The Mistaken

by Nancy S Thompson

  He pushed me through the first set of doors, kicking them closed behind him. He released his hold on my arm and shoved me into my bedroom. I fell against the side of my tall poster bed and spun around to face him. My hands gripped the edge of the mattress behind me. The man stepped back and stuffed his weapon into his pocket then removed his soaked leather jacket. I stared at him, terror choking back my questions.

  The man sneered at me and kicked off his boots. He pulled his t-shirt over his head then wiped it across his dripping face and hair. I sobbed, unable to tear my eyes away as he stood half naked in front of me. My entire body trembled. Now I knew what he wanted. This was the light that had changed in his eyes. He took a step in my direction. I backed away into the bed, cornered. No way to escape. My heart pounded and skipped. I felt sick. Another step closer.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked quietly.

  He took one more step. So close. I felt his heat. His expression grew even more intense. He scrutinized me, his hatred once again firm. Unmistakable.

  “Tell me you’re afraid.” His voice was calm, hardly more than a whisper.

  I shook my head. “Oh God, no, please don’t do this. Please.”

  Begging didn’t move him at all. I clutched my hands, drawn into fists, tight against my chest. I pressed them under my chin in a futile effort to protect myself from what I knew was coming.

  His eyes swept over me, sizing me up, then locked onto mine. “You are, aren’t you? You’re afraid.” A shadow of a grin played at the corners of his mouth. “That’s good. You should be.”

  I held my hands up between us, as if that would protect me. “Please, don’t. Please.”

  The hawkish scowl disappeared, and he laughed, but it was bitter and sharp, like a blade ripping across my soul. He sounded like a defeated man with nothing left to lose. A dangerous omen.

  “I tried that, too,” he said. “Begging, praying to God, pleading for mercy.” He dipped his chin, and his brow shot up. “It doesn’t help, I can assure you.”

  I stared at him, trying to discern his meaning. An odd mixture of emotions ran across his face. Uncertainty mingled with hatred, twisting together along his otherwise attractive features. I wondered how someone with such God-given beauty could choose such an ugly course. Surely someone so attractive would have many who offered freely what he was intent on taking from me forcibly.

  Was this about hatred? Or was it power and control he sought? Maybe revenge as he implied? But for what? I’d done nothing. Could this be about Beck? Had he crossed the wrong person? Was this man a jealous husband? A jilted lover? His motive was completely lost on me.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice a choked squeak.

  His brow furrowed as he bore down on me with his furious eyes. “Because I want you to feel a small fraction of the fear and pain you caused my wife—my pregnant wife—right before she died.”

  I stood up straighter, shocked. “What? That’s insane. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t done anything to anyone!”

  His eyes widened in surprise for the briefest moment. Then they narrowed as he looked me up and down, appraising me. “How dare you? How dare you deny what you’ve done. You couldn’t stop lying if your life depended on it.”

  “Because I didn’t do anything! You’ve got your facts all wrong!”

  His seethed through gnashed teeth. “You miserable bitch! You target innocent people, steal from them, destroy their dreams, mangle their lives. And for what? For money? You’re a pathetic whore!”

  I gasped at his accusations. “You’re crazy. I’ve done nothing. Nothing! Now get the hell out of here!”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you admit what you’ve done.” He latched onto my throat with both hands, his expression mad with fury. “Say it. You killed my wife! You murdered my child! Say it! Say it!”

  He dodged is head from side to side, bobbing and weaving as I clawed at his face. Even as blackness started to close in, my vision turned red, and my rage boiled over.

  “Fuck you and your wife!” I croaked.

  He jolted to a stop, his hands falling from my throat. He grabbed me by the arms and hurled me onto the bed. I kicked and twisted to get away, but he climbed on top of me. His knee wedged between my legs. He reached up under my dress and tore my underwear away.

  “No, no, please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I don’t know her, I swear! I don’t know your wife! Please! Listen to me! I don’t know her! Please! Please!”

