3
True to his word, Phillip arranged the interview for the very next morning.
It was almost providential. Talia Brant was happy to clear her schedule and to delay the podcast she had scheduled for this upcoming Friday.
She is eager to get the interview done and prepared for that newly vacated timeslot.
How lucky for me.
I have scarcely thought of anything else or even slept since Phillip shared the news with me yesterday that the article was being published.
As anticipated, the Times refuses to share its source with our attorney.
For endless hours last night, I scoured the internet in search of anything new related to the events of twenty years ago.
There was nothing beyond the usual rehash of old news.
Nothing on the player who is my primary concern.
It’s possible that she is dead but shared the secret before dying.
Not likely—the dead part, I mean. I couldn’t be that lucky.
Someone new to the equation with only secondhand knowledge would be far easier to manage, but that scenario is even more unlikely.
It must be her. My instincts won’t let go of the idea.
I imagine her lurking about nearby to watch my seemingly perfect world crumble. Knowing her as I do, there is unquestionably much more trouble coming.
She fooled me once, but she will not fool me again.
I shake off those energy-draining thoughts and focus on the moment. On this crucial interview.
I chose my wardrobe carefully. Soft-knit crepe trousers in a lovely oyster color, along with a brushed mohair V-neck tank in the same color.
I left off the matching sweater to ensure the observant Ms. Brant would notice the scars.
The visible reminders of that past are primarily on my back, but several of the raised marks travel like narrow little ropes up my shoulder blades and toward my neck.
That too-familiar bite of the whip as it slashes my flesh . . . the trace and tug of lips and fingers testing, tearing at every part of me, sears through my brain. I force away the sounds and sensations that will never stop haunting me.
My auburn hair is down, brushing my shoulders.
My makeup is light. Even the cream-colored slingback shoes I wear are classic and trimmed in a gold finish.
I look the quintessential part of an old-money Manhattanite.
The woman who has risen above tragedy and become a wife and mother as well as a highly regarded philanthropist. Precisely what Talia Brant expects.
Over and over, my mind has played out the script of how this should go, but some parts feel less than adequately convincing.
Just below the surface of my calm exterior, worry simmers.
The issue is not going away with a mere interview.
I understand as much. This interview is only an appeasement for the public—his constituents. For Phillip, not for me.
As if she can see my thoughts, Talia, the woman whose weekly podcast now leads all others, stares at me with something a bit too similar to suspicion.
I hoped for pity, but she’s far too jaded to go there.
Every blond hair is in place. Sharp blue eyes are seemingly all-seeing.
The trendy jumpsuit in the deep-lagoon color shows off her smart style as well as her trim figure.
The leather ankle boots are equally fashionable.
It’s no surprise to me that she is the one Phillip called.
He has a penchant for intelligent, beautiful, younger women.
Talia no doubt believes she has twisted the older, charming, and very wealthy man around her little finger.
The idea that he may be the city’s next mayor likely gives her an orgasm each time she hears his voice.
She has no idea with whom she is dealing. Phillip Belmont is ruthless when it comes to his career and the things he wants. Shiny new things are only a brief diversion for him. Unless it furthers his career, it is always doomed to a short lifespan.
After that long, lingering pause, the woman studying me like a newly discovered bacteria under a microscope suggests, “You were abducted by one of the most elusive serial killers in the northeast—the only victim to survive the Judge. You’ve waited two decades to tell your story, Dr. Belmont. ” Another weighty pause. “Why is that?”
And there it is. The question I knew was coming.
Framed exactly as expected. She well knows the answer.
She, of course, hopes I will shed new light on the event that prompted this interview.
That I will reveal what no one else knows.
What the police were never able to find.
I am already weary of this dance and it has barely begun.
Still, I remind myself it is necessary. Crucial to at least slow what unquestionably is coming. Vital to my plan. I may be somewhat vulnerable just now, but anyone who would consider me down for the count is sadly mistaken.
