by Brandi Reeds
I blink tears away. “That poor girl.”
“Poor girl? She’s trying to ruin me from the grave.”
It’s silent; I consider the possibility of what he’s saying. Do I believe more in the vindictive nature of a woman scorned and at the end of her rope? Or do I believe my husband, who is obviously capable of emotional torment, could kill?
“Ian, do you regret it? The life you’ve had with me? If you were done staying faithful to me, if you were ready to move on and have affairs with other women, relationships, even, I wouldn’t have liked it. But it would’ve been better, more dignified, if you would’ve left me.”
“Honey, don’t you know? I did it because I couldn’t leave you. I don’t know life without you. You’ve taken care of me for so long.”
“You should have left me.”
“Never.”
I take another sip of wine.
“Twenty grand a month,” I say. “This secret you’ve been keeping has cost us twenty grand a month. Do you know what I could have done with that kind of money? I could’ve gone back to school. Or there are these workshops in Door County for artists.”
“Well, I did try to foster your love of art,” Ian says. “I stocked you up on canvas and brushes, and—”
“For the last time, I took a painting class in high school, Ian. I wasn’t good at it, I didn’t like it, and it wasn’t my chosen medium. Painting is not my passion.”
“Well, whatever. I didn’t have a choice but to pay the demand. He was going to expose me.”
“The alderman?”
“I assume so. Someone followed me to our place in Evanston once, but it didn’t happen again, so I thought it was a coincidence—until the letter showed up, asking for money. And it wasn’t just you who would’ve been hurt, so—”
“You’re talking about Patrick.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Quinn.”
“Of course.”
“And Doug and Donna?”
He fixes me with a stare, feeling me out, seeing what I know.
“The package Detective Oliver found on our front porch the night you were arrested . . . Wager a guess as to what was inside?”
His jaw descends a fraction of an inch or so, then he clenches up.
But I don’t back down.
“Kirstie.”
“Ian.”
“Did you go to Doug with it? Does he know?”
“He hasn’t confronted you?”
Ian shakes his head.
“Why don’t you tell me how it happened?”
“You put a stop to the choking. You were afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop one day. I tried, Kirstie. And then I found the Aquasphere. We went there, remember, with Fiona and Dave before the Hawks game, and . . . that’s when I found Donna. She was a choking coach, someone to teach me how to do it the right way so I wouldn’t hurt anyone, so I wouldn’t hurt you anymore. It was strictly business at first. But it just happened one night. I couldn’t stop myself.”
“Was it consensual? Or do we have to worry about Donna filing charges against you, too?”
“Please.” He waves the idea away. “She wouldn’t dare. She can’t afford the exposure.”
I close my eyes and inhale a deep, cleansing breath. He didn’t exactly answer my question. “And the blackmail?”
“Margaux said the alderman had her followed, that he had a twisted obsession with her. He took pictures, must have hired someone to follow me home and found out I was married. It was months after I started seeing her that he sent a flash drive to our place in Evanston with demands. It was right around the time you had your episode. I couldn’t come clean with you then. What choice did I have but to pay? And then later . . .” Ian sighs. “He caught me during a session with Donna, and I guess he saw the opportunity to squeeze even more out of me. He threatened to go to Margaux. I figured if she knew about Donna, Margaux would come find you out of spite, and maybe even contact Doug. He and Donna had just started seeing each other, so I paid those demands, too.”
“This doesn’t look good,” I tell him. “You have motive.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Well, you did plenty. And we have to talk about protecting assets, here. If you’re put away, I need a sense of security. Quinn has to finish school. I’ll have to pay the bills, and as you’ve aptly indicated more than once since this whole thing began, I’m not all that marketable in the workforce.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you offered up my DNA.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought of it before your screwing around put our son under that cop’s suspicion.”
“You know . . .” Ian fiddles with the band of his watch. “I want a fresh start. We have to forgive each other if we’re going to get past this.”
“I think we should divorce.”
“Divorce?” He bursts out of his chair.
“I think it’s the only surefire way to protect our assets, to ensure our children get the leg up they deserve.”
“Kirstie.” He rounds the island and drops to his knees in front of me, his hands grasping mine. “I came home with flowers and wine to surprise you that night.”
“You did. I remember.”
“That’s right, I did. And the time stamps on the credit card statements will prove I did it before Margaux died. It’ll be my alibi. They’ll determine she died after I was already home. We can put all this behind us and start again, start fresh.”
“Wait. Let me get this straight. You stopped for wine and roses before you went to Margaux’s place? Why did you stop for wine and roses if you were only going to break it off with her?”
“I was going to bring them to you. You have to believe me.”
“If that’s true, you would have bought the flowers closer to home. You would have bought a chardonnay because you know I prefer white. But you bought a merlot.”
“You’re reading too much into it. I just felt like a red that night.”
