2
Manhattan, New York
Far too many emotions to name spear me, although I have known this nightmare could descend upon my life at any moment. I never wanted to think of it again. But now there is no avoiding it. It has to be done.
I cannot escape the fallout.
That’s the way of life, isn’t it? When it’s good, it’s so good that you pretend all the bad never happened. You ignore the possibilities and the shadows from the past you wish to deny.
But when it’s bad and exposed for all to see, you can no longer pretend the nasty little details away.
I remind myself to breathe. This is it, then. Everyone will know. All the things I planned and hoped for haunt me. Although I have accomplished much, there was more to do. Now here I am, at this moment I worked so diligently to ensure never happened. Ever.
For an instant I want to scream at myself. What a fool I have been to dare to live so blissfully pretending the past would never catch up to me. I mentally scoff at the utter absurdity of it all. Oh well. As they say, it is what it is.
It was always going to happen. It was only a matter of when.
All that said, I am well aware there is no better way to get ahead of it than to face it head-on. Which is why we are here.
My husband, Phillip Belmont, sits next to me on the living room sofa, his handsome face lined with concern. He is worried—as much for his career as for me, I suspect. But then, he is only human.
I moisten my lips and force my vocal cords to act now that this unfortunate shit show is live. “What do we do? Can we demand the Times stop this travesty of reporting?” I ask the expected questions despite knowing the answers already.
Of course we can’t stop it. This will be big news—New York City mayoral candidate’s wife has been hiding the dirty truth for decades.
“I just spoke with James,” Phillip explains, his voice oddly calm.
James Whitmire is the family’s personal attorney. I appreciate my husband’s quick response efforts. Quashing this developing nightmare ASAP is essential to his campaign. Sadly, doing so is about as likely as finding a spacious, cheap apartment in Manhattan.
“He’s in contact with the publisher as we speak,” Phillip goes on. “But these things take time, and as you and I both well know, the damage is already done.”
His voice contains the slightest edge of anger now.
He has no patience for the unexpected. He works extremely hard to ensure there are no surprises in his carefully laid plans.
This is quite a sizable bombshell to plop into the midst of his current endeavor.
Further, he’s right. Once a reporter is on the scent of a story, killing it is inordinately difficult.
The warning, along with the advance copy Phillip received via email from the Times reporter, is nothing more than a stab at prompting a comment.
Phillip is also correct about the damage.
It is done. Those old questions will resurface.
Was Julia really a victim? How was it she escaped and no one else did?
However well he hid them, my own husband has likely harbored those dark thoughts from time to time.
But then he would consider the scars on my body, and the notion would be pushed aside until the next time the matter was resurrected by some curious ass.
Perhaps it was something he saw in my eyes or heard in my voice whenever I was reluctantly pressed into telling the story.
I never wanted to. The trouble is, some people are fascinated by such tragedies.
Some love to live vicariously through the retelling.
Fools. They have no idea. Not a single one would have survived the horrors I have endured.
Phillip never wanted to discuss the subject.
At first I told myself it was because he loved me so much and his protective side couldn’t bear the idea of me being in danger, much less suffering such horrors.
In time, I decided he preferred to pretend it never happened.
Actually, I prefer the same. Unfortunately, I’ve never had that luxury however long I’ve pretended I did.
The past always catches up. Like when your present has stalled and you find yourself in limbo and dwelling on that long-ago time you thought you could forget.
Or when you’ve failed to pay proper attention to those around you a bit longer than you should have, and an unexpected twist finds its way into your inner circle.
I, of all people, knew better than to let down my guard.
Yet here I am, in reactive mode. No surprise really, given how distracted I’ve been since the accident that almost took my life.
Not to mention my husband’s decision to run for mayor of New York City bringing all manner of scrutiny down on us.
My life has been . . . complicated on numerous levels.
Whatever the impetus, in the end the past always catches up to you. It’s the timing that makes it all the worse. But then, is there ever a good time for the worst event in your life to be resurrected?
The New York Times may no longer have the largest circulation in the country, but it is the most respected and prestigious newspaper, and sets the standard for all others. Everyone who is anyone in Manhattan never misses an issue. Friends, colleagues, neighbors . . . voters.
Somehow I summon a bit of optimism. “This is nothing but a strategy set in motion to slow your momentum in the polls.” A reasonable suggestion. Phillip is on course to win. His opponent will stop at nothing to jump ahead. It’s the way of political ambition.
The silence that follows tells me my husband is considering the possibility. Of course he is. Phillip is always happier when things are about him. I bite my lips together and hope the concept will get me off the hook for now. At least until I can move on to the next necessary step in this matter.
Yes, I have a plan. Though I am far from clear on exactly who and what I’m up against, I have a strategy shaping up.
As unhappy as I am about this, I rarely find myself at a loss for how to analyze and handle a threat.
