by Britney King
Theo wished he could do that now, but Amy Stone deserved a witness. So he watched as her husband pushed her down onto the floor. He yanked the towel off her head and tossed it aside. Then he hauled her up by her hair. She fought back just a little, but not a lot, because Theo imagined it isn’t easy to fight with your hands tied behind your back and your ankles fastened in the crisscross position. After he forced Amy to her knees, he put both hands around her neck and he squeezed. He stopped only to step forward and shove his crotch in her face. “You’re going to find out what punishment tastes like.”
Amy Stone turned her head away and tried to scoot back. In turn, her husband wrapped both hands around her neck and held her in place. He squeezed until the fighting stopped. He held her head in his hands and trained her eyes on him. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. But like it or not, it’s going to happen.”
It took a long time. An eternity, it felt like. But eventually, after more choking—at which point Amy nearly passed out and he slapped her repeatedly, so she remained conscious—she gave in. She parted her lips and took Greg Stone in her mouth. He pulled at her neck and jaw so fiercely that Theo didn’t want to watch, but it scared him to look away. It took a long time for it to be over, and when it was, Amy Stone curled into a ball and sobbed, her cries sounding very much like a wounded animal. The evil man stuffed the towel back in her mouth, wrapped fresh tape around her head, muffling her. Then he hauled her up and laid her on the bed.
Theo’s mother called him then. It was time to go back to the extended stay. He dreaded that place and longed for the day they could come back home full-time. She yelled his name again. He heard her mulling about at the bottom of the stairs. He knew better than to ignore her, so he quickly shut down his computer. She’d come looking for him, and then they’d never come back here. They’d have to move again.
Chapter Thirty-One
I wake to the smell of pancakes and bacon and the distant laughter of my children. I dress in workout attire, thinking if it warms up, maybe we’ll do something fun, something to get us out of the house for a few hours. When I enter the kitchen, the girls are seated at the table playing on their iPads. Greg looks up from the frying pan and smiles. He turns the burner down, walks over and kisses my forehead. “You feeling okay?”
Before I can respond, the doorbell rings. His eyes narrow. “I’ll get it.”
“Let me,” I say. “It’s probably Sarah dropping off another casserole.”
“God.” He turns the fire up and repositions the pan. “Not another one.”
When I round the corner, the reflection through the glass catches my eye. It’s not Sarah. It’s two uniformed officers. Glancing out the peephole, I see one male, one female. Assuming they are here about Jack Mooney, I open the door without hesitation. The woman speaks first. “We’re looking for Amy Stone,” she states, but in her expression I see that she is certain she’s already found her.
“I’m Amy.”
The officer glances over my shoulder like he’s feeling the place out. His brows rise when he looks back at me. “Are you alone, Mrs. Stone?”
The woman says, “May we come in?”
“My husband and children are here,” I reply before I scoot aside and usher them in.
Greg walks into the living area with a spatula in hand. His eyes widen when he sees it isn’t Sarah. “If it’s okay,” the officer says, “we’d like to speak with your wife alone.”
“Is everything all right?” He glances my way.
“We just have a few questions,” he answers. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” Maybe Greg says something more, but whatever it is, I don’t catch it, because the officer is leading me back out onto the porch, where she gets straight to the point. Her eyes level with me. “We’re here to do a welfare check.”
“Okay…”
The officer clears his throat. “We received a call about a video that was posted online.”
My eyes flit from one to the other, before eventually settling on the woman. Her partner looks like he’s barely out of high school. It is clear they expect me to say more, but I have nothing. “A video?”
“It was posted on YouTube and several neighborhood apps, and from what I am told, your neighborhood website.”
“I’m a realtor.”
From across the street, Mr. Crowley waves. I wave back. The officer furrows his brow. “It was uploaded in the early morning hours.”
My throat sticks. I can see that they’re expecting me to offer something, but I don’t know what that something is.
“It was a graphic video,” the officer finally says.
“Pornographic in nature,” his partner adds.
Next door, Mrs. Crump’s son waters the lawn. It seems odd to water in December, but then again, he is odd. I refocus my attention on the officer, and lower my voice. “Pornographic?”
“It has since been pulled, but you know how these things go. Every time one gets taken down, another is uploaded in its place.”
“I didn’t upload any videos, if that’s what you mean. But I have a stalker—”
“You were identified as being the female in the video. Your husband is said to be the other party. We understand if this isn’t a good time, but we’d like to talk with you…”
“I don’t understand.”
“The video depicted a violent act, possibly a rape. Several people have come forward stating it was you in the recording and asked us to check on your welfare.”
“My what?” It hits me what they might be referring to. “Oh, my God.”
“Are you currently in any danger, Mrs. Stone?”
“Me?” My hand flies to my chest. I think I am going to be sick. “No. I mean…like I said…there’s a man who’s been stalking me.” My eyes narrow. “But I get the sense that’s not what you’re talking about.”
