by Brandi Reeds
This, too, doesn’t mean anything. For all I know, Jack lifted the magazine from his oil change venue, or from his dentist’s office.
Or maybe this partial address will tell us something about Jack—where he really lives, who he really lives with, or even where he works.
I snap a picture, yet I don’t text it to Decker just yet in case he decides to get into a conversation about it. That’s all I need—Jack realizing another guy is texting me. And better yet, texting about reasons to suspect him.
Another deep breath. Time to face him.
I flush the toilet and exit out into the room.
THEN
MARGAUX
Margaux left the Underground, exiting into the dark gangway. Her boobs hurt from being pinched into a tight corset, and her thighs and lower back ached, thanks to the client who’d paid her to stand bent at the waist, her rear to him, for nearly twenty minutes.
She found herself muffling a sob. She couldn’t keep up this lifestyle forever. And even though the money came quickly, would it ever be enough for school? Living rent-free didn’t feed her or pay the utility bills.
Maybe the third party was right. Maybe it was time to ask Arlon to finance her education. It could turn out okay. He’d already talked about having kids, so maybe it wouldn’t be out of line to ask.
“Hi.”
She startled when she heard the voice behind her and practically yelped.
“Sorry to scare you,” he said. “I just saw you inside, and I couldn’t help but notice . . . on your breast . . . Did someone cut his initials into you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Maybe not. I just wanted to be sure you’re okay, so if you are . . .”
“I am.”
“Are you sure? Because it looks like you’re crying.”
“What if I am?”
“How about a cup of coffee?”
She took a few steps down the gangway. She didn’t owe this guy any sort of explanation for her tears. He didn’t have to know her life was spinning out of control.
“Tell you what,” the nice guy said. “I’m going to be in the diner on the corner. You want to join me, great. If you don’t, I understand that, too. Just thought we could talk, that’s all.”
Margaux kept walking.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
She emerged from the gangway on one side of the old church and turned right toward Western only to see her new acquaintance standing on the opposite side of the Aquasphere, ready to cross Western, too.
She watched as he crossed, looked at her over his shoulder, and beckoned for her to follow.
What the hell.
Arlon wouldn’t like it, but he was presently in a city far away.
And what if the third party was right? What if she wasn’t the only one Arlon was carving his initials into?
Chapter 21
KIRSTEN
“Thanks for meeting me out,” I say. “It’s just been one of those insane weeks when nothing feels right.”
“Tell me about it,” Jessica says. “I just came from my boyfriend’s place, and nothing felt right over there, either. My cop friend, Decker—he’s the one I told you about, the guy I used to . . . anyway, he got it in his head that Jack’s got something to do with Margaux, and I took it upon myself to secure a sample for him this morning.”
“A sample?”
“I went there thinking there was no way in hell Deck could be right. But once I got there, I started noticing things that made me think maybe Decker is right. I pulled hair from his shower drain.” She wrinkles her nose. “Is that insane, or what?”
“Why do the cops want a sample like that?” But less than a second passes before I cover my mouth. “Oh. They’re looking for a sample to match DNA on her body.”
“Well . . . on her body, sure. But . . .” Her glance shifts, and she busies herself by straightening the salt and pepper shakers. Whatever she has to say must not be easy.
“But what?” I ask.
“It isn’t public knowledge. It’s part of the investigation, and Deck would kill me if I leaked it.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Even so, I shouldn’t. But given the pictures you found . . .” She sighs. “This sucks, and I’m sorry, but Deck will fill you in . . . if he thinks you should know, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll keep it to myself. I promise.”
“I can’t,” Jessie says.
For a few moments, neither of us says anything. She wants to tell me whatever she knows. I can tell.
“But the sample I gathered from Jack’s shower,” she redirects. “It could prove interesting.”
“They honestly think your boyfriend had something to do with this poor girl?”
She shrugs and zips the pendant on her necklace to and fro.
I stare at it.
“Maybe,” Jessica says. “It seems she was seeing more than one man, so . . .”
My heart rate quickens. If there’s a chance Margaux was seeing someone else—someone else who might have had something to do with her death—I might’ve just set Ian up to take the fall. If there’s any of my husband’s DNA on Margaux’s body, or in her apartment, and Ian is innocent, it might be hard to exonerate him.
Oh God.
My cheeks flush with heat, and for a few seconds, I feel like I felt at the farmers market with Fiona—at the onset of the episode.
I take a deep breath.
My throat is dry.
I cough and reach for my water.
Calm. Calm. Calm.
Another deep breath. “Do you think your boyfriend had anything to do with Margaux’s death?”
“I don’t think Decker has much basis, except that the other night, Jack surprised me at my apartment, and long story short . . .” She moves her hair aside and exposes a faint bruise on her neck. “Decker doesn’t think it’s a coincidence.”
