CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Revelatio Cruda
Did you guys hear about Hugo Petrov? I bet that’s going to cause problems. :( (@deisebloombastic)
“I’ve been working a lot.” The couch was getting more uncomfortable by the day.
“That’s usually when you need therapy most, Helena.”
Her expression was a mix of sarcasm and pity.
“I thought you couldn’t judge me. It’s unethical.”
“Only if I say it out loud.” She opened the grimoire in her hand. “Come on, why are you taking up my morning Pilates time? And please, stop squirming on that couch.”
Only then, on the verge of baring my soul, did I realize I wasn’t ready to talk about Dante. At least not the whole story. Not with all those details.
“Helena?” she repeated, almost impatiently.
“I’m working out how to begin.”
“Or stalling.”
“A bit of both.” I lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling.
“Start with what you were thinking when you called me at four in the morning.”
My mind drifted back to the bedroom, hours earlier. Dante had been sleeping with his face buried in my hair. My body nestled in his arms. And that suffocating sensation of being swallowed by the quicksand of emotions.
“I was thinking about how many versions of ourselves exist out there.” The ceiling seemed higher. “Which ones are real and which ones are invented?”
Ucker didn’t respond. She never does.
“I’ve lived through things I would never tell my mother or my best friend. What does that make the version they know? A farce?”
“Is that how you feel?”
“Maybe.”
“Which version called me?”
“One I didn’t know.”
Ucker shifted in her chair and I smiled inwardly. That was what she did when she was interested in the emotional drama.
“There’s this guy… and I’m someone with him.” I sighed, my chest heavy. “Someone I thought I knew, even though I didn’t see her often.”
“And what makes this someone different from your other versions?”
“It’s like she’s trying to keep a candle lit in the middle of a windstorm.”
“Sounds exhausting. Why so much effort?”
“Because she’s addicted to dancing like the flames.”
“This guy… where do you think he is while you’re fighting against nature?”
“He feeds the fire.”
Ucker crossed her legs and rested her elbows on the armrest.
“This kind of combustion has its price. What price do you think you’re paying?”
“He’s a client.” I answered her question.
“Ahhh… morality. A precious commodity.” She scribbled something on her papyrus. “It takes quite a force of nature to shake your foundations.”
“When I’m with him… I feel like a version of myself that doesn’t exist outside his arms.”
“And is that good?”
“It’s what scares me.”
“Does it scare you because he scares you, or because it scares you to realize that maybe you’ve been wearing a version that doesn’t fit anymore?”
“I’m afraid that one day I won’t be able to find my way back.”
“We never can… especially when a great storm seems to have washed away all traces of the path.”
“So he was right, and he changed me forever the moment our paths crossed?”
“Or maybe you only found him because at some point you’d already changed course. And he just made you notice the new landscape.” Ucker closed the notebook. “The truth is, you’ll never know. How does that sound to you?”
“Like a curse I’m casting on myself, loud and clear.”
Ucker looked at me over her reading glasses—that look that cuts through your defenses without asking permission.
“Helena, you’re blaming yourself for something you don’t even know is real yet.”
“But it feels real. It’s in my stomach. It’s in the looks he gives me when he thinks I’m not looking. It’s in every gesture of care that feels more like a veiled apology than affection.”
“And yet you stayed.”
“And yet I stayed,” I admitted, a lump in my throat. “Because passion… sometimes it feels like assisted suicide, but without a doctor nearby.”
She didn’t write anything down. Didn’t smile. Just looked at me with a lightness I wasn’t expecting.
“Then maybe you came here today to prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
“To bury him. Or to resurrect him with your own hands. You're going to need to decide what to do with the truth, Helena. His truth. And yours.”
A silence heavier than any other settled between us.
“I'm afraid,” I whispered.
“I know. Fear is the only instinct you can't fake. It's what will keep you steady when the ground starts disappearing beneath your feet.”
I got up from the couch on shaky legs, straightened my clothes, and grabbed my purse.
“Good luck with pilates. If you hurry, you can still catch half the class,” I said with a half-smile.
“Good luck with hell,” she replied, like someone blessing a soul before war. “Don't run.”
And I left knowing exactly where I needed to go.
“Mr. Vincent will see you now.” The receptionist accompanied me to the private investigator's office—the place where his discoveries held all my anxieties.
I stared at my reflection in the polished surface of the desk behind his chair, the office decorated in an almost quaint style. The desk held a series of honors from Vincent King's time in the service.
“Doctor.” Vincent appeared suddenly. “Sorry for the delay.”
