by M. Leighton
A longer pause.
“Jesus H. Christ.”
A sigh.
“I need to talk to Dr. Cane first. I can’t… I can’t believe this is happening. Why the hell would Finch want to see my wife?”
My stomach does a somersault.
Part of me, undoubtedly the Simone part, is excited by the prospect of getting to see that monster face to face again, to look him in the eye knowing that he’ll never see freedom again.
Another part of me, probably Poppy, is a bundle of nerves at just the mention of his name. I know enough now to realize that Poppy didn’t have much conscious awareness of Finch, but her timidity was the product of it, more like a woman who’d been through something traumatic would be. It’s her who trembles at the idea of seeing him again.
And then there’s me.
I have a thousand emotions swirling through my blood as I stand, motionless, eavesdropping on my husband’s conversation. I have questions, too, most of which will never be answered to my satisfaction. But mostly, I just feel strangely hesitant. Afraid almost, even though he can’t hurt me anymore.
Not unless I let him.
But I let him before. I let him steal my life, my marriage, my memories. My identity, for God’s sake. If I let him in, he could very easily wreak havoc on me. I’m not sure I can take that risk again.
I’m lost in thought, which is why I don’t hear Noah hang up and move toward the hall where I’m hiding until he’s right on top of me.
I look up at my husband’s incredibly handsome face. I see the strain there, the fatigue, the worry. I put that there.
Me.
And it kills me to know that.
His voice is quiet. “What are you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Nothing unusual in that.
His eyes probe mine.
He knows.
“How much did you hear?”
No use pretending I didn’t hear everything.
“Finch wants to see me. But why?”
Blue eyes, so blue and tranquil I could stare into them and feel lost at sea, search my face. For strength? For weakness? I don’t know what he’s looking for. Or what he finds.
“He’s agreed to the deal. He’ll give us the location of…of…Savannah,” he says, stumbling over her name, refusing to say “her body” or “the body” like she’s anything less than our daughter. That touches me for some reason. That child will be a part of our life, a part of our soul until we draw our last breath. That much will never change. I’m learning that death isn’t the end. At least not for the living. There’s a world of pain and anguish long after death comes.
“That’s good, right?”
He nods. “But—”
He stops abruptly and his tension, his unease fills the hallway like smog, thick and choking. My blood pressure rises in response.
“What is it, Noah?”
“He’ll only tell you.”
A sucker punch.
Right to the heart.
It doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not.
It doesn’t matter how much he can still hurt me.
It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t want to go.
He holds the only card that matters to me—the location of my little girl’s body. He holds the key to giving her a burial, a place to rest.
Peace.
And I’m the only one who can get it.
I feel the racing of my heart. I feel the world around me going dim. I feel the pound of my head. And when the blackness comes, I know someone else is taking the wheel. Simone or Poppy. Or maybe even someone else. I don’t know and I don’t care.
And I just let them.
34
CARLY
“You don’t have to do this, baby,” Noah says to me as we walk through the main doors at the prison. His hand is strong against my lower back, his body shedding its comforting warmth into me where I’m huddled against him. “We can find another way.”
He’s afraid this will set me back. He’s afraid he’ll lose me again.
The thing is, so am I.
But Savannah…
Our baby. Our little girl. The light of our life.
Her body is out there, returning to dust. She’s not there. She doesn’t care what happens to her bones, but I do. I can’t live with the thought that she’s lost and alone out there. I want her here, with us, where we can visit her. Where she can have peace.
Or just where we can.
Am I willing to risk it all to give her that peace, to give us that peace?
I am.
Something deep inside me is telling me that this is what I need to heal. Not Finch’s death. He’ll suffer plenty. No, I need my baby back in the only way I can get her back. And so does Noah.
He’s suffered as much as I have, just in a different way. Maybe he’s suffered more. He lost his child and his wife. He lost everything. But he never gave up. Not for an instant.
This is the least I can do for him.
In this moment, I resolve to make this right for Noah, to give him the only thing I can, the only way I can. I’m going to give him the peace of putting Finch behind us. I’m going to give him the peace of putting our daughter to rest. I’m going to give him the peace of having his wife back, back where she belongs. I’m going to give him his life back, because he gave me mine.
I straighten my spine. Steel myself.
I smile up into Noah’s face, memorizing how the sun makes the blue of his eyes look like the shallow waters of a tropical oasis. He is my oasis. He is my safe harbor.
“It’s okay, Noah. I can do this.”
Worry clouds his features. “How do you know?”
“Because this time I know. I know what I’m up against. I know what can happen. I know what’s at stake. I’m going to go in there and get what I need and then I’m going to come back out to you. Me. Carly. You are all that I have left in the world. You’re all that matters to me. I’m doing this for me, yes. For us, yes. But mostly, I’m doing this for you. ”
He watches me for a few seconds and then pulls me into his arms, crushing me against his chest.
