Epilogue
Jane
“Reid,” I say when my friend from the FBI’s Art Crime Unit picks up. “Can you meet?”
“Yeah, sure,” she says.
“Like now. I am in front of the office.”
“Ooookay,” she says and laughs. “Give me five.”
We hang up, and I wait.
Reid is one of my childhood friends. We met again during my research on criminal behavior and worked on many, many cases. I consider her a real friend, one of the only ones I have.
Reid, as in Reid Shaw, leads the Art Crime Unit here in New York. She is young, but well-connected, extremely profound, and quick on her feet.
“You look like you are about to rob a bank,” says Reid when she appears in front of me.
“Walk with me,” I say nervously.
“Ooookay,” she says. “Did you rob a bank?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“Tell me what happened,” she says.
“So, hypothetically. If I were to have intel, that a very powerful and influential man with friends in high places is in the ownership of a stolen painting—not just any painting—but a very well-known one, like a…“ I begin hesitantly.
“Rembrandt,” she says.
“For example, yes. And the owner has already managed to evade assault, coercion, first-degree rape, and all other sorts of charges. Would there be a way for you to use the intel on the painting to look deeper, and by deeper, I mean so deep that you find the proof of what was hidden?”
Reid draws up an eyebrow.
“Hypothetically, I could, but the moment I file the warrant, the high places would be alerted, depending on how high the places are.”
“So—“
“Professionally,” she interrupts me, “I’d advise always using the official route. Personally, I am aware of men of the named caliber, and there is only one way to catch those men, and that is money. Meaning, without access to the money trail, it is almost impossible to get anywhere.”
“So your advice is to get the bank statement,” I say and add quickly, “Solely hypothetically, of course.”
“Yes and no,” she says and stops. “What you are looking for isn’t generally transacted via a common bank.”
“What if the hypothetical person is the bank?” I ask.
“Who are we talking about?”
“It’s just a hypothetical—“
“Jane,” she says. “I deal with liars on a daily basis, and you are one of the worst I have ever met.”
“Amelie tells me the very same every time,” I say.
“You’re asking for her, aren’t you?”
“I—no,“ I begin, stop, “Yes.”
Reid looks at me for a moment. She is weighing something.
Then, she leans in.
“Richard Whitney-Morgan has been on our radar for years. He is untouchable because he is best friends with the President himself. My advice? Let it go. I hate to say it, but whatever it is, let it go.”
With that, she taps me softly on the shoulder and leaves.
I watch her leave.
I take my phone from my pocket.
My fingers hover on Amelie’s name for one second.
But we made a deal.
And I keep my end of the deal.
“I tried,” I say when Amelie answers, and we hang up.
That night, I am alone in my apartment for a very long time.
Her phone lies next to mine on the couch table.
I stare at the ceiling, knowing what I did, questioning all my morals.
I am helping a woman, my woman, kill a man.
My chest feels heavy.
I hear the lock.
I run to the door.
Amelie leans against the door, a hollow look on her face.
“Did it work?” I ask.
She stares at me and shakes her head, her eyes widening.
“I couldn’t do it,” she whispers. “I couldn’t do the one thing she needed.”
Endless relief spreads through me.
“Why?” I ask silently.
A moment’s pause.
“Because of you,” she says.
Silence.
“Because I love you.”
More silence.
“Because El is dead.”
Goosebumps spread over my arms.
“And you are here.”
A tear finds its way down my cheek.
“Yes,” I say, smiling weakly. “I am here.”
Her expression softens.
“Marry me,” she says.
“Yes,” I hear myself say.
I can’t really grasp what is happening.
She walks over to me.
Grasps my face.
Kisses me.
“Hi,” she says between kisses against my lips.
“Hi,” I say back.
We stare at each other for a very long time, and then, she suddenly gets up.
I follow her with my eyes.
“What are you doing?” I ask her as my heart plummets, because she walks past me with scissors in her hands and strides to the bathroom.
I run after her as she doesn’t answer.
I turn on the bright lights in the bathroom, which I never do, because I hate the bright ceiling lights. Whoever invented them should be imprisoned, but right now, I need to see. My body is on full alert because the last time she went into the bathroom, she cut open her wrist.
But when I see her, I relax. At least part of me.
“I need to cut off my hair,” she says, grasps a strand, and just cuts.
“Wait,” I say and grab her hand as I stand behind her.
“I need to,” she says, looking at me through the mirror.
“I know,” I say. “But let me do it.”
“You’re not stopping me?” she asks, incredulously.