“Ian, you bought those gifts for Margaux. Because you thought she had the abortion. You went there that night to make amends.”
His lips press into a thin white line, and he tightens his grip on my hands.
I put the pieces together: he told her he’d continue to see her if she terminated the pregnancy. He told me he was working late. He bought wine and roses . . .
“I was coming home to you. I swear it. I was ready to recommit. If you back me up, I have my alibi.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper. I meet his gaze, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. I think of our children, of the long stretch of their lives ahead of us and the funds necessary for them to have all they deserve to have. After their lean early years.
“It’s brilliant,” he says again. “It’s the only way.”
“It is brilliant.”
“Yeah?”
I nod. “Yes, Ian. It’s brilliant. You just want me to tell the truth.”
“That’s my girl.” He cups my chin in his warm hand. “The truth.”
I lean close.
My lips touch his ear.
“I already did. Good night, Mr. Judson.”
THEN
MARGAUX
It had been a long couple of days since the wedding. Reparation of the heart was tricky business, and while all she really wanted to do was sleep, there were arrangements to be made. Clinics to visit. Research to be conducted. Futures to be planned, and reports to be filed.
The rain wasn’t helping. Everything in the city was more difficult in the rain. It was as if the city, herself, were weeping for what never would be.
Goodbye, boyfriend.
Goodbye, baby.
At least, thanks to the third party’s plan, law school was still on the horizon. Thus far, the alderman had already replaced a good portion of what he’d lost.
Margaux slipped off her shoes at the door and hung her raincoat to drip dry on the old mosaic tile floor in the foyer.
She’d manage. She’d come through w
orse: losing her parents at an early age, growing up with stuffy, old, judgmental Helen and her husband, the child molester with a gambling problem . . .
“Hello, gorgeous.”
She let out a yelp when she heard the voice across the loft, and covered her mouth to muffle it when she realized she knew the man leaning over the countertop in her kitchen. The man she’d known until recently as Arlon had a pencil in hand, its tip pressed to a pad of paper. He dropped the pencil. “You’re home early. And damn. Great dress.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle, as if she could hide her body from the man who knew it best. “What are you doing here?” She nodded toward the bundle of red roses on the countertop, alongside the bottle of red wine. “After the things you said to me . . . after what you did to me at Columbus Park—”
“Wait a minute, Maggie. What I did to you? You practically ambushed me. I was perfectly clear when we began this relationship: there were going to be times you couldn’t be with me, times I’d be unreachable.”
“Because of your career, not because you had a whole other identity, a secret wife, and children you conveniently forgot to tell me about!”
“You’re confused.”
“I’m not confused about what you did to me in that hallway, Arlon.”
“I didn’t do anything to you we hadn’t done a hundred times before.”
“Against my will that time.”
“Wait. Let’s put this in perspective a second.”
“How do you think your wife would feel—your daughter—if she’d seen what you did to me?”
“Stop talking about my wife and my daughter. They’re none of your business.”
“What do you think the police would have to say about it?”
“Let’s not get carried away. The police?”
“I’ve been to the station. I talked with a sergeant there.”
“You didn’t.”
He didn’t have to know she’d chickened out before filing a report. In the end, the threat of exposure was just too much for her to bear. But she could still do it. She would, as a matter of fact. First thing in the morning. She raised her chin. “I did.”
“You told them my name? My real name?”
“What’s with the flowers and wine, Arlon?”
“Cat’s out of the bag. You can call me Ian.”
“Ian.” She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest, and warded off a shiver. “Why did you lie to me about your name?”
“I didn’t know what you and I were going to mean to each other. Of course I would do things differently, had I known.”
“Let’s talk about your domestic situation.”
“I’d rather not.”
“She’s pretty. She looks sweet. And if I have to make a judgment on it all, the two of you look happy. I don’t want to ruin that.”
“I make it work until I don’t have to anymore. I told you this at the wedding.”
“No. You basically told me to get lost at the wedding.”
“What did you expect? My children were there. I was angry.”
“That’s right.” She massaged her temple and let out a sigh. “You have children.”
“They’re old enough to handle a divorce now. I’m leaving her. But the groundwork isn’t set yet. You have to understand, baby.”
“I understand that if I didn’t have an abortion, I’d never see you again.”
“I saw the charge from the clinic come through. It’s done?”
She’d paid the fee, yes. But at the last minute, she couldn’t go through with it. She left before she popped the Valium they’d given her.
Her eyes welled with tears.
And here he was, ready to use her all over again, talking about a future that would never come to pass, a future the third party had sworn would be unnecessary, as long as Akers played ball and did what he swore he’d do.
“That makes you happy? To think of killing our baby?”
“Oh, honey.” He crossed the room, his footsteps echoing in his wake, and despite her flinch, he took her into his arms, holding her back to his chest. “It wasn’t the right time for us. But like I said before: you’re young. We have all the time in the world. Give me time to end it with Kirstie.” He nuzzled her neck. “I have to protect my assets—the assets we’ll share—before I leave her. We’ll be comfortable that way.”
