24
Westport, Connecticut
By midafternoon I have prepared as well as I can.
I spent a good deal of time in my bedroom pretending to nap.
I heard Acacia stop outside the door repeatedly.
No question, the girl takes her job very seriously.
The problem is her real job is not to assist me but to report my every move to others and then do as she is told for reasons unrelated to my well-being.
I slip into the en suite bath and check my reflection before going downstairs. My root line is showing. I almost laugh. Such trivial things are the least of my concerns just now. Who cares how I look?
Once my enemies close in, all the final layers will fall away. Nothing will conceal me from them. They know at least part of what I have done—possibly not the most damning parts. Just as I know what they have done—to a point, at least.
In the narrow closet next to the tub, I dig through the items stockpiled there until I find the small handgun I purchased nearly a decade ago.
It’s just over five inches long, weighs very little, and is top of the line.
I have practiced with it a few times. I clean and reload it whenever I’m here.
For now, I tuck it into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back.
It will interfere the least with my movements in that position.
I have done this before when I needed to hide the fact that I was armed.
The sweater I wear over my tee conceals it well.
Next I drape the cross necklace I had stored there over my head and drop it beneath my tee, allow it to settle against my chest.
The necklace is something I bought more recently.
A two-inch gold cross that conceals a sharp little blade dangles from the chain.
Nothing that would win a hand-to-hand battle, but certainly the right size for freeing yourself from bondage or inflicting a potentially lethal wound to the throat during an up-close encounter.
No one will see it coming. This makes me smile in spite of all else.
I tighten the laces on my sneakers and emerge from my bedroom.
“I was just coming to check on you,” Acacia announces as she ascends the final step of the stairs. Her smile is wide and so fake, I want to vomit.
“I needed some time to myself,” I admit. “The house feels too empty without Olivia.”
“It does,” she agrees. “Could you eat some soup or a sandwich?”
I pause at the top of the stairs and gesture for her to go first. Ending up in a heap at the bottom is not how I want to go out. Poor Eleanor. The idea of that very thing happening to her spears me. “I’ll poke around in the kitchen and see.”
Whatever I eat or drink, I will prepare myself.
“Phillip called,” she announces as we enter the kitchen.
I’m guessing she called him. Rather than say as much, I open the fridge and have a look while waiting for her to go on.
“He just wanted to see if you were okay after the excitement with Helen.”
I grab a can of soda and close the door. “You told him about Helen’s visit?”
She shrugs. “I couldn’t exactly not tell him with the two of you talking so loudly when I called him.”
Oh yeah, how could I forget that part? I want to shake the idiot. “What did you tell him?”
“That Helen was upset because you were distressed about the guy working on the security system.”
I relax marginally. So she didn’t mention the other guy—the one I hired to deliver the disturbing message. Doesn’t actually make sense if he’s the one behind all this. Why leave out pertinent info? Because she’s lying through her teeth. “What did he say?”
“He says he’s going to call you and apologize for not mentioning the service tech. There was some kind of software glitch, and he wanted it fixed before you arrived.” She shrugs. “Something about it not logging properly. He insists he just didn’t want you to worry.”
That may or may not explain the issue, but it sounds logical. “Did you tell him anything else you and I have talked about?” She opens her mouth to answer, and I interrupt. “Think carefully, Acacia. I want the truth.”
“No,” she insists with a firm shake of her head. “I didn’t tell him anything else you’ve told me. I swear.”
Soda in hand, I look through the pantry for a can of soup that sounds appealing. A low bar since right now nothing appeals to me. I go with a can of chicken noodle soup. Helen always stocks it because Olivia loves it.
“I can warm that up for you,” Acacia reaches for the soup.
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
I empty the can into a bowl and place it into the microwave. While it warms I gather a spoon and napkin. Then I locate some crackers just as the microwave announces the cycle is complete.
“Careful,” Acacia warns, “the bowl will be hot.”
Does she not realize I’ve done this for Olivia a thousand times? I use a pot holder and transport the bowl to the island and finally sit. I’m tired, achy, and frustrated, and my head still hurts, but I’m not telling her.
“If this guy who showed up at Helen’s is the Casey Duval you told me about, why do you think he has waited so long?” Acacia slides onto a stool. “It just doesn’t make a lot of sense. Why is he worried about you now if he wasn’t then?”
So we’re having this conversation again, are we?
“What makes you think it’s Casey?” I’m not surprised she came to this conclusion, it’s the reason I shared all that I did with her as well as the reason I selected the man I did.
Still, I’m curious. I’m guessing she and the one who sent her are desperate to determine who he is.
I imagine her wondering if it could really be Casey.
“Who else would it be?” she throws back at me. “Is there some other guy who knows the untold deets about your past?”
I’m so glad she was listening closely. Not so much about the attitude.
“Well,” I admit, “I guess you have a point. If it’s Casey, then I suppose he decided that back then I had as much to lose as he did and that alone would keep me quiet.”
“That’s still the case,” she argues. “You would be in a bad position if the truth came out.”
