Third Party

by Brandi Reeds

  Her eyes rolled back in pleasure, yet a second later, she heard the tear of tape.

  She flinched. Before she could say the safe word, he’d strapped a length of silver tape across her mouth.

  The button fell to the floor beneath her.

  “Now. Have you ever heard of erotic cutting?” The blade was back in his hand.

  Her eyes were wide and sprouting tears.

  She shook her head but couldn’t say no, couldn’t stop him.

  “This is for your own good. You’re mine.”

  She shook her head more profusely.

  “I’m going to mark you now.”

  No. No, no, no.

  “It’s going to hurt. But this way, no man will dare to take you from me.”

  No!

  He brought the blade to her right breast.

  And he began to carve.

  Chapter 17

  KIRSTEN

  “Quinn!” I pounce into the hallway.

  Quinn flinches. Her hand is on the closet doorknob. She’s half a second away from seeing her father in a position a girl should never see.

  “What a nice surprise.” I go to her, wrap her in my arms, and inhale all the Quinny smells: her clean-scented shampoo with the faint hint of mint, her preferred perfume, Daisy by Marc Jacobs.

  “Mom, what’s going on?”

  “I should be asking you the same question.” With an arm about her shoulders, I lead her farther into the house, away from the closet where I hung a photo of Ian doing his young girlfriend from behind. “You have classes tomorrow.”

  “I was worried about you,” she says. “And I talked to my professors. They know I have an emergency at home.” She narrows her glance at me as she takes a seat at the table. “Are you okay?”

  I join her. “I’m not quite at emergency status.”

  “Mom . . . what’s going on?”

  “Nothing, Quinn. Nothing that should concern you.”

  “I talked to Patrick. I know you and Dad aren’t speaking. Dad told him you were hysterical. Accusatory.”

  “Accusatory.”

  “Out-of-control accusatory. If you want to know the exact term.”

  Anger flares up. To think he told our son that I overreacted . . . Ian must have painted a picture of my being out of control and accusing him of outrageous things, and Patrick swallowed the tale hook, line, and sinker.

  And Ian, I know, is everything Patrick aspires to be. His father overcame great odds. From a boy who got his girlfriend in trouble in high school, to partner in a law firm, his is a true story of grit, hard work, and achievement.

  Either Patrick has absolute trust in his father and thinks his father is too sophisticated to do such a nasty thing as seduce a young girl behind his wife’s back, or Patrick sees having other women as Ian’s right, given how hard he’s worked. I don’t know which it is, but either way, my son is way off base.

  “He said you accused Dad of having an affair. Mom, you don’t actually think he would—”

  “He said I was hysterical?”

  “Mm-hmm. Do you really think he’s screwing around?”

  “I more than think. I know.”

  “I never wanted to tell you this, but . . .” She chews on her thumbnail for a second. “I told Patrick months ago that I thought something weird was going on with Dad.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. He seemed distracted or something. I got a weird vibe. I told Patrick I wouldn’t put it past Dad to cheat.”

  “Really, Quinn? You’d talk to your brother about this, but not me?”

  “You had enough to deal with . . . with the episode, and besides, Patrick didn’t agree with me. So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. But Patrick obviously thinks it’s okay to cover for Dad.”

  “Please, Mom.” She rolls her eyes. “Patrick doesn’t know the meaning of the word faithful. He was looking at engagement rings last spring, right? He said once he was finished with law school, he wants to marry Becca. If that’s true, why was he out with another girl just last month?”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “I didn’t see it with my own eyes, if that’s what you mean. But people talk.”

  “Does Becca know?”

  “Well, I’d gladly tell her, but it won’t make for a very nice Christmas. He’d be pissed.”

  “We’re probably not going to have a great Christmas this year, anyway.” I hate thinking it’s true, but she’s old enough to deal with some harsh realities. “Maybe if Patrick has to bear the consequence of what he’s doing, he’d stop doing it.”

