by Brandi Reeds
“Suspect number one: Alderman Akers, or someone who works for him. With all the media attention about Margaux working there, and the press about the Holloway boy’s arrest because of the tattoo being consistent with the Aquasphere logo, it’s just too risky to leave it standing.”
“But it was an anonymous cash business.”
“With video cameras everywhere.”
“Ah.”
“Which brings me to the second and final person of interest on my list: Ian Holloway. If the club was subpoenaed, the establishment could have turned up some pretty damaging video feed of the accused—if, that is, Holloway is indeed Judson—and the deceased.”
“I suppose so.” I nibble my lip for a second. “He was there the night of the fire.”
Decker raises a brow.
“Just standing there, staring at me from across the street. At the time, I thought he wanted a glimpse of me. We hadn’t talked since he caught me snooping through his laptop.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Or maybe he was just like all the others gathering around the place to watch it burn. And at the time, I didn’t know someone had set fire to the club, either. They suspected the fire was electrical.”
“We need something to stick,” Decker says. “And soon. I need something more than circumstantial evidence against this guy or he’s gonna walk.”
My phone buzzes with a voice mail alert. Kirsten left a message.
“Why don’t you call her back?” Decker suggests. “Obviously, she wants to talk to you.”
“Are you kidding? She probably wants to ream me. I was dating her husband.”
“You didn’t know that. C’mon. She’s a reasonable—”
“I don’t think I can ever face her again.”
“So you’re just going to never speak to her again? Walk out in the middle of a conference, and that’s it?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Jessie. That’s not like you.”
“No.” I sip my beer. “It’s not.”
“Can I say something?” Deck asks.
I get the distinct feeling that he’s going to say it whether or not I want him to.
“It doesn’t take Freud to know you don’t trust women. Probably because of what your mother did . . . not believing you when you told her what happened.”
“That’s not why—”
“Maybe not. I just think maybe some closure . . . maybe it’d help. Regardless of whether you ever want to talk to Kirsten Holloway again. Can’t hurt, that’s for sure.”
“Guess not.”
“Can I help?”
I slowly shake my head. You can smash a vase, apologize to it for breaking it, and you can even glue it back together. Maybe it even holds water again, but no matter what you do, its fractures will always be there. “Not unless you build a time machine.” I try to smile. “Really, Deck. I’m okay.”
He hands me my phone. “Then call her back.”
No sooner than my phone hits my palm does it ring. I glance at the caller ID, expecting to again see Kirsten’s name illuminated in the screen, but the name there practically drops my jaw.
Decker and I simultaneously look up at each other.
“Answer it,” he says.
Chapter 46
KIRSTEN
“You don’t get it, Doug.” I’m in the kitchen in the firm’s apartment in Lincoln Park. I ventured to the city today to review with Doug the half ream of paper that is the first draft of my divorce settlement. Ian is in one of the bedrooms down the hall while his lawyer tries to convince me not to file for divorce.
“The case against him is wafer thin, you know,” Doug says. “Soon you can put this behind you and carry on as if nothing happened. Divorce is extreme.”
“I think it’s tighter than wafer thin, don’t you? Considering the DNA, the money—”
Doug shakes his head. “They’re playing a game of smoke and mirrors. I’m not worried about it. We’ll admit to the affair, even to the alias, but at the end of the day, Ian is a respected, upstanding citizen. And the money? It’s all been filtered into the alderman’s campaign fund. There’s no crime against donating.”
“What about the letter? The pictures?”
“No way to trace them to the alderman, and the quality of the images is quite poor. I’m not worried about that, either.”
“And the alias?”
“Alleged. No one at the Aquasphere has come forward to testify that Ian is the same Arlon Judson the police are looking for, but even if they did, what would it prove? That Ian had an affair?”
“What does Donna have to say about it?”
“Nothing.” Doug slices the air with a hand. “She’ll be happy to put all this behind her.”
“So he’s just going to get away with it. Get away with everything he’s done.”
“He’s made mistakes. But there’s no concrete evidence of a crime against him.” Doug slides his hands into his pockets. “Kirstie, let this run its course, and then, if you’re still feeling this way, then we’ll discuss the divorce.”
“You don’t get it. Whether or not he’s convicted, I can’t keep doing this. All the secrecy, all the deception. Do you know what it feels like to learn your entire life is a lie?” I pause for a moment to gauge his reaction. “As if everything you’re proud of is a mask and the reality behind it is a mess?”
But he remains in the same position, unaffected.
“What am I saying?” I mutter. “Of course you know what that feels like. You’re a victim, too.”
“I’m not a victim, and as a matter of fact, I’d like to limit the use of that word. The fewer victims here, the better.”
“If you have a conversation with your wife, I think you’ll feel differently. You don’t even know what happened between them. There’s a reason the four of us don’t get together, and I tell you, it’s not because I had an emotional breakdown when Quinn moved out of the house.”
His brow knits.
