoln never countered my response. He’d simply steer the conversation to whatever else we so happened to be chatting about.
I listen, tears streaming down my face. Needing to know him more. He’s telling me the reason why he wanted to keep me, and there’s a vulnerability to him, I had never known.
“So I had determined that I would come here, convince you to love me.” He presses a fist to his rock-hard chest. It resounds off his strength. “But then I heard you on the telley, you said words, kind words that none of my blood ever have. You loved me.” He sighs, “But I am a bloody fucking wanker. I’m everything my father was. Self-serving. I want what I want. The moment I laid eyes on you, I had bad intentions for you and that gorgeous body of yours. You cried for me and I fell arse over foot. I've done some bad shit. Like bring my arse all the way down to L.A. on the presumption that Jeffrey Peterson was your stalker. So, fuck yeah, Fitz was aware.” Lincoln pauses and rubs the back of his neck. “In my mind the lack of apprehension of the stalker on your part might be the end of us. So, I’ve done some bad shit. Hoped for even worse.” His eyes spark with darkness as he confesses that he'd hoped Hosea hadn't made it.
“But through all the shit slung at me as a fucking rugrat and through my adolescence, you are the only one to know me. Not as the little wanker my father knows me for or the perfect bastard my grandfather had high expectations of molding me into. You knew me for me. And you told the world so.”
“Lincoln please stop.” The plea fills my ears.
His jaw tenses. His eyes are glossed, filled with tears. He has given it his all. Bared his heart to me and I beg him to cease? To shut up? No, that's not my intention.
“You made a big mistake, but you went above the call of action to help rectify, and even were thoughtful enough to go with Hosea to the hospital.” I sniffle back tears and say, “I fucked up more than you, Lincoln. From the day you came into my life, I only saw you as my superhero. You were nurturing, and you didn’t condemn me. Hell, you were everything I didn’t even know that I needed and more. I just worked it in my mind that you were perfect—you are perfect. But I forgot you’re allowed to make mistakes. This entire week has been one big ass mistake on my part.” I bite my lip.
“I love learning about you, Lincoln. How to get you to smile…learning that is like completing various scientific experiments.” I shrug. What the hell am I talking about? I have issues. “I just can't have you apologizing to me. You made a tiny mistake in the grander scheme of things. You've made me smile, and I'm sure that was a feat in itself. You've made me breath and… and cry happy tears.” I reminisce on us in Monterey and how he almost went crazy every time I gasped, worried that I was hurt. “Lincoln I told the world I loved you, or a good number of Los Angeles at the very least. But I'm telling you, that I will fight for you too. And that I will make you open up more to me because I refuse to live without you.”
The darkest shade of brown, and beautiful like my skin tone, I see myself through his eyes. Lincoln scoops me into his arms. Our mouths magnetize together, tongues fighting greedily.
His large hands grasp at my ass.
Jumping up, my legs twine about his hips. He places me on the back of the loveseat. Our hard kisses cease.
“All right, all right.” He says breathily. “I've gotta handcuff you, haul you down an aisle.”
The image of the engagement ring dropping from Lincoln's hands and my subsequent declaration to have never loved him passed before my mind. “You want to marry me?”
“Bugger me, have I not explained as much?” He holds my face and kisses me hard on the forehead. “Bloody fucking yeah, I wanna marry you!”
“This isn't a proper proposal you know,” I smirk.
“So wot? Cheeky girl, you ruined my attempt at a proposal. And like I've said, I need to haul you down the aisle before that beautiful brain of yours gets to thinking.”
I begin to argue but he pulls a box from his pocket, and opens it. My face rears back as if I have been slapped. The tear shaped diamond is flawless.
“I take it that's a ‘yes’?”
“Don't be cocky.” In the next instant, my arms fly around him. “Yes, yes, yes!”
Epilogue
Siobhan
At Christmastime, I met Elora Zager. She was pale skinned and mousy haired. Lincoln's mother has such a beautiful heart, I couldn’t comprehend how anyone would be so cruel to her, let alone the man you gave a child to. I recalled Maggie’s words, and in retrospect, realize that Lincoln fell in love with me much quicker than his usual norm. He had saved introductions with myself and Elora for last. Maggie explained that he always ensures his mother is separate from any drama. Maggie explained that in her attempts to appeal to her grandfather, and become the boss at Zager Manufacturing, she’d placed a wedge between herself, her brother and her mother.
