Chapter 3
Chapter Three
SHAW
Marilyn Monroe Kingsley. What a fucking name.
When the group arrived, with her mother’s attitude and her agent’s indifference, I told Draven no and to send them all away.
As soon as I noticed Mari quiet down, I pushed past them all and ran around the back of the house just in time to listen to this alluring creature ask the animal who hurt her.
It was at that moment that I knew she would be staying.
But the other two had to go. There’s no way I was putting up with their shit for any amount of time.
And after witnessing how the mother, Helen, spoke to and treated her daughter, I also realized she needed protection from more than just some stalker.
They’ve been gone for an hour now, and Marilyn Monroe Kingsley has been sitting on the ground next to where Mari typically cries into the sky. But she’s silent now. The girl brings the bovine some sense of calm, and maybe it’s because she can feel Marilyn’s pain too.
“Marilyn,” I call down from my seat on the porch. She doesn’t move. “Marilyn Monroe!” I call again, and her eyes pop open. She blinks a few times before her tentative gaze finds mine.
Standing, she wipes her butt off and comes over. “Uhm…” She’s hesitant, and I’m on the edge of my seat, dying to hear her voice. “I don’t want to sound rude.” She bites her bottom lip, and I realize I was correct. Her voice is soft and lyrical. Perfect for a pageant princess.
“But…,” I hedge, hoping she’ll finish her thought.
“Well, could you call me Monroe, please? Only Helen calls me Marilyn, and after years of listening to her scream it, I’ve come to dislike hearing it.”
“I can do that,” I reply. Her eyes smile, but her mouth remains closed, so I cock my head, debating whether to ask more about that, but I can tell there’s more to this girl than what's in the file I’ve been reading for the last hour.
“Monroe, would you like to come inside for something to eat?” Glancing down at my watch, I notice it’s late afternoon, but I haven’t a clue when she ate last.
“I’d rather stay outside if that’s okay?” It grates on me how unsure she is about speaking up.
“That’s fine. I can get Rita to bring something out for you. I have a few phone calls to make, so I’ll be inside if you need me.”
She nods and strides back to my pitiful cow. It’s almost hilarious that they share the same name, are both extremely vulnerable creatures, and have nearly matching light hair. If I didn’t know any better, I'd think Marilyn belonged to Monroe, and they’d both likely enjoy that very much.
Shaking my head, I walk inside to find Rita in the kitchen making both dinner and a plate of cheese and crackers. “She’s a beautiful girl,” she comments, not looking up from her work, but I know she’s still plotting after that look this morning.
“Yeah, she is.” Monroe is precisely the type of girl I shouldn’t be attracted to. She’s city; I’m country. She’s luxurious spa days; I’m dirty mud baths on a good day.
“She’ll stay; I’m sure of it.”
I frown at Rita’s comment but ultimately ignore it as I head to my office, confident that she’ll bring the tray of food out to Monroe.
Dropping the file on my desk, I pore over the photos of Monroe’s apartment again. Flower petals and love notes are scattered all over the floor. Her underwear drawer has been cleaned out, and photoshopped images of her and a headless man are framed and placed nicely on her dresser.
Whoever’s stalking her is in love with her, and given that he broke into her apartment, I’d say he’s dangerous. With the access he has to her life, I’m not entirely convinced that her mother or agent doesn’t have something to do with it. Especially after meeting them today.
I won’t lie; I had expected Monroe to be a complete diva. But as soon as I looked into her eyes, I felt she was different and knew my cold approach towards her would have to shift.
She hasn’t asked for anything since arriving.
She hasn’t complained once about the atmosphere, the chill, the smell of manure from the livestock.
By all accounts, Rita might be right; Monroe could come to mean more to me than anyone ever has.
I’m just not sure if I’m ready to bring someone into my life while still battling my own demons.
The fax machine in the corner powers on, and as the pages spit out, I realize Draven isn’t finished with his in-depth background check on their lives.
I already have a file on Monroe about an inch thick, and what pisses me off is the number of emergency room visits.
One time, it was a broken arm. There’ve been three concussions, stitches from what looks like a belt strap across her back, and so many other issues.
The problem is that each injury occurred in a different state; therefore, no one looked into them. But I am now.
Monroe has been a pageant princess her whole life, holding the record for most winnings; yet she’s being abused. She's spent so many years surrounded by a multitude of people; how have none of them picked up on what’s been happening to her? Especially when she was younger.
Getting on the phone, I call Draven and ask, “What’s your read on the mother?” as soon as the lines connect.
“Hello, Shaw. I’m fine, thanks,” he jokes.
“The mother.”
“She’s a narcissist. Riding the coattails of her daughter’s success. If I had my guess, she couldn’t do what Monroe does, and she’s forced the girl into the pageant circuit.”
“I’m getting the same read. She abuses her too. There are more than two dozen hospital trips. Alone, they’re innocent enough. Blame it on an accident-prone child. Together, I have to wonder what the hell happens to these girls.”
He whistles. “You talked to her about it?”
I snort. “No. She could barely ask me to call her Monroe. She hates Marilyn.”
“You, too, huh. The mother and agent are on their way back to Hell-A, so tell her to relax. Read a book. Enjoy the countryside.”
“Oh, she is. She and Mari are like two peas in a pod.”
“No shit?”
Draven was with me when I bought the heifer from the auction. She was set to be sold for slaughter, so I bought her on a whim.
“Yeah. Obviously, they’ve both gone through something only the other understands, so I’ll leave her to it for now.
Rita’s got a feast going in the kitchen, and I guess we’ll see if Monroe’s ready for country life after that.
” Rita moved up here with me from Texas after my parents retired. Her southern cooking followed.
“That you will, my friend. Look…lay low, relax, see if she’ll open up to you, and I’ll continue with the dozens of background checks of the people that have passed through her life.”
I don’t envy him that part of the job right now. Being in pageants since she was small, I imagine there are hundreds, if not thousands, of people to go through.
“Call me if anything stands out.”
“You know it.”
Pushing Monroe’s file to the side, I stare at her mother’s for a minute before opening it. I already dislike the woman, and whatever I’m about to find out will likely not change my opinion. If anything, it’ll shoot her to the top of the suspect list.