by Brandi Reeds
It was time to stop him.
She’d be the sacrifice necessary to save all his future victims.
“Do you think I don’t know what you are?” she screamed at him.
He narrowed his gaze. “Don’t speak unless spoken to.”
“Do you think I don’t know that once you walk out that door, I’ll never see you again? Do you think you can get away with it? I’ll scream the truth until my throat is raw! You’ll never do this to another girl again.”
“How dare you.”
“Never.”
“Do I need to tape your mouth shut?” he roared.
“I’ll say what I damn well please.”
“Since when?” His jaw set, he climbed between her thighs.
Her eyes widened with fear. She’d never seen him look so angry before.
He tore at the zipper on his pants. “Remember: I paid you in advance.”
She raised her chin in defiance, knowing it would lengthen her neck, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist placing his hands just so . . .
Chapter 48
KIRSTEN
A woman in a navy-blue pantsuit, with a graying chin-length bob, rises from her table at the rear of the room when I enter the River Shannon. She looks even more out of place in this bar than I do.
A cute corgi paws at me as I make my way inside. I stop to say hello to the dog, then continue toward the back of the room, to my fellow misfit. I extend a hand. “I’m Kirsten Holloway.”
She looks like she just ate a lemon, which tells me she recognizes my last name. She shakes my hand. “Helen Akers.”
“Yes, I recognize you from the news.” I don’t know why she’s here, only that Jessica said she’d invited her—she knows something big, Jessica had said—so she somehow fits into this strange puzzle.
Helen resumes her seat, and together we wait.
“It’s turning colder by the day,” I offer.
She purses her lips and nods but doesn’t say anything in return.
Ohhhkay.
So she’s not one for small talk.
“I was sorry to hear about Margaux.”
She nods. “Thank you.”
I suppose her icy demeanor is no surprise, considering my husband and my son are the focus of her daughter’s murder investigation. Together, we sit, silent, save her occasional sniff or clearing of her throat.
I’m absolutely relieved when I see Donna walk in the door and thrilled when, thirty seconds later, Jessica appears.
I close my eyes in a silent prayer of thanks. We’re all here. It means we share a common interest and are open to the possibility of working together.
I get right down to business:
“I know we’re an unlikely band of soldiers, and at first glance, we don’t have all that much in common. But I think we can work together for the better good. Why do we women still find ourselves in Margaux’s position? Being victimized, objectified?”
Jessica and Helen share a look.
Donna sighs and begins to shake her head in what I can only describe as predetermined defeat.
But I don’t give her a chance to resign just yet. “They—and by they, I mean the men in charge—know what they’re doing. They’re pitting us against each other, distracting us from the real issue at hand. Donna, you’re keeping a secret about something that happened between you and my husband.”
“At the time, I didn’t know he was your husband, and Doug wasn’t even my husband at the time.”
“I’m not talking about the affair itself. I’m talking about how it happened.”
“It wasn’t an affair, but . . .” Donna’s head hangs low for a split second before she raises her chin. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It wasn’t your decision, was it?” I ask. “He’d been dabbling in choking. For years, he’d scare the hell out of me every time he did it. I put a stop to it, showed him proof that sometimes it goes too far, and I drew a line. I told him there were people who could tutor him, but you know Ian. He doesn’t need anyone to teach him anything. Most of all anything like that. Reluctantly, he agreed to stop. And then we had drinks with another couple before a Blackhawks game at the Aquasphere. We didn’t go downstairs, just stayed upstairs in the church, but the bar was an unlikely choice. I didn’t know why we stopped for drinks so far from the United Center. But he recently admitted he took us there for a reason. I think he’d heard of the Underground, and I think he was doing research of his own. I think he met you there, looking for a coach. I think he hired you to teach him the safe way to do it, and things got out of hand.”
Tears rim Donna’s eyes, but she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m okay now.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?” I ask. “He lost control with you. He did things you didn’t want to do.”
Jessica reaches for Donna’s hand. “Is that how it happened?”
“He paid me.” Donna sniffles. “Who’d believe I drew a line and he crossed it? Who’d believe I didn’t want it? Especially now that I’m married to a man who looks an awful lot like him. I mean, honestly, no one is going to believe me.”
“I’d believe you,” Jessica says.
“Me too,” Helen says.
I spin toward her and smile. The toughest nut on the tree just cracked.
“Your testimony,” Helen says. “It goes to show a pattern.”
“Testimony?” Donna says. “Like in court? No.”
“My husband makes a habit of losing control and hurting women,” I say. “And this time it cost a young woman her life. The jury should hear about it.”
“No way,” Donna says. “I can’t—”
“What if I said he did the same thing to me when we were kids?” I say. “What if I told you I rationalized it the same way you did?”
“The same way I did,” Jessica adds. “There’s always a way to tell yourself it was your fault.”
Donna looks down at the table again.
Jessica and I share a look. “It’s important for you to testify,” she says to Donna. “Your testimony can solidify who Arlon Judson really is.”