“He choked you?”
“It’s kind of a funny story—at least it was funny until I found the guy checking up on everything related to the case this morning, but . . .”
“Wait a minute.” I pull out my phone and call up a picture of Ian and Margaux. “Jessie, have you noticed the charm on your necklace looks an awful lot like the ring Margaux is wearing in these pictures? Same pear shape, both rubies. It looks like it could be a set.”
She looks, and I can only assume agrees with me when she suddenly looks tired and removes it from her neck. “I’d best get this to Decker, too, then.”
“It’s a simple design,” I offer. “Lots of jewelers mix diamonds with rubies. It could be a coincidence.”
“I’m growing tired of coincidence,” Jessica says. “But you know, I don’t think she was wearing a ring the night she died. One sec.” She’s texting. “Deck’ll check on that. Maybe if we find the ring, we’ll find whoever knows how or why this happened to her. Or maybe prints off this necklace will be enough.”
“You sure you’re a firefighter and not a cop?” I ask.
“You’re not the first to ask.”
“Maybe this is none of my business, but . . .”
I gauge her expression—raised brows, as if she’s intently listening.
“If my daughter came to me with this sort of information, I’d tell her to stop seeing the guy,” I say. “You can’t risk continuing the relationship when there’s a question like that hanging over you. You don’t need to give him an explanation. Just stop. Whether or not he’s capable of doing what someone did to Margaux—if someone did anything to Margaux, that is—this . . . what he did to your neck . . . it’s no way to start a relationship.”
I don’t expect her to heed my advice. Looking back, if some strange woman I met on the side of the road had told me not to pursue a relationship with Ian, if someone had warned me that falling for him would mean sacrificing my hopes and dreams, I wouldn’t have listened. I don’t regret it, either. I have my children, and they’re worth every sacrifice I’ve made.
“What about your bank account?” Jessica says. “Do we know if there’s money missing?”
“I’m working on the password,” I say. “But Ian did admit there’s been some strange transactions. I’ll let you know when I know.”
THEN
MARGAUX
“I can’t wear this, Arlon.” Margaux stood in front of a full-length mirror and studied the deep purples and blues of bruises on the small of her back—mementos of last week’s stint on the fire escape. “Look at this.” Her backless black catsuit—a gift, of course—put the marring on display. And the metal clasp at the top cut into the bruise he left on her neck, and it hurt. The front consisted of a deep vee that exposed the sides of her breasts and plunged to her navel.
“It’s not a question of can or can’t. You will.” He circled her, like a shark swimming around a seal, contemplating, judging. “More eye makeup.”
“Really? I have two coats of mascara on already.”
“And darker lips. I want them red. Bloodred.”
Okay. She returned to her mirror and heavily lined her eyes and replaced the pink lipstick with red. God, she looked like she was about to climb into the cage at the Underground. But if this was what he wanted . . . “How about now?”
He looked up from a wad of cash in his wallet and pulled out another hundred. “You look hot.” He put the bill atop the other four on the table near her front door.
For long seconds, she stared at it, the concerned third party’s suggestion ringing in her memory. Arlon could help financially. “What’s the money for?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions tonight.”
“I just wondered—”
“If you’re going to act like a whore”—he grinned—“I’ll treat you like one.”
So it was a game. Okay.
And if he really wanted her to wear the catsuit, she could endure it.
She stepped into heels much higher than she usually wore, but Arlon had not only requested the shoes but had purchased them especially for the occasion. The shoes pinched her toes, too, but she had to admit it was a stunning ensemble, despite its being on the slutty side.
“Where are we going?”
“Out.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She wasn’t worried as much as curious, but his message came across loud and clear: she shouldn’t ask any more questions.
They exited her apartment, and he instructed her to walk ten feet in front of him.
When she looked over her shoulder to ensure he was following, he texted:
This is a game of trust. If you trust me, you’ll do what I say.
She didn’t look back after that.
He texted instructions. Turn left here, take the alley there.
After several miles, her feet positively ached—how much farther could they go?—and she wondered why they couldn’t just take a cab. Especially when they wound up in a neighborhood she could only describe as unsavory.
She crossed her arms over her middle and carried on past groups of despicable characters drinking liquor out of brown-bagged bottles and a clan of teenaged delinquents smoking weed and whistling at her.
Arlon texted:
You’re coming to a door propped open on the left.
Go inside.
The door was soaped over, like a storefront under construction, and the innards of the space were dark and dank.
But he wanted her to prove she trusted him, so she did as he asked.
She awaited his next instructions, but none came in the next few minutes.
The place creaked and cracked with the wind outside, and it smelled like a urinal, but she trusted that given he’d requested her outfit and gone through the trouble of planning, there must be some amazing club up a few flights of stairs.
It was Arlon, for the love of God, and he was always full of surprises.