  “Okay, so what’s the consequence going to be for Dad?”

  “I don’t know. I have to get my ducks in a row, I guess. I don’t have a job, I’ve never worked outside the home . . .”

  And Ian recently changed the password on the bank account, so he’s probably getting his ducks in a row, too.

  “You have to start pursuing your own interests. Make friends. You used to have friends, Mom. You used to have parties. Have fun.”

  “Parties take work.”

  “I know you and Aunt Lena were close before she and Doug split, but . . . maybe you could call Donna. Be friends with her.”

  I don’t tell my daughter about my last encounter with Donna, when she blew me off after yoga and coffee at the mere mention of something uncomfortable.

  I look to my Louis Vuitton tote, which is spilling out onto the counter.

  Quinn’s gaze follows the direction of mine.

  I’m sure she sees the red thong, still wrapped in the plastic, reclosable bag.

  She blinks away and meets me in a stare.

  “Mom?”

  She doesn’t ask the question I know is lingering on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t have to.

  My heart tightens. As much as I want to prove to the world that Ian’s wronged me, that I’m not hysterical and I’m not overreacting, I always wanted my kids to believe in their father. I know the pain that comes from realizing your dad has flaws, that those flaws can draw a line or build a wall between you.

  The wall between my father and me was never broken down, and I am permanently fractured because of it—even now, years after his death.

  But I’m not the one who did this. If Ian’s relationship with our children suffers because of those panties in my purse, it’s both his fault and his responsibility to repair it.

  Quinn’s brows slant slightly downward, and she tilts her head to one side. “Please, Mama.”

  I choke on a sob. Mama. She hasn’t called me that in years.

  “You should leave.” She swallows noticeably, and I know by the pricks of tears in her eyes that she’s trying not to cry. “You should go. I’ll help you.”

  “Believe it or not, Quinn, I’ve already put some pieces in place.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like where I want to live, what I want to do.”

  “You can’t do this on your own. It’s a big deal. It’s okay to rely on people. Your old friends from Evanston . . . you’re more worried about the episode than any of them. They understand. Half of them are on Prozac, anyway.”

  “I want to start over,” I say. “When I had that episode, Quinn, it was like a catharsis, a fresh start. And maybe you haven’t seen the evidence of my starting over, but it’s been happening.” I tap my temple. “Up here. And this is something I have to do on my own, sweetie.”

  I know she doesn’t see me as strong. I know that for most of her life, I’ve played the role of a passive participant in a game where her father is king.

  But that’s about to change.

  Earlier, I took a call from Lieutenant Decker, a detective with the Chicago Police Department. I have an appointment with him tomorrow morning.

  I’m about to show my daughter just how strong a woman like me can be.

  THEN

  MARGAUX

  Someone was sitting on a stoop in the alleyway behind the Aquasphere, lea
ning up against the wall, reading a novel. Margaux had just left another Sunday dinner at the Akerses’, where Richard had pleaded, to no avail, for her to stop dancing at the Aquasphere Underground.

  Before dinner, he showed her the balance in her trust fund account—$1,000 fatter, as promised. But she made twice that some Saturday nights. She left him with an ultimatum: double the weekly stipend, or she’d start talking about everything that he’d done to her. She’d already drafted a letter to NBC Chicago, detailing the way Everyone’s Granddad had celebrated her eighteenth birthday.

  She slipped a copy of the letter into the desk drawer in his private study as a reminder. Just in case. The possibility Helen might find it should be threat enough.

  She pulled her keys from her handbag and stepped to the left, around the person reading, to get to the door leading to the dressing rooms.

  “I know who you are,” the stranger said.

  Margaux’s pink Mary Jane heels clicked to a stop on the landing.

  She looked down through glasses with rose-colored lenses. Her keys dangled from her hand, the miniature pink Eiffel Tower swinging from the chain like a pendulum. It was then she noticed the bruise circling her right wrist—a rope burn, to be specific—was at the visitor’s eye level. With a gasp, she tucked the hand behind her back. “Do I know you?”