While Maggie and I bonded, my mother and Elora became fast friends—after mom donned her Chaka Khan wig and got used to the ever falling snow in Sweden. Lincoln and I placed Jeffrey Peterson completely behind us, traveling to Hungary in February, and returning to the states in March.
Hosea was in physical therapy by then so I split my time from Willow Bluff to Los Angeles. Lincoln did too. I can still recall the first time Lincoln dropped me off at the hospital to meet up with Hosea for therapy. My man didn’t want to impose, but Hosea had to meet the man who he said saved his life. Lincoln attended some of the sessions with us, offering more motivation than the damn therapist was even capable of.
Once completed, Lincoln and I hosted a small party for Hosea before he returned to Texas. We assumed we were gifting him with a chance to have all of his closest friends around, but Hosea made a toast, shaking Lincoln’s hand and thanking God that Lincoln was there for the both of us when we needed him the most.
And then, just like before, Jeffrey Peterson consumed my life once more. It took eight months after Jeffrey had been placed behind bars. I got a request from Special Agent Quigley, so back to L.A. I went.
This time, Quigley, his team, Hosea and I were able to get the entire truth out of Jeffrey Peterson. Jeffrey had refused to utter a word without his “best friend” and the “love of his life” present.
Lincoln was like a coach, motivating me before stepping into the interview room. Each instant after, I'd suffocate on Jeffrey's warped mentality, and the aftermath of said truth. Lincoln was always at my side.
Each session, Jeffrey offered a morsel of information about one girl he murdered, and tormented Quigley with a trivia question which included the death of a next girl. He had no interest in telling us all and getting that shit over with. One time Quigley attempted to get him to speak. Due to me being stuck in traffic, Jeffrey made the team sit there for hours before uttering a single word.
Over the next month, we learned about fifteen young women. Every single one of them had long, willowy limbs with emerald cut eyes. The brightest clarity had been washed out due to Jeffrey's obsession with Glendora Wilson.
The women included four teachers; three middle school and one special education, a ballet tutor whose student had a freak accident on her kneecap during a rehearsal, which prompted her unlucky encounter with Jeffrey and a gymnast. Many of the women were just sinking their feet into life.
Every night following each horrendous truth, Lincoln’s arms had become my haven. His love had become my sanity.
***
The day after Jeffrey divulged the conclusion to his sins, I get a call from Quigley.
Lincoln and I have just stepped into our hotel room after a morning in the exercise room. Him in an A-shirt and basketball shorts, and I’m dressed in running shorts, and a sleeveless compressor shirt. My brow furrows. So far, Jeffrey has strung us along, s
poon feeding information to us so I didn't expect to return to the prison today. He'd asked for one last visit.
The sweat has dried instantly across my skin and Lincoln is no longer aroused as I answer.
“Siobhan, I've got news.” Quigley gets down to business.
“Bad news?” I croak. Did Jeffrey break out of jail? My lungs cease to perform. My man wraps his arms around me from behind.
“Not sure if it's bad or good, seeing that it closes a dark chapter in your life.”
Strength fails me. Lincoln senses it, and turned me around. No longer am I standing by the power of my own legs.
“What happened?” I cling to my rock, barely able to hold the phone.
“Peterson took the easy way out. Guards found him hung. He stripped and braided shards of his linen sheets. No justice for anyone,” he huffs.
I recall the day before, Jeffrey had reached across the table and grabbed my hand. He had not displayed aggression during any of our meetings. He stroked my hand before being ruthlessly admonished by Quigley and the guards behind him. But he had whispered to me, ‘this is the last time I will bear the disappointment in your eyes.’
Did he intend to murder himself afterwards? All the while I consider this, relief rushes through my body, and Lincoln plants a kiss on my forehead to seal the deal.
“Have you told any of the victim’s families?” I ask.
“We’re working on it.” Quigley sounds conflicted. “You were my first. Then Hosea. The team has just started reaching out to families and close friends in order to break the news swiftly. Gotta beat the media, they’re ruthless.”
I grimace at the thought of being a sibling or even a mother to one of the victims and becoming aware of Peterson’s death, let alone being told by way of a news broadcaster who isn’t even aware of my plight. I lick my lips and ask, “Let me tell Hosea.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, please.”
He agrees and we hang up.