“No,” I say as I take the scissors from her hand. “Why would I stop you from figuring out who you really are?”
A weak smile hushes over her face.
“So how short do you want it?” I ask casually.
“Short,” she says. “Like really short.”
“Okay,” I say, get a comb, wet her hair, and then cut. I am reasonably good at cutting hair because I have cut my own hair since I moved out of my parents’ house, much to my mother's displeasure.
I cut her hair in silence. I mind stepping on the wet hair on the ground, even with socks on, but I don’t want to interrupt the very intimate moment we have right now, so I swallow it down.
When I’m done, I comb her wet hair back. I look at her in the mirror.
She looks so different.
Strong.
Powerful.
Bossy.
And yet, this warmth in her eyes.
She stares at me, turns, grasps my face, and kisses me.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my lips, before she kneels down and lifts me onto her shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I ask her, horrified of being carried, and try to get down by wiggling my legs up.
She grabs my ankle and removes the sock from my foot.
“I’m releasing you from the horror of stepping onto wet hair,” she says as she pulls off the second sock from my other foot.
I laugh.
She laughs.
And then she carries me to the bed. My bed.
She releases me on it.
Climbs into bed with me.
Her arm wanders around me.
And we just lie there.
Cuddling.
In my bed.
It’s the first time that she is in the room.
And the first time, I want someone in this room.
Because she is my person.
“Do you want me to call you a different name?” I ask her after a long while.
She doesn’t answer immediately.
“No,” she finally says. “But what you can do,” she says as she rolls herself onto me and kisses me, “Is that you call me daddy whenever you like to play.”
I bite my bottom to keep myself from grinning.
I grasp her face. Look her in the eyes as I say, “Yes, daddy.”
And it is this moment that I understand the freedom she gifted me. There is nothing wrong with me.
Nothing is wrong with me.
Amelie
“Your mother can fuck the fuck off,” I say to her as I run to her, grab the phone from her hand, and dial the number Jane just hung up.
Jane stays next to me, her chest heaving up and down as she cannot catch her breath.
“Mrs McKenzie,” I say harshly when she answers.
“I am going to say this once, just once, and I require you to understand it. You are a narcissistic bitch, who got a child out of the most selfish and stupid reasons. The fact that you have the audacity to call your daughter on the day of days for the sole reason of diminishing her light because your own ego cannot allow your daughter to shine brighter than you is not only pathetic, but it makes you a single thing: A small woman. A woman I would pity, if I wouldn’t loathe her that much. ”
With that, I hang up and throw the phone away.
Jane looks at me with her arms drawn up in front of her for protection.
“Babe,” I say. But she doesn’t react.
She is breathing flat, retracted.
“Tell me about inhibitory post-synaptic potential,” I say.
She doesn’t react.
I look at her, and she’s not hearing me.
And then I do the last thing I can do when nothing else helps.
I grasp her face with one hand.
She looks at me.
“Kneel,” I order her.
She sinks to her knees without hesitation.
“You do not move. You do not speak. You focus on me. Me alone. Do not avert your eyes from mine.”
She gazes up into my eyes.
Her breathing calmed, and she is fully with me.
A soft grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as I pull her chin up.
“Do you know why I ordered you to kneel?” I ask her.
“Because I panicked,” she says.
“No,” I say. “Because I am going to punish you.”
“Punish me?” she asks, almost horrified. “Punish me for what?”
I look down at her.
She gazes so beautifully at me.
Those green eyes.
“I am going to punish you for all the times you didn’t see how fucking beautiful you are.
For all the times you doubted yourself and made yourself smaller for the sake of others.
I am going to punish you so you finally understand how wonderful you are.
I am going to punish you, so whenever anyone tries to diminish your light, you will remember this.
You will remember that you are the reason I am still breathing.
That you are the reason why I feel. That you are the reason that I don’t just love you, but worship you.
I worship you. I breathe through you. I live through you, through your love. ”
Her eyes flicker.
“Do you understand?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she breathes out.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she says.
“Exactly,” I say as the power of a single word washes through me. I have the power. I am in control. I never would’ve thought I would like anyone to call me daddy, but it is what gives me power. Just like the new hair gave me power.
“That’s my good girl,” I say and let go of her chin. “Now get on all fours.”
My palm slaps on her ass.
She squeaks.
“Count,” I say.
“One,”
I slap her until we reach ten. My fingers slide between her legs. Her clit is swollen, and she is wet beyond.
It’s been a while since we figured out that just a sprinkle of submission and dominance is in either of us. Because somehow, the play gave us a way to connect again.