  “You don’t realize it yet,” the stranger said. “But yes. Deep down, you know who I am.”

  “Let’s end the suspense,” Margaux suggested. “And you can just tell me your name.”

  “Consider me a concerned third party.”

  “Concerned why?”

  “We have a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Who’s that?”

  The concerned third party raised a brow.

  Slowly, realization dawned. Margaux’s eyes widened, her jaw descended slightly, and she covered her “Oh!” with a hand. “You’ve watched us before.” She pointed toward the building she was about to enter.

  “I’ve seen you before. I wouldn’t call it watching.”

  “What do you want?”

  “How involved are you with this man?”

  “I don’t see how that’s your business, but—”

  “You’re not the only one. There are other girls. Have been. Will be. Others.”

  In a flash, a memory flooded back: the first night she met Arlon. The bartender had warned her to be careful. But that was a long time ago. Whatever he might have done before he met her wasn’t her business, just as her dirty past wasn’t any of his. “If that’s true, and I don’t buy it, I’m the only one who matters.”

  “Don’t you think all women ought to matter?”

  Margaux stepped back. “What do you want from me?”

  “I just wanted you to know.”

  “Now I know.”

  “Then my work is done.”

  Chapter 18

  JESSICA

  “I did some poking around.” Decker brushes up against me as he enters my apartment. It’s seven in the morning, but it feels as if it’s late in the evening after a night on the job. “That woman’s husband? The one in the pictures? He’s a lawyer. Well-respected one, too. I can’t get anywhere near him without a warrant, so I’m in a holding pattern.”

  “Why don’t you come in?” I say after he’s already entered, but my friend with benefits doesn’t have time for my sarcasm. I engage the dead bolt and chain lock on the door.

  “First of all, the pictures are electronic copies, and any lawyer worth his salt is going to be able to call reasonable doubt. Besides, they prove an affair, but they don’t do shit to prove murder.” He’s already sitting at the breakfast bar in my tiny kitchen, popping cups of dark roast out of one of those cardboard carriers from the coffee shop down the block. “Second, no Jack Wyatt owns or rents an apartment in the Lincoln Park building you mentioned.”

  “I’ve been there. I met him in the lobby once. I know he lives there. Maybe he sublets.”

  “It’s not listed with the association as a sublease. Maybe he met you in the lobby because he wants you to think he lives there.”

  “People don’t always report subleases.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you pulled me away from a long-awaited soak in my tub to tell me you might have something of interest to report later this afternoon.”

  “Jessie, listen.” He fiddles with the heat collar on his coffee cup. “I can appreciate, coming from me, this probably doesn’t hold much water, but I don’t have a good feeling about this guy.”

  I cross my arms, lean a hip against the countertop across from him, and treat him to a stare. What does he expect me to say?

  “It’s not just that the apartment isn’t really his and he led you to believe it was.” He takes the lid off the second cup of coffee and pours a cream and three sugars into it. Just as I like it. “Here.” He drops a stir stick into the cup and scoots it across the breakfast bar, toward me. “It’s that in the city limits, I can’t find a single early-twenties to midthirties Caucasian in the six-foot range with the name of Jack Wyatt. I’ve tried versions of the name: John, Jackson, Jackie. Wyatt with an I. Wyatt with one T. No dice. Always something a hair off about all of them.”

  “So . . . what are you saying? That the guy doesn’t exist?” I stir my coffee and take a sip. “At least not in the city limits?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” He nods a curt nod. “And it’s a big city.”

  Even I have to admit it’s strange. When I met Jack, he said he’d lived in the city most of his life. Decades.

  “But I found this guy.” He opens a file and presents an eight-by-ten color copy of an Indiana driver license. The name: Jack Wyatt. Age: thirty-nine. “He’s the closest match.”

