by Brandi Reeds
“I’m kidding,” he says. “Plenty a killer has been nabbed with saliva. No need to take the guy to bed.”
“Is there anything else you’d like me to secure for you? Hair from his shower drain, perhaps? Scrapings from beneath his fingernails?” There’s a frosty edge to my tone, which I can’t help but instantly regret.
He grasps my wrist.
My glance meets his.
“Hey.”
I raise a brow. “What?”
“I do want you to be happy. I hope I’m wrong about this guy.”
“Kirsten Holloway’s husband is far more interesting a suspect than the guy you won’t admit to being jealous of, but I’ll accept your apology when you realize you’re wrong.”
But secretly, I’m terrified that it won’t happen that way.
Decker’s hunches usually lead somewhere.
THEN
MARGAUX
Margaux perused fresh fruits at a farmers market when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar face. “Hey!”
The concerned third party caught her glance but quickly started moving toward the sidewalk and soon was practically running in the opposite direction.
“Wait!”
Maybe the stranger was tired of running. Maybe it was time for another dose of reality. But either way, with the adopting of a slower pace, Margaux caught up. “Are you spying on me?”
“I didn’t come here looking for you.”
“Why are you running away from me?”
“I’m trying to respect your privacy—and guard mine.”
“Did you hire someone to follow me? To take pictures of Arlon and me?”
“What? No!”
“I think it’s happened a couple of times now.”
“It’s not me.”
“I want to know what you’re doing here.”
“I already said what I wanted to say. You ought to know you’re not the first. You’re not the last.”
Their gazes met.
“You know that now, right?” the stranger asked. “And the way he treats you . . .”
Margaux brought a hand to the bruise forming on her cheek. Apparently, her efforts to cover the mark with makeup were futile.
“Did he do that to you?”
“He didn’t hit me. It was . . . up against the wall. Role-playing. Fantasy.”
For the moment, the concerned third party looked just that—concerned. “Fantasy of what? Rape?”
“And what if it is?”
“Is that something you wanted?”
“Don’t you dare judge me,” Margaux said. “It’s exciting, all right? And it’s my choice. For once, it’s my choice, got it?”
“Yeah. I understand. I just want to make sure it’s something you really want. You don’t have to do it just because he expects it.”
“I do what I want.”
“Okay, then.” For a few uncomfortable seconds, silence gnawed at the air between them. “What does Akers say about all the marks he leaves on you?”
“Richard is the one who taught me I didn’t have a choice about much in this world. I couldn’t care less about what he says.”
“Okay. As long as you’re sure, and as long as you’re okay.”
For a minute or so, Margaux gauged her acquaintance’s expression and found honesty, concern.
“He lost my tuition money, you know.” Margaux sighed. “God, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but I was set for life. And if anyone else had adopted me . . . I’d be enrolled, ready to go.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I’ll tell you what’s not fair: a man in good standing grooming a poor kid until she doesn’t realize what’s right and wrong.”
“Did that happen to you? Did the alderman—”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you.” Margaux sniffled. “You don’t care about this stuff.”
“I care. Margaux, of course I care. You can talk to me. You can always talk to me.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“That’s fine, too.”
Margaux wiped a tear from her bruised cheek, and for a moment, all was silent between them. Finally, she spoke. “It started innocently enough. I was thirsty for affection. I took any I could get. Even the wrong kind. After a while, I craved him, you know?”
She talked for nearly half an hour. “And when we finally actually did it . . . I was scared. You’re not supposed to be scared, are you? But he was drunk, and Helen was just down the hall, and I was afraid that if I didn’t do it, he wouldn’t love me anymore.”
“No one deserves that.”
“Now, he just can’t stand it that I’m with someone else. I think he’s actually jealous of Arlon. Sometimes I wonder if it’s why I started the relationship—any relationship, really.”
“You know, maybe your precious Arlon can be useful, after all. Not sexually, if he’s only hell-bent on making you feel like a whore. But he could foot the bill for the tuition Akers lost.”
Margaux shook her head in puzzlement. “You mean, use him for money?”
“Why not? He’s using you to fulfill his every sexual fantasy. Not a bad way to earn tuition, is it? And then you won’t be roped into seeing your worst perpetrator week to week. Margaux, he abused you, and you’re still playing by his rules.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t. I love Arlon, and he loves me. I can’t use him that way.”
“He’s not capable of love, and you’ve been through enough. Trust me, Margaux. You’re wrong about Arlon. I’ll prove it to you.”
“If you really care, you’d just stop. You’d forget this crazy obsession with Arlon and me, and you’d go live your own life. I should call the cops. There are probably laws against the things you do. Following me the way you do!”
“You followed me today.”
“It’s unsettling. You’re scaring me.”
“You don’t have to be scared.”
“Then stop. Whatever it is you’re doing, whatever you get out of this sick obsession with Arlon and me . . . stop. Please. We’re happy.”
“Anyone can be happy two nights a week. What do you think he does on the other five?”
