17
The foray into the woods was a bust. After dinner and a bath, Olivia is tucked into bed.
I’m staring out at the lake feeling no better about where I am in terms of figuring out my opponent’s next move.
I hoped to prompt a reaction with the cruise down memory lane in the convertible. Doesn’t appear to have worked.
This minion found her way into my life three months ago.
That’s a lot of time to have access and yet take no steps aimed directly at me.
The first month I was in the hospital, but for the past seven weeks and change, there have been opportunities, like when I couldn’t make my way to the bathroom under my own steam.
There was no attempt to kill me or to harm me in any way.
I can’t help wondering why no action was taken while I was flat on my back.
Seems to me it would have been the perfect opportunity.
Perhaps her only assignment after the initial infiltration was intelligence gathering, so to speak. Until now, at least. They have haunted me with the necklace, drugged me. But that seems trivial given the likely planned finale. Which brings me back to this: What comes next? And when?
We are away from Phillip and fairly isolated—alone, other than Olivia. What’s the holdup? Where is the person behind Acacia’s actions? Why drag this out?
I want the final confrontation. I want this over.
As if the thought summoned her, Acacia appears at my side. Her attention focuses beyond the window as well. “How long exactly will I be on probation?”
I almost laugh, surprised that it took her so long to muster the nerve to ask. “I haven’t decided yet.” I stare at her until she meets my gaze. “I suppose it really depends on you.”
“Fair enough.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Can we talk about what you expected to find in the woods?”
The query is posed as if she has no clue what’s happening.
What she wants is for me to confess my fears, my suspicions.
That she even asks tells me she is feeling more powerful, more in control because we are alone and isolated.
Of course she does. She’s been caught and she’s still here.
Why wouldn’t she feel untouchable to some degree?
A predator always takes advantage of weakness or hesitation. It’s a basic law of nature.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” she tacks on quickly when I remain silent.
“It’s just . . .” She shrugs. “I honestly don’t know what to think about the past couple of days.
” She waves a hand in the air. “The necklace. Your totally paranoid behavior that first night. Then sleeping all day and freaking out because I called Phillip. It’s all over the top. ”
That makes two of us who aren’t sure how to feel about certain recent events—but not where Acacia is concerned.
My primary worry at the moment is having called Helen three more times with no response.
Frankly that development is the biggest surprise in all this.
One I did not expect—assuming it’s not some sort of miscommunication.
As soon as I was back home from our excursion to town where I could have some privacy, I called Rick.
Since he didn’t answer, I left him a message that went straight to the point.
I would really like to know why he felt the deception about the delivery guy was necessary.
Perhaps this will force a reaction that confirms whether he is friend or foe. Emphasis on the foe, I imagine.
I am well aware of the potential enemies who would wish me harm for the things I know .
. . for the steps I have taken. Rick has always lingered on that list. As does the one who left me to the worst of fates twenty years ago.
Fury twists through me as I see her face .
. . hear her voice. The memory of her is always with me, haunting me. She was my best friend.
But there are others . . . ones who may have discovered my secrets and decided it is time to clear the slate. There are a number of things I can assume, but I cannot be entirely certain of anything.
I hesitate for a moment longer just to try Acacia’s patience, then decide to give her a little something to ponder and see how she reacts. “We’ve talked about the article the Times published.”
I made the mistake of glancing at a few of the online comments.
Most insisted they always knew the story was not the whole truth.
Others called for my arrest. A few left sympathetic platitudes.
None of it was pleasant or compassionate, not really.
People who haven’t experienced that sort of trauma simply have no idea.
Acacia waits for me to go on while I take another moment, building the tension. “I’m certain someone is watching me. The necklace left in my bedside table was a warning. It’s exactly like one I used to have. Back then.”
No need for her to know more than that.
“How would anyone know about the necklace?” she challenges, her gaze narrowed with suspicion.
“When Phillip first hired me, I googled you and read all about the disappearances and the serial killer called the Judge. I wasn’t prying, I just felt I could support you better if I understood what happened back then.
There was never any mention of a necklace. ”
Exactly my point. Not just anyone would know about the necklace. It has to be her, I think. But still, I can’t be sure. There are far too many parts to this puzzle.
To be honest, there was a point today when I asked myself why I don’t just take Olivia and drive back to the city without Acacia. I could leave it to Phillip to fire her. I could go to the police with my suspicions about Eleanor’s death.
No, that last part is definitely not a good option because Acacia and her boyfriend, if in fact the man seen with her at Eleanor’s home was involved, would disappear, and there would never be justice for Eleanor.
The real problem—the only reason Acacia is still with me, in fact—is because there is so much I need to know.
Who set this scheme in motion? Though I am fairly certain, I need confirmation.
What is my enemy’s ultimate goal? The answer to that is probably nothing more than the end of me.
So even in those fleeting moments when I tell myself that it doesn’t matter—the who or the what in all this—I remind myself that, in fact, it does.
I cannot go back to my life until this thing is finished.
I think of my sweet Olivia already asleep in her bed, unaware of this business that could change her life so dramatically.
I must see this through no matter the difficulty and danger.
To do that, there can be no mistakes, no getting distracted going forward.
I will not trust anyone with what we eat or drink.
I will watch my one known opponent closely, consistently.
“That’s the trouble,” I say finally. “Only someone involved with me before the abduction twenty years ago would know about the necklace, which begs the question, who could that possibly be?”
Acacia only listens.
“Eventually, well after my escape, the authorities came to the conclusion that the Judge was either dead or in prison because there have been no victims that match his MO since. I have no idea if this conclusion is correct or not.”
“His identity was unknown, so it’s impossible to be sure,” she agrees. “For that matter, he could be out there, watching us right now.”
“Absolutely, yes.” Having her believe this is a necessary part of my strategy. “I never saw his face. I know where I escaped from, but that was a dead end according to the detectives and agents investigating the case twenty years ago.”
“They found nothing at the place where you were held.” She’s looking at me again with that openly suspicious expression. “I honestly find that difficult to believe.”
“Believe it,” I say, uncaring if she does or not. “It’s as if when he recognized I had escaped, he cleaned up any evidence and disappeared.”
This is mostly true. There was a cleanup detail for certain aspects of the scene, no question.
Which is just another reason I can’t trust Rick.
The cleanup was in all likelihood set in motion by someone involved in the investigation.
The timing and the attention to detail were all too carefully choreographed.
I know this because of the parts that did not make it into the news.
“Maybe you were never meant to be one of his victims,” Acacia counters. “You escaped when no one else did. You didn’t see any other victims, no matter that another girl disappeared on the same day.”
“I have no idea if that scenario was investigated,” I say, pretending not to notice her thinly veiled accusation. “Even a victim rarely hears all the details of an ongoing investigation.”
Acacia shrugs. “It’s possible someone in the original investigation who saw you as nothing more than a spoiled rich girl leaked the story to the Times. Maybe that person thinks it’s time you paid for what you did.”
Anger sparks, but before I can set her straight, she goes on, “Doesn’t matter who leaked those lies. I know you’re telling the truth.” She looks at me then, a lingering, assessing stare. “I’ve seen the scars on your back from where the kidnapper tortured you.”
The bastard did love that whip. “Among other things,” I confirm. Things I will never talk about with anyone.
“That had to be really awful.”
I nod. I should appreciate the sentiment, but I recognize the words are just more platitudes. The expected response. Her way of smoothing over the way she antagonized me moments before.
“So what is the big secret this stalker is trying to suggest you’re keeping? And why leave a necklace for you to find? Why not just make his move? This whole gaslighting game feels a little inauthentic.”
Interesting question coming from her.