“I wish it was me,” he whispers, his voice anguish and helplessness.
“I don’t. I need you here. Waiting for me. That’s the only reason my legs are still working.”
“It’s too much, Carly. I can’t watch you go in there and risk you not coming back out. You’ve been through so much. Too much. I can’t let you go.”
He squeezes me tighter.
“I have to go. I’ll be fine. I promise.”
I push at him until he lets me wiggle back and look up at him. I reach up to cup his stubbly cheek. I love this rough and rugged look on him. It’s like my husband went in one end of this whole debacle and came out a raw version of the man he was. He’s been through hell and now he’s all jagged edges and broken pieces, but I love him all the more for it.
He is tortured by this. It’s written on every angle and plane of his face.
“I’d take this from you and carry it myself if I could. If he’d let me, but I…”
I watch him struggle, search for the words that will tell me how he feels in the darkest places of his soul.
“I know. You’ve carried my burdens for too long, though. It’s my turn to be strong. To do something for you.”
“It’s what the man who loves you is supposed to do. I’m supposed to save you.”
“You have. You have every day since the day we met. But maybe once, just this once, I can save you instead.”
Noah takes me hand by the wrist and presses my palm to his mouth. I will do this for him.
I will.
“I’ll be back soon,” I promise, pulling away. I want to get it over with. Move on.
It’s time.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”
I shake my head firmly. “No. Wait for me out here, where the sun is shining. You’re a part of the light. This is what I need. Trust me.”
/> It’s hard for me to explain to him that I’m walking into the darkness. For the past two-plus years, this has been Simone’s territory. The waters are deep and shark infested, but I’m going in anyway. The only thing I need to know is that he will be here when I come out. Him and the light.
I start to back away. Noah holds my hand until only the tips of our fingers are barely clinging. Only then does he let go. I can see how much it hurts him to do it, too. His expression, his body language—he looks physically pained to release me. But he’s doing it.
For me.
I don’t deserve a man like him. A love like this. There are parts of me that are dark, ugly. Unlovable. But he loves me anyway. In spite of it all. I could never be worthy of that, but I can try. At least I have to try.
I don’t glance back after I step through the clear glass double doors. I can’t let Noah see that I’m not alone. I’m not alone because Simone is with me. I can feel her, scratch scratch scratching at the backs of my eyes. I’m in control of her this time, though.
At least I hope so.
The moment they close behind me, the air becomes hard to breathe, the weight of my own bones become hard to carry. But I press on.
I go through the motions—letting them know I’m here, smiling at Gregory when I see him waiting on the other side of a barred, locked door.
Neither of us says a word as he walks me to a small, secured room that looks like it was lifted straight from the set of a serial killer movie. The walls are dull gray, concrete block, and utterly blank. There is a single table in the center of the room, one chair pushed under either side. A hoop is the only thing marring its smooth surface and, when I look beneath it, I see that another decorates the floor. One for handcuffs, one for leg shackles. That alone tells me that this man is dangerous.
I suppress a shiver as I walk by a sheet of two-way glass. I wonder who is on the other side, watching, listening. Waiting.
Gregory pulls out the chair facing away from the mirror. I sit warily on its edge and fold my hands on the table in front of me.
The room smells of coffee and sweat and something darker, more pungent. My stomach roils with anxiety, but my veins…they pump with something else. Or maybe with someone else.
Moments later, the door opens. Two armed guards step into the room, one moving to the left of the opening, the other to the right.
Tick, tick, tick.
A clock in the hallway counts the seconds until the shuffle of manacles breaks the silence.
I see the left half of his body first, draped in a loose-fitting orange jumpsuit. I study the material, the way it hangs on his frame, the way his joints move within it. I let the odd sight calm my nerves.
But still, I’m excited. Strangely excited.
I force my eyes up, up, up past handcuffed wrists, past a number on a chest, to eyes—cold, steely, knowing eyes that I doubt I’ll ever be able to forget.
I watch Carter Finch as he makes his way to the table, a third armed guard holding him at the elbow, pushing him down into the chair.
I watch as they hook his cuffs to the loop on the table and as another bends to fasten his ankle shackles to the one in the floor.
And then they’re done. The guards rise and step to the rear of the room, leaving me face to face with the man who threw my entire existence into a frantic, chaotic, hellish tailspin.
I glance down at his hands. In the quiet, I think to myself that these are the hands that he used to strangle my little girl. These are the hands he would’ve used to do horrific things to her if he hadn’t been forced to speed things up.
These hands…
These hands…
As I look at them, I feel an itch. An unscratchable itch. Something needs to be done, but I…I can’t do it. Not me. Not now.
I hear nothing but the beat of my own heart as excitement unfurls in my gut—a black dahlia opening her petals for all the world to see.
Simone.
She’s the black dahlia.
She’s the darkness.
And she’s climbing toward the surface.