Soon, the minutes lingered well past her comfort, and she edged her way around the space, which felt like a concrete box. There was only one way in, one way out, and the longer she paced in here, the more likely it seemed she’d encounter something—or someone—dangerous.
“Arlon?”
She made her way toward the door.
Just a peek out, to see where he was.
But not a hair past the door, she was whisked back inside, a hand over her mouth, and shoved, face-first, against a concrete wall.
“Arlon?”
She recognized the scent of his cologne, the rasp of his whisper: “Quiet.”
He held her there. “When were you going to tell me you’ve been dancing at the Underground?”
“I’m . . . Arlon, you’re hurting me.”
He put more pressure on her back. “You fucking whore.”
“But anything goes,” she said. “That’s the deal with us, isn’t it?”
“Imagine my surprise when I come home early from a trip and find your apartment empty.”
She winced when she felt a thick rope wrap around first one wrist, then the other.
“I went to Aquasphere for a little relief that night, and imagine my surprise when I realize the redhead I paid to bend over, the one I’m rubbing one out to, is actually the girl I’m supposed to love and trust.”
“But if you were rubbing it out to someone you thought wasn’t me, I’m willing to overlook it—”
He yanked on the rope, and next she knew, she was suspended a few inches off the ground.
“Ow!” Hot tears crept down her cheeks. “Black crow!”
“And then, I waited to see what you would do,” Arlon said. “And you met someone else at the diner down the street.”
“It was just coffee, I swear. Black crow, black crow, black crow.”
“If you want to act like a whore, I’ll treat you like one.”
“I only dance. I’m not a whore.”
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you,” she whispered.
The clasp on her halter top fell free, exposing her breasts. Her nipples raked over the cold concrete wall she was up against. He shoved the catsuit down over her hips.
She was completely naked now, and the door was still propped. Not twenty feet beyond the door, thugs drank from bottles in brown bags and threw dice and played cards. They could come in at any time.
“Remember.” Arlon slipped a hand between her legs. “I paid you in advance.”
A shadow passed over the door, but Arlon was too busy to take heed, already lowering the zipper on his pants.
Margaux’s eyes widened when she saw someone standing in the doorway.
Staring right at them.
The voyeur stayed only half a minute or so, then turned and disappeared down the alley.
When Arlon was done, he released her bindings.
She crumpled to the concrete floor.
“Remember this. This is how whores are treated.”
He shoved his cock back into his pants and headed toward the door.
“Arlon!” she cried, attempting to get to her sore feet. “You can’t leave me here.”
But he kept walking.
And he’d damaged the clasp on the catsuit when he tore it off her, so she couldn’t refasten it. And she couldn’t run after him unclothed because the street outside was populated with thugs who would do God knew what to her.
She had no money in her handbag—she’d left the money Arlon gave her on the counter—so she couldn’t call a cab.
She couldn’t call the Akerses, either. Not for something like this.
But she had the phone number of the guy who’d bought her a cup of coffee.
She dialed.
“I need help,” she said when he answered. “Everything’s different now. Everything’s changed.”
She couldn’t see Arlon anymore.
But she couldn’t be the one to end it. He wasn’t going to go quietly. The only way a man like that would leave her alone was if he grew tired of her and left on his o
wn. He had to think ending the relationship was his idea, or he’d never give her a moment’s peace.
Chapter 22
KIRSTEN
I stop at the bank on the way home for a physical printout of the past months’ transactions. It’s a joint account, and as I told Ian, I’m entitled.
Once home, I peruse the pages and highlight several transactions that aren’t mine, transactions I consider unusual.
For one thing, I see that twenty grand has been transferred out of the account monthly for the past six months.
Holy hell, that’s a lot of money.
I’m about to scribble a note about it, when another charge catches my eye:
Seven hundred seventy-five dollars at a women’s clinic on the outskirts of Chicago.
A women’s clinic.
I do a quick search of the clinic and see on their list of services: abortion.
I pinch my eyes shut and take a deep breath.
I call Ian’s mobile.
He answers. “Not a good time, Kirstie.”
“Make it a good time.”
“Patrick says he explained everything about the underwear—he said he told you they’re probably Becca’s, see?—so now you know the truth. Things can go back to the way they used to be. Before all this nonsense. Before the episode.”
“Ian, please.”
“Kirstie, let’s put it behind us, take a breath, and have a good weekend.”
“I need you to come home.”
“Kirstie, I can’t—”
“Do you think a young girl might be depressed after she aborts a child?”
“What?”
“Depressed enough to want to kill herself?”
“Kirstie, what’s going on? Is something going on with Quinn? She said she came home this week for a night.”
“She did.”
“What happened?”
“Quinn’s fine.”
“Thank God.”
“Come home.”
“Okay, I’ll try to get out of this dinner, but I can’t promise I’ll be—”