“He’d be with me all the time, but he has a job. Just trust me. And stop doing this. Let me be. Let us be.”
“He’s seeing someone else.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“He’s involved with her, and the sooner you realize it, the better. When you take off the blinders, I’ll stop coming around.”
Chapter 19
KIRSTEN
The weather has turned colder today. It’s that time of year in Chicago when it could be eighty, or barely fifty, degrees, and today, we’re hovering at the low side. I’m bundled in a warmer jacket and ankle-high boots. I’m meeting Jessica in the city for lunch today, so I thought I’d get some errands out of the way and head out early.
Namely, I’m dropping off some evidence at the fourteenth district—a certain pair of panties and a flash drive full of photos. I told the detective I would do as much when he called yesterday.
If I’d consulted my husband, or his cousin, they’d tell me I had a right against self-incrimination, that in this state, a wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband. But justice is due.
I drive down the county route toward Interstate 94, past mounds of golden leaves in the fields. For a minute, I remember the early days of our marriage. The kids were little and we were barely adults ourselves, and we’d raked up the leaves in the yard, let the kids wear their Halloween costumes, and we took turns jumping into piles.
I can nearly feel Ian’s cold cheek against mine, his arms around me, and our babies between our bodies, all huddling to stay warm.
Laughing.
Kissing.
Singing nursery rhymes: roll over, roll over. So they all rolled over . . .
We were beating the odds.
Together.
I never thought any odds could be
at us, but things are different now.
I’m not sure how it happened.
Little by little, I suppose.
An inch here, an inch there.
Over the course of so many years, hairline fractures left unrepaired have split into canyons between us.
It feels like only a moment ago.
Little children, full of promise, Mommy and Daddy so necessary for their happiness and survival.
When I think of their little faces, their sticky hands and sloppy kisses, I want nothing more than to somehow stop time in its tracks, to keep them little and safe and happy with parents who love each other.
I want to wake up from this nightmare, or at least to zero in on a way to fix it.
But I can’t rewind time and undo the things Ian’s done or may have done.
Suddenly, I’m on one side of a gorge, and Ian’s on the other—and there’s a beautiful, dead woman standing between us.
Or maybe the distance has always been there, but with little children at home I was preoccupied, busy, living life in fifteen-minute increments. It was easier then not to see the vast, growing space.
I don’t know if there’s a bridge strong enough or long enough to connect us again.
And now the truth of what’s happened to our marriage, and to Margaux Claire Stritch, is hanging somewhere in the balance.
Infidelity is hard enough to survive, but considering someone died—and I can’t honestly say I don’t think my husband is capable . . . or responsible . . . I wonder if there’s a prayer to save any marriage under these circumstances, let alone one that was, as society assumed, doomed from the word go.
I pull over to the side of the road to compose myself, but the tears only overcome me. I can’t help it. We had high hopes, and now the last of them is circling the drain.
I cry until I’m practically wheezing.
And suddenly, I get the sense that I’m being watched.
I look up.
And I’m staring eye to eye with a doe. Near her, yet farther in the distance, are two fawns, already growing winter coats and losing their spots.
For long minutes, I watch her, and she watches me. Her posture is graceful yet stoic, as if she’s a statue, instead of a real, living being.
There’s a patch of her coat missing on her right rear quarter, and I have to wonder if she’s the same doe I collided with the other day. I hope so. I want to think she survived.
After what feels like hours, but could only have been minutes, or even seconds, she turns and leads her family back into the woods. Finally, I put the car in gear and get going.
Chapter 20
JESSICA
I’m fresh out of the tub, and I can’t get Decker’s commentary out of my head. He’s right that he can’t be too careful. And maybe, if I weren’t apparently addicted to this case, I’d sit back, let him do his thing, and wait for the final report.
But it’s obvious Decker’s exhausted, and considering his partner hasn’t seen him much all month, they’re dividing and conquering the tasks related to Margaux’s case. There’s just not enough time in a day.
However . . .
I have an inside track on one of the people Decker’s zeroing in on.
I pick up my phone and text: Breakfast?
Jack texts:
Good to hear from you.
Sorry about last night.
Was sure I wouldn’t hear from you again.
Me: A girl’s gotta eat.
Jack: Leaving at nine for airport.
Me: Your place then?
I’ll bring breakfast.
I can be there in half an hour.
Jack:
I enter the building Jack says he lives in with buttermilk biscuits and gravy I picked up along the way.
As instructed, I give my name at the door, and—no questions asked—a doorman sends me up to the eighteenth floor.
Proof that Jack lives where he says he lives: check.
Jack is fastening his cuff links when he opens the door. He presses his lips to my cheek. “Thanks for coming. I don’t have but half an hour.”
“That’s all right. I don’t have much time, either.”
When he backs off, he glances downward. “Oh God.” He brings his fingers to the bruise on my neck. “Did I do that to you?”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s really not.” He seals his lips at the mark. “Usually, when I leave a mark on someone . . .” Kiss, kiss, kiss. “. . . it’s because I can’t stop sucking on her.” He brushes a thumb over the bruise again. “And usually . . . usually I’m a lot more fun in the sack.”
