Revenge

by Anne L. Parks

  "I'm losing my mind." Weighing what I think I just saw against the impossibility of it being John is causing a lightning storm in my brain and a dull throb at the base of my skull.

  I pull into the small parking lot behind my law office, grab my coffee and purse, and head up the stairs. Thank God Reyes isn't back from lunch either. I have time to calm down without him scrutinizing me. It’s creepy enough the way he is always staring at me, but having him ask me what’s wrong, with his suspicious gaze making me feel guilty—for what, I have no idea—is more than I can take on at the moment.

  I dump my stuff on a chair in my office, cross the open space to the kitchenette, and start a new pot of coffee. My hands are shaking, coffee grounds scatter all over the counter. I need to get a grip on my paranoia, but this is twice now I've seen John's BMW. And it's not just one that looks like his—it's his, the vanity plates are proof of that.

  Am I just seeing things? Has my imagination—my crushing fear of John—finally gotten the best of me?

  My breathing is out of control, I'm hyperventilating, and one step away from a full-blown panic attack. I grab the edge of the counter, close my eyes, and concentrate on slow inhales and exhales.

  Footsteps fall on the stairs, and I turn as Reyes hits the top step. He's breathing heavily, his chest heaving almost as heavily as mine. Sweat covers his face, his short hair wet, his shirt sticking to him, the outline of his highly defined pectoral muscles visible through the thin material.

  "Were you running?" I ask.

  His head swivels around until his eyes meet mine.

  "Uh…yeah…" He looks away, and I can’t help but feel I’ve caught him doing something.

  I grab the coffee pot before it's done brewing, fill my coffee mug, and stroll into my office. "Was someone chasing you?" I'm only half joking as I stop behind my desk and peer at him standing in the doorway of my office.

  "Well, it was more of a jog, really—I lost track of time at lunch and wanted to get back to the office." His eyes run over my body, finally landing on my face. "You all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost." He leans against the doorframe to my office, his massive, muscular arms across his chest, and his eyebrows raised.

  "I wish it had been a ghost," I mutter. I glance at him, and his eyes narrow and lock onto mine. "It's nothing," I wave dismissively, "just some jerk who was driving like an asshole on the way over here. Nearly clipped the front of my car." Hopefully, he'll take the hint and let this drop.

  "Drivers around here suck. I hated being on patrol when I first became a cop. It's a miracle I was never in an accident."

  I smile, nod, and change the subject. I really don't want to talk about this anymore and say something to the detective which will only generate more questions I don't have answers for. "I thought we'd go through the crime scene photos and start a timeline on the whiteboard this afternoon."

  "Okay, I'll find the boxes we need."

  "Sounds good. I just have to make a quick phone call and I'll be right in." As soon as he's in the conference room, I pick up the receiver and dial the number to Cedar Grove Hospital. The receptionist answers after the second ring.

  "Yes, hello, I was wondering if there is any way I can speak to John Sysco?" I ask.

  "And you are?"

  Crap! I hadn't thought this far ahead. I don't want to give my name for a variety of reasons, but I have no idea what name to give.

  "Um, I'm a cousin of his…Caroline." I have no idea if he has a cousin named Caroline—or if he even has a cousin, but it's the first thing that pops in my head.

  After a few minutes of being on hold, the line is picked up. "Hello?"

  I'd know his voice anywhere. It still gives me an icy shiver down my spine.

  "Hello? Anyone there?" he asks.

  I move the phone away from my ear but hear a low, evil whisper that sucks all the air out of my lungs. "I know it's you, Kylie. I know you're scared—wondering if the things you're seeing are real. Are you questioning your sanity yet?"

  I slam the receiver down. My hands are trembling. A cold wave rushes over me leaving goosebumps in its wake.

  What did he mean? Was that him driving the car?

  No, there's no way he could get all the way back to the hospital in that amount of time. God, I hate he can frighten me to the very depths of my soul with just the sound of his voice. But there's something more going on here. Either I'm losing my mind, or John has somehow resumed stalking me.

