7 #2
He was still with the bureau and wanted to ensure I was settling in after the terrible misfortune of losing the only family I had.
The newspapers and social media had gone on and on for weeks about how unlucky I was.
The unluckiest girl alive, they called me.
First, I was kidnapped and tortured; then, just as I’d completed my education and was about to emerge into the next phase of my life, that awful accident occurred.
It wasn’t easy finding my footing. Admittedly, having been away from the area for nearly a decade at the time, it was strange seeing him again.
But that wasn’t the last occasion Rick touched base with me. This need he has to check on me is just one of the reasons why I keep my distance.
Yet here we are. Again. With my story in the media and him at my door.
“Rick, it’s good to see you.” I accept a hug to punctuate the lie. He lingers longer than necessary, as always.
When he draws back, I note that he remains fit at fifty-three.
A bit of gray is sprinkled in his sandy hair.
Unlike Phillip, who keeps the appearance of aging at bay by whatever means necessary—primarily a top-notch colorist and Botox.
Rick’s brown eyes are still sharp, and his smile remains ever charming.
Years ago he assured me that he would never let the Judge case go . . . not until the bastard was found. I wonder how that’s going?
He hasn’t mentioned the case to me in ages.
“You look great,” he says. He gives me a head-to-toe-and-back once-over, and then his smile slips. “Phillip brought me up to speed on the article.”
“I’m sure you read it,” I say, knowing full well he did. I close the door and set the lock before turning to him once more.
He nods. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Get the Times to reveal their source.” I smile and lead the way into the living room, where he ushers me to the sofa as if he fears I may drop at any moment. This is yet another part of recovery that I hate. I was broken, yes, but I’m healing. “Or perhaps print a retraction.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.” He settles next to me.
“What are your thoughts on the article?” I ask, taking a stab from another direction. I’ve always found Rick to be somewhat difficult to read. His training, I suppose.
He exhales a big breath. “Anyone who worked your case knows every word is bullshit. You couldn’t possibly have been associated with the man who killed those girls.
” He shakes his head. “The very idea is ludicrous. You were just a kid. The serial killer we dubbed the Judge would have been much older. Not someone you would have socialized with.”
Interesting assessment, under the circumstances. “Since he was never identified or captured,” I say, “someone has to be the bad guy. I guess it’s going to be me since I’m the only one who walked away from that nightmare.”
“Sadly.” He nods, then a frown furrows his brow.
“The part that surprises me is that you decided to come here. Do you think this is a good idea? There are lots of people in this town who still remember the case but who might not recall the facts properly—who might believe this crap.” Hard lines of worry mar his face.
“There are a lot of vulnerabilities with this location, even with the gate and the rent-a-cop.”
This decision was the only good idea in all this, I opt not to say. “You’re here,” I remind him. Rick lives in Westport. He moved here with his wife and kids a few years after the investigation fizzled out. He claimed he fell in love with the place after working the Judge case.
The case that turned my life upside down . . . ended it, for all intents and purposes. It was years later before I was able to really live again. And now here I am, hunkering down once more.
My gut clenches. The case was never technically closed.
It has been inactive for the better part of two decades.
But for a time, it was the case everyone was focused on.
The Judge was all the media talked about.
Families in the tristate area struggled to keep their daughters safe.
Constant warnings were issued on the news and the radio for five terrifying years, during which time a dozen young women—girls, really—were murdered.
Despite the extensive multi-agency investigation, no one was able to stop the Judge.
Until me, it seems. Aren’t I the hero?
Perhaps in a twisted sort of way, I am. No one has a damned clue what I had to do to make that escape all those years ago. Even as I think this, the vivid recall of blood slipping down my naked body—of my footprints in that same crimson fluid—floods my being.
“He could be here as well,” Rick points out, drawing my attention from the disturbing thoughts and back to him.
Ah, yes, the FBI toyed with the conclusion that this monster, who destroyed so many beautiful young women, lived on one of his hunting grounds.
The truth is, he could be anywhere. As far as the world knows, he could still be kidnapping and killing young women using a different MO—one that doesn’t lead back to his other work.
Or perhaps he has merely evolved beyond the need to show off his handiwork.
People go missing every minute of every day.
There is rarely any sort of connection among them or any resolution for the families.
Sometimes bodies or remains are found, and sometimes they are not. Even after being found, some bodies are never identified. More cases of the missing go unsolved than not.
Any one of those victims could be another of the elusive serial killer called the Judge.
But I have my reasons for doubting this.
“There hasn’t been a single abduction or murder attributed to his MO in two decades,” I remind him, fully aware that he knows this better than me. I mean, he was an FBI special agent, and he worked the case.
“True, but sometimes serial criminals change their MO for that very reason.”
I almost smile at the idea that he read my mind. “I’m aware.”
“He never left a single shred of evidence, and no one ever survived to talk about what happened.” Rick looks to me. “Until you.”
“And I was no help to the investigation.”
That might be the one consistency in the case. No one involved in the investigation could help either. Some part of me will always believe that one indisputable point says all I need to know about the man watching me now.
With all the resources utilized, how could he know nothing at all?
But then that’s my cynical side talking.
“Just promise me you’ll call,” Rick urges, “if you see anything or anyone that’s out of place. Don’t hesitate, Julia. My kids are out of the house, and Meredith found someone new, so I’m available any hour of the day or night.”
I frown at this news. I had no idea he and his wife were no longer together. Although I’m not surprised. The agent had a bit of a reputation even back then. “I’m sorry to hear about Meredith.”
He waves off the subject. “She deserves a man who puts her first. I could never put anything but work first. Just ask my kids. Even after I retired from the bureau, I threw myself into consulting. I just can’t not be working.”
I remind my face to manufacture an appropriate smile—something I do a lot of these days. “I get it. And don’t worry, I have your number in my contacts. I’ll call.”
“Fair warning, I’ll be checking in from time to time even if you don’t call.”
I can’t hold back a soft laugh. “Of course you will. We have homemade pizza. Would you like to stay for dinner? Maybe some wine would be nice.”
His smile widens, crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I would love to.”
We stand, he takes my arm and wraps it around his, squeezing my hand just so as he does. Like old friends who never have enough time to catch up, we journey leisurely to the kitchen.
Except we are not friends. We are surviving participants of something terrible . . . something that left the kind of mark that cannot be erased.
I wonder if he knew the real story about me and what happened, if he would still be so pleasant and helpful.
Funny, it’s so easy to see now just how many people’s lives were impacted by the case.
Lost lives. Missing women. Broken families and marriages.
And all the lies. So many, many lies. The twists of truth that directed the narrative then still do now.
Do those watching the news ever stop and consider just how different the truth is from what they actually see and hear?
This is precisely why if I can help it, no one will ever know my truth. The adage that the truth will set you free is the biggest lie of all.