Secrets Beyond the Grave

Chapter One

Ada

As everyone files out of the room, I sigh and sit back in my chair to look around the empty room.

Today was group counseling for the sexual assault survivors.

We had a new girl start who is rather hostile, so it’s taking a lot out of me to play middleman between everyone’s triggers.

I absolutely love what I do, but it can be mentally draining at times.

I should be excited that it’s Friday, but it just means that I will be at home all weekend.

Again, it should be exciting, but it’s hell on earth.

My boyfriend, Chris, is a worthless drunk that I can’t seem to get rid of.

He doesn’t have a job, so I am the one supporting him.

He is also controlling and manipulative.

I know he is abusive, but I just don’t have the fight in me to get rid of him.

One day I will. Until then, I will just deal with the bullshit.

I’ve been with Chris for two years, and at first, everything was great.

He moved in after three months, and now I’m just fucking stuck with him.

We go through this cycle where I tell him to leave, he beats the fuck out of me, and I give up.

If I don’t fight with him, he just sits around and drinks.

I know what he is doing, but I keep falling for it.

I eventually get up and start stacking chairs so the cleaners can vacuum tonight. I go into my office and start gathering my belongings. Just before I am about to leave, my desk phone rings.

“Ugh,” I groan as I drop my bags on the couch and go to my desk. This always fucking happens. Every day I try to leave, someone calls. Hell, they call me at home too. “Ada Pavlov,” I say warmly.

“Hello, Ms. Pavlov. This is Molly Nordel up at the courthouse. I just wanted to notify you that you are being assigned a new client for anger management. He is court-mandated to do sessions six days a week for the next twelve months. That will start tomorrow,” she says.

What the fuck? Are you fucking kidding me? This means I will have to be here on Saturdays. But… maybe that’s not all bad. “Okay,” I say. “If you could email me his file, I’ll look at it tonight so I can be prepared.”

“What time works best?” she asks.

“Uh…” I say, looking at my calendar. “Monday through Friday, I can stay later and see him from five to six. On Saturdays, I can do ten in the morning.”

“Perfect. I will let him know,” she says sweetly.

“What is bringing him to me?”

“He had attempted murder charges dropped to assault in exchange for anger management,” she says.

“Ah… I see…” I say. “Well, I’ll be ready for him. Thank you.”

When the call ends, I pick up my belongings and leave before the damn phone can ring again. When I get outside, I check my email and see that Molly sent me his file.

Viktor Holt. Age thirty-eight. Charged with attempted murder but convicted of assault.

Clean criminal record otherwise. I know that name, though.

Is he mafia? One of my clients, Archer, has connections to Andre.

He is both the police chief and a big name on the more nefarious side of the city.

I pull my phone out and text Archer. He has a family dinner tonight, so maybe he can ask.

Personal question. Does Andre know a Viktor Holt?

Almost immediately, Archer calls me. “Hello?” I answer.

“Hey, Ada. It’s Andre,” he says.

“Hey. Sorry for interrupting dinner.”

“Not a problem. Why are you asking about Viktor?” Andre asks.

“I get funded by the city government, and they send me court-ordered clients. He was just assigned to see me six days a week for the next year for anger management. It was attempted murder charges that were reduced to assault,” I explain.

“Ah… Yeah, he is mafia. He took over when he was twenty-five, when his dad died,” he explains.

“Am I safe? I’ll be alone with him six days a week. I scheduled him after everyone leaves.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t hurt women. He might make you think he will, but he won’t,” Andre says. “You’re safe, Ada. If you have any problems, call me. When do you see him?”

“Tomorrow at ten,” I say.

“Okay. I’ll come by tomorrow so he can see that you are connected to me and Alan,” Andre says.

“I appreciate that,” I say with a sigh.

“Have a good night, Ada. I’ll see you in the morning,” he says. When the call ends, I start driving toward home. I am not looking forward to telling Chris.

I pull into the driveway and force myself to get out. If I sit around for too long out here, he will get pissy. As I walk in the door, I find that Chris is sitting on the couch with a beer in his hand, watching television.

“You’re late,” he grunts.

“What do you want for dinner?” I ask, walking through the living room to the kitchen. He follows me and tosses his empty can on the counter before grabbing another from the fridge.

“Why are you late?”

“I don’t have a set time that I leave, Chris,” I say with a sigh as I set my bags on the table.

I always make sure to keep my phone with me because his crazy ass will text and call my clients if he can’t get hold of me.

“I have a new court-mandated client who requires anger management six days a week. I will not be leaving any sooner than six during the week, and I have an appointment on Saturdays that will end no sooner than eleven.”

“Man or woman?”

“Since when do I give you fucking client info?” I turn around and snap at him. He surprises me when he suddenly slaps me across the face.

“If I find out you’re fucking cheating on me, I’ll kill you and him,” he growls.