It’s a sort of gift I learned at quite a young age.
I stand firm on two fail-proof rules. One: Never allow the other side to maintain control of the situation for long.
Two: Never, ever be afraid to do the one thing they are certain you won’t.
Sadly, this isn’t just about me. There’s Phillip, but more importantly, there is our daughter, Olivia. I cannot bear the idea of her being hurt by this. I take solace in the fact that she is only six years old, so protecting her will be easier than if she were older.
“My team is already on it,” Phillip assures me at last. “Obviously my opponent is desperate. You’re correct in that I’m so far ahead it will require nothing short of a miracle to stop me now.”
“Exactly,” I agree. Despite the sliver of relief his concurrence provides, my heart begins to thump harder. There are other events this airing of ancient history might well trigger. Not going there until I have no other choice.
“They’ve found nothing in your personal or public life to use against you,” I insist in an effort to tune out the troubling thoughts. “It’s perfectly reasonable they would come after me next. If I look bad, you look bad.”
For the first time in months, I suddenly feel a sort of plus regarding my husband’s decision to run for mayor.
The first time in weeks I’ve felt any upside to anything, really.
From the beginning, I understood his political aspirations would have the bastards who thrive on nasty rumors excavating deep into our lives, looking for dirt.
For that reason, I made certain preparations.
Regrettably, there is always the possibility of that one little thing you may miss.
In the end, all that really matters is who controls what there is to find.
The reality is that no one, not even Phillip, has the vaguest idea just how bad this could actually become. The full weight of that knowledge sits squarely on me. If I can’t alter its trajectory . . . it will likely cause immense damage.
Certainly it could be the end of me. I almost laugh at the idea. Not the first attempt, by any means.
A shard of pain slices through my hip and has me gritting my teeth. I shift on the sofa to a more comfortable position. Whatever else might be impacted by this, my primary concern is for Olivia. She shouldn’t have to go through what is no doubt coming. Phillip, either, if I’m being completely fair.
“You will need to talk about the accident and perhaps revisit your decision regarding the other,” he announces after another lingering silence.
“It’s the only way to frame this mess in any sort of sympathetic light.
Combine that with the nightmare you went through back then, and we’ll have them all cheering for our family. ”
A new thread of uncertainty weaves its way through me, along with the usual second thoughts that come with this territory.
I want to stand my ground and insist on my privacy.
For the love of God, it’s me who almost died in that car accident.
And yes, I have toyed with the idea of the other—publishing a memoir about the worst time in my life.
But I’m just not ready to have the world talking about it again.
Still, this is war, and any sign of weakness is less than optimal. Drastic measures are necessary.
Admittedly, loathe though I am to do so, in this instance, he may very well be right. It’s likely the only way to derail this coming disaster in the public forum. It’s the first line of defense in any political battle, really—distraction.
I draw in a breath. “We’ll do whatever we must to combat this disgusting attack.”
“No matter the damage control we do,” he counters, his expression grave, “there will still be questions.”
As if I don’t understand how this works. “Of course.”
“Talia Brant owes me a favor. I’ll have her contact you about an interview for her podcast. She has millions of followers, here and nationally. The sooner we get in front of this and shift the narrative, the better.”
I cringe but keep my voice optimistic. “Whatever you think is best.”
Phillip gets a call, so the discussion ends on that painful note. I exhale a lungful of air, grateful for the momentary reprieve.
I haven’t spoken about that part of my past with a reporter or anyone else in a very long time.
I have consistently refused their calls for interviews.
Ignored the pleas for a memoir from publishers.
But now I stare at my phone and the email Phillip forwarded to me .
. . at the words that have shaken our calm, happy world and will be printed in tomorrow’s issue of The New York Times for all to see.
She lied about everything. Julia Anderson, now esteemed Dr. Julia Belmont—wife to the front-runner in the city’s mayoral race—was never kidnapped.
She was hiding out with her lover, who was involved with the serial killer known as the Judge.
Just how much does she know about what happened to all those murdered young girls?
Did she help decide who was next? This heinous secret can no longer stay buried.
Images flash like lightning strikes in my brain. The chains . . . the leather stinging my flesh. My cries for mercy and eventually for death. I grit my teeth and force the memories away.
Someone has risen from their dark hidey-hole, and countermeasures are required. Painful, yes. Essential, no question. The true issue at the center of this is simple: As long as there is anyone still breathing who knows your secrets, they will show themselves at the most inopportune time.
The possibility has always been just one step behind me. But that isn’t the worst of it, really. There are certain things I can never allow to be inadvertently revealed. The glint of sharp steel and deep-red splats of blood flicker before my eyes like a viral reel in a social media feed.
No one can ever know. I will die first.
How utterly paradoxical, I realize, since I almost did die just three months ago. But I didn’t. And now I must do whatever it takes to protect Olivia.
Nothing else matters.
I know just how to do that.