by Brandi Reeds
“Now, Ian. We need to talk about Margaux Stritch.” I pause for a beat, let it sink in. “And her abortion.”
Only silence answers me.
“Now, Ian.”
“For Chrissake, Kirstie. You know you’re not well—”
“Come home.” I hang up and open the door to Ian’s study, where I pull his prized, autographed Jack Nicklaus golf club from its display case on the wall and drive it right through the wall, slam it over his desk and scratch the hell out of the vintage mahogany patina.
My phone is ringing, but I ignore it. I tear through the house and smash a picture of the two of us on our anniversary last year and a picture of us when we were teenagers.
And in our master suite, I take the club to virtually everything I see that’s even remotely important to my husband.
There. I’m nearly out of breath when I’m done, and I’ve made a god-awful mess. But damn, do I feel good.
My phone hasn’t stopped ringing, so I take a seat, try to compose myself, and answer it: “Patrick. Hello.”
“What’s going on, Mom? Dad said you’re hysterical. He’s on his way home.”
“I’m not hysterical. Angry? Definitely. Cheated? Absolutely.”
“I’m sending an ambulance. You sound rattled.”
“Patrick, stop! I don’t need an ambulance.”
“It’s on its way. Dad asked me to call, and when you didn’t answer right away—”
“Call and cancel it.”
“Maybe some time to regroup, Mom. They have programs now—”
“I don’t need a program!”
“I always thought that just a recentering after Quinn left home . . . with professional help—”
“Shut up, Patrick! Shut up, shut up, shut up! I’m fine. I’m just pissed, and I should be pissed after what your father pulled!”
“You’re screaming at me.”
“You need to listen. If you listen, I won’t scream.”
“You don’t sound fine. You sound hysterical, just like Dad said. Should I come home? I’d feel better . . . you know what? I’m on my way.”
“If you walk through that door, I swear to God, Patrick.” My phone beeps with another call. “Your sister’s calling. I have to take this.”
“I’ll hold.”
“Goodbye, Patrick.” I click over to answer my daughter’s call. “Hi, Quinn.”
“Mom, what’s going on? Dad says you’re having another breakdown?”
I sigh. “No.”
“He said there was some bogus charge on your account and that you’re not listening to reason about it. He asked me, until he had time to get proof and get the charge reversed, to tell you it was mine.”
“I know it’s not your charge, Quinn. I know you didn’t visit an abortion clinic.”
“What? That’s what the charge was for? Why would he ask me to do that?”
“He’s counting on your wanting us to stay together. He’s counting your worshipping him the way your brother does, no questions asked.”
“Mom . . . did he knock someone up?”
“Quinn.”
“It’s okay. I’m old enough to know men are sometimes assholes.”
I hear the whir of an ambulance siren approaching the house. “I’ll call you later, okay? I promise. But I can’t talk just now.”
“And you’re okay?”
“Honestly?” I look around at the mess I’ve made. “I feel pretty good.”
The gate buzzer sounds. I touch the button to open the gate.
A few moments later, a pair of paramedics rushes to the door, where I greet them.
“We got a call, ma’am, for a well check. May we come in?”
I step aside. “Pardon the mess.”
They enter into shards of glass, splinters of picture frames, and eight-by-ten glossies of my husband and Margaux.
“Your husband says you have a history of anxiety, that you’ve been hospitalized in the past. Is that right?”
“I had an episode a few months ago.”
“This is your second?”
“No,” I say. “I’m just angry.” I walk down the center hallway and indicate a grainy photograph. “This is why.”
“Who is this, ma’am?”
“That’s my husband. And as you see, that’s not me with him.”
One of the paramedics lets out a slow whistle while the other says, “Oh boy.”
I lead them to the kitchen. “Would you like a glass of water? Coffee? Wine, maybe?”
“We have to take your vitals, ma’am.”
“All right.” I fill a glass with water and sip. “I’m sure my blood pressure is a little elevated, but I’m sure you can understand why.”
“Are there any weapons in the home, ma’am?”
“Just the golf club. You’re welcome to take it with you when you leave. It was autographed by the Bear.”
“No, we don’t—”
“I insist.” I find the club where I tossed it and hand it over. “It’s the least I can do for your trouble.”
“The Golden Bear, huh?”
“It’s not in mint condition anymore.” I smile at my own joke.
Within a few minutes, the pair is convinced that I’m all right. I sign a refusal of ambulatory services. They drive out.
Chapter 23
JESSICA
I report to the firehouse for my shift and settle in to wait for an emergency.
For the third time today, I call up the articles I saw on Jack’s laptop and reread them. It seems a girl who used to dance at the Aquasphere Underground—her call sign: Babydoll—is suddenly missing from the scene. This lends credence to what the gossip columnists have been reporting since day one: that Babydoll was none other than Margaux Stritch. The Akerses deny she worked there. But if she was the performer who has suddenly disappeared, some portion of the underground claim they know who killed her—the guy who lost control with her during a performance led by Ms. Gail Force. In which case, Gail Force might know who killed her, too.