  But how?

  I shake my head at my own irrational thoughts and head into the conference room. Distraction. That's what I need right now. Work has always been a reprieve from John in the past, even when we were dating. No reason it can't be again.

  Reyes is busy separating the photos into piles. I grab a couple and drop down into one of the chairs.

  "Let's see what we have here…" The first picture shows a close up of an overturned end table and a few broken glass objects scattered close by. Little yellow tents with numbers mark the evidence. "I wish I could get a sense of how the room was laid out—you know, basic dimensions, furniture placement?" I flip through a few more pictures showing other items broken or generally out of place. "Is there a diagram…or sketch of this room? Or the house?"

  "I haven't seen anything yet, but that wouldn't be in this stuff." Reyes drops a few more photos in front of me. "I can take a look at the evidence log and see if either the prosecution or defense had one made for the trial."

  I glance up from the photos and meet his gaze. His eyes are so intense, a hunger lurks in the periphery, edged with melancholy. We've been working closely for the past few days, but I know virtually nothing about him. I have no idea if he's married, single, divorced. If he has kids.

  The atmosphere when he's around me—when it's just us—shifts to one of need and desire, and I can't help but wonder if Paul is right, and Reyes is interested in more than just a professional relationship.

  It’s awkward, and the thought of being in a relationship with any man other than Alex makes my stomach flip and sour. Alex has ruined me for any other man. If I’m not with him, I can’t imagine ever wanting to be with another.

  Damn him and his lies and control freakiness!

  I go through the pictures he added to my pile. One is a close-up of Ellen Wells. A stream of blood runs from the corner of her mouth, across her cheek, and drips into a pool on the floor. There are fresh bruises on her cheek and around her eye, and her lip is swollen and split open.

  It's the marks on the neck which interest me the most. Four long, wide bruises line the right side of her neck, with one large bruise on the left side. Damn, this complicates things.

  "Do you have a copy of the death certificate handy?" I ask Reyes.

  He shifts through a file at the other end of the long table. "Yep, right here." He waves it in the air.

  "What does it say the cause of death is?"

  "Intracranial hemorrhage and brain herniation due to traumatic brain injury."

  "I need to see the coroner's report and the transcript of his testimony." There is something in this photo I'm missing, something which will exculpate Alex in his mother's death. "What's the name of the coroner?"

  "Xavier Schiffer."

  "No, not the current guy. The one from the original trial…he's retired now." I flip through the files in front of me, unsure what is actually in them.

  "Logan? Lewis, maybe?" Reyes offers.

  "It should be on the death certificate," I said.

  After a few seconds, Reyes says, "Theodore Loftus."

  "We need to find him. I want him to take a look at these photos and explain the bruises on her neck, and why the cause of death wasn't strangulation. See if we can get him to come here."

  Reyes stares at me and releases a long, heavy sigh. "Anything else?"

  A flush floods my face, and I offer apologetic smile. "You're not my legal secretary. You're a highly experienced detective, and I have no right expecting you to fetch things for me. I apologiz
e, I guess I'm used to having Lisa around when I work up a case. That's not an excuse, and I'm sure you have your own areas to investigate."

  He chuckles, rubs the back of his neck and twists at the hips to stretch his back. "It's no problem. Nothing I've been looking into is leading anywhere. Besides, I'm kind of getting a kick out of watching you. I just wish I could be inside your head and see what's going on in there."

  Placing the pictures in some coherent order, I shake my head. "It's total chaos and confusion. I wouldn't recommend any sort of deep dive."

  "It's a beautiful mind."

  I still, and slowly lift my eyes.

  "You know, the guy in that movie. Total genius, bat-shit crazy."

  I breathe a sigh of relief, chastising myself for assuming he meant anything else. "Hmmm, I'm going to pretend there's a compliment in there and just say thanks."

  He saunters around the table toward me, his eyes trained on mine, and stops right in front of me. "You're welcome."

