45
Norwalk, Connecticut
It’s just after midnight by the time Phillip is out of surgery and in a room. Helen was kind enough to drive Olivia to the city to stay with Catherine until we’re home again.
I lean back in the incredibly uncomfortable chair next to Phillip’s bed and close my eyes.
I am beyond exhausted. And I still have his blood all over my shirt.
I’ve washed my hands. I stare down at my left arm.
The wound where the bullet grazed my upper arm has been treated.
It was nothing, didn’t even require stitches.
The house is a wreck, but it can’t be cleaned up until it’s released from the investigation. For now it’s a crime scene—one where three people died.
The blasts of gunfire echo in my head even now, and my body twitches.
The best we have surmised, Alicia let her boyfriend in through the back with the intention of killing everyone per Julia’s order.
But he either discovered something before he came, or Julia said something that he passed along to Alicia, and everything went to hell.
I suppose we’ll never know what set that particular finale in motion.
I have no idea what any of the players were thinking. But in the end, the one other person from the past who could hurt me or my child is gone.
Phillip groans, and I stand to check that he’s all right. The bullet made a path through his small intestine, which had to be repaired. He is out of the woods now, and a full recovery is expected.
One of the nurses told me the main lobby is full of reporters. The local police are keeping them at bay.
Thank God.
Catherine lives in a very exclusive building on Park Avenue. No reporters are going to get to her or to Olivia.
A soft knock on the door precedes Rick’s entrance.
I work up a smile, though I detest the idea of seeing him again.
I recognize the bag he carries. It’s one of the reusable bags that can be purchased at Balducci’s to avoid killing trees and creating more plastics.
His words reverberate in my throbbing skull. No one ever has to know the rest.
“He seems to be resting well.” Rick looks from Phillip to me. “You, on the other hand, look exhausted.”
I laugh softly. “And bloody.”
He offers the bag to me. “I had one of the officers maintaining the perimeter at your house grab some clothes for you. Why don’t you go to my place and take a shower. Get some sleep. I’ll stay with Phillip tonight.”
There are two NYPD officers standing guard outside the room, so there’s no need, I tell myself, to be concerned. Still, I hesitate, not sure I want to start accepting favors from this man.
“I parked my car in the employee parking area. One of the officers outside the room will take you there to ensure you don’t encounter any reporters,” he adds when I don’t readily respond.
Exhausted and desperate to wash this nightmare away, I relent. “That sounds wonderful. Thanks.” I accept the bag. I look to Phillip once more, then walk toward the door.
“I’ll text you the security code.”
I glance back and smile.
Part of me can’t help wondering if this is an invitation I will regret accepting.
The drive to Rick’s house doesn’t take long. It’s a nice neighborhood with good-size lots and a lovely man-made lake. Though it’s dark, the exterior lights show off the elegant two-story home belonging to the retired agent. It’s much newer than my own.
I insert the key and unlock the door. As soon as I open it, the security system warns I have a set time to enter the code. I check my phone and tap the necessary numbers. The computerized warning quiets instantly.
I lock the door and reset the alarm, then wander through the downstairs.
Large great room. Stylish kitchen. I speculate as to whether he ever actually cooks in it.
The principal suite is downstairs, but I opt to go upstairs.
In part to be nosy but mostly because I do not want to shower where he does.
The first of three bedrooms has a very nice en suite that is fully stocked with toiletries.
I strip off my clothes and climb into the shower.
For a long time I just stand beneath the hot spray of water and allow the horrors of this day to melt away.
Finally I wash my hair, use the luxurious conditioner, and then begin the process of washing my body.
My hands glide over the scars from my surgeries.
I reach as far as I can on my back, washing my skin and tracing the ridges of scars there.
Finally I rinse and dry off. I dress in the fresh clothes.
I don’t bother to blow-dry my hair. I stuff the bloody clothes into the bag and take them down to the kitchen. Rather than stuff them into the small trash can there, I take the side door to the garage. I find the larger trash Toter and toss the bag into it.
Back inside, I check the fridge for a bottle of water or juice.
Maybe a soda. I grab a bottle of water and decide to explore a little more downstairs.
I find a home office and look around. No papers or files on the desk.
Whatever he has stored there is locked in the desk and file cabinet drawers. I checked each one to be sure.