  “That’s not him.”

  “Of course not. If I can’t find the guy,” Decker says, “I can’t rule him out for Margaux’s murder. Not that I have enough to go on for even a warrant.”

  “Right. You don’t have enough to go on because there’s no connection.”

  “Except that your injuries match that of a dead girl.”

  “I told you how it all happened with the bruise on my neck, and yeah . . . it’s silly and ridiculous to consider he jumped to the conclusion that that’s what I wanted in a first romantic encounter, but isn’t it also a little crazy for you to assume he has anything to do with Margaux?”

  “Call it a hunch.”

  “Or call it my ex-boyfriend not wanting me to move on with another guy.”

  “That’s not what this is about. It’s that nothing is adding up. Has your guy ever been to Aquasphere? Maybe he met her there.”

  I chew on my lip for a second. “Actually, he sort of sidestepped the question when I asked him about it.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Hmm.” I don’t want to admit it, but the truth is that if Jack went to that place, there’s a chance he ran into Margaux. “She could have met all three of them there.”

  “I’ve got a mysterious Arlon Judson, too. Not a common name, but the one I did track down has alibis, lives four hours away, and wasn’t even in the state of Illinois at the time of Margaux’s death.”

  “Helen could have gotten the name wrong,” I suggest. “To be honest, it didn’t seem like she was a big part of Margaux’s life for the past few years. If she never met the guy Margaux was dating, maybe she just didn’t know much.”

  Decker considers this. “Akers was pretty sure of his name. But if the girl had a boyfriend at all, why isn’t he anywhere on her social media pages? A girl that age? With a steady boyfriend? You’d think the pages would be riddled with his face.”

  “Yeah, that’s strange.”

  “Plus, I got a Jack Wyatt not officially living where he says he’s living—and not really living anywhere else.”

  I look to my sofa, the site of the heated, intense, if not brief encounter I shared with Jack last night before I was called into the fire station.


  “I’ll ask him about the sublease. Maybe that’s all it is.”

  “Everyone’s a suspect,” he says, “until they’re not a suspect anymore. It’s a long shot, anyway, pursuing your guy, but I’d feel better ruling him out. When it comes to your safety, I can’t be too careful.”

  “How’d it go with the alderman?”

  “Typical politician responses. No mention of the pregnancy, which is fine—he probably didn’t know—and no indication that the rumor Margaux worked at Aquasphere was true. He seems to think it was all hype. Just gossip. People like to talk about sex and scandal.”

  I start to nod, but Decker’s talking again:

  “However, he owned up to mishandling the tuition funds but stated he was already replenishing the account—and provided proof that he had been. And he confirmed Margaux was involved in a relationship with a gentleman—his words, not mine—by the name of Arlon Judson, and that despite his requests, she refused to bring Arlon around. He says on numerous occasions, there were marks on her body. Bruises on her wrists and ankles. On her neck, not unlike the mark you have on yours.”

  “So you don’t like Akers for the murder.”

  “He’s a politician. Possibly even dirty, given his gambling addiction. And wouldn’t it just figure? Another dirty politician in Chicago? He’s about as clear from this case as mud on a windshield, but I gotta be honest: if he’s already putting funds back into the account, a thousand here, two thousand there, and before the girl died, the motive is rather weak.”

  “What about Helen accusing Margaux of spreading lies? Ruining their image could be motive.”

  “If I could find anyone she told the lies to, I’d feel better about it. Just like I’d feel better finding Arlon Judson. Just like I’d feel better ruling out your guy.”

  “Fine. What do you need to effectively rule Jack out?”

  “A cup he drank from, a pizza crust he gnawed on—”

  “A condom full of spunk?”

  “Do you have one?”

  “No, but I can make it happen if it’ll shut you up.”

  “That would do it.”

  I hesitate for a moment. He’s daring me to sleep with Jack, if not outright asking me to do so.

  It’s not exactly the reaction I expected.