  His voice is deep, and his eyes have darkened. I suck in a breath, not sure what's coming next. He hands me a notebook and a file. "Here's the coroner's report and transcript you requested."

  My chest is heaving, although I haven't the faintest idea why. I'm not attracted to Reyes, even though a woman would have to be near dead not to appreciate the sculptured body, and—damn—can he fill out a pair of jeans with that perfect ass. Maybe it's just the possibility he will try to kiss me, or want to take it farther, which has me apprehensive.

  I have no idea, but it's becoming clear to me the men in my life are driving me a little "bat shit crazy" lately. I wonder how long until I am full-blown insane and committed to Cedar Grove?

  * * *

  * * *

  By late afternoon, I gather up some files to go over at home and head out the door. When I get into the apartment, all I can think of is getting a glass of wine and taking a long, scalding hot bath. Paul and Ryan returned to New York after lunch, so I'm on my own.

  Paul gave me his patented bear hug before he left, and whispered in my ear, "Don't string Alex along for too long, K. You deserve to be happy, and you've been at your happiest since being with him. It may be time to suck it up and let him off the hook."

  My relationship with Alex has been a series of stops and starts, each stop a blindside which slams me up against a wall, certain our relationship is beyond repair. I dwell in darkness, the constant pain ravages my heart, and I wallow in self-pity until the slightest bit of light slips through the cracks. The light is always Alex. It will always be Alex. No matter how mad I am, how much I convince myself it will never work, that we are over, I know I can't live without him.

  Accepting his need to control my life under the guise of protecting me is the stumbling block consistently tripping me up. The overwhelming need to keep me safe clouds his judgment and drives me away.

  I swing into an empty spot in the parking garage under my apartment building, grab my night's reading material, and head to the elevator. My heels click against the cement, echoing through the cavernous space. A second, heavier set of footsteps offset mine. I glance around the garage, empty—quiet—utterly eerie. I pick up my pace, my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes glued to the elevator. My head is telling me I'm being paranoid again, until I hear the other footsteps—in perfect time with my accelerated pace.

  My hand is shaking, dancing around the elevator call button. I manage to push it in, the light a welcome beacon through the dizzying fear swirling around in my head, followed by the sweet sound of the ding as the elevator doors open. I dart inside, push the door close button, and chance a glimpse into the garage.

  No one is there. At least, no one I can see.

  The elevator wall is cool against my back, I close my eyes, and rest my head against it. My breathing slows, almost normal again, and I laugh. One step away from the straight jacket fitting.

  The thumping in my head usually indicates a lack of caffeine, but I think I've had about three pots of coffee today. Probably just nervous tension coursing through me. My stress level continues to rise incrementally, a roller coaster on its ascent to the clouds, the apprehension growing with every tick up the long track.

  Unlocking the apartment, I practically fall through the door. Dumping all the files, my briefcase, and purse on the table, I head to the wine rack and pull out a bottle of Chilean Carménère. Filling the glass nearly to the rim, I take a large sip, and savor the chocolatey flavor with notes of plum. Allowing the wine to sit on my tongue, I close my eyes, and tip my head back before letting it slide down my throat. It's as close to an orgasm as I will get tonight—or any night in the near future—and I silently thank Alex for teaching me the subtleties of wine.

  Opening my eyes, I lift the glass to my lips, when my eyes fall on a long box laying on the counter. "Ryan and Paul must have left flowers for me," I mutter, grab the small white envelope taped to the top of the carton, and remove the card.

  Soon you will suffer the same fate…

  I turn the card over in my hand, my mind grappling with the meaning of the cryptic message. No signature. I pull the box closer to me, lift the lid, and discard the tissue paper. A thick black ribbon is tied around a bunch of long-stemmed roses—all of them dead.

  I stumble backwards. My hands tremble and the card floats effortlessly to my feet. Visions of the decapitated cat John sent me a few months ago flood my mind, and I'm right back in the same tailspin. The only way I kept centered then was having Alex. He allowed me to fall apart, while simultaneously giving me strength.

