by T. K. Leigh
“Shave?”
“You know what I like, Julia. Let’s just say you left a bit to be desired on New Year’s.” He winks, then spins around before I can ask how he knows I haven’t taken the time to groom myself, considering it’s been ages since we’ve been intimate.
Heat washes over me, bile rising in my throat. I push it down, though, coming up with every excuse about how he’d know that. He probably just noticed me getting dressed or something.
Ignoring the voice screaming at me that’s not the case, I continue through the house, stopping by the kitchen to see Imogene briefly before heading out to the guest house.
The second I close the door behind me, I exhale my held breath, reveling in the brief moment of peace. I’d love nothing more than to crawl into bed and forget about everything for a minute. But Nick expects me to be fresh and well-groomed. So that’s what I need to give him.
I drop my bag and slide off my flats, then pad into the bathroom. I’m about to turn on the bath, then stop, remembering I haven’t unpacked my bath salts yet. Straightening, I walk toward the far wall of the bedroom where several of the boxes I’d brought from Charleston still sit.
Nick had put together quite the extensive list of items he wanted me to bring, claiming they’d offer him comfort during his recovery. I wasn’t about to argue. It was simply another one of his tests. So I packed everything he asked for, regardless of how absurd. Like the dozen or so small, wooden boxes that held the ashes of his childhood pets. Or the myriad of journals containing years of research on dozens of characters in Greek mythology. If bringing them made my life easier, I was only too happy to do it.
Moving the boxes around, one topples onto the floor, causing some of the contents to spill out.
“Shit,” I mutter, scrambling when I spy a wooden box holding one of his dog’s ashes crack open, the lock breaking. I hurry to re-secure the latch, praying Nick never notices, but stop, seeing a delicate chain sticking out.
I pick up the box, noting it’s remarkably light for supposedly containing a dog’s ashes. Maybe it was a small dog.
I run my fingers over the gold plaque on the top, Hera etched in it. According to Nick, it was his first rescue. I found it endearing he felt so attached to each of the animals he saved and kept their remains with him. I’ve often walked into his office, where he displays them prominently, listening to him talk to them, as if they were still alive.
He can’t be that bad of a guy, can he? He’s an animal lover. It takes a special type of person to rescue dogs.
At least that’s what I try to tell myself as a nagging voice questions whether these boxes hold ashes at all. And it’s that nagging voice that has me cracking the lid of the box instead of returning it to its place.
When my gaze falls on the contents, my grip loosens. The box clatters to the floor, trinkets I recognize spilling out around me. My skin heats, heart hammering in my chest, hundreds of questions swirling in my brain.
A glimmer catches my attention and I lower myself to the floor, wrapping my fingers around a gold locket I didn’t think I’d ever see again. One I couldn’t find when my foster mom helped me pack up my things before coming to live with the Bradfords.
How did Nick get it?
I want to believe he tracked it down because he’d heard me talk about how it was the only piece of my birth mother I had left. But when I look at the rest of the contents of this box, I know this goes far beyond that. Why else would he have Meemaw and Gampy’s obituary? Or newspaper clippings of stories I was featured in throughout my adolescence?
Maybe he was just interested in my past. Something I rarely speak about. I can somewhat rationalize that.
But I can’t rationalize why he has the perfume I wore during my teenage years. Or the brand of razor I used during college. One that, upon closer examination, had been used. Or why he has my sports bra that went missing from my dorm’s shower. I figured it would eventually turn up somewhere. I didn’t expect it to do so over ten years later.
I glance toward the moving box holding the rest of what I thought were ashes, each of them named for another character from Greek mythology. I never paid much attention to them before. Now, my mind is reeling.
I grab a different container, this one with Europa etched in the gold plate on top. I yank on the lock, but it won’t budge. Jumping to my feet, I glance out the window to make sure no one’s walking down the path toward the guest house, then rush into the kitchen. Meat tenderizer in my hand, I return to the box and smash off the lock, praying all I’ll find are ashes.
But I don’t, this one containing personal items belonging to another woman. Another necklace. More perfume. Chapstick.
I continue ripping through the boxes, becoming increasingly nauseated with everything I discover. All these things belonged to someone, but who? Who’s Europa? Who’s Persephone? Who’s Callisto? Who’s Danae? Or Semele? Or Io? Or Philomela?
When I come to the final box, my breath hitches, dread settling in the pit of my stomach.
I stare at the gold plaque with Medusa etched in it. I almost don’t want to open it. Don’t want confirmation of what I’ve known all along. What Nick convinced me was a lie.
Bringing the meat tenderizer up to the lock, I smash it off and open the box.
I’m not sure what I expected to find. Probably just more stolen jewelry or pens, as in the previous boxes.
But this one is different, only containing a single item.
A lock of hair.
A lock of a dark ringlet I recognize.
I sit back on my heels, squinting, wondering what this means, my eyes glossing over all the names etched on each dismantled box. That’s when it hits me why these names in particular stick out in my mind. Because each one matches that of the multitude of journals Nick had me pack up.
