Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
ALEXANDER
It’s the killer question, and it must have been eating at her for weeks. It’s interesting she used the word ‘sad’ when the truth is that I come home on Tuesdays feeling as though I’ve been kicked and punched all over, making me want to kick and punch others in return. It’s why I’ve killed more on Tuesday evenings leading into Wednesday mornings than any other night. I crave an outlet for the pain, and wiping one more raping bastard off the planet usually does the trick in calming me down.
There’s no harm in telling her, though. It’s not a secret unlike, oh, I don’t know, having my doctor inject my wife with a tracker and birth control without her knowledge. Or keeping from her that I have no intention of fathering a child with her or anyone else. But sharing what happened to Annabel and my mother might ease some of the pain I carry inside, or partially fill the hole in my chest that, at times, is almost too much to bear.
“I go see a therapist. Her name is Lilian, and she’s a bitch. She’s also extremely good at her job and has helped me more than I can express.”
The sudden widening of Imogen’s eyes shows how shocked she is. Whatever she expected me to say, that wasn’t it.
“A therapist? Why do you need a therapist?”
“Because I lead such a charmed life, right?” I smirk.
“I didn’t mean that. It’s that… you’re so… put together.”
“It’s an illusion. I’m a mess, or rather, I was until I found Lilian. I’d seen many therapists before her but hadn’t gelled with any of them. One was lucky to keep his teeth intact after our first session.”
She grins. “Did you give him your fearsome glower?”
I chuckle. “Yes, and he almost pissed himself.”
“Poor man.”
“Poor nothing. I swear he printed his diploma himself off the internet. Prick.”
“So.” She presses her palm to my face, and I lean into the tenderness of that small touch. “What is Lilian helping you with?”
I rub my lips together. It’s hard to know where to begin. “Did you know Saskia isn’t my only sister? That I had a twin?”
Her head jerks back. “No, I didn’t. Mom and Dad didn’t tell me a whole lot about your family, although I know your mom died when you were young. A teenager, I think.”
A spear pierces my chest. It’s funny how easily the wounds reopen. “Yes. Mum died two weeks after Annabel.”
“Oh, no.” She pinches the skin around her throat. “That’s awful. How did she die?”
“The day of my sister’s funeral, Mum took an overdose and drowned in the bath. ”
A high-pitched gasp escapes her lips. “God, Alexander.” She touches me as if she needs to connect in some way, to comfort me, but doesn’t know how.
“Annabel was raped and strangled in a moldy cellar after we were both kidnapped. She was sixteen. Sixteen fucking years old.”
Her hands fly up and cover her nose and mouth, and tears for a girl she’s never known bloom in her eyes. “Jesus… You were kidnapped?”
“Yes. About two weeks after our sixteenth birthday, men somehow broke through Oakleigh’s security and stole us from our beds. They must have used a hell of a powerful drug because we didn’t know they’d abducted us until we woke in that cellar. I regained consciousness first, and I tell you…” I shake my head, the horror of it crashing down on me, even nineteen years later. “Seeing Annabel lying next to me… I lost it. I instantly knew what had happened. My family has many enemies, and as the oldest son, I was fair game. But something inside me snapped at the sight of my bright, feisty, amazing sister lying on the floor, unconscious. I smashed everything in that filthy space I could get my hands on. Midway through, Annabel came around and managed to calm me down. It occurred to us then that we must be alone. I’d made such a racket, if anyone was above us, they’d have come to investigate. So, we plotted our escape.”
As I tell a story I haven’t voiced in years, I’m transported back to that cellar, the events unfolding before me as if I’m watching a movie.
“The cellar had a small window, high up. A bit tight for me to get through, but Annabel was a lot smaller than I was. I told her that when she got outside, she was to run and not look back. That her safety was all that mattered to me, and I could take care of myself. She argued, but eventually agreed, saying she’d bring help. I hoisted her onto my shoulders, but she lost her balance and fell, badly twisting her ankle. She could barely walk, let alone run for help. I tore off my shirt and strapped her ankle as best I could, then built a rickety platform to reach the window. I smashed the glass, but as I crawled through, a shard cut my shoulder. The pain didn’t register until much later. All I cared about was getting help and rescuing Annabel.”
She already knows how this ends, but she’s enraptured, listening intently and patiently, waiting for when the memories become too much and I need a moment. When that happens, she grazes my arm or caresses my face, little touches that mean so fucking much to me.
“I ran and ran, my lungs fit to burst by the time I saw a faint light in the distance. England may be tiny compared to America, but we still have vast swathes of uninhabited countryside, and our captors had chosen our prison carefully. Dawn had already broken when I finally hammered on the door, begging for help. A woman in her late sixties answered. I must have looked in a terrible state, naked from the waist up, covered in blood, my trousers muddy and torn. She had every right to slam the door in my face, but she didn’t. I blurted out enough of the details that she immediately called the police and then my father.”
