22
I watch Helen hurry through the rain to her SUV. I close the door and turn to Acacia, who is hovering behind me. She looks uneasy, uncertain, maybe even a little scared. Good. My little distraction has worked exactly as I hoped.
“What should we do?” She stares at me for a moment. “Aren’t you going to lock the door?”
Oh yes, definitely unsettled.
I lock the door and set the alarm. “What do you mean ‘what should we do?’” I know exactly what she means, but I want her to spell it out. There’s something cathartic about watching the other side squirm. Turnabout is fair play, after all.
“She said some guy came to her house with a message for you. Should we be worried?”
So she was listening. I knew she would.
“Yes,” I say. We would be stupid not to be concerned after receiving such a cryptic message from a stranger. Particularly after the Times article and Phillip’s odd behavior—according to Acacia—and we can’t leave Rick out of the lineup of suspicious activity.
We should be terrified. I almost smile but, of course, that would not be the proper response. Instead, I hug my arms around myself as if I’m suddenly chilled and manufacture my own anxious expression.
She moves closer now, her face a study in concern. “Do we have a weapon we can use to protect ourselves?”
I shrug, no matter that the move aches through my right shoulder. “You know Phillip hates guns.”
She nods, distracted by whatever thoughts are racing through her head. “We should do something.” Her gaze meets mine. “We can’t just sit around waiting for some random psycho to show up at the door. Can we call Rick?”
“What we should do,” I argue, moving away from the door, “is make sure all the windows and doors are locked. We can close all the shutters when it gets dark, so no one can see inside.”
Acacia gestures to the water around my feet. I completely forgot about it.
“I’ll clean this up first,” she offers.
“Thanks. I’ll check upstairs. You can do the same down here.”
“Right.” She nods, clearly distracted. “Good idea.”
I head upstairs. I don’t have to look back to know she’ll be texting whoever she’s working with for further instructions.
This turn of events is one they will not have anticipated.
Chalk another one up for me. Since I hired the stranger to stand outside my home in Manhattan and watch us, and then to show up at Helen’s with a menacing warning, I’ve hopefully shaken them up a little.
Let them sweat. Poor Acacia. She jumped at the opportunity to suggest the trouble could be coming from Casey Duval, and now she’s wondering if he’s here and an actual complication.
I smile. Never underestimate a woman who has already been to hell and back.
The windows in my room and Olivia’s are locked.
I didn’t doubt this, but I checked nonetheless.
I go ahead and close the shutters on this level.
At the top of the stairs, I listen for Acacia.
Sounds like she’s doing something in the kitchen.
Good. I head to the room she uses. This is the perfect chance to have a look.
Somehow I doubt she will have left anything for me to find; she seems smarter than that. But a quick check can’t hurt.
When I enter the room, my mind instantly goes back to when I was seventeen and how badly I wanted to escape my life.
Maybe that’s part of the reason we never redecorated this room.
I needed to remind myself of just how badly I screwed up back then.
How trust made me a fool . . . how friendship cost me far more than a seventeen-year-old girl could possibly have imagined.
Kicking the past aside, I check the windows first. Locked.
Then I go to the closet. A few of Acacia’s shirts hang there.
A pair of boots on the floor draws my attention.
I examine the inside of each and find nothing.
Then I move on to the dresser. The drawers are all empty save two.
Slinky lingerie and a couple of pairs of jeans are stored there.
A quick check of the pockets confirms they’re empty.
A look in the bedside table drawers reveals only her cosmetics bag and a few toiletries. Nothing under the pillows or the bed.
I take one last lingering look around before walking out.
Downstairs, Acacia has prepared lunch. Chicken-salad sandwiches and lemon water. I slide onto a stool at the island, and she places a plate in front of me.
“Thanks.” I stare at my favorite multigrain bread from Balducci’s and the delicious chicken salad they make like no one else . . . but I cannot eat. Acacia could have put anything in the food. If I had known she was making lunch, I could have told her I preferred to make my own.
“Everything okay upstairs?”
I meet her expectant gaze. “All good. Down here?”