The trouble is that the Aquasphere culture is anonymous. I looked into it. Everything underground is executed on a cash basis. They take credit cards, but most people who go there don’t want to leave a paper trail. So they pay cash for an annual membership just to step in the door. The membership is tracked with a bar code. There’s no name attached to it, so members are known only by their codes. They pay a nightly cover. In cash. And then . . . anything goes. The article quotes someone as explaining that the man who lost control with Babydoll lost privileges, but if he wanted to, he could simply enroll again, pay another membership fee, and receive a new bar code.
Which means, if he did kill her, he could do it again.
I text Kirsten: Did your husband ever go to the underground club at Aquasphere?
I’m figuring that Jack’s been there, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to me. Depending on whether his hair sample matches the DNA found on Margaux’s body, his interest in Margaux’s case could range from a mild curiosity to murder in the first.
I log on to the Aquasphere Underground Online site and again pay fifty dollars for access. I try again to garner information about what may or may not have happened in that club.
Sexy451: Looking for Gail Force.
I wait.
Sexy451: Does anyone know what happened to Babydoll?
I wait.
My phone rings. It’s Decker. I answer, “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I say. “Have you found another Arlon Judson yet?”
“No, ma’am,” Decker says. “But I’m on my way to sit down with that lawyer.”
“Kirsten’s husband?”
“Yes.”
“What can I do to help?”
“I just wanted to call. To see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know you’re pissed at me, Jessica.”
“I’m over it. You actually had some valid points. Purely circumstantial, but . . . I get it. It’s fine.”<
br />
“I’ve got Ollie working on who owns the apartment. Thanks for providing the unit number. It’ll help rule him out.”
“I hope so.”
“I wouldn’t be this far with the Stritch case without your help. I want you to know it hasn’t gone unnoticed. Maybe you’ll let me take you out for dinner when all this is over. To say thank you.”
“Are you asking me on a date? Like, a real date?”
“I guess I am.”
“Ask me again after the sample comes back from the lab.”
THEN
MARGAUX
From the cage at the Aquasphere Underground, Margaux saw him coming.
And there was anger in his eyes.
Arlon stopped short and crooked his finger at her in a silent come-here gesture.
She wasn’t alone in the cage tonight. She danced with two others: a woman and a man.
They sandwiched her when they sensed she was being summoned, and while it was a measure of security for her, the heat of their bodies, dewy with sweat and slick with oil, both thrilled her and terrified her. Thrilled because she loved the thought of Arlon’s jealousy. Terrified because she knew Arlon would sentence her to due penance.
It didn’t matter that she hadn’t taken his calls since he left her in the abandoned store. It didn’t matter that she’d texted him to keep his distance, that she never wanted to see him again. He’d shown up at her apartment last night, and for an hour he leaned on her buzzer until she let him in.
That was her first mistake—assuming they could talk it out, that she could hint that things weren’t working, and he’d break it off to save face before she dumped him.
But it didn’t happen that way.
He burst into the apartment, fucked her, paid her, and left.
It wasn’t all bad. She had a good time and had gotten richer in the process. Maybe the new arrangement would work out just fine.
And now he stood there, arms crossed over his chest, and watched her until Gail Force eventually came to pull her out of the cage at the manager’s behest.
“He’s making everyone uncomfortable,” Gail explained. “Honey, you can’t keep dancing here if he’s going to keep showing up.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Margaux said. “He’s all thunder and no rain.”
“What was cutting you, then? The lightning? The guy carved his initials into your boob, for Chrissake.”
“I sort of deserved it.”
“No one deserves that. He ignored your safe word on more than one occasion. I see signs in him . . . this isn’t about liberty with him. For him, this isn’t about mutual fun and respect, Babydoll. It’s about control.”
“Please,” Margaux said. “I can’t explain it, but it’s more than expected now. It’s more than routine for us. It’s sort of . . . addictive.”
“You crave it,” Gail said.
“It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt. Hell yes, I crave it!”
“You crave it because you’re terrified of what might happen to you if you deny him.” Gail sighed. “I’m afraid he might kill you one day. Girl, you’ve got to get out of this situation.”
“Well, actually . . . I met someone here the other day. And he’s nice.”
“Yeah? What brought this on?”
“It just happened. He was here, I was upset, so we talked. Anyway, Arlon knows I met this guy for coffee, and that’s why he went ballistic on me. If I hadn’t gone for coffee, none of that would have happened in the old store, and I wouldn’t have decided to break up with him, so—”
“Nice. I kinda like him already.”
“He’s cute. Sweet.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“I don’t know. I think the guy’s in a relationship. Might even be married for all I know.”
“Well, there’s always something, isn’t there? But you went out with him anyway?”
“We had coffee twice, actually. Just coffee.”
“What did he have to say about the artwork on your tit?”
“Just asked what AJ stood for. So I told him.”
Just then an envelope came across the table. A client requested Gail Force and Babydoll for a public lesson in erotic asphyxiation. No penetration. Just choking.