Journals I thought simply contained research he’d conducted on various characters in Greek mythology.
Journals I fear contain something else.
Scrambling to open the remainder of the moving boxes, I find the one I’m looking for, grabbing the journal with “Hera: Volume One” printed on the binding. Without hesitation, I open to the first page, my heart caught in my throat as I read what sounds like scientific observations. But between the lines, it’s there. My husband’s true nature.
September 20th
Subject presents with a classic vulnerability she masks with an outgoing and vibrant personality. She’s friends with everyone. Not because she genuinely likes them, but because of her desperate need to be accepted by everyone. To be loved.
Based on my research, I imagine it has to do with her childhood. Born to a drug addict. No known father. Sent to foster care at the age of four, where I’d argue she had a shot at a decent life. Taken from the loving care of her foster parents when adopted by a couple who didn’t seem interested in her. At least her adoptive mother didn’t. Her adoptive father did show interest, but his true passion was his work. Subject constantly strove to do everything to make her mother happy, but nothing was ever good enough.
Subject now often struggles to voice her own needs and wants for fear her social circle will shun her. She’s easily manipulated.
Thus can be easily groomed.
My hands shake as I frantically flip through the pages, every word I read making me even sicker.
I’d met Nick my freshman year of college when he was a graduate student teaching assistant in my English class. After the semester was over, we remained somewhat friendly, but he was never in my inner circle. He was always…different. Smart and charming, but different. From the beginning of our friendship, I felt like I could tell him anything about me and he wouldn’t judge.
Now I see why he always seemed so interested in me. Always seemed to know what to say to get me to talk about things I preferred to keep to myself. He was researching me. But for what?
I wrack my brain for a reason, a memory from my sophomore year rushing back. Of going to a party after yet another fight with Lydi
a about how I’m a failure and can’t do anything right. Of getting roped into a juvenile game of “Suck, Suck, Blow” I had no interest in but hated disappointing people. Of Maddox Finn purposefully dropping the card when he turned to me, covering my lips with his and shoving his tongue down my throat. Of everyone laughing and cheering as he slid his hands up my shirt, ignoring the fight I put up.
Of watching Nick appear out of nowhere and throwing Maddox to the floor, breaking his nose before ushering me out of the house. Of him driving me back to my dorm.
I’d invited him up, not wanting to be alone. He was hesitant, but eventually agreed. I was still a little buzzed from the multiple beers I’d consumed at the party, so he’d ordered us a pizza and grabbed some sodas from the vending machine. But even the food didn’t stop the dizzy spells. In fact, it made them worse.
I squeeze my eyes shut, doing my best to bring forward memories that have been fuzzy for years now, everything like a dream. But as I draw in a deep breath, surrounded by the perfume I’d worn back then, more and more pieces snap into place.
I remember thinking I must be coming down with something. That I normally didn’t feel so dizzy after four or five beers.
I remember needing to lay down, unable to keep my head up, even though hours had passed since I’d had my last drink.
I remember Nick helping me into bed.
I remember the compassionate smile on his face as he helped me take off my shoes.
I remember how that compassion morphed into something different when he didn’t stop at just my shoes.
I snap my eyes open, the memory hitting me hard. For years, that night had been foggy. I’d tried to piece it together, but I couldn’t remember what happened between getting into my bed and my roommate frantically calling for our resident advisor when she came home the following morning to find me in a pool of my own vomit.
It was the final straw, an incident that eventually led to my dismissal from college. At the time, it was the worst thing to happen to me, knowing I’d never be able to win Lydia’s approval. But when my path crossed Nick’s again several years later, he made me see it for what it truly was. The push I needed to finally forge my own course in life. To stop making decisions based on whether Lydia would finally approve.
Now I can’t help but question if Nick played a bigger role in that night than I’d been led to believe.
Desperate for answers, I flip through the pages, skimming the entries that seem to get increasingly irritated as time goes on, complaining that I’m going on another date with another loser who is leagues below me. It goes on and on, each entry becoming more incoherent and angry.
March 28th
Subject had another fight with her mother and, being the predictable college student she is, has agreed to go out with her roommate to a party at the soccer house. At this point, I’m losing all patience. I’ve done everything right. Shown an interest in her so-called hobbies, although it’s more than obvious she hates meditation and paint night. However, since all her “friends” insist the benefits of both are “amazing” and “transcendental”, she goes along. That’s the sad thing about observing her for what feels like the better part of my life. Subject doesn’t have an identity. She is whoever she feels she needs to be. She would never tell any of her cliché friends she has no interest in meditating. Or going on a trip to India to “center her chi”.
I fear my original plan is no longer enough. She needs an intervention. She needs to be set free. And I need to give her her wings.
The more I read his account of the actual events of that night, the more my stomach churns. I don’t want to believe it, but here it is in black and white. He planned this. He watched me and took copious notes on every aspect of my life, so he knew what to do and say to get me to leave that party. He even made me feel comfortable enough with him to invite him up to my dorm. I thought he was being a good friend when he ordered pizza and grabbed us some sodas. But he had an ulterior motive.
