17 #3
A few seconds later he joins me. “Julia, I’m only trying to help. For the record, I would never lie to you.”
He absolutely would, and he would also fuck me if I let him. I have no idea why Phillip has never noticed the way he looks at me. I certainly have.
Rather than argue, I say, “I appreciate you coming in person and setting this straight. You know how important honesty is to me.” I cannot tolerate a liar . . . unless it’s me, of course, and in that case, I have little choice.
He stares at me for a long moment as if struggling with whether or not to ask or share something. Finally he says, “Is there any chance Phillip would do all this to keep his name in the news?”
Of course he would. Is the man dense? Phillip would do anything to get what he wants.
According to Acacia he would even rid himself of me.
But this is not Phillip. I am relatively certain of that conclusion.
And even if he is involved on some level, he is not alone.
He could not possibly know about the necklace.
I pause. I think of how Acacia called him behind my back.
Maybe it is him, and maybe the two are having an affair and I haven’t noticed.
I have been quite preoccupied. Not to mention I was physically unavailable for more than two months after the accident—plenty of time for the two to bond over shared needs.
A flurry of emotions starts to spin inside me.
Maybe there’s a whole hell of a lot more going on than I realized. The idea certainly would be the perfect distraction to keep me off balance.
Every strategist knows the importance of a good distraction.
“I have no reason to believe Phillip would do such a thing,” I finally say, determined to stick with my initial assessment. “Maybe you should consult into other possibilities.”
He nods. “You’re right. That was a low blow. I consider Phillip a friend.” He shrugs. “But I had to ask.”
It’s the perfect moment to toss out a scenario of my own. All these years I’ve wondered if I could trust Rick—really trust him. Mostly I have and do doubt the idea, but maybe there’s a way to confirm one way or the other. Right now.
“Have you ever considered,” I begin, “that the whole Judge scenario was a hoax . . . a distraction from what was really going on?”
My attention is fixed fully on him. I want to see even the slightest flicker of reaction. The vaguest shift in nuance or posture.
“Why do you ask?” His expression, his tone, his bearing give me nothing.
The man is good. “You were one of his victims,” he points out.
“You were with him for seven days and six nights. Is there something you were afraid to reveal about what happened during that time? Something you need to tell me.”
Oh, touché. A multilayered response without a single reaction that ultimately put the elephant right back on my shoulders.
I shake my head in feigned frustration. “It just doesn’t make sense.
Twelve women disappear over a five-year period and then nothing after me. Is he dead? Did he change his MO?”
When he says nothing, my frustration evolves into disappointment. “Why,” I demand, “was there never a significant lead? A single piece of identifying evidence? Maybe the answer is because he never existed? Maybe he was just a fictional scapegoat for something bigger.”
It’s then, in that moment with me legitimately flustered and him clearly undecided how to respond that I see the slightest flicker of something in his eyes. A knowing of some sort but too fleeting to capture or define. Just enough of a glimmer to send ice sliding through my veins.
He reaches out and squeezes my arm, and I barely resist a shudder. “I wish that were the case. But sadly I think we just failed to catch him. As sad as that reality is, I don’t want you to worry, Julia. I’m here, and I will not allow anything to happen to you again.”
Somehow I wrangle a smile that feels exactly like my lips have turned to plastic. “Thank you for that.” I pull the door against my side. “I appreciate you coming by to straighten things out.”
He gives my arm another squeeze before leaving. I close the door and secure the lock. My forehead lands against the cool, hard surface. A knot forms deep in my gut.
He knows the truth. Worse, he knows I know.
I’m not really surprised . . . just startled. This is why the case was never solved. There was an inside man, and I am now as certain as I can be that it was Rick.
Does that mean his suggestion about Phillip being a part of this current situation is a way of deflecting suspicion? Or does it lend credence to Acacia’s accusation? I just can’t see that. I know Phillip too well.
But what if I’m wrong?
I want to scream with new and intensifying frustration. The truth is this entire mess could have been avoided if I’d only made different choices twenty years ago.
But I didn’t. Instead I did what I did, and at least one—no, two other people know it.
A secret isn’t a secret if anyone else knows it. In that case, it’s an unstable explosive device that could detonate at any second.