by Lisa Regan
She began to feel guilty for not feeling so guilty about what had happened with D.J. But the awful truth was that a part of her was glad she’d had sex with him. In her secret, vindictive moments, she was glad. She thought it would stop there. She tried to reconcile herself to the fact that she was a horrible person: not only had she done something inexcusable, there were secret moments when she didn’t want to take it back. She tried maintaining—balancing her inner world somewhere between her shame and her spite. Even with D.J.’s ubiquitous presence and his unwanted help. The knowing smiles and light touches. The temptation.
Then came the weekend of the retreat. Her boss had scheduled it at some vineyard. No spouses or kids, just the staff. It promised to be a relaxing weekend, and Leah hadn’t had one of those since she first got pregnant. She hated being away from her kids, even for one night, but the prospect of a break from her harried life, from the demands that seemed never ending, from the bickering with Jim, was too good to pass up. By that time, she had confronted Jim over his obvious lie about not being able to pick up the kids from day care. His check showed no extra hours. Caught in his deception, he tried several lame excuses: “The kids don’t want me, they want you.” “I’m not really comfortable being alone with the kids. What if there’s an emergency?” “They don’t listen to me.”
Leah had told him to man up, and in a tone that brooked no opposition, told him that he would be watching the kids overnight while she went on her work retreat. He’d taken it amazingly well—silent and sulky. Really the best reaction she could’ve hoped for.
She should have known it would never work. She’d been at the retreat for four hours, and he’d called four times. On the last call, he’d asked when she was coming home, as if she hadn’t made it clear to him a half-dozen times. Leah sighed. “Tomorrow, remember? That was the deal.”
She heard Hunter wailing in the background. Jim said, “Leah, I’ll never get these kids to bed. They’re upset. They keep crying. They’ve never been away from you this long.”
“Jim,” she snapped. “It’s been four hours. I leave them alone for eight hours a day, Monday through Friday, when I’m working. For God’s sake, play with them, take them to the park or for ice cream. Be a dad.”
The next call came two hours later. This time it was little Peyton, her voice tremulous. “Mommy, when are you coming home?”
“I’ll be home tomorrow, sweetie.”
Then Peyton lowered her voice, as if she didn’t want Jim to overhear her. “Mommy, Daddy said you might not come back.”
It was like a spike right through Leah’s heart. Again, she told Peyton she’d be home the next day. When Jim got on the line, she lambasted him. He had a ready excuse, as always. She was blowing things out of proportion. All he had said was that he didn’t know why Leah would want to come back to two crying kids. He had spoken without thinking. “The kids were acting up. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry.”
She tried to go back to the retreat, to relax, to enjoy her time away, her time alone. But she kept hearing the tremor in Peyton’s voice. She couldn’t let her daughter believe that she might not come home.
The ride back gave her plenty of time to stew over Jim’s behavior. She didn’t believe for one moment that he had said such a thing to their kids without thinking. He’d done it on purpose, she was sure. Her guilt was his trump card.
And he’d won, she realized as she was driving home from the retreat after only six hours—less than a workday. Here she was, driving back to be with her kids because her husband could not or would not watch their children alone. Once again, Jim got his way. Once again, Leah had to put herself last in order to pick up his slack.
She seethed, white-knuckling the steering wheel. She pictured herself arriving home, bursting through the door, and demanding a divorce. Jim, of course, would act like she was being crazy and unreasonable. Nevertheless, she tried to imagine her life as a divorcée. It would be exactly the same except for Jim’s paycheck and the bickering. She’d still be responsible for all the childcare, all the housecleaning and cooking, all the finances, all the decisions. Jim just wouldn’t be there. She wondered if he would even see the kids if they got divorced.
She knew the answer, of course. If he couldn’t handle them overnight now, there was no way he’d suddenly want to see them on a regular basis. Then what? Her kids would resent him for being an absentee father. She would resent him even more than she already did. The fact was that practically, financially, she was better off staying. Plus, she really wanted her kids to grow up in a two-parent home. It wasn’t their fault that she wasn’t happy with Jim. She’d have to stay. Even though she wanted to strangle him half the time.
The drive was forty minutes, but it was long enough for her rage to reach its boiling point. She replayed their last few fights over and over again, growing angrier each time. Tension in her shoulders, arms, and hands turned to an unbearable ache.
“Come back over and take care of your kid.”
“That’s your job.”
“You act like you’re the only one who works hard.”
When she came to the turnoff to her street, she kept going. She parked her car a few blocks over, on a side street that didn’t get much traffic. She walked briskly in the dark, cutting through backyards until she reached D.J.’s garage-top apartment. She crept up the steps like a criminal, every nerve in her body on edge, humming with fear and anticipation. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t allow herself to think about what she was doing. She let her rage propel her to his door, hoping both that he would be there and that he wouldn’t. She knocked softly. Someone moved around inside, and Leah’s heartbeat thundered so hard, it seemed to rock her entire body. The door swung open. D.J. stood before her wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. A small lamp lit the room, casting a golden glow over his perfectly sculpted body.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
He smiled. “Leah.” His hand circled one of her wrists, tugging her toward him. He said, “Come here.”
