Chapter Twenty-Three
On the evening of the twenty-second, Gideon installed the last two bookcases with some help from Reg.
“I gotta say.” Reg took a long, slow scan of the room, the deep leather chairs, the cheerful fire, the dreamscape of the valley over it. All framed with those streamlined cases filled with books and trinkets.
“This room’s amazing.”
Arden stood, hands clasped under her chin. “My favorite of all the rooms in the universe of rooms. Exactly what I wanted, what I saw in my head.”
“Your head sees very cool stuff.”
“Right now it’s seeing hot chocolate with marshmallows. How about it?”
“I’d be all over that, but I’ve got to get on. We’re taking Della’s grandparents out to dinner. Nice work, Gid.”
“They turned out.”
“They really did.” Arden smiled at him. “It just needs that rolling ladder to make it all perfect.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Building a library ladder? The man likes a challenge. Anyway, the next few days are going to be crazy, so Merry Christmas.”
Arden sent him off with cookies from her final test batch.
“Do you want that hot chocolate?”
“I’m going for a beer.”
“Well, that’ll work with the chili. It’s the first time I’ve made chili. It’s not bad. Maybe missing something, but it’s not bad for a first attempt.”
He went into the kitchen with her, sampled from the pot on the stove.
“Needs more heat.”
He opened a cabinet, studied his choices. She watched as he added Tabasco, red pepper, black pepper, paprika. He got a beer from the fridge, dumped half into it.
“I never thought of beer in there.”
He stirred it a minute, then tested it again.
“Okay. Try it out.”
When she did, it kicked, but in the way chili should.
“Yeah, that’s hitting the mark. Obviously not your first pot of chili.”
While she fed the dog, Gideon set down what was left of his beer, and though she hadn’t asked, poured her a generous glass of red.
“Why don’t we sit down a minute?”
Arden looked at his face. “Uh-oh.”
“It’s better you know than not. We dug up another woman Dubecki assaulted.”
“How bad?”
“She’s fine. She wouldn’t talk to me. She said it was all a mistake. She lives in Baltimore now, married, works in sales. I tracked down the responding officer and got the story.”
She took a sip of wine. “Tell me.”
“About eight years ago she lived in Cleveland, and she and Dubecki dated. At that time, they both worked for his stepfather’s company. From her initial statement, and other witness statements at the time, he’d gotten too possessive, pushy.”
“Physically?”
“Not according to her statement, at that time. He tracked her through her phone without her permission, demanded to know where she was twenty-four seven, started pressuring her to quit her job. She would move in with him, take care of the apartment he had, and he’d take care of her.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“She finally had enough, broke it off.
“He didn’t accept that, harassed her at work, at home.
One night, he got into the house she rented, waited for her.
He went at her when she came in, shoving her, slapping her.
But she hadn’t come home alone. Her sister was with her.
She’d gotten a call just as they’d pulled up, so was still outside finishing that up.
She walked in as Dubecki knocked the woman to the floor. ”
“He ran off.”
“That’s right. They called the cops, and in less than twenty-four, she recanted her statement, claimed it was a misunderstanding, and she’d just been angry.
“The cops knew it was bullshit, but she wouldn’t budge.
A few days later, she moved to Baltimore—where her sister and more of her family lives—with a job, a promotion, in another company where the owner happens to be a college friend of Dubecki’s mother.
She buys a new car, puts a down payment on a house. ”
“They paid her off.”
“You’d have to look at the mother for that, but yeah. With her recanting, the sister sticking with her on it, charges dropped.” He paused a moment. “She’s a redhead. Her, the one from college, you. Two, maybe a coincidence. Three’s a pattern, Arden.”
“It’s my hair?” Appalled, she lifted her hands to it. “It’s really my goddamn hair?”
“No, it’s him, and whatever twisted thing he has for redheads.”
She had to get up, circle the kitchen as she searched for calm. “Three.”
“That we know of.”
“That we know of. And he’s escalated one by one. It’s, what, ten, eleven years since the woman in college. Eight years ago with the woman in Cleveland. Nearly five with me. He’s been locked up since. But he’s out now. He would’ve killed me, Gideon, I know it.”
Even if he hadn’t seen the recording, he knew it. “I believe you.”
“He’ll kill the next one. It may be a year, two years, three, but—”
“No, it won’t. It won’t take him that long. It’s all pent up, Legs. Those years inside where he couldn’t be what he wanted to be, do what he wanted to do.”