She settles on a stool opposite me. “Yes.” She glances out the window. “The rain is slowing down a little.”
“Good.” Then I stare at my plate once more.
But I can’t eat. To be honest, this isn’t exactly the way I thought an attempt to take me down would go.
Many times I wondered how it would happen when the time came.
I imagined all sorts of scenarios. Unexpectedly being dragged into a dark alley.
A visit from a murderous stranger when I was home alone.
The delivery of some sort of poison that would disable me the instant I touched it.
I waited and waited, but nothing ever happened.
Now it seems the trouble is near, and the waiting is almost over.
There is one surprise that I didn’t quite expect.
Phillip. I still don’t want to believe he’s involved—at least not with this.
Perhaps an affair while I was out of commission.
No doubt Acacia found him very persuasive.
Just ask any of his past conquests. He promises much and, in the end, delivers little because he will never risk abandoning his family.
That sort of thing never looks good. He is the perfect politician.
I am stunned he didn’t jump into the fray of that circus long ago.
Except it’s becoming harder and harder to remain so certain of him.
Acacia definitely fits his preferred type.
Young. Very attractive, with her dark hair and gold eyes.
I study her now, recalling the first time we met, when I was still too weak to get out of bed on my own.
Lovely cheekbones and a slender neck that her hair is just long enough to curl around.
So anxious to please and be helpful. So seemingly oblivious to Phillip.
Except that last part was apparently just for my benefit.
I wonder how her boyfriend likes knowing what she does.
“What?” Acacia puts down the sandwich she has just taken a bite from, then chews as she waits for my response.
“Nothing,” I say with just enough nonchalance to make her eyes narrow. To add insult to injury, I push my plate away.
She glances at my abandoned sandwich, then at me. “Why aren’t you eating? You must be hungry.”
Not really. Why not cut straight to the point? No need to put this off. We’re alone. We’ve reached a certain point—one where I have confirmed all I need to. Let the chips fall where they may. We are both beyond pretending who and what she is. “I heard you on the phone.”
She rearranges her face into a big frown, but the surprise is clear in her eyes. She knows what I mean. “What are you talking about?”
“When you were supposed to be getting the towel for Helen. I heard you in the kitchen whispering to Phillip. Did he put you up to drug me?” Anger and something too much like disappointment swells inside me.
I have no idea why I would have allowed myself to count so fully on him.
“You told me about the necklace; why would you keep this other part from me?”
More surprise sparks, but Acacia conceals it quickly.
“He just wants to ensure you react the way you’re supposed to.
” She picks at her sandwich. “You know, to finding the necklace. He wants you hysterical and paranoid and sleeping too much.” She shrugs.
“To show you’re unbalanced and in need of long-term care in some facility he’s talked about. ”
“The man is never anything less than thorough.” I can’t quite curb the anger that ignites, so I shove the plate farther across the counter in her direction. Hope it goes over the edge so she has to clean it up. “You have no qualms about this?”
She picks up her napkin and wipes her hands. “I knew it wasn’t right, but I was afraid not to do as he told me. I need this job.”
How convenient it would be to believe her sad story, but I don’t. “What did you give me?”
“After the way you were acting all paranoid the other night,” she explains, her face a study in regret, “I added some Valium to help you relax. You had a prescription for it, but you hadn’t taken it. He told me to use that if you got too weird.”
Well, that explains my eighteen or so hours of sleep. “If I had wanted to take the Valium, I would have.”
“I’m sorry,” she whines. “I just followed his orders.”
“Did you tell him everything I’ve shared with you?”
I haven’t shared anything actually important, but I told her more than I should have. Of course, it would be her word against mine if it came down to it.
“I only told him that you were really stressed and getting all paranoid about the necklace,” she says, anger reddening her face. “Then I just did what he instructed me to do.”
“Are you having an affair with him?”
“Ew! Are you kidding?”
It’s possible the horrified face she makes is only for my benefit, but she sounds genuinely sickened by the concept.
“He’s rich,” I argue. “Handsome, in an older-man way. Plenty of others around your age have taken the chance.”