I stare at him, partly in shock and partly with rage simmering just below the surface. If I say anything to him right now, I’ll explode. He is drunk, and it will just escalate. Instead of saying anything, I turn away from him and pick up my bags.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Chris asks. “Are you fixing dinner or not?”

I stop and look at him with a deadpan expression. “Do you really want me to fix your dinner after you just hit me, Chris?” I ask calmly.

“Just go to your office and leave me the fuck alone,” he scoffs and stomps off to the living room.

I get my keys out and slide one into the lock of my office.

When I turn it, it doesn’t click. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, so I don’t kill Chris.

He is the only one who could do this. I go in, and everything seems fine, so I set my bags on my desk and squat down to unlock my fire safe.

When I pull it open, all of the cash is missing, as well as my parents’ wedding rings.

I stand up and stomp out of the room to go to Chris. “Why did you go into my office?” I shout at him. “Where the fuck are the rings?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ada,” Chris says, not looking away from the television.

“Bullshit,” I say, stepping in front of the screen. “Forty thousand dollars and my dead parents’ rings are gone. The safe and the room were locked. Now it’s not, and you are the only one in this house.”

“Sounds frustrating,” he says. “Are you sure that’s where they were? You are awfully forgetful.”

“Don’t fucking gaslight me, Chris. Where the fuck is it? Why did you take them?” I demand, tears welling up.

“Gaslight? Are you saying I’m abusive, Ada?” Chris asks, slamming his beer down and standing up to get in my face.

“Get out of my face,” I growl.

“Or what?” he asks. “Go ahead, Ada. Say what’s on your mind.”

“This is my house. You contribute nothing. I support you, and this is the thanks I get?” I say. “You try to control everything I do. You force me to fuck you half the time. I’m sick…”

“Force?” he cackles. “Last I checked, your fat ass still comes on my cock.”

I glare at him before starting to walk away, but he puts his arm out to block me. Rage finally slips out, and I shove him back. “Don’t fucking touch me!” I scream at him, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Excuse me?” he asks, stepping closer to me. I step back, and he shoves me back against the wall to trap me. “Last I checked, this mortgage has my name on it, Ada.”

“You did that without my permission,” I growl. “I could press charges for you hitting me.”

Yeah… that was a bad idea…

Chris wraps his hands around my throat and slams me back against the wall so hard that the drywall buckles before throwing me toward the couch. Before I can push away, he grabs me by the hair, shoving me over the arm before yanking my dress slacks down.

“Stop it, Chris,” I yell at him. I push up off the couch, but he ignores my resistance and shoves his dick inside me anyway.

It’s like someone has draped my consciousness with a weighted blanket, because I just…

give up. It’s frightening how quickly I shut down.

I’ve never fought him before. He usually just pesters me until I give in and let him do whatever.

But this… this is establishing dominance.

It’s about showing that he has the power, no matter if I have the money.

It’s anger, but it’s also a massive escalation.

Why? What happened that he suddenly needed to steal that much cash and the last things left of my parents?

Mom and Dad died in a house fire when our crackhead neighbor blew up his meth lab.

I was at a friend’s house, thank God, but I lost them.

I lost everything. The fire was so hot that the only thing left were their wedding bands.

The medical examiner gave them to me, and they have been in that safe ever since.

This rape. This abuse. The name-calling…

Nothing hurts as badly as him taking those rings, and he knew that.

He knew that my one weakness was their memory.

My entire life went up in flames that day, and now I have nothing left but the secrets that he’s leaving me with.

After a while, Chris grunts as he comes and pulls out of me. I whimper when he grabs me by the hair and drags me up. My body tenses, and I squeeze my eyes shut when I feel the barrel of a gun press against my temple. Not just any gun; my gun.

“If you ever try to leave me again, I’ll fucking kill you,” Chris growls in my ear. “If you want those rings back, you’ll do whatever the fuck I tell you to do, or I’ll melt the fuckers down myself. Do you understand me, Ada?”

“Yes,” I say with a shaky voice.

“Go to your office. I don’t want to see your fucking face,” he says, shoving me toward the hallway.

Under normal circumstances, I’d be able to keep myself up, but he hasn’t let me pull my pants back up yet.

When I try to regain my footing, my leg catches, and I come crashing down to the floor with my wrist under me.

A searing pain shoots up my arm, and I cry out in pain.

“Fucking fat bitch. Get off the goddamn floor,” Chris laughs.

I use my other arm to help me get up before I pull my pants up.

I have to hold my breath when I move my left wrist, because it hurts so badly.

I hope it isn’t broken. I don’t even look up at Chris before I turn and go to the bathroom.

I hurriedly clean up and get into my office so I can lock the door.

That’s when I lie on my couch and curl up so I can bury my face in the throw pillow and cry.