The bookcases are not built-ins, which I find surprising. Who builds a house so well appointed and has store-bought bookshelves?
Back in the great room, I check the bookshelves there. These are all built in. I search from the top (which requires the stepladder from the garage) to the bottom and everything in between. There are no concealed switches or other hardware that suggest one or the other opens to a hidden area.
Then I go back to the front door and start again, searching one square foot of space at a time. It’s in the closet under the stairs that I find what I’m looking for.
The switch that is disguised as one of a series of wooden hooks for hanging umbrellas and caps opens a secret door that slides into a pocket in the wall. I reach beyond the door opening to locate a light switch and flip it to the on position.
A set of sleek steel stairs leads down to a basement.
It’s very large, likely the full size of the house’s footprint.
The floor is concrete with a built-in drain.
The walls are concrete as well. No paint or trim or floor covering.
Not exactly finished out for living space.
More likely for storage or other things not appropriate for dinner conversation.
There is a desk and a row of shelves as well as a file cabinet in one corner. I wonder if this is where he does his secret work.
This time the desk drawers and the file cabinet drawers are not locked.
I start my search. Most of the files I encounter appear to be related to work he is doing with the FBI.
Old case files from his days as an agent.
None are related to the Judge, the serial killer who didn’t really exist, or any victims in the case.
Until I reach the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.
There is a file on each of the seven keepers I ended.
All are marked “closed.” Most of the information relates to their deaths.
But their names—their real names—and addresses are there.
The causes of death are the most telling part.
Three heart attacks. One asphyxia after choking on a steak dinner.
One diving accident. Two slip-and-falls in the shower.
Not a single mention of murder or the savage things I did to a couple of them.
There are photos from before and after the cleanup of the crime scenes.
So, Rick is a part of the cleanup detail. I knew it. I shake my head. Bastard. This is what he meant when he said they’re all gone, taken care of, and no one ever has to know.
Then I find another stack of photos. The images are no doubt taken from Ring doorbell cameras and private security cameras.
There are three or four from each of the seven scenes where keepers were ended.
In each photo, a lone individual has been circled in red.
Sometimes that individual strolls along with the crowd, hurrying home after a night out or, at times, fading into the darkness all alone.
The face is never captured. The hair is different each time.
Sometimes blond, sometimes brunette. Long, short.
Sometimes covered, sometimes not. The bulky clothing prevents the camera from distinguishing the individual’s build or establishing a gait signature.
There is no way to identify the one person singled out in these images from each of the seven scenes.
Except I know it’s me.
I always understood there was the risk a camera somewhere in the neighborhood would catch me, which is why I went to great lengths to disguise myself.
So he really does know everything. Or he has surmised most of it.
Obviously once the first keeper was taken out, he started to watch.
Either that or he recognized I was not the real Julia right from the beginning when I showed up after that long trip abroad, and watched me closely from that point.
Or maybe it was his job to watch over these bastards.
Whatever the case, he did nothing but observe.
The only question is, what did he hope to gain by keeping my secrets? I suppose the answer will reveal itself one day.
I search the rest of his basement and find nothing. No other hidden accesses. No other files relevant to the keepers. Nothing else about Casey Duval or me. No cameras.
Nothing at all.
I ensure all is left as I found it, and I go back upstairs.
Ultimately I find the idea of sleeping in this house unnerving, so I lock up and drive to a hotel near the hospital.
Once I’m in a room under an alias, I lock the door, pull the console in front of it, and then climb into bed.
I consider all that’s happened. The players are dead. There is only Rick and any keepers out there who I don’t know about. The people he protects or observes could be anyone from anywhere. I doubt a single one of them knows me. Actually, I can’t be certain Rick is still involved in that business.
But he knows me. He knows who I really am. The woman I have become. He knows what I have done to all those monsters.
As I concluded before, the only logical reason for him to protect my true identity is because of Phillip and his potential political positioning.
I suppose I’ll know after the election if Rick’s need to keep me safe continues, or if he decides I am a liability that must be eliminated.
Alternatively, I could call him right now and say that I’m feeling lonely. A man with sex on his mind is an easy target.
I sigh and curl into my covers. I think I will save that battle for another time.
Instead, I’ll celebrate this new freedom and enjoy the life I’ve been given.