If she only knew. “Yes, I still have much to lose, but I almost died in that car accident. Sometimes when people are facing death, they feel the need to clear their conscience. Maybe he worries I’m thinking of doing that. Especially considering the memoir I mentioned in that podcast.”
She stares at me for a long moment before asking, “Do you feel that need? To clear your conscience?”
Sharing those details about him and the betrayal appears to have struck a chord. Whatever she expects I’ll say, I say the truth. “No.”
Another lingering stare, then, “And her—your friend Wendy—do you believe she is out there and wants revenge for how you walked away after catching her with Casey that day?”
We’ve been over this as well, but she wants more.
I can’t give her more, not yet, anyway. Still, I think of that day, and, really, I do wish I could go back and do things differently.
But there are no true do-overs when it comes to such profound, life-changing decisions.
You might say or do some little something to hurt a friend and be able to go back and apologize in hopes of gaining a fresh start.
But when you take something so adored or leave them at the devil’s door and walk away, you can’t fix that kind of choice.
There are no do-overs for that level of betrayal—deserved or not.
Looking at Acacia and how she is obviously on the edge of her seat to hear my answer, I want to ask doesn’t she know already?
Hasn’t the one other person who knows all my secrets—well, many of them at least—the one who is actually paying her to be here told her this story already?
Perhaps it’s better if I simply allow the situation to evolve naturally.
“Maybe revenge is the goal. I can’t be sure.” I practically inhale the soup. I had no idea how hungry I was. Finally, I add, “The truth is, I have no idea if she’s alive or dead.”
“You’re right.” Acacia selects one of the crackers and nibbles a crispy edge. “She could be dead. Which is sort of like you killed her.”
Her words surprise me since I expected her to know plenty about what happened.
Wouldn’t she need to be aware of certain things to do what she’s here to do?
Maybe not. Or maybe the story she was given isn’t matching up to mine, and she’s feeling confused.
In any event, it’s difficult to measure exactly what she’s been told and the degree of truth involved.
As for her accusation, I suppose it’s true—figuratively speaking.
“I guess you could say that.”
She appears pleased that I’ve given her that one.
“Getting back to this Casey guy, you think he’s worried you’re feeling the need to get your bad deeds off your chest so there’s a better chance you won’t go to hell.”
I lay my spoon down and consider her a moment. “You’re assuming I believe in hell.”
“Either way, you get what I’m saying,” she urges before devouring the last of the cracker. A crumb sticks to her lower lip.
I lick my lips and say what she obviously wants to hear. “I have no idea what he thinks. But if you are suggesting I should feel some measure of regret, the answer is yes. I do regret that what happened, happened. But I can’t undo it, and I’ve paid a price for that decision.”
“What price?” Her faces takes on an aha expression. “You mean the mere week you spent in captivity?”
More of that sarcasm I’ve come to see is her preferred attitude. If she only knew the rest of the story. “Yes.”
“Did she cause that to happen to you?” Acacia pushes.
Her continued grilling is growing tedious. “I think we’ve discussed this long enough.” I force myself to finish off the soup.
“What about Casey? You said you loved him. But did you really? I mean, seriously love him.”
“I was enthralled by him as young girls often are.”
“But you can’t say you loved him,” she counters.
I say what I know to be true in an effort to close down this avenue of discussion. “Yes. No question. But it was young, inexperienced, foolish love.”
“Not like what you feel for Phillip?”
Now she is just trying to piss me off. “Nothing like that, no.” Actually at this point I have no idea what I feel for Phillip.
“Would you want to kill Casey if you have the chance?”
Now there’s a telling question. I start to say I have never wanted to kill anyone, but that’s not entirely true. I stare at her for a long moment before deciding to, again, say what I truly feel. “I would kill him as many times as it takes to ensure he stays dead.”
“I guess he deserves that.” Acacia reaches for my bowl and spoon.
I watch her carry the dishware to the sink. She seems different now. Maybe it’s because some of the subterfuge is over. Or perhaps because it has just begun. Whatever the case, she has no idea the depth of evil she’s talking about.
Acacia settles on her stool once more when I remain at the island. “What about Wendy? Do you want to kill her too? I mean, if she’s the one who started this, and it’s necessary?”
“I expect whatever she has been through is payment enough for what she did. You might go so far as to say we’re even. She should just let it go, and maybe we’ll both survive.”
Acacia’s face tells me she does not like the answer. She almost appears angry at my words. “That’s an interesting way to look at what happened to her.”
Like I said, the girl has no idea. Really, not a fucking clue. She has only one carefully curated side of the story. And it’s not mine.
“I suppose it is, but I have my reasons.” I stand. “I think I’ll call Olivia and see how she’s doing.” Then I’m going to call Helen and make sure she’s okay. She shouldn’t have had to be a part of this, but there was no one I trusted more to receive that message.
Acacia takes my soda can, feels that it’s not empty, and finishes it off, all the while staring at me.
Whatever else she thinks or has to say, I’m not listening.
I have much more pressing concerns just now. I want so badly to take Olivia and just disappear and never look back.
But I fully understand there is no way to escape what’s coming.
The events that have led to this moment can no longer be ignored or outrun.