“Your wife knows things. And with what she knows . . . the prosecution can bury him.”
“Not if we stand by him and combat the picture the prosecution is going to be painting.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Doug, I have to protect the children. Financially speaking.”
“But a divorce in the midst of this won’t look good.”
“I don’t think I can afford to care how it looks. It’s high time my husband realizes there are consequences for his actions. How long has he been getting away with this? And with how many women? You, of all people, should want at least a sense of penance.”
“Were you happy, Kirstie?” Ian’s question comes from behind me.
So much for my request for a few minutes alone with Doug. I turn and face my husband.
“Did our marriage fulfill you?” Ian asks.
“I was dedicated,” I tell him and his cousin, both of whom seem to need a reminder that marriage is supposed to be faithful. “Dedicated. No one ever promised me fulfillment.”
“If you don’t expect it, maybe you should at least want it, then,” Ian says.
“I do. And that’s why I want a divorce.”
“You can’t expect me to be anything more than human. I’ve made mistakes.”
“Well, I can expect you to be decent, can’t I?” I check the time. “I gotta go. I’m going to be late.”
“Late for what?”
“I have plans.”
“Plans where?” Ian wants to know. “Plans with whom?”
When Jessica finally called me back, we compared notes. We’re getting together to put a plan into action. Doug wants me to be a team player. I am. I’m just playing for another team today.
I push away from the counter—“The girls”—and I head toward the door.
THEN
MARGAUX
“You’ll ruin me?” Ian asked. He picked up a knife and began to cut the foil off the bottle of wine. “Is that a threat?”
She wished she hadn’t said th
at. Now she was going to have to answer for it.
Margaux cleared her throat and placed a vase beneath the faucet. “Take it for what you will.”
“All right. You’ve made your point. Let’s have a glass of wine.”
“I prefer to think of it as a reminder: I, too, hold a lot of cards in my hands.” Just as she was about to yank the protective plastic sleeve from the stems of the roses, a thorn ripped at her flesh.
Blood bloomed at the tip of her finger. She swore and shoved her finger in her mouth to stop the bleeding.
The note he’d been writing when she walked in caught her eye: I’M SORRY. I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE.
He’d come for closure. To break it off with her. He thought she’d gone through with the abortion, yet still, he was going to end it. And worse yet, he didn’t have to balls to own up to it! How relieved he must have been to arrive at an empty flat. How cowardly he was to have considered ending it all in a note! Here he was, sweet-talking her, telling her everything she wanted to hear when he was only going to disappear in the morning.
It was all bullshit. He was never going to leave Kirsten. And that was just fine—she didn’t want him anymore after all she’d learned. But that didn’t mean she could stop loving him. The heart was not as logical as the head. Yet the fact that he thought he was so good at what he did, that she was stupid enough to sink into the quicksand he was pouring on so thick, that she wouldn’t notice . . .
And what about the next poor girl down the line? Someone who didn’t have a sleazy alderman for a guardian? Someone who wouldn’t even be left with the blackmail money after Ian abandoned her?
“Arlon—”
But he’d already forgotten the wine. He was already sidled up next to her, groaning and pressing his hard body to hers, muttering about how watching her suck on something, anything, was such a turn-on. His hands were at her bare thighs. His mouth was at her neck.
“I love a bare ass,” he said on a breath and hooked a finger into her thong.
He shoved the undergarment down past her hips.
It was Richard all over again.
This was all she meant to him. She wasn’t special. He didn’t love her. He needed someone to control with ropes and belts and whips in the bedroom. He needed someone who would surrender under his touch, his squeeze, his threat to snuff the life out of her.
Tears rolled silently down her cheeks.
He slapped her on the thigh. Hard. “Bad girl.”
She didn’t have to look to know he’d left a palm-shaped welt on her body.
“Not like this,” she whispered.
Instantly, he took a step back, perhaps to prove that he was in control, that he always was in control—of his actions, of her, of every situation—especially in the abandoned hall at his cousin’s wedding reception.
She spun around and faced him and closed her hands around his neck.
“You want to treat me like a whore?” She tightened her grip. “Pay me.”
“You want to play rough.” Ian pried Margaux’s hands from his neck. “How rough?”
She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him close. “As rough as you go. I want to feel how much you hate me.”
“Yeah?” He gave her a little shove.
She stumbled but caught herself against the countertop. “I want to feel the way you think of me.”
“You want to feel like nothing?”
“I am what you make me.”
“If you’re a fucking whore, I’ve certainly made you that.”
“Pay me first.”
He was slightly out of breath, his hair was rumpled, and she’d left a spot of blood on the collar of his shirt.
She smiled to herself at the sight of it. Proof that he was here, that he was with her. That’s good.
He reached for her again, but she only slithered farther away.
“Fine.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket and fished out a few hundreds, which he tossed next to the roses. “You want to play that game?”
“I may as well get something out of it. And if you want the works tonight, I’m going to need everything in your wallet.”