“And what happens when you get tired of me? When you start slinking around town with someone else? Do you do the same thing to me? Hide money from me so you don’t have to share your earnings, when I’ve been home with the kids? And then I’m kicked to the curb like you’re doing to her right now?”
“Don’t you get it? I never chose Kirstie. I was roped in the same way you tried to rope me in the other night. She’s never worked a day in her life. Hell, I’d be lucky to get away with a sixty-forty split the way this state’s run. I’ve worked hard to get where I am.”
“And she hasn’t?”
“Not this hard. She doesn’t know what we have. She won’t know what half is, so she doesn’t know what she’s due. If you give me time, I’ll be able to move some assets around so her lawyer won’t find it.”
She caressed the fourth finger on his left hand. He never wore a wedding band. If he had, she might not have found herself in this situation.
“Do you love me?”
“That’s entirely beside the point.” He kissed the space between her neck and her shoulder.
“You can’t even say it.”
“I shouldn’t have to.”
She read between the lines: if he didn’t say it now, she couldn’t hold him to it later. Just like Richard, he’d groomed her to be what he wanted her to be, at first waxing the love on thick and then slowly letting it thin out until it was so watered down with anger and resentment . . . and control. And over the past few months, the third party had helped her realize that Ian Holloway/Arlon Judson had never loved her—he’d never loved anyone—the way he loved himself.
“I should put those roses in water.” She freed herself from his arms and took a few steps in the opposite direction—breathing room—toward the kitchen, where he’d dropped the roses in a bundle on the countertop.
“You just have to be patient,” Ian said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You know, I used to think you were the best thing that ever happened to me, but now I think you might be the worst. You’re evil. You say I’m special. That you love me. How many of us do you love? Just me? It’s always been me? Except when there was Donna. And except for that little trek you took to Lincoln Park when you met the firefighter.”
“You followed me?”
“I had to know how you did it. You were lying, and I fell for it, and I never want to fall for it again. And I sure as hell don’t want to be your wife someday, if all you’re going to do is leave me later, destitute, for someone else down the line the way you’re planning to leave your wife now.”
“My wife.” He sighed heavily. “You know my name. You know my firm. It wouldn’t be too difficult to track her down for a conversation.”
“It sure wouldn’t be.”
“So . . . what’s it going to take, Margaux? Law school tuition? A prettier ring? What’s it going to take to keep you quiet? To keep Kirsten and my kids out of the equation?”
“You think I want money?”
“Akers is already bleeding me dry—”
She raised a brow. “Bleeding you dry?”
“That’s right. He knew a long time ago what you just learned at the wedding, and he’s been demanding payment for his silence ever since. So if you want cash, talk to the alderman.”
She already had spoken to the alderman, at the third party’s behest. She already had Ian’s money. But suddenly, it wasn’t enough.
“I don’t want money.” She smiled. “Baby, I want to ruin you.”
Chapter 45
JESSICA
For at least the eleventh time today, I decline Kirsten’s call
and return to Decker’s sofa with a bowl of popcorn.
“So I was browsing through some old cases online,” I say. “There’s a cold case in town. Dates back twenty years. Victim was strangled.”
“No,” Decker says. “This guy’s not a serial killer.”
“He bruised my neck. He bruised his wife’s.”
“He’s into choking. It’s erotic.”
“You think choking is erotic?”
“I don’t.” He hands me a beer. “People do.”
I raise a brow. “I get why a guy might be into it. Complete control. But complete surrender for the girl?”
“The orgasm, supposedly, is godly.”
I imagine not being able to breathe, how close Ian came to doing that to me. “I’m not convinced, but to each his own.”
“Well, I can imagine with your history, you know . . . with what happened to you when you were a kid—”
“Stop.”
“I’m just saying maybe it explains why you prefer to have a firm grasp of control in the sack.”
He has a point, but that doesn’t mean I want to discuss it to death. “Not everything is about the past.”
Deck clears his throat, takes the hint, and gets back to the case: “So, choking. The trouble is that it’s all too easy to actually kill someone while doing it. Some people even hire a master or dominatrix to observe and teach them.”
“Gail Force.”
“Right. There’s a whole subculture of people who are into these things.”
“And that’s why Margaux is dead.”
“Not saying that’s why, but it sure didn’t help her live longer.”
“Theory one: Margaux killed herself after a sexual encounter with this guy. Two: he accidentally killed her during sex. Three: he pursued her strictly for the purpose of killing her during sex. Think about it.”
“Well, there’s a reason the Aquasphere Underground burned down, and I’d say it sure as hell wasn’t an accident. Whether it had to do with Margaux or not . . . it’s just too coincidental to assume it didn’t.”
“Who do you think set the fire?” I ask.