“It was twenty years ago, yes,” I say softly, almost too softly to be heard. “But I remember it as if it were only yesterday.” This is the truest part of what she will hear this morning.
In every lie there must be some small nugget of truth for it to be credible, believable. Particularly when presented to someone who makes a living at ferreting out the facts.
We’ll just see how good she really is at doing so.
“Is it because of the upcoming anniversary later this month?” Her lips struggle to hold back a smirk. “Or have the accusations printed in the Times ended your long silence?”
“May eighteenth.” The anniversary of my abduction—of the day my first life ended. “My decision has nothing to do with a particular date or any absurd accusations. I have never wanted to discuss that time. I still don’t. Not really. But here we are.”
“Indeed,” she notes. “Twenty years later with the sole survivor.”
She really is going the distance in an effort to build the suspense. If she only knew . . .
“I was very lucky.” The admission goes without saying, but I say it nonetheless because this is what she expects to hear. “As lucky as I was, that time—as a prisoner—was more horrifying than anyone will ever understand.”
Images and sensations sweep through me. Blood. Chains. Fear. Hunger. Pain. Desperation. My breath stalls in my lungs. Every muscle in my body goes rigid as if I’m back there waiting for the next bad thing. With effort, I relax. Focus. And wait for her next move.
“I’m certain the memories are difficult to relive,” she allows, her face a picture of practiced contrition.
How very polite.
The videographer who accompanies her watches through the wide-angle lens of his camera, occasionally snapping a photograph to be used on her website.
He alternates between the stills he snaps and monitoring the video being taped by the camera on the tripod.
My every move and word will be scrutinized by her multitude of fans.
I draw in a deep breath for effect. “It’s true.
There are some things that are simply too painful to say out loud.
” I stare out the window to the street in the hope that she will not recognize my impatience.
I hate every second of this. I despise people like her, who thrive on the pain of others.
Whatever else she professes as her motive, the search for shock and awe is what drives her.
Beyond the window and this moment, life continues as if nothing has changed.
Taxis rush by in the drizzling rain. Umbrellas bob amid the pedestrians.
Spring is well underway. The trees have burst into varying shades of green, and the flowers lining the sidewalks have started to show off their colors.
Next month summer will rush in and prompt a flurry of outside dining and flocks of treasure hunters to the flea markets, as well as eager lines to everyone’s favorite Mister Softee trucks.
But for me, nothing will be right. For more reasons than one.
A handful of reporters loiters in front of our home. Phillip’s NYPD detail, the one he gained when chosen as the democratic nominee, has kept them mostly on the opposite side of the street, but reporters are persistent if nothing else. It is impossible to fully contain them twenty-four seven.
I almost laugh out loud at the irony of the entire situation.
Fate has a fickle sense of humor. And now, when I should be settling comfortably back into our life after my horrendous accident, I must instead do the necessary.
I never wanted to delve into this again.
No matter that I always knew this day would likely come.
The more time that passed, the more distant the possibility felt.
I should be thankful for the good years I’ve had and the differences I have made, I remind myself.
Perhaps this is my penance for all the things I don’t talk about—those that remain hidden.
“If not the unsavory accusations in the article, what has given you the courage to tell your story?” she nudges when I remain silent too long.
I draw myself back to the conversation. Of course that is her follow-up question.
Reporters, whatever format they use to spread their stories, are a heartless genus.
Perhaps I can put her off for a moment or two.
Make her work for the big disclosure that she will ultimately shade and characterize to suit her purpose.
“I don’t respond to such allegations,” I announce firmly.
“There will always be someone who wants to malign me, if for no other reason than the fact that I survived and others did not. Let my accuser come forward and say these hurtful things to my face. Otherwise, there is nothing to talk about.” I straighten my spine, lift my chin.
“I’m here with you today because it’s time.
Twenty years is long enough to hold it all in. ”