“Small price to pay.” He dropped the remaining contents of his wallet on the bills already stacked there. “And I can afford it.”
Chapter 47
JESSICA
“Jessie?”
I look up from my laptop at Decker.
It’s too late to hide what I’ve been researching—my mother.
He grins. “Who would’ve thought Jessica Blythe would actually take my advice?”
“Make a big deal out of it, and I’ll punch you.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
No one in our family has seen my mother in nearly fourteen years, and I haven’t talked to her since she told me I must have wanted what Dan Grapplin did to me all those years ago. And despite what Decker thinks, I don’t need to talk to her ever again. But I want to know if she’s still alive—or dead. I want to know that she’s no longer with that monster.
“You’ll be here when I get back?”
“I mean, I’m going to meet Kirsten out, but it’ll be only for a few hours.”
“You let me know how it goes.”
“Yeah.” For a second, I concentrate on the facts of Margaux’s case, and all the pieces of the puzzle. “Deck?”
“Hmm?”
“What are the odds Holloway’s going down for this?”
“Not great, to be honest. We’ve got good theories, bits and pieces of things that make sense. But he’s got a good lawyer. We need glue to hold it all together.”
“I’ll give you my full report after.”
“You’re coming back, then?”
I can’t stop the smile threatening to bloom on my face. This isn’t like Decker . . . isn’t like us. Where’s the guy who walks out the door after two days in bed and disappears for a week or so? “Do you want me to come back?”
“Hey.” He leans toward me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Of course I want you to.” His eyes—a gray shade of green . . . have they always been?—seem smokier somehow, and I can’t help it. I want to fall back into what we used to be. Maybe it was a merry-go-round, maybe we’ll never go the distance, but what Decker and I shared was fun. Being with him was easy.
“I should probably go home and water my plant,” I say. “Maybe grab a change of clothes.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“But you could swing by after your shift if you want.”
“It’s a plan.” His lips brush against mine. “You always believed I was onto something, and damn it if I’m not right on the cusp of wrapping this case. I owe it, in great part, to you.”
“Just remember us little people when you’re neck-deep in a promotion. New title, new responsibilities, new minions. New life.”
“You, my friend, are unforgettable.”
“Okay.” I roll my eyes. “What do you want?”
“What happened to you when you were younger . . .”
“Yeah.”
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
I’d rather not. I shrug. “I’m okay.”
“I couldn’t sleep last night, and not that I don’t have plenty to keep me busy with the Stritch case, but after our conversation . . .” He places a file in my hands.
I open it and see my worst nightmare staring at me. My heart starts banging in my chest.
“Dan Grapplin’s been in and out of prison for the past ten years,” Decker says. “He’s on the registry for sex offenders.”
“Oh.” Guilt bottoms out in my gut. I wasn’t the only one. “To think that if I’d spoken up—”
“You did. Your mother made you feel like it was all your fault.”
“I could’ve said something to my brothers, to my father. Maybe Grapplin wouldn’t have had the chance to offend again if I’d made more of an effort.”
“Considering your mother’s reaction, it’s no wond
er you kept your mouth shut.”
“Still. I should’ve been stronger.”
“You were a kid. You were as strong as you were supposed to be at the time. But now you’re an adult. What are you going to do about this now?”
“What can I do? It was so long ago.”
“Statute of limitations for something like this expires ten years past the victim’s eighteenth birthday.” His hand comes to my cheek for a few seconds. “You let me know if you want to do something about it.”
Silently, I nod.
“You think about it. You let me know.”
“Yes,” I say. “Do something.”
THEN
MARGAUX
He tossed the rope over the rafters and bound her by each of her wrists, then by each of her ankles. Like an animal spread to be quartered, her arms and legs stretched and ached, and the rope burned against her skin every time she shifted, and the floor bit into her back.
Her chest heaved with tears, but it only revved him up higher to see her in such a state. He attributed her tears to the pain, the humiliation.
But she was crying for her own stupidity, for her willingness to fall for such a monster.
He had to pay. It was the only way.
“Tell me you’re sorry,” he said.
She knew what she was supposed to say, what he expected her to do, but if she was going to exact revenge, this had to go just so.
“Over my dead body.”
“You should be a good girl,” he whispered.
He spoke too quietly. The neighbors needed to hear him if they were going to rouse any suspicion. And she wanted people to hear. She wanted people to notice for once. Notice, the way Helen Akers never had, when her respected husband ogled their adopted daughter, watched her undress, slid his hand up her inner thigh under the dinner table. Notice, the way no one ever had since her parents and sisters had been killed in that car wreck. Only she had been spared, but for what? For a lifetime of usurpation?
And because Ian was the reason she was once again spiraling downward, he was the reason she felt so used and abused, he needed to be held accountable for what he was doing, what he’d done, what he’d do over and over again, once he walked away from her for the very last time. He’d been getting away with it long enough.