“It's fine.” Tension shot through my body. It wasn't the first time I'd hired Vincent's services, but it was the first time I'd felt this anguished sensation of a time bomb counting down its last ten seconds.
“Coffee?” He walked over to the coffee maker that had been bubbling since we came in.
“No, thank you.” The liquid poured in slow motion into his cup. “If we could just—”
“Of course. Of course, ma'am.”
Vincent set his cup on the desk and pulled a folder from the stack of files.
“We finally found this Cherrie K.” He slid a handful of surveillance photos toward me. “The girl really didn't want to be found.”
“I bet being involved in a murder is bad for business.”
“I don't think she was too worried about business.” He leaned back in his chair. “She seemed more concerned about not causing problems for the boy.”
“Dante?”
“Yes. From what I gathered, she promised him she'd stay off the radar for a few days.”
“Why?”
Vincent leaned forward on his elbows, hunching over the desk.
“She didn't say.”
“But you have a hunch…”
“If I were a betting man… from what I saw, it wouldn't look good for people to find out what Heritage's golden boy likes to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm sorry, Miss Torres.” He searched for the right words. “This Cherrie K. has a reputation… let's say, peculiar. She has clients who like to get rough with her… and I think she even enjoys it.”
This answered many questions I wasn't ready to ask anyone. Not even myself.
“Does she plan to come forward?”
“I don't think so. But the girl squeezed a pretty penny out of me just to talk. I imagine with the right motivation, she might be willing to step into the spotlight.”
“I need her contact information.”
“She has a site on the dark web.”
He slid the paper with her web address across the desk. “There's one more thing.”
“More?”
“You're not going to like it.”
Vincent pulled out his phone and turned the screen toward me. A video started playing. Shaky and chaotic, but clear enough to make out Dante and Quentin.
I could hear Dante punch Quentin, and a woman's voice screaming in the background, begging them both to stop. There was a lot of noise, but I could clearly make out what she was saying.
I watched the scene as closely as I could and saw Dante promise to kill him if he ever did it again. But there was no way to tell why the fight had started or how it would end—as soon as Quentin fought back, the camera spun and the video cut out.
“Where did you get this?”
“An auction on the dark web. Someone was trying to sell it to news outlets.”
“Good thing you won the bid.”
“Don't get too excited, Doctor. Unfortunately, there's no code of ethics in this world. We don't exactly have a dark web ombudsman.”
“Let's hope I at least have time to prepare. Can you send it to me?”
“Of course. I'll send it along with the invoices,” Vincent added, none too subtly reminding me about his payment.
Paying Vincent was the least of my problems. I was still processing Cherrie K. and now had to deal with this bomb about to explode.
“This will be in Quinn's hands soon,” Celie commented after watching the video.
My phone vibrated on the table.
“Speaking of the devil.”
I answered the phone, expecting him to gloat.
“Dr. Helena Torres.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” I switched the phone to my other ear so Célie could listen in.
“Apparently you’ve sided with the client who’s going to sink your career.”
“I love that confident front you put on when you think you’re going to lose.”
Quinn laughed on the other end.
Mocking. Ironic and incredibly annoying.
“I see the officer hasn’t paid you a visit yet.”
“For what?” Célie looked at me, confused.
“We found another case… and your client is our prime suspect.”
“What?”
“You’re going to love this, Torres. Someone tried to murder Hugo Petrov right after his photo showed up with a red X on it. And guess who dropped completely off the radar for two days? That’s right. Mr. Marino.”
“Hugo Petrov? He and Dante are friends.”
“Just goes to show how dangerous your client is.”
“This is completely absurd and can’t be used in Quentin’s case. These are separate events, Quinn.”
“Crying already? You know damn well a judge can admit the pattern with the right arguments.”
“Dante has an alibi.” I swallowed hard because I knew admitting this in court would be professional suicide.
“Really? Then bring him to court. I’ll request revocation of bail and an expedited trial.”
“You can’t.” I slammed my fist on the table.
“Already did.”
Will didn’t wait for me to respond. He hung up. Without even saying goodbye.
And I… my hands were trembling and my heart was pounding as if I’d just heard my own death sentence.
Célie approached.
“He wasn’t off the radar, was he?” The words weren’t as significant as what she wasn’t saying.
“Exactly.”
“So you’re his alibi.”
The sentence hung between us.
“And if I am?” I asked. “What does that make me?”
“It makes you a ticking time bomb.”
I stepped away from the table.
I looked out the window as if the answer were outside. But the truth was right here. Clinging to my skin. In his scent on my blouse.