The woman looks over at her partner and then at me. “Domestic violence is a very common offense. But it’s something we take seriously.”
I shake my head. I don’t know what to say. It feels like they are trying to get something out of me I can’t give. “My husband hasn’t hurt me.”
Their eyes meet, and the two of them exchange a nod of understanding, making it obvious they think I am lying. “An investigation has been opened into the video,” she notes. “On account of the sites it was uploaded to.”
“Good,” I say, for lack of anything else.
She hands me her card. “Please reach out if you think there’s anything we should know.”
The officer shifts his stance. “Mind if we speak with your husband?”
Inside, I wait for Greg in the hallway, halfway between the kitchen and the front door. When he sees the look on my face, he comes toward me. His expression morphs from concern to outright fear. “What the fuck?”
“I know. Give me a sec—” I say, going to the bedroom for my phone. Greg follows close behind. He stares over my shoulder as I scroll through my texts, of which there are dozens. Dana and multiple people from work have all written. I scan for one in particular. Only Alex sends a link to the video with a text that says, WTF. When I click on the link, it tells me the video has been taken down.
I text him back. I don’t know what is going on.
He responds, You’d better talk to your husband about that.
I ask him to resend the video, telling him the link he sent didn’t work. Check your tags on social, he replies.
I pull up Facebook, and there it is. A video of my bedroom, a video of me without clothing, tied up and sobbing on my bed. A video from last night, from inside my house. A video I was not aware was being shot.
By the time I hand the phone over to Greg, it is no longer available.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Now that my sex life has been broadcast to the World Wide Web, I keep a low profile. Not only am I humiliated, but I hadn’t realized I was acting out my greatest fears until I saw them on screen. Gr
eg would never hurt me. At least not on purpose. When you’ve been in a relationship as long as we have, you find ways to get creative. Although, I guess that’s somewhat a partial truth. This is a dynamic we’ve had from the beginning. There are games and roles you play, things you know work. For us, this is it. It’s never been an issue, not until now, not until other people found their way in, uninvited. Now my phone won’t stop ringing.
Dana calls. Alex calls. A few of my colleagues email. But most people stay quiet, which is almost worse. Time passes in a blur.
Greg located the tiny camera in the air vent in the ceiling in our bedroom. It was inconspicuous, something that, had we not seen the video, we probably wouldn’t have discovered for a long time—if ever. After he checked all the vents in our house, we called the police. They came and collected the evidence. They asked about any workers we’ve had in our home, babysitters, anyone who might have wanted to pull a practical joke. To us, this is not a joke. It’s a blatant invasion of privacy, one that causes my husband to rally.
When we were alone, the officer asked if I thought Greg might have been the one to record the footage. I don’t. There’s no doubt in my mind that my husband’s hands are clean. If anything, the footage has affected him a thousand times more than it has me. He looks like an abuser, a rapist to some, which is why he is taking leave from his own company. At least until after the new year. I assure him it will all blow over, that something else will soon become the talk of our small town and our inner circles. But I know he is right when he says it doesn’t matter. There is no taking back what has already been done.
“Alex tells me I should prepare for a visit from Child Protective Services,” I say to Greg. I’ve just finished getting Blair settled in for bed, and Naomi is already asleep. She hasn’t been feeling well, and she’s slept most of the day. Greg insists it’s on account of all the holiday sweets, but I wonder if she’s picked something up. The flu is going around, although she isn’t running a fever, so Greg might be right. We need to be more strict.
“What?” He places two wine glasses on the coffee table and sinks down onto the couch beside me.
“CPS. I’m told we should expect them.”
“Why are you still talking to Alex?” Greg asks, looking around the living room. “And what are they going to find?”
“With Blair’s injuries—and that video—well, I don’t know.”
He gulps his wine, leaving the glass empty. “I get it. There’s more than enough judgment to go around. But what I want to know is how in the hell someone got into our house? You think it was one of your casserole friends, rummaging around our house? I swear to God, if it was one of them…”
“Calm down. I don’t think they would do something like this. It has to be Mooney. I just feel that. I don’t know why. And I don’t know how he would have gotten in here. Who knows what other surprises might be lurking about?”
Greg’s eyes widen. He stands and walks through the house, searching everything, every nook and cranny, every closet.
“Speaking of Alex,” I say. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Don’t,” he replies. He suddenly halts, surprising me. “I’ve thought it over, and I think it’s better if I don’t know.”
“Are you sure?” My brow knits. “You don’t even know what it is.”
He half-scoffs, half-laughs, and I wonder how much he’s had to drink. “Honesty is revered, Amy. But honesty can also cut like a knife.” He looks up at the air vent and then down at me. “And I’m not sure I can survive another cut. Whatever it is,” he says, shaking his head, “I trust that you’ll fix it. Before it becomes a problem.”