She knew he was right, and it made her sick inside.
“There’s a woman out there, living her life, and he’ll fix on her, target her because she’s the right age, in the right place, because of the color of her hair.”
“The Columbus LEOs are doing the best they can.”
“I’m not blaming them. I honestly don’t know who to blame.”
“Plenty of blame to spread around. He’s been given too many chances. And the system that should have stopped him failed. Sometimes it does. He’s a sick, spoiled psychopath who belongs in prison.
“He’ll cross a line, Arden. He’ll cross one his mother and her money won’t be able to erase for him. Until he does, we’ll watch him. The pattern is he moves on. He doesn’t get what he wants from the woman he targets, he pays a price—and with you, a big one, finally. Then he moves on.”
“You’re telling me that following pattern, he won’t look for me.”
He wanted to. He wished he could.
“I can’t tell you that. I’m only telling you it’s more likely he moves on to someone else. But—”
“I’m the one who he’d see as responsible for making him pay a price, when, as far as we know, he never really paid one before me.”
“We’ll know if he leaves the area.”
“Barely anyone knows where I am. I needed that boundary.”
She took a breath, sat again. “It’s better to know. But in my head, Gideon, I see a woman, not her face, I can’t see her face. Just her hair. She’s getting dressed for work, she’s doing some shopping, or on a date, maybe out with some girlfriends.
“And he’s watching her. I may be safe here, but she’s not.”
She reached for his hand. “And if he hurts her, or worse, I’m not sure I know how to deal it.”
“Tell the story.”
“What?”
“Tell the story, your story, what you know of his, theirs. Write it down. It’s what you do.”
“It’s…”
“Think about it. You’re going to be busy for a few days, so just think about it.”
“I could … Yes, I can think about it. I wanted to put it—him—away, but it doesn’t stay away. So I can think about controlling it all that way.”
“Good. I’m hungry. Let’s have some chili, because you’re going to want to fill up those last bookcases.”
She found her smile. “I really am.”
“Then I’m going to want sex.”
This time she laughed. “I believe I can agree to that.”
Two days before Christmas, after a long flight from London, Wyatt Lester sat in the back of the limo, heading home. His trip had been complex, demanding, and exhausting, but ultimately successful. He looked forward, more than he could say, to being home, to sleeping in his own bed. With his wife.
He tried, again, to reach Theresa.
He didn’t begrudge Theresa her few days of quiet—and worked on not begrudging Dustin benefitting from the same.
But he’d expected her phone to be on by now, for her to be home when he arrived. The best he managed was another voicemail, where he carefully schooled his voice to block the annoyance.
He didn’t want any friction between them as part of his homecoming.
“Hello, sweetheart. We’re finally back in the same time zone, the same state, the same city.
I’m leaving the airport now, and should be home in thirty or forty minutes.
I’ve missed you! I hope you enjoyed your quiet time, but I want to hear your voice, see your face.
If you get this before I get home, call me.
Don’t text, call so I can hear your voice. See you soon, my love.”
He didn’t mention her son, just couldn’t go that far. He understood her need there, and he’d supported her. Still, he’d made it clear this was the last time. He meant it, and knew she understood that. They’d talked it through.
She believed Dustin had conquered his demons. Wyatt had his doubts—serious and difficult doubts—but he loved his wife enough to take this last and final step.
He’d share his Christmas with her son, even share his homecoming. But in the New Year, the man—and he was a grown man, not a child—was on his own, back in Columbus. He’d need to get a job and start being productive.
He won’t, Lester thought. He’d fail, make excuses, blame anyone else, but Theresa knew the days of bailing him out of trouble were done.
And if he hurt another woman?
“Jesus.” Closing his eyes, Wyatt rubbed a hand on the headache his wife’s son routinely caused.
Who would be to blame? Dustin, absolutely, but he and Theresa shared some of that blame. Paul, his father, no question some of the blame fell at his neglectful, mean-spirited feet.
Put it aside, he ordered himself. He’d do his best to give his wife the Christmas she so much wanted. One where they, at least, held the illusion of a family.
Dustin had lost his father, and that dealt a hard blow to anyone. So he could hold that illusion for a few days.
And after the first of the year, Dustin would go back to Columbus, find work, find his feet at last. Or he wouldn’t.
Either way Wyatt Lester would take his wife to Nevis for two blissful weeks.
They needed it, he thought. Needed time to be a couple.
When he finally arrived home, the driver carried his luggage in where one of the house staff took it up to unpack.