  My throat burned raw with fiery tendrils lacing through to my ears. I struggled against him with every ounce of energy I had. But his weight had me pinned. His other knee forced my legs apart. He fumbled with his jeans. Pushed them aside. I pounded my hands against him. Thrashed his shoulders and head. My nails raked across his flesh. He grabbed both my wrists. Pinned them above my head in one hand.

  I was lost, completely under his control. I cried. Shook my head against the bed. My eyes shut tight. His hand grappled between my thighs. This was it. I knew what was coming. Yet I was powerless to stop it. I sobbed even harder.

  His chest rose up as he readied himself. “Open your fucking eyes!” he yelled.

  I obeyed. “Please, you can’t do this! You can’t!”

  “You have to pay for what you’ve done,” he roared, his face twisted in hatred.

  My mind raced, searching for a way out, hunting for some way to connect with this man, to make him see me as human, to show me some small mercy. Think, think!

  His wife. He was doing this for her, because she had died. She was pregnant. He lost them both, his wife and his baby! That was it. He had to see me as a mother, just like his wife!

  “Please,” I begged, “I have a child, a son! This will destroy him!” My body quaked with wracking sobs as I rocked my head from side to side. He was but a moment away from destroying me. “Please, please, he’s just a boy. He won’t survive this! It will kill him! You can’t do this.” Staring into his rage-filled eyes, I raised my head off the bed and screamed. “I’m his mother!”

  The man startled as if physically shocked. He grew completely still. The rage blazing in his eyes melted away, replaced by what looked like…like…horror. He loosened his grip around my wrists then let go altogether, his hands snapping back to his chest as if touching my flesh had scorched him.

  I dropped my head to the mattress and stared up at him through a thick film of tears. I pulled my hands in and wiped at my eyes with trembling fingers.

  The man remained kneeling above me, just staring back, aghast, silent. His mouth was open, and his horrified eyes swept over me. He sucked in a large breath of air and pushed away with disgust tightening his brow.

  “Oh God,” he gasped with both palms pressed flat against the top of his head. “Oh my God! No, no…” He shook his head, and although he closed his eyes tight, tears began to escape, leaving glistening trails over the angular lines of his face.

  I was struck dumb as he sobbed. Him. The intruder. What the hell!

  “Oh God,” he choked again. He yanked up on his jeans and pulled away. With the tall corner post at the foot of the bed behind him, he leaned back with his eyes still closed. He pressed a clenched fist against his mouth as if he were going to be sick.

  “Oh God, Jillian,” he cried, both hands now covering his face. “Please, forgive me. Please...”

  He pulled one leg up and wrapped an arm around it. He laid his forehead down upon his knee, covered the top of his head with his hand, and wept as he rocked back and forth, crying and mumbling to himself. Then with a jolt that shook the bed, he slammed himself twice in the head with his fist and swore, “Fuck! Fuck!”

  I backed away from him as far as I could, sliding onto my side and rolling up into a ball. Though relieved he had called off his attack, I feared the strange, erratic nature of the man in front of me. I cried noiselessly as I studied him, unsure of what to do.

  My eyes swept back and forth between him and the door. I crept closer to the edge of
the bed, painstakingly slow, so he wouldn’t feel me. Am I strong enough to make a run for it? Every inch of me quivered in fear, exhausted from the battle. This might be my only chance. Should I try to escape? Or will he fly into another rage? Try to hurt me? Rape me? Maybe even kill me? Oh God, what should I do? I slid another inch closer, careful, cautious, then another, and another, my eyes pinned on the door. Until I felt him move.

  He raised his head and, with his bloodshot eyes, looked over at me. He shook his head, his expression tortured with what looked like remorse and unfathomable regret.

  “I’m...sorry. I didn’t… I’m so sorry,” he sobbed then let his head fall back onto his knee. He weaved his fingers through his hair and pulled it tight into both fists.