Afterward, she snuck back to her car, a thief in the night, and drove home.
Jim and the kids had fallen asleep together on the couch.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
O’Handley babysat Rachel Irving while Connor went back to the division to get the Genechek file, then released him to help Stryker. They had a lead on D.J.’s apartment. Connor doubted they’d find him there, but they might find something that would help them track him down.
Connor stood just outside the doorway to the Irvings’ kitchen, watching Rachel. She sat at the table, a half-finished cup of coffee in front of her. She had made some effort to clean up the room, although he still saw some stray pieces of broken glass glinting from beneath the table. Other than her incessant twisting of her “#1 Mom” charm, she showed no signs of nerves. If anything, she seemed bored and impatient. Her gaze found the clock on the microwave just about every two minutes. She rolled her eyes in its direction and then collected air in her cheeks, like a chipmunk storing nuts, only to blow it out loudly.
In his mind, Jade was at his elbow, matching Rachel eye roll for eye roll. Can you believe this smug bitch? he could hear her saying.
Connor patted the pocket of his suit jacket to make sure his phone was there—he would be waiting for text updates from Claire throughout the day—then entered the room and pulled out a chair across from Rachel, placing the Genechek folder on the table.
Rachel smiled at him, like she was in a restaurant awaiting her dinner date. Like she’d been expecting him. With a small chuckle, she said, “I really don’t know why that other detective insisted on staying here with me, like I’m some kind of criminal. I’ve been more than cooperative.”
Connor wasn’t doing pleasantries today, nor was he interested in trying to justify O’Handley’s presence to her. He launched right into his interrogation. “We need to talk about Leah again. One of the last phone calls she got before she drove her car into the river was from an outfit call
ed Genechek. Do you know what Genechek does?”
Rachel’s familiar smile faltered. The “#1 Mom” charm disappeared in her fist. “No,” she said.
“Mail-in DNA tests.”
She swallowed, her throat quivering, the first sign of nervousness. “Like paternity tests?”
Connor nodded. “Yeah, like paternity tests. And maternity tests as well.”
“Maternity? Why would you need a maternity—” She stopped talking and clamped her mouth shut.
“You know why, don’t you, Mrs. Irving?”
“Please,” she whispered. Her air of complete confidence shattered, her eyes suddenly sad and pleading.
“It’s time to stop lying,” Connor told her. “Women are dying. You understand that, right?”
She looked down. Her mouth worked, as though she was trying on various responses, but none were appropriate, so she said nothing.
“You have a hairbrush go missing last week?” Connor asked.
Her head snapped up at him, eyes wide. Still, she said nothing.
“I thought so,” Connor said.
“I swear I didn’t know what he was doing,” Rachel whispered.
“You didn’t? Your best friend figured it out. You couldn’t?”
She didn’t respond. Connor tapped the file folder on the table between them. “Leah Holloway sent in two tests to Genechek. A paternity test and a maternity test. For the paternity test she used buccal swabs—scrapings from the inside of the cheek, which I guess is possible to get when someone is sleeping. Anyway, she listed Tyler as the child and Jim as the potential father. It came back as a positive match, except that Jim has no memory of submitting to a DNA test. He probably signed the form because he always signed whatever Leah put in front of him. But he doesn’t remember giving her the buccal swab.
“The only problem with that is that the DNA profile from the Genechek paternity test doesn’t match Jim Holloway’s actual DNA profile. Jim gave us DNA. Our lab tested it. Chain of custody and all that. So we know for a fact that the DNA sample that Leah sent in under Jim’s name wasn’t Jim’s DNA at all. Do you know whose DNA it was?”
Rachel didn’t speak. Connor had the feeling that none of this was coming as a surprise to her. He said, “It was the Soccer Mom Strangler’s. Leah had DNA from the Soccer Mom Strangler, and she sent it to Genechek under Jim’s name. You know what that means, right?”
She stared at him.
“Tell me you know what that means. Tell me you’re following this.”
She licked her lips. “The Soccer Mom Strangler is Tyler’s father.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
SIX DAYS EARLIER—WEDNESDAY
Leah was about to orchestrate her own rape. At least, in her mind it would be rape, since she didn’t want to do it. But she would consent to it because there was no other way to get the information she needed. She had tried to figure out a way that would not involve having to see D.J. again, but she couldn’t come up with one. One time. She would see him one last time, and then she would know the truth.
Leah stood outside the door of D.J.’s studio apartment, trying to still the tremble working its way through her whole body. Walking into his building had been hard enough. The gossip on her street was that this was the same neighborhood where Glory Rohrbach was shacking up with her landscaper. That was just what Leah needed, to be found out by Glory Rohrbach.
She tried to calm her shaking limbs. She didn’t want D.J. to see the fear or disgust she felt for him now. It would make him rougher with her. He seemed to thrive on that. She hated the look of excitement on his face when he was hurting her. It terrified her.
She sucked in a deep breath. It had taken her weeks to work up the nerve to do this. She had worked so hard for so long to erase him from her life, but he would not leave her alone. He would not let her go. This might at least placate him for a while. If he thought she was still interested in him, maybe his assault on her life and her children’s safety—or at least his incessant calls and texts—would stop, even if temporarily. But in the long run she knew this would make things worse, so much worse. It was going to take a long time to put the distance between them again. She didn’t know if she would ever be free of him.