I laugh. “It was still fun.”
“Until you belted me. They used to call me Action Jackson—but that wasn’t quite the kind of action I used to get.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I should apologize again for that, too.”
“I deserved it.”
“Glad I didn’t leave a mark on you. That could’ve been difficult to explain at the office.”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Will you excuse me a minute? I have to finish getting ready.”
“Sure, I’ll just be in the kitchen.” I meander farther into the place.
The apartment is decorated with neutrals—grays, whites—and the place suits the Jack I know. It’s minimalist, sleek, clean, and linear. The floor in the open area is white marble, like the steps of some important government building, or maybe a museum, but I see it gives way in the hallway to a soft, plush carpet. A large suitcase waits there, packed to the gills and ready.
The draperies across the way are wispy and white. I can’t imagine they keep much hidden. Then again, at this many floors above the lakeshore, I wonder how modest one has to be when standing at the window.
God, what a place this is!
“Where can I find plates?” I ask.
“Second cabinet to the right of the dishwasher,” Jack says. “So I take it you’re not into the Aquasphere Underground culture.”
“Uh . . . we can talk about it.” A quick look over my shoulder tells me he’s busy finishing prepping for his trip. He’s shaping his hair with gel. I begin to open cabinet doors and drawers. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, exactly, but so far, I’m not finding anything beyond standard kitchen gadgets in a room so clean I could eat cereal out of the sink.
“That’s all right,” he says. “I’m perfectly happy taking you to Irish pubs.”
“This is a great place,” I say. “Incredible view.”
“It’s why I bought the place.”
Confirm it’s Jack’s place and not a rental: check.
Decker’s way off base here.
I pull plates from the cabinet and find a couple of forks.
There’s an open laptop with a prism screen saver morphing from blue to green to yellow on the table.
When I move it to set it aside, the screen saver dissipates to reveal an article Jack must’ve been reading when I interrupted him.
My breath catches in my throat.
It’s an article about Margaux titled Babydoll: Murdered?
Maybe he’s reading it because it came up in his daily feed. Maybe he’s reading it because of my connection to the case. Or maybe he’s reading it to see if the police have made any progress in uncovering clues.
I look toward the bathroom to confirm he’s still messing with his hair.
A closer look tells me he has several windows open on his computer; one of them is Aquasphere Online. Another is a second online news rag detailing a scandal between Everyone’s Granddad Akers and his adopted daughter. The final window is none other than Arlon Judson’s Instagram page.
The page is riddled with pictures of kids. The profile pic is a family of six posing with Mickey Mouse.
I feel a hollowing in my chest. It’s proof Margaux was dating a married man.
More concerning: Why would Jack have this page open unless he knew him? Or unless he knew Margaux was dating the guy?
Prove that Jack has no
interest in the Margaux Stritch case, let alone a connection to it: game-show buzzer.
My hackles are up.
Lots of criminals revisit scenes or clip articles about their crimes to relive the moments it happened, or to look for a heads-up—like when it’s time to leave town.
I look again to the hallway leading to the bedroom, where a suitcase sits. It appears he’s leaving for much longer than his usual day-long jaunts to NYC.
“Long trip this time?”
“I’m not really sure.” The water in the bathroom turns off.
I quickly close the laptop, but I wonder if it was fast enough because he’s suddenly right there.
“Should be only a few days, but I have a meeting that might have to push, so . . . What’s for breakfast?” He puts his arms around me from behind.
“Biscuits and gravy.” My heart is beating a little too fast. I hope he didn’t see me snooping through his internet searches. I hope he can’t tell that I’m nervous.
I bring my hand to my heart. Is it obvious?
My fingers graze the necklace Jack gave me.
“Oh, you’re wearing it,” he says.
His mouth again lands on my neck.
He seems awfully interested in my neck. Coincidence? “It goes with everything,” I tell him.
Get sample for Decker: task pending.
It’s the one thing I figured I wouldn’t have to do, but Decker did say saliva would work, and Jack’s is all over my neck.
“Thanks for bringing breakfast.”
“My pleasure.”
I wait a beat. He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m frazzled. “Can I borrow your bathroom?”
“Sure.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s watching me as I close the door behind me.
I turn on the water and breathe.
Everything I’ve seen here could be coincidence.
Nothing proves he has anything more than a mild interest in a case that, let’s face it, has been plastered all over the news.
Still . . .
I pull a plastic bag from my pocket and reach into the shower drain. I pull out a small clump of gray and brown hair and seal the bag.
Just in case, I check the medicine cabinet, but I don’t find anything but Tylenol.
I open the drawers in the vanity and see a GQ magazine. The mailing label is worn, but I can tell this apartment wasn’t its original destination. It originally arrived on Oakley Street. No idea of the house number, except that it ends in a five. No apartment number listed.