“First . . .” She sips her lemon water. “I am not into older men. Second, I would never do that. I have scruples.”
“But you would drug me for him. Plant things in my room,” I counter. “That sounds rather unscrupulous.”
Acacia heaves a big breath. “I’m sorry. He told me you’re losing it and that he’s worried about Olivia.” She rolls her eyes. “And, obviously, the campaign.”
I see red. “Those are straight-up lies.” I am so far beyond merely pissed off, my entire body vibrates with rage. “And you know it.”
She pokes at her food some more, not meeting my eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do. He’s the one who hired me, and like I said, I need this job.”
I am so sick of all the lies . . . the secrets . . . the betrayals. If my past has caught up to me—in whatever form—why not come on in. Get it done. There is certainly nothing standing in the way. For fuck’s sake, what’s the damned holdup?
“Phillip is wrong,” she says softly, contritely. “I’m sorry I listened to him.”
Excellent move. Almost believable. As if I could be persuaded now. But you see, I never go back for more once I’ve been bitten. I learned that lesson the hard way.
“Good for you,” I say. Let her think what she will.
Another of those endless moments passes with her trying to see inside my head.
“You know, I’ve watched and listened to you for two months now—since you came home from the hospital.
You don’t seem like the type who purposely hurts someone.
Why do you torture yourself about what happened twenty fucking years ago?
Who cares what people think or say about the article?
You couldn’t have done anything so bad.”
Now she’s working a little reverse psychology.
She has been watching me, and she wants to hear more about what happened.
Maybe she doesn’t fully trust her real boss.
Knowing what I know, I wouldn’t either. Then again, this could be some other angle—like the idea that there’s a bigger payout to be had.
I can’t imagine any reason for her to have a particular allegiance to the other side.
Perhaps this is her way of testing the waters regarding more money. Interesting possibility.
“I appreciate the psychoanalysis,” I say with a blatant serving of bitterness, “but I’m afraid it’s far too late for a mere apology to help anyone.” Forgiveness is overrated.
I will either finish this, or it will finish me.
A new frown tightens the youthful features of her face. “You’re shivering. I should get your sweater.”
She’s up and off before I can argue. I hadn’t realized I felt cold until she said as much, but I am freezing.
On cue, the pain in my head invades my awareness.
I close my eyes and fight against it. There are times when the head injury reminds me that the brain is a bewildering organ.
It might heal, but it doesn’t forget and never really forgives.
I get up and walk to the window and stare out at the lake as I have done hundreds of times.
All my life until Olivia, I felt alone. No matter who was around me; not even Phillip changed that deeply engrained knowing that no one truly understood me or cared about me.
Not the way I needed them to. How unsettling even now that, other than my child, not a single living soul will truly miss me or care that I’m gone when I die.
I suppose Helen might miss me for a bit.
Phillip might even feel some sense of remorse, assuming Acacia’s accusations are nothing more than the lies I suspect they are.
But no one will truly, deeply miss me except my daughter.
I breathe a soft laugh. Perhaps it’s having reached my late thirties and reflecting a little more than I would have even two years ago that has me feeling sorry for myself. How sad to possess so much and yet have no one.
Olivia is my only true tether to happiness . . . to anything, really.
Flashes of memory from the night of my accident spark in my damaged brain. The car spinning . . . the driver swearing . . . my heart in my throat, and then the jarring impact.
I blink away the images. The finale is coming, and they want to ensure I take my secrets to the grave with me. There was never any real doubt. It was only ever about the timing. How could it not happen? After all, what were all those stolen years worth?
I smile again, for I know the answer far too well.
There is no sufficient price for even one day of life. Most who are facing death would say that one more day—one more minute—of life is utterly priceless.
Even during the worst of my suffering, I would rather be breathing than not.
Yet there comes a time when fate must be confronted. This is my time, and I have no right to believe I deserve absolution. I am fully aware of all I’ve done.
But I will not go down without a fight. Who knows, I might just win.
I’ve done it before. Perhaps I can do it again.