The following day I meet with Alex at the Germond property so he can take another look before submitting an offer. The house is surrounded by huge oaks and a long drive; it almost feels like driving into another world, away from the scrutiny of my own. There’s something peaceful about the property—it offers the kind of serenity money can buy.
When I arrive, I am not surprised to find Alex waiting for me. He leans against his luxury SUV, arms folded against his chest, watching as I get out of the car and walk over to where he is standing. He smiles, but it’s not particularly genuine. “I didn’t come to see the house.”
I cock my head. “I hope you’re joking.”
“What’s funny?”
“I’m paying a sitter,” I lie.
“I needed to see you.”
I was aware of this already, and perhaps a little afraid of it, but he has something I want—business—and also, he is making it clear that he knows I am trading a little bit of my soul for it. “Well, here I am.”
“You don’t have to stay with him, you know.” His gaze moves toward the house. “I could take care of you.”
“I’m sure you could.” I stare at the pavement before looking up at him. “But I love Greg. And we’re happy.”
“You didn’t look too happy in that video.”
I close my eyes and contemplate what to say next. Then I inhale deeply, exhaling in a rush. “Alex, I need to be honest.”
“All right.”
The sun has peeked out from behind the clouds, warming my face. “I came here to sell you a house. And nothing more.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay—” I shake my head. “But I’m not going to try to convince you. It is what it is. I mean…you were always a good friend to me but—”
“Say what you want, Amy. But I saw you there in that booth at the fall festival, and I knew. Funny thing, I hadn’t known you were going to be there. I was looking for Dana. Anyway—when I saw you, I knew it was a sign from heaven. I need a house, sure. And perhaps I used that as an excuse to see you. I won’t lie. But what I need more is a family. And you can provide that. You have everything I want. You are everything I want.” He sighs. “The universe putting you in that booth was a sign. We’re meant to be in each other’s lives.”
“Alex—I only wanted to sell you a house. And—yeah—okay…I admit, maybe a bit of free legal advice, too. I’m sorry if you think I led you on. That was never my intention.”
“Fine.” He brushes me off with a thin smile. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you in person…your guy learned a valuable lesson last night.”
“Mooney?”
He shrugs. His eyes shift. They become remote. Whatever he’s actually come here to tell me, he isn’t going to hand it over easily.
“What kind of lesson?”
“Someone beat the hell out of him with a tire iron. A proper job. Real clean. Professional. You know, a hospital kind of job.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
He shrugs again. “What do you care? He got what was coming to him. Put the fear of God into him, I’m sure. Benny always comes through.”
I’m not sure whether to be relieved or worried. My stomach is in knots. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You’ve said enough.”
I tilt my head toward the porch. “So I take it you don’t want to go inside?”
“No,” he says shortly. He speaks with such finality that it’s obvious there’s something else he wants to say, but is having a hard time getting out. “I just wanted you to know I don’t think he’ll be bothering you for a while.”
“Thank you, Alex.”
“No problem.” He swallows hard and then turns away from the house. “Everyone eventually gets what’s coming to them.”
“I suppose so.”
“What do you know of karma, Amy?”
“Lately it feels like a lot.”
He shakes his head and then glances over his shoulder, giving me the side eye. “You know nothing,” he tells me. “But I have a feeling that will change.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You paid to have a man assaulted. Possibly worse. And you were right. I do know the law. I want you in my life. I want to marry you and have a family with you— the way we always planned. I could love your girls.”
> He gestures toward the house. “I could make you happy. You should really think it over. If you’re smart, I mean, you will.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken.” My eyes narrow. “And I haven’t paid you anything.”
His face breaks out into a grin. “Not yet. But remember? You put it in writing.” He taunts me with air quotes, tips his head and says, “I can pay.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The thought hits me hard and fast. And then they keep coming. What if I am wrong? What if it wasn’t Mooney who placed the camera in my home? What if it was Alex? He’d known I was in the hospital with Blair. He could have done it then. But why? Had he intended on blackmailing me all along?
Swallowing the lump of uncertainty rising in my throat, I feel like I’m going to be sick when I see Greg’s name light up my screen. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “How much longer until you’re home?”
“About twenty minutes. How’s Naomi?”
“Fine. But she’s thrown up twice. Between that and keeping Blair occupied, it feels like I’m running an infirmary.”
“Still no fever?”
“I didn’t check. But she doesn’t feel hot.”
“Maybe it’s a stomach flu.”
“Maybe it’s too many casseroles.”
“I kind of feel the same way.”
“Sick?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. My stomach’s uneasy. Has been all day.”
“Well, I hope not too uneasy, because the sitter is on her way.”
“What? Why?”
“I thought it would be good to get away and talk. And there’s something I want to show you.”
“Does it have to be today? I’m not sure Lucy can handle the both of them.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, followed by a small commotion. God, what now? “Blair is calling me,” he huffs. “I gotta go. And don’t worry—they’ll be fine. We won’t be gone long.”