The hallway was dark and gray, water stains peeling the paint from the ceiling. She’d never been inside a prison but she imagined this is what it felt like—close, gloomy, and wholly depressing. She knocked softly on the door to 1A. Her heart pounded in her chest. What if he wasn’t there? Part of her wanted him not to be—to spare her from the hour ahead, from the disgusting things she would have to do. But another part of her prayed that he was, because she didn’t think she could work up the nerve to come here again. She was taking a huge risk—again.
Finally, she heard rustling behind the door. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The door swung open and there he stood. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days. Circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes. His thick brown hair was mussed. He had no shirt on and, as always, her eyes were drawn to his well-muscled chest and abs. For the first time, she didn’t feel the heat and discomfort of arousal when she saw him. She didn’t admire his deeply tanned skin, the sharply cut grooves of muscle that lined nearly every inch of him and rippled every time he moved. She was finally, mercifully impervious to the smolder in his deep-brown eyes.
“Come in,” he said, moving aside to let her enter.
She felt like she was stepping over the threshold to hell. But she’d done that eighteen months ago, hadn’t she? Without so much as a word of protest. The things she’d let this boy do to her—surely she deserved to go to hell.
The place was small and dark, its whitewashed walls scarred with stains and scuff marks. Yellowed squares marred the walls where someone had used scotch tape to hang things beside nail holes that had never been patched. It was a single room with a mattress on the floor. Beside the bed lay a pile of clothes and a cardboard box with a small lamp atop it. At the foot of the mattress a television sat positioned precariously on an overturned plastic storage bin. Behind the television was a door to the bathroom, judging by the swath of white shower curtain visible. The room smelled sweet and sour, like marijuana and old sweat.
The sound of the door closing behind her made her jump. D.J. laughed softly. “Why are you nervous?”
She tried a smile but the corners of her mouth would only go up so far. “I—I’m not nervous.”
I’m terrified.
He moved closer, his movements fluid, snakelike. His smile sent a shiver up her spine. Like a predator smelling her fear, he moved in closer. He wrapped a firm hand around her neck and pulled her into him. She tried not to recoil. Sensing the tension in her body, his fingers tightened, digging into her skin. Tears stung her eyes.
“D.J., I—”
“Shh,” he breathed into her ear. His other hand had already found its way up her skirt. She wanted to clench her legs together but she couldn’t. She had to do this. It was the only way to find out what she needed to know.
“This is the last time,” she said.
His lips found her throat. “You always say that,” he breathed between hungry kisses.
He moved his hand from her neck, down her back to her bottom, squeezing hard. She closed her eyes. Her voice was weaker this time. “I mean it, D.J. This has to end. No more phone calls. No more texts. You have to leave my children alone. No more …” She trailed off.
“No more fucking?”
Abruptly, he tore at her shirt, popping two buttons on her blouse. An involuntary cry tore from her throat. His teeth clamped down hard on her shoulder. She hissed a breath. He withdrew, his tongue making a trail across her collarbone to the hollow of her throat.
“It hurts when you do that,” she told him.
With a single swift motion, her skirt was around her ankles. “It hurts when you leave me,” he whispered.
She let him push her down onto the mattress. She stared at the brown water stains on the c
eiling while he did everything he wanted to do. When he hurt her, she prayed it would end soon. She promised herself she would never do this again.
After he exhausted himself, he lay propped against the wall, smoking a cigarette. She snatched her clothes and purse from the floor and locked herself in the bathroom. Her hands shook as she dressed and pulled out the Genecheck kit from her purse. She nearly knocked the whole thing onto the floor when D.J. rattled the doorknob.
“What are you doing in there?”
Quickly, she tore open the wrapper and positioned the swab so it was easily accessible by simply reaching her hand inside her purse. “Just cleaning up,” she called.
The door rattled again. “I have to piss.”
She zipped her purse and straightened her clothes. As soon as she opened the door, he pushed past her and lined his body up with the toilet. “Don’t leave,” he told her as he relieved himself.
She stood in the doorway, staring dumbly at him. It had taken Jim months to be able to pee in front of her. D.J. had no such issues. In fact, the level of comfort he showed with her was downright alarming. It put a fine point on his months of harassment. She still couldn’t even think about her poor dog without breaking down.
“D.J.,” she said as he moved back into the bedroom. He rifled through the pile of clothes beside his bed until he came up with a joint. He plopped onto the bed and patted the space beside him. She wished he would put on some clothes. Her body ached all over from the hour she’d just spent beneath him. She didn’t want him getting any ideas about a second round. Lucky for her, the marijuana lulled him quickly into a deep sleep. She waited a full fifteen minutes before she retrieved the Genechek kit from her purse, moving slowly and carefully so she didn’t wake him. The only good fortune she had that day was that D.J. slept with his mouth open. It was difficult to keep her hand still as she took the swab. What would she say to him if he woke up while she was trying to swab the inside of his cheek?