Donna snaps back to attention. “Count me out. If I claim Arlon Judson is really Ian Holloway, do you know what happens to my marriage? And it’s a flimsy theory. All they have to do to counter is ask me if Arlon Judson was masked at the club, if there is any paperwork tying the name to Ian. I overheard Doug talking about it. It won’t matter if I testify.”
“It’s a lot to ask, I know,” I say. “We’re all protecting ourselves and avoiding each other because that’s the way he wants it to be. Our stories alone leave gaps in the truth. But together, we get to the bottom of this. Together, we leave no questions unanswered. For example: I know there is money transferred from our account. If our theory is correct, Helen, your husband received that money as sizable campaign donations. If we can prove that money was demanded, rather than donated, it will help to establish motive. I know you probably don’t want your finances examined with everything else going on right now, but—”
“I might have protested yesterday,” Helen says. “But something interesting came in the mail.” She pulls from her purse a padded envelope. “I don’t know who sent it, but it’s a letter Margaux wrote months ago, addressed to NBC Chicago, detailing everything she’s endured at the hands of my husband.”
My heart plummets. That poor girl had been through so much.
“She’d made allegations before. She told a family friend, and I had to pay that friend to keep quiet about it. I assumed she’d lied. But this time . . .” Helen whimpers. “A video file, one Margaux had obviously recorded secretly, was mailed to my home on a thumb drive. It was a full confession of what Richard had done. To Margaux. To the other girls we took in through Catholic Charities over the years. I called Miss Blythe immediately.”
Jessica nods. “And that’s when I called Kirsten.”
“Who sent the video?” Donna asks.
“I don’t know. It came with this explanation.”
“I’ve been in contact with many of the girls,” Helen says, “and we’ll be pressing charges. Everything she always said was true, and I never believed her.
“I’ve just about had it with men having their way,” she continues. “I was once a respected journalist in this town. I resigned to run my husband’s campaign, and this is the thanks I get. This—” She pumps her fist, still gripping the envelope, into the air. “This is the legacy I’m leaving. Well, no, thank you. My life’s work is worth more than the levels my husband has fallen to. And that campaign fund? It’s a front. It launders his winnings and losses, and I can prove that, too. I know everywhere those funds go. A good chunk of which went back to Margaux, to the trust Richard borrowed from to bet on that damn horse.”
“Hallelujah,” Jessica whispers.
“The alderman can’t get away with what he did to Margaux,” I say. “And neither can Ian.”
“He’s not counting on our sticking together,” Jessica says. “He’s counting on our tiptoeing around each other. So instead of turning our claws on each other, we can stand united.”
Donna meets my gaze and offers a weak nod.
“Sounds satisfying, doesn’t it?” I ask.
“I still have media connections,” Helen says. “People who will help us tell our story.”
Jessica puts her hand out, hovering palm down. “Justice for Margaux.”
I place my hand in the center of the table, too.
Then Helen.
And finally, Donna joins us. “For women everywhere.”
Together, I don’t see how we can lose.
THEN
MARGAUX
When he was finished, he collapsed atop her.
Their bodies still joined, her arms and legs still tethered—numb, aching, bruising.
He kissed her softly on the neck, where so recently he’d squeezed until she could barely breathe.
He loosened the ropes.
She sighed in relief as blood flow returned to her aching arms and legs. Her fingertips tingled.
Tears curbed around her ears.
“The note you were writing . . . It’s over, isn’t it? We’re done?”
He nodded. “We have to be. I shouldn’t have let it come this far.” He stood and retrieved his pants from where he’d flung them.
“I was going to have your baby.”
“It’s just as well you aborted it.” He stepped into his trousers and zipped up. “Clean break, all right? Let’s make it like I was never here. You’ll recover. You all do.”
“You said I was special. That you loved me. You carved my skin with your initials.”
“The funny thing is, Margaux, that you are special and I did love you.” He shoved an arm into his shirt. “But it has to be over now.”
“It wasn’t over until you had your way one last time.”
“Call it saying goodbye.” While his words sent a message she might have appreciated, the smirk on his face sent another—it was a taunting, boastful sneer, and it told her she’d fallen into one last trap.
“What about the things you promised me? Our forever plans? My tuition?”
“Sorry, babe. I can’t make it happen.”
“You think you’re so smart,” she said. “So sly. You don’t think you’ve been making it happen for months now?” One corner of her lips turned up in a satisfied grin, but half a breath later, the smile again dissipated, and she coughed over tears.
The truth hit him like a bolt of lightning. “You! You’re behind it? You and Akers—you knew he was blackmailing me?”
“Does that make you angry, Mr. Holloway? That I’d dare to take charge and secure my own future? What choice did I have?”
“I’ll expose you.”
“Not without exposing yourself, you won’t. How does it feel to be used the way you used me?”
He came at her then, and took her by the throat.
He squeezed. Squeezed harder. Squeezed harder still.
“Do it,” she eked out. “End it all right here. It’s the only way you’ll truly be rid of me.”