I close my eyes for a couple of seconds, bracing myself for memories I mostly keep locked up tight. “But it was too late to save Annabel. I couldn’t give my father or the police enough information about where the kidnappers had taken us. It was dark when I left, and shock had set in, making it difficult to remember. By the time they sent up a helicopter to comb the area and located the house, she was dead. ”
The guilt sitting in my chest is never far away, and it feels heavier than ever as I recall details and images I’ve tried to suppress. If I’d run faster, she’d be alive. If I’d stayed and fought the men who took us, she’d be alive.
I’d left her alone with a busted-up ankle and no way to fend off the men who violated her, then murdered her.
It should have been me. I’m the one who should have died.
“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.”
My wife comes into focus, and as I take in her fierce glare, I realize I said that last part aloud.
“It’s true, though, isn’t it? I left her behind to suffer. Our captors must have demanded to know where I was, and when she couldn’t tell them, they assaulted and murdered her.” I hang my head.
“Hey.” She nudges up my chin, and our eyes collide. “You said yourself she couldn’t walk, let alone run. You had no choice. You did the right thing, which ended with a terrible outcome. If you’d stayed, they might have killed you both.”
“Or I might have been able to save us both.”
“You were sixteen.”
“I was a man. I could have done more. I should have saved her.”
I can tell she doesn’t agree with me, but she says nothing to persuade me otherwise. She recognizes, as do I, that it’s futile.
“Did the police catch the men?”
“My father did.”
“And did he turn them in? I hope they’re serving life in prison.”
My beautiful, innocent wife hasn’t a clue, and why would she? I kiss her lips. When I tell the full extent of who she’s married to, she may ask me for that divorce after all. Perhaps that would be for the best. There’s no future for us, although the selfish part of me wants to keep her a while longer. Sooner or later, though, I’ll have to figure out a way to end this marriage without causing issues for my family. I just don’t know how yet, but there’s little point in fretting about that. In the end, the solution will present itself, and then I’ll act.
“I told you once that you didn’t realize what you’d married into. The truth is, we, together with the other Consortium members, are more powerful than our country’s governments, which, in this particular instance, means we control the police. My father told the chief in charge to close the case, that he would deal with it. So, they did. Without question.”
“And the men who killed your sister?”
“Dead.”
“Your father killed them?”
“No. I killed them.” I study her for signs she’s scared or appalled, but her expression doesn’t change. She’s still looking at me as though I’m a good man—someone worth sticking around for.
“Dad gave me the choice. Annabel was my twin. Killing the men who ripped away her innocence and strangled her was my responsibility. I undertook it with pride.” I take a deep breath. It’s time she knows the full extent of what I’m capable of. “I’ve killed many men since then, and I’ll kill many more.” I look straight into her eyes. “Does that bother you?”
Imogen’s reaction is subtle but unmistakable. Her shoulders tense, and a muscle in her jaw twitches as she processes what I said. “If it did, would you change? ”
“No.” I’ll never stop avenging Annabel. “I kill men who deserve it, those who rape, beat, and violate women and children. Men who don’t deserve the luxury of a prison cell, where parole is too often granted. Men who’ll never change, who can’t be rehabilitated.”
“How do you know that? What if you kill someone who doesn’t deserve it? An innocent man.”
“I have a small team of detectives on the payroll. They’re thorough and proficient. It doesn’t matter how long it takes us to uncover the evidence, but my code, if you like, is that I don’t move on anyone if their guilt isn’t certain.”
“How do you kill them?”
I make a fist of each of my hands. “With these.”
She nods. “That’s why you had cuts and bruises that day. The day I fixed you up.”
“Yes.”
“And you do it for those you lost.” Her voice is so soft I have to strain to pick up what she said.
“Yes. For Annabel, and for my mother—an innocent victim to the violence my sister suffered. She never left a note, but we figured she just couldn’t live with the pain, knowing the terror and agony her daughter went through.”
She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago, but its effects still cause ripples today. Hence my weekly visits to a therapist.” I caress her cheek with the back of my hand. “Now you understand why I track your phone and why you must take it with you when you leave the house, even if you’re still on the estate.”
The phone is only a backup now, and while I’ve told her a lot, I’m not prepared to tell her about the tracker in her arm, nor the contraceptive I had my doctor inject her with. She wouldn’t understand, and I’m unwilling to defend my position. It is what it is, and I am what I am. There’s no changing me or my stance on these issues, therefore an inevitable argument is pointless.
And even when I eventually find a way to make her leave me, I’ll still be able to protect her for the rest of her life. That, to me, is worth it.
“I understand now, and I’m sorry I fought you on it.”
I should feel guilty, but I don’t. I look after what’s mine, and if I have to break a few of society’s rules of normal behavior to do it, I will.
With zero regrets.