He tricked me.
He drugged me.
He raped me.
Just like Zeus tricked Hera.
According to Nick’s journal entry, he didn’t intend to. He simply wanted to make it look like I’d had too much to drink and broke the school’s strict no-tolerance policy. But when he helped me out of my jeans and shirt, he claimed he couldn’t help himself.
Sick fuck.
I should stop reading, put the journal away, but this is only volume one. Meaning there are more.
More observations.
More assessments.
More…assaults?
Picking up the box, I flip it upside down, dozens of journals identical to this one cascading onto the floor. I shift them all around, finding one titled “Hera: Volume Two”. I flip it open. I expect it to pick up years later at the time our paths crossed again.
It doesn’t.
The first entry is dated only a few weeks later and chronicles his observations of me over the years I had no contact with him. That I thought he was just a part of my past.
But he wasn’t.
He was still watching me. Observing. Calculating. Planning.
I toss the book onto the floor, grabbing “Hera: Volume Three” and turning to the first page, which details our initial meeting again after all those years. One that was planned, not pure coincidence as he’d led me to believe. I keep reading. Keep drowning in a truth that sickens me.
This man preyed on me. Groomed me. Then manipulated me into believing him to be a good person.
Glancing at the journals scattered before me, desperate for even more answers, I spy one labeled “Medusa: Volume One”.
My heartbeat thrashes in my ears as I slowly reach for it, knowing this journal may contain a truth I’ve been too happy to ignore the past several weeks.
When Wes had first confronted me, demanding to know if Nick had ever hurt me, I was caught off guard. There was this part of me that wanted to tell him about the questionable things Nick had done. All the times I woke up sore and couldn’t remember the night before.
How I couldn’t remember getting into bed on New Year’s Eve.
How I couldn’t remember sleeping with him in the few months before I learned I was pregnant.
But the words never came. I’d convinced myself I was imagining things.
Correction… Nick convinced me I was imagining things. Made me think I was losing my mind. That there was something wrong with me and perhaps I should seek psychiatric care.
But there’s never been anything wrong with me.
When Wes told me exactly what Nick had done to Londyn, I’d like to say I didn’t believe it could be true, and that’s why I’ve stayed silent.
But I do believe it to be true.
I have from the beginning.
And now, as I read Nick’s supposed research on Medusa, I have proof that Londyn’s telling the truth, too.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Londyn
My limbs heavy and soul torn, I make my way through Wes’ house, packing a few things to take him. Socks. Briefs. Toothbrush. Even a photo of him and Imogene he keeps on his desk in his home office. Anything to make his hospital room feel as close to home as possible.
He deserves to be surrounded by comfort, affection…love.
I’m just not sure he needs my love anymore.
Since leaving the hospital a few hours ago, I’ve been riding a perpetual rollercoaster of emotions. Up one second, down the next. When I’m down, I convince myself I’m doing the right thing, that I’ll only bring more harm to him by staying. Then a memory will return, pulling me from the depths, convincing me that maybe Hazel’s right. Maybe I am giving up too easily. That, against all odds, Wes and I have survived this long. That we’ll get through whatever the future holds, too.
These are the thoughts that run through my mind on a constant spin cycle as I continue through the house, every room, every photo forcing more and more memories to return, breaking my heart and shredding my soul.
When I think I can no longer take the crushing pain at the thought of not having Wes in my life, I make out what sounds like someone inserting a key into the front door. Stopping in my tracks by the kitchen island, I slowly look toward the foyer as the door opens, then closes, light steps echoing against the high ceiling.
I try to remember what day it is, wondering if perhaps it’s Wes’ housekeeper. But she comes on Fridays. It’s only Wednesday.
Not wanting to take any chances, especially after the last few days, I lunge for the knife block on the counter and whirl around, knife held in front of me, eyes going wide when a familiar silhouette comes to an abrupt stop a few feet away, arms raised, body stiff.
“It’s just me,” Julia says cautiously, gaze unwavering. “I came to talk.”
I take a few calming breaths to settle my nerves, then lower the knife and return it to the block. “I’m not so sure—”
“I believe you.”
I snap my mouth shut, sucking in a breath. “You…believe me?”
“I do. I’ve believed you from the beginning. But I…” She trails off, struggling to find the words.
“You were too scared,” I finish, knowing all too well what she’s going through. I went through it myself.
Even after I found the strength to go to the police all those years ago, I still questioned my sanity. Questioned whether Nick was right. That maybe he hadn’t done anything I didn’t want him to. It was the most confusing and frightening time of my life.
It wasn’t until I attended my first self-defense class and met Hazel that I allowed myself to finally see the truth. But poor Julia hasn’t had that opportunity. She’s been married to him for years. If he was able to control and manipulate my behavior from across the coffee shop, I can only imagine what he’s done to her over the course of their marriage.