Chapter 49
JESSICA
I’m in the middle of a chick flick and greasy Chinese when my doorbell rings.
I glance at the clock. Too early to be Decker.
I’m not expecting anyone, but considering what happened the last time I ignored an unannounced visitor, I go to my intercom. “Yeah?”
“Miss Blythe? Do you have a minute? It’s Patrick Holloway.”
For a moment, I don’t do or say anything.
A million scenarios dart through my mind. Maybe we’ve got it wrong. Maybe Patrick’s DNA was a close match for a good reason. Maybe it wasn’t Ian at all.
“If you don’t want me to come up,” he says, “we can meet at the River, or something. I just thought you deserved an explanation.”
“I’ll be right down.” I throw on a pair of leggings and toss one of Decker’s flannels over my tank top. I cover my hair with a backward Sox hat and shove my feet into Uggs.
When I open the door at the street level, Patrick is seated on the front stoop. He’s built like his father—with a muscled frame. When he looks over his shoulder, however, and smiles, I see shades of his mother. He stands and extends a hand. “Thanks for seeing me.”
I don’t doubt he’ll do well in a courtroom someday. His easy demeanor, and casual good looks, will serve him well in front of a jury.
“C’mon,” I say. “Let’s get a drink.”
We begin to walk toward my favorite neighborhood bar.
His hands are deep in the pockets of his coat. Finally, he breaks the silence. “You’ve been a great source of support for my mom.”
“Your mother is stronger than you think she is.”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” For a few measures, he doesn’t say anything. Then suddenly: “I’ll bet you’re wondering why I came to see you that day.”
“I’ve wondered.”
He nodded. “About six months ago, my mother had what the doctors called an episode—she became hysterical for seemingly no reason. Mom said it was because my sister had just moved out, and she had trouble dealing with an empty house. My sister didn’t buy it. She was convinced something else had set Mom off—that our father was too flirty with a neighborhood woman at a party—and Quinn thought our father may have taken things too far. I couldn’t see it, but then I borrowed his car one day and found a log of addresses in his GPS. He’d been to the Aquasphere. A lot. He’d been all over Bucktown, to an apartment near Leavitt and Webster.”
“Margaux’s place.”
“And your address was in his GPS, too. When I followed up on Margaux, she said she was involved with a guy named Arlon Judson. I thought that was the end of it. And I thought for sure you’d deny knowing my father, too.”
“Yeah. But I would’ve recognized the last name. I already knew your mother at that point.”
“I guess you did.”
We enter the bar, which is slow tonight.
Patrick buys me a beer.
“Are you going to testify against my father?”
“If they call me, yes.”
He nods and takes a sip of his beer.
It’s my turn to ask a question: “Do you think your father killed her?”
“Little by little, until she couldn’t take it anymore. One way or another, he’s responsible. Take my father out of the equation, and Margaux Stritch is still alive.”
“I have to agree.”
“The day I was arrested, I told Doug about meeting Margaux. I told him about why I went to your place, too. But I couldn’t say it in front of my mom. I feel like such an asshole. There I was, thinking she was too frail to hear it all, and she’s the one who forced the truth to come out.”
“She’s quite a lady. You should tell her you appreciate her.”
He downs the rest o
f his drink. “You okay to head back on your own, or . . . ?”
“Yeah, I’ll be all right.”
“Thanks for being there for my mother.”
“I think she’s there for me as much as I am for her.”
“One more thing. I notice you wear a ruby necklace.” He pulls a small box from his pocket. “I think this was probably supposed to be yours.”
I open the box. Margaux’s ruby ring stares up at me.
“I saw your necklace the day I was arrested, and I found this in the glove box of my dad’s car. He probably bought it for you, and after all you’ve been through, I think you should have it.”
“Patrick.” I look up from the ring. “This was Margaux’s. The police have been looking for it.”
THEN
MARGAUX
She went limp, and instantly, he released his hold on her neck.
“Margaux?”
She didn’t answer.
“Margaux! Fuck!” He screamed under his breath. “What the fuck did I do?”
He pressed two fingers to her wrist. “Thank God. A pulse.”
Quickly, he finished dressing, grabbed the roses and the wine, and left.
Like he’d never been there.
Chapter 50
KIRSTEN
“Doug says I should take the plea,” Ian says. “Manslaughter.”
“Maybe you should,” I say.
“And open myself up to a wrongful death suit?” Ian says. “Hell no.”
“I hate to tell you this, but you’re probably looking at one of those, anyway.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Entirely up to you.”
“Not really,” he says. “This involves you, too.”
“I want a divorce,” I remind him.
“What? This again?” Ian turns toward me. “If we divorce now, they can call you as a witness.”
“Let them call me! I don’t know anything, anyway! If we don’t divorce now,” I explain, “a civil suit can take away everything we own, and we have children and expenses, and I’m entitled to my half. You can lose your half, or spend it all on other women or legal fees if you want. I’m done.”
“Kirstie.” Ian looks dumbfounded, as if he didn’t know this was coming.