They looked up from the envelope simultaneously, each knowing well who’d paid for their services.
“We can’t,” Margaux said.
“He’s a member. We don’t have a choice.”
Gail took hold of the envelope, and Margaux followed her to the voyeur room, where patrons were already gathering to see the show.
Arlon was there, too, masked.
Margaux lay on the table.
“I want her tied,” Arlon said.
Instantly, two pages came to the table and strapped her down.
Arlon stared down at her. “Is this going to be your last night in the cage?”
“I can’t quit,” Margaux said.
“You will.”
“You’re not in charge of me anymore.”
“Excuse me? Who’s in charge? Who paid for this room? Who labeled you?”
“I’m doing this for law school. Are you going to pay my tuition?”
“Answer only my questions. Is this your last night in the cage?”
“No.”
“Who’s in charge of you?” He placed his hands around Margaux’s throat. “Tell me I’m in charge.”
“No,” Margaux managed. “There’s someone else. I met someone else.”
“You lied to me.”
“No,” she gasped. “It only just happened.”
“Let up,” Gail Force said.
But Arlon didn’t loosen his grip.
“Enough!” Gail screamed.
Still, he didn’t relent. “No one has you if I don’t have you!” He spoke through gritted teeth.
Gail whipped his back. “Release! Release!”
The pages wrangled their way to the tableside.
Margaux gasped for breath.
“Show’s over.” A page whipped the curtains closed.
Margaux wheezed.
“You’ll be banned from any special requests from now on,” Gail said. “Banned for life.” She turned to a page. “Run his code. Record the restriction in the computer.”
Margaux coughed and held her neck, as if to prove it hadn’t snapped.
Gail Force shoved him. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking she’s a bad girl who doesn’t do what she’s told.” He looked to Margaux. “Get dressed. We’re going home.”
Margaux began to shake her head, but Arlon leaned in close. “Do you know how easy it would’ve been for me to snap your neck? Do you honestly think I won’t do it some night when you’re begging for the rush, when you’re aching for the thrill of it? Do you think I won’t do it if I don’t get my way?”
“I don’t want you anymore.”
“What makes you think it’s your decision? I pay, you play.”
Margaux pulled the wig from her head.
“Meet me outside,” he said. “Five minutes.”
She sobbed into her hands.
Arlon slammed the door.
“Honey.” Gail placed a warm hand on her back. “Margaux, you can’t keep doing this with this guy. He’s unsafe. Unpredictable.”
“You heard him.” Margaux met her friend’s gaze. “I’ve tried to keep him out, but he only gets angrier. I have to play by his rules until he gets bored.”
“Or until he kills you. What about Richard?”
“He’s paying, too, doing everything I ask, but it’s taking too long. Every time Arlon comes for me, he pays. I can handle it. You’ll see.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“A girl like me . . . I don’t have much of a choice.”
Chapter 24
KIRSTEN
When Ian enters the house, I don’t get up to greet him at the doorway for the first time since we married at age eighteen. I pour a glass of wine.
I let him open the front hall closet, hear his heavy sigh when he must see the eight-by-ten glossy I’ve hung there, and I parlay the sip into a gulp.
Strewn about the kitchen are the bank statements with unusual transactions highlighted . . . and the occasional naughty photograph thrown in for good measure.
His steps down the center hallway are slow, calculated, as if he thinks that by taking his time, he can argue his way out of it all. His shoes crunch against the debris I’ve left there.
“Kirsten,” he says when he sees me. “What are you doing? And with all this . . . what is this?”
“Frankly, I don’t think I’m the one who has to explain anything.”
He bites his lip. It’s the same concentrated look he gets on his face when he’s about to approach the bench and spin some statistic for a judge. “You have pictures of my cousin and his mistress hanging all over our house, and you don’t want to explain?”
“That’s not Doug in the pictures.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Do you think I’m stupid, Ian? That I can’t tell my own husband even after a few sips of wine?”
“Firstborn of my mother’s twin. It’s not rocket science. We look alike.”
He’s holding one of the photographs, and he turns it sideways, as if from another angle, he can escape my recognizing who is in the image. “Well, if you’ve had a couple of glasses of wine, I guess that explains it. God, this could even be Patrick.”
“I said sips, not glasses. And look at the tattoo, Ian.”
“Yeah, well, Patrick got the firm’s tattoo last summer, too. All of us have it, so . . .”
“You’re saying I’ve been looking at saucy pictures of our son.”
He grins. “That sure puts a different spin on things, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t you dare patronize me!” I leave my unfinished wine on the cocktail table and approach my husband, who is still pretending to be unaffected by my ambush. I shove him at the chest, but he’s so firmly rooted that I don’t even compromise his balance. “I’ve known your body since we were fifteen years old! How dare you suggest I’m acting irrationally and not thinking clearly?” I pound on his chest, tears flowing from my eyes. “How dare you! And the money! Twenty grand a month transferred out for the better part of a year! Who are you paying off?”
“Kirsten.”