  I need him now—but things are too complicated. Calling him will muddy the waters. He'll expect forgiveness, and reconciliation—two things I'm unable to hand over just yet.

  I snatch my purse from the table, roll through the contacts, and press the call button.

  It rings twice. "Reyes."

  "Hi, it's Kylie." I utterly fail at masking the tremors in my voice. "I have a problem and I'm hoping you can come to my apartment and help me figure out what to do."

  "Yeah, sure. Is everything all right?" His voice is soft but laced with concern.

  "I don't know." Tears break the lower lid barrier and roll down my cheeks. I swipe them away and clear my throat.

  "What's your address?" I give it to him, and he says, "I'll be right over," and ends the call.

  I grasp the back of the couch and limp around to the front before my knees buckle and I fall onto it. Too many questions swirl around in my head demanding answers I don't have and forcing me to consider the irrational as reasonable. John is behind this—he broke into my apartment, left the flowers, along with the promise.

  My death at his hands.

  Loud knocks rattle the door. Beads of sweat cover my face. John is here to make good on his threats. Fear wracks my body, and I can’t control the shakes taking over.

  "Kylie, it's Reyes. Open the door."

  My movements are stiff, my legs muscles tight as I make my way to the door. Swiping a hand across my forehead to get rid of the sweat, I yank the door open.

  Deep lines wrinkle Reyes’s forehead, his eyes squint, a grimace across his face. He steps inside, closes the door, and turns the deadbolt.

  He's locking me in. Forcing me to remain here against my will. He doesn't want to help me—he wants to destroy me.

  A knot forms in my stomach, a rush of adrenaline courses through my body, and I consider whether or not I can flip the lock and get the door open before he can stop me.

  My head is spinning, visions and thoughts are a jumbled mess, and I can't stop the loud warning bells clanging in my head. There's no one I can trust.

  "Jesus, Kylie, what the hell is going on?" Reyes pulls my hands away from my ears. I peer at him, expecting to see the same evil grin on John's face when he knows he has scared the shit out of me.

  But Reyes’s expression is soft, a small smile brightens his eyes, which keeps steady contact with mine. His fingertips brush away a strand of hair from my face and he lets his hand lin
ger and caress my cheek.

  I take a deep breath and hold it. What is wrong with me? How could I possibly think Reyes was here to harm me? I called him to come over and help me.

  I sigh, and my shoulders slump under the heaviness weighing them down. I point to the box on the counter.

  Reyes approaches it, tentatively pulls back the tissue paper, and peers inside. I scoop up the card from the floor, and hand it to him as he turns toward me.

  "They were here when I got home," I say. "I don't know who left them or how they got into my apartment."

  Reyes takes the card from me, his eyes lift to meet mine, his eyebrows scrunch together.

  I shift back and forth on my feet. "They’re from John."

  Reyes' mouth opens, but he shuts it without saying whatever he inevitably wants to convey. I can only imagine it starts with, "you're crazy" and ends with, "you need help."

  He blows out his cheeks, shakes his head, and releases a long breath. "That's impossible."

  "It's him—I know it's him. This is what he does. You were there when he sent me the dead cat. And he left a note, threatening to kill me. And now he's done it again. Tell me you see that?"

  "Yes, it's similar, but John is locked up. Do you seriously believe he escaped and broke in here, just to leave you a dozen dead roses?" His hands run up and down my upper arms. He cocks his head to the side and offers a small smile. "Think about it, Kylie. It just doesn't make sense that it was John."

  I wrap my arms tighter across my chest. My jaw is clenched tightly. God, could he be anymore condescending? He has no idea what it’s like to live in constant fear John will appear, trap me—rape and murder me.

  He doesn't have to endure the nightmares which force me to relive the abuse, torture, and humiliation by a man who enjoyed making me beg for my life, who sneered and laughed when I screamed for help—or mercy. The man who tossed me to the floor, smeared his come all over my bloody, broken body, and then left me there, nothing more than trash he kicked to the corner.

  "Who else could it have been?" I ask.