  I didn’t get it. I couldn’t understand him at all. This angry man, filled with malice and violent intentions as he intruded into my world, now shook with contrition and sorrow? Are you kidding me? It was unreal. I was stunned and bewildered by his sudden transformation, and wondered the reason behind it. If he was truly sorry, he wouldn’t hurt me again, would he? I slowly pulled myself up into a sitting position with my knees pulled in tight against my chest. I stared at him for a long moment as I worked up the courage to speak. I was terrified of provoking him, of having him lash out and continue where he had left off. But I needed to know the truth, to know why he had chosen me, what connection he thought we shared.

  “Who…is…your wife?” I stammered.

  His head snapped up, almost combatively, but though I flinched, I didn’t back down. I was too angry.

  “You answer me, godammit. Who is your wife?” I was surprised by the venom in my own voice. I screamed the words at him, my rage somehow outmaneuvering my fear. Pretty stupid, but then I never was very smart when I got angry.

  He regarded me for a silent stretch of time, just as I had done him, with his jaw clenched tight. Then he leaned forward, his eyes narrowed in contempt. “Jillian Demetrio,” he spat.

  Confused, I shook my head. “I don’t know that name. I’ve never heard it before. How could you do that to me? I don’t know you. And I don’t know your wife!”

  He leaned forward, bent onto his knee, and grabbed me by my arms, his nose mere inches from mine and his eyes flitting back and forth. “That’s bullshit! You knew her, Erin, all too well. You stole her identity, for God’s sake! You took her life. You killed my child!”

  He pushed me away in disgust and returned to the foot of the bed, his finger pointing at me in both accusation and warning: Stay away, or else…he seemed to say. His teeth gnashed together and his body trembled, barely under control.

  My eyes widened as I fell back against the headboard. I gasped at the mention of that name, when it registered in my head.

  Erin, he had said. Oh my God. Erin.

  “What?” I squealed. “Did…did you just…call me…Erin?” I shook my head. “No. No, I’m... I’m not Erin. No, uh-uh.” Though his lips pursed in an angry grimace, I pressed on. “Why? Why would you call me that? Erin who? You tell me her last name! Erin who? You tell me! Tell me!” I sprang at him, my hands clawing at his face and raking across his bare shoulders.

  He grabbed my wrists and shook me. “You sick, twisted bitch!” He pushed me back hard into the headboard and pointed at me again. “We both know exactly who and what you are, Ms. Anderson. A filthy leech. A lying murderer!” He swung his fist wide and smashed it against the corner bedpost.

  I pinned my hands to my ears, closed my eyes, and shook my head. “No, no, no! This is not happening. It’s not happening.” I looked back at the man. “Why? Why would you think that? I’m not Erin Anderson.” I pressed my palm to my chest. “My name is Hannah. Hannah Maguire.” Then I motioned toward the door.” That…that…whore…is my husband’s mistress!”

  At first he looked at me in shock, as if I had sprouted a second head, but it quickly turned to anger. He leaned forward with that finger poking near my face. “Don’t give me that shit!”

  I stupidly batted his hand away. “No, you listen to me! I am not Erin Anderson. My name is Hannah Maguire. Hannah Maguire! That miserable whore, she’s… She’s having an affair with my husband.”

  “You lying bitch! You’d say anything to save your pathetic neck. But you did it. You killed my wife. You’re responsible for that accident. If you hadn’t provoked her, she never would have pursued you. She’s dead because of you, and you know it! Godammit!” For a brief moment, his rage-filled face crumpled into despair. “She was pregnant. Did you know that? Do you even care? You killed my child. You killed them both!” His face glowed a purplish red, and his whole body shook in outrage.

  I leaned back with my mouth open. This man was completely mad.

  “What are you talking about? You’re insane! I told you. My name is Hannah Maguire. But I know her. I know who that woman is. She’s having an affair with my husband. I had them followed. By a private investigator. And I have photographs to prove it.”

  He stilled himself and stared at me, contemplating my words, wondering about the possibility of his error. He grew worried. I saw it in his eyes, clear as day, the way his brow knitted together, deep chevrons that scored above the bridge of his nose. Then a V bulged down the center of his forehead, its apex terminating in the furrow. He lunged forward and tried to seize me again, but I scrambled across the blood-stained bed and fell to the floor.