A smile builds. It begins in the pit of my stomach and bubbles up into my chest. It fizzes there, effervescent.
Like her.
I watch her, like an outsider looking in. I see how careful she is to hide the curve of her lips, the lightening of her eyes. Because she knows.
She knows.
It’s time.
It’s finally time.
“Where is she?” I ask without preamble.
His lips turn up at either end into what some would call a grin, but it’s far too sadistic to be anything so pleasant. It leaks evil, like a drippy pipe in a dank basement.
Drip, drip, drip.
It puddles around him, wets the air, tickles my nose.
“What’s the matter, pretty lady? You can’t be ready to leave so soon. You just got here.”
“Where is she?” I ask again, the purr of Simone vibrating my vocal cords.
“Come on, Mrs. Willliamson. The last time I saw you, you were more than happy to spend a little quality time with me.”
Nausea sloshes in my gut. My heart races. My palms grow damp with anticipation.
I glance down again.
These hands…
These hands…
I look back up at him, at his face, and I lean slightly forward in my chair. “Tell me where she is and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
His brow furrows. Questions swarm in his brain. I can see them flitting by behind his eyes, a small army of bees buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.
Yes, think. Wonder. Question. I want you to , my tiny smile says.
His lips quiver.
He wets them.
He watches me.
Wondering.
“How you gonna do that? You’re out there. I’m in here.”
“I have my ways. Don’t you trust me?”
“Sweetness, you’re the reason I’m in here. The only thing I want from you is to watch you die. ”
“Tell me where she is.”
I hold his muddy eyes, the eyes that have seen so many deaths, so many screams, so many victims. I don’t falter. I don’t glance away. I want him to see that I’m here to play ball.
“How?” he asks.
“Leave that to me,” I answer. “All I want is her body. Her life is over. My life is over. Her body is all that’s left.”
A lie.
But a necessary one. And she’s good at lying, Simone.
“You’re crazy.”
I feel the word like a needle to my side. Prick.
It draws blood.
“Thanks to you, yes, I am.”
“Don’t suppose you’ll ever be forgetting me then, will you?”
“Tell me where she is,” I demand again, leaning further forward, voice dropping lower. “Tell me and I’ll give you what you want.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
He’s suspicious, so I still hold his gaze. I show him that I’m dead serious.
“And if you can’t?”
“I can.”
“But if you can’t ?”
“It’s you or me.”
He will die.
Or I will.
He watches me for so long I forget that I’m leaning up on my elbows until they start to tingle with numbness. I ease back to relieve the pressure on them.
I hear the clock in the hallway. Tick. Tick. Tick.
He wants to believe me.
I’m showing him that he can.
“The deal these scumbag lawyers are willing to make with me, it’ll be over if I do.”
If he kills me, in other words, no deal. That could be the case.
I shrug. “Depends on the language of the deal.”
He grunts.
I remember the sound. He grunted that way when he was on top of me, masturbating.
Bile rises to the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.
I let my smile through th
is time. Just a little. “But wouldn’t it be worth it? Wouldn’t I be worth it?”
His pupils dilate and I know he’s mine.
No one in the room says a word. I’m sure the guards and Gregory all think I’m doing and saying anything I can to get him to talk, even though he’s the one who brought me here. He said he’d give us the location, but only to me. I gave him what he wanted and I’m offering even more. He just doesn’t know who I am today.
He doesn’t know that I’m Simone, and that Simone would’ve killed him if she could’ve, but I stopped her. I stopped her. Carly stopped her.
I see the moment his choice is made. I see it on his face, in his body language. I feel it, too. In my belly, in my bones. In my soul.
“She’s buried in front of a poplar tree, in the woods off highway eleven, six hundred feet straight back from mile marker forty-eight.”
I exhale.
This man is sick, so sick that he’s willing to play this game with me here, now. Just to see. Just to see.
I nod.
Finch watches me.
There is talk amongst the guards. They prepare to remove Finch.
Gregory leaves the room, already on his phone dispatching local law enforcement to that location near our house in Maryland.
Still Finch watches me.
As they unhook his shackles, he watches.
As they unhook his cuffs, he watches.
One guard opens the door. Another grips Finch under his arm.
Still he watches me.
Two guards out the door to secure the hallway, and only one left inside with me.
One guard, Finch and me.
I rise soberly from my chair, I round the table. Calmly I move until I don’t. Until I cross the room as quickly as I can and I take Finch’s chained hands in mine and I guide them to my throat.
My eyes are wild. I can feel lit, like flames are spitting from them.
Simone. She’s on fire.
My voice is urgent as I whisper, “This is your last chance to get what you wanted. Take it. Take it!”
Our eyes are locked together. His fingers tighten, tighten, tighten. The guards are buzzing around. More bees, more bees.
There is pulling and tugging. There is wrestling and shoving. Someone is trying to help me, but I won’t let them. I keep my hands firmly on Finch’s, my eyes trained on his.