  “You’re a lying bitch,” he swore, maneuvering after me.

  I crouched on the floor, cornered between the bed, the wall, and the man as he stood above me. I pushed away as far as possible and kicked out at him when he knelt down in front of me.

  “No! Get away from me! Don’t you ever touch me again!”

  He rocked back and ran his fingers through his hair over and over, considering me with both apprehension and utter disbelief. At that moment, he appeared nearly as intimidated by me as I was by him.

  “I’m not lying,” I said, “I swear. You’ve mistaken me for someone else. You’ve got the wrong woman.” I met his intense stare with one of my own.

  His mouth hung slack. He knelt silently, his hands balling into fists atop his thighs.

  “I…I don’t understand. I…I saw you there. At that spa. You were having an argument with that prick, Maguire. And then I saw you again later in the parking lot with that waitress. You showed her a picture or something. I followed you all the way to Oakland. To the airport. I saw you both there. You and Maguire.” He pointed his finger at me again and seethed through clenched teeth. “I saw you there! I know it was you!”

  And then it dawned on me as I recalled that day, two weeks before, when I visited the spa down in Napa. He must have been watching me. He must have been watching us both—me and Erin—and thought we were one and the same. Oh God!

  I shook my head. “No! I mean… Yes. That was me in the parking lot and at the airport, but you saw Erin at the restaurant. She had the fight with Beck. Not me. We look very similar, I know, but… That was Erin you saw in the restaurant. Not me. You’ve made a stupid, foolish mistake.” Tears rolled down my cheeks again. “You were stalking the wrong woman, you goddamn bastard!”

  He sprang back up onto his feet, and looked down at me, his eyes wild and panicked.

  “Oh fuck, no!” He shook his head. “No, no, no, no, no. That…that can’t be right.”

  He paced the small space between us, back and forth, over and over, mumbling to himself. Then all of a sudden, he stopped and peered back down at me. The same look of remorse and regret washed over him once more, but this time it was followed by fear. Acute and irrefutable.

  “Oh my God!” he said as he stepped back from me, both hands resting atop his head. “Oh God, what have I done?”

  He bent down and crouched on the balls of his feet then raked his hands across his face. With his chin tilted upward, he closed his eyes and whispered.

  “What have I done?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tyler

  I paced the floor around me,
unable—perhaps unwilling—to process the reality of what I had just done—what I almost did—the severity of the mistake I had made, and the dire consequences that now faced me, my brother, and the wounded woman cowering in fear and humiliation in the corner. The reality was that through the hazy cloud of alcohol and pills, I believed delivering a degrading punishment would somehow empower me, fulfill my need for revenge, and expunge the hate, grief, and rage that filled me. I thought my mind might be rewarded with a sense of balance, my soul a thread of justice, and my heart a measure of peace.

  But I despised myself for the act. Though I knew the woman must hate me with every fiber of her being, to the very core of her soul, I hated myself more. I was not the man I thought I was. The true measure of a man reveals itself during the darkest moments, and I had proven false to the man I always believed myself to be, to the man Jillian believed me to be. The fact that I had not followed all the way through didn’t diminish the horror of it. I could not have sunk any lower had I taken a human life with my bare hands. God, how did I get here? How could I have even thought of doing such a despicable thing? I was an abomination, a monster far worse than Erin Anderson had ever been.

  Even if I had dispatched the penalty upon Erin, rather than this woman, it still would not have accomplished what I sought. I could see that now, that my inability to accept my own guilt had robbed me of my humanity. And now, the actuality of my error in both judgment and reason lay broken and beaten at my feet. Whoever said vengeance is sweet was wrong. It’s the thought of vengeance—filtered through memories that haunt and torment—that is sweet. Not the act itself. The act is vile and bitter. I felt physically ill as it filled me, as I realized what I had almost done, what I had, in fact, already done, the pain, fear, and humiliation I had caused.