19
Westport, Connecticut
“You still don’t believe me, do you?”
Rick is barely out the door, and Acacia’s already next to me, demanding an answer.
Did she overhear Rick’s questions about Phillip?
Does the timing of his arrival confirm the two of them are somehow in on this together?
An urgency surges through me. Of course, Rick was a major player in the investigation.
He knew everything—except how to solve the case.
Or so it seemed. Based on our conversation just minutes ago, I’m not sure which side of this he’s on, but it’s feeling more and more like the wrong one. Still, part of me can’t get entirely right with that assessment no matter that there are moments when I am utterly convinced this is the case.
All that said, he couldn’t have known about the necklace. Not unless one of two people told him—and Phillip isn’t one of them. Not to mention, I have long had the feeling Rick has a thing for me, which might not go along with him working against me at this level.
Unless the attraction he has allowed me to recognize is his way of maintaining his own mask.
I stare at Acacia. Is she why Rick has suddenly started popping around so often? It is absolutely possible the two of them are working together. With her.
Fuck.
At my delay in responding she crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her chin at me. “I at least deserve an answer. If you think I’m lying, tell me why.”
Deserve? Ha! My outrage rears its head once more. Does this woman think me a fool? A new thought occurs to me, and I go with it.
“Do you want to know why I never mentioned knowing Wendy Neely to the police?” Let’s just see how she’ll react to this part of the story. I’m sure she has heard an entirely different version.
Eagerness fairly radiates from her. “Can’t wait.”
“Let’s sit. This will take a minute.” She follows me to the living room, and we both sit, me on the sofa, her in a chair opposite me. “Turn off your phone and place it on the coffee table.”
A stare down follows, but she is the first to break away. She shuts off her phone and places it on the table between us. There will be no recording of what I’m about to share.
I take a breath and begin. “She was my best friend. The one person I trusted. And she betrayed me.”
“Betrayed you how?” Her eyes are wide.
I want to see her reaction when I say his name. “With Casey Duval.”
She frowns. “Who is Casey Duval?”
Interesting. I don’t want to believe she doesn’t recognize the name, but it is possible, I suppose. Maybe she has only been told certain parts of the story. No doubt it was edited to suit my enemy’s purposes.
“I was in love with him, and she did this awful thing knowing how I felt. The last time I saw her, she was in his bedroom, wearing his shirt. I had run away from home with the intent of staying with him.” I look away for a moment as if the memory pains me greatly—which it does, still.
“To go wherever he chose. And there she was.”
“You must have been devastated,” Acacia says, her posture, her face rapt as if she can’t wait to hear more. She’s enjoying this.
I’m not sure devastated is an adequate description of how it felt, and it only worsened as time passed. The primary reason is not as cut and dried as I’ve said, but the wound is the same.
“Part of me died that day,” I admit. I hug my arms around myself. The cold, harsh reality the memories evoke seeps into my body. The hour is late, and I am so very tired of all this. I’m grateful Olivia is fast asleep in her room.
“What did you do?” Acacia prompts.
She sits forward in her chair, her anticipation spiking higher, while I sink more deeply into the sofa. Apparently I’m not the only one who has opted to delete certain aspects of my story. Acacia obviously hasn’t heard this part.
“I walked away.” I weigh how much to divulge.
“But I didn’t go far. There was a house for sale just down the street, and I broke in.
It wasn’t difficult. Whoever showed it last left a side door unlocked.
” I shake my head. “It was foolish, but the only thing on my mind at that moment was watching Casey. I wanted to know if they left together. I needed to know.”
When I fall silent for a time, she asks, “And did they?”
I laugh softly. “Unfortunately, I was exhausted and fell asleep. Crying, of course. I was, as you say, devastated, and I couldn’t fight the sleep.”
Acacia waits, her eyes still wide with interest. She wants the rest of the story. To use as leverage, no doubt.
“When I woke up and pulled myself together, I saw that his car was gone, so I walked back to his house.” I picture the neighborhood and that day.
It was raining. It rained a lot that spring.
Well into May. “They were gone. But everything else was still there—furniture and other stuff, even his clothes. I convinced myself he was coming back. Really I had no reason to believe he wouldn’t.
I thought maybe he only took her home.” I barely restrain a smirk. “Wishful thinking.”
“So you waited,” she suggests, to keep me talking.
“I did. But he never returned. By nightfall I realized it was time to admit defeat and go home. As I sneaked away someone attacked me from behind. They used something”—I gesture to my face—“to put me out, and the next thing I remember is waking up in hell.”
The perfect way to describe life after that day, even if the journey is a bit embellished.
“I lost count of the days.” I hesitate, steady my voice. “I was raped. You can use your imagination about all the ways I was abused for this evil man’s pleasure. If I failed to live up to his expectations or refused his demands, I was deprived of food and water. Sometimes I was beaten.”
And so much more.
“You were like his slave?”
I nod. “I was.”
The way I dressed, the way I moved, even the way I ate was dictated. My entire world revolved around him and his desires.
“Where did he keep you?” Frown lines have spread across her face again, but her gaze is intent, focused.
“He had a large basement, which he’d turned into a prison.
” I start to expand upon the description, but then I realize that is another story.
I grit my teeth to hold the details back.
So strange, all this time I have never wanted to think about it much less talk about it.
Suddenly it wants to come pouring out of me.
My control is not as reliable as it should be. The cold that has leached into my body turns to ice now. The memories bombard me, and I can barely breathe. Being here, talking about this is taking a toll on my hard-earned discipline.
“It sounds horrible.” Acacia shakes her head. “Oh-my-God horrible.”
I gather my composure. “It was. Truly horrible.”
“Thank God you were only there a week.”
I blink. “Yes. A week.”
“You never once saw his face.”
“No.” Fear whips through me now as if I am back there. I struggle to suppress it. “No, he wore a mask and was dressed all in loose black clothing. I have no idea about his build or anything.”
My mind refutes the lie and shows me his face—so cruel at times, so patient at others. His body was fit and strong. I squeeze my eyes shut and replace those images with the ones of him lying dead on the cold floor. Blood pooled around him . . . the knife buried deep in his gut.
“How did you escape? With him watching you so closely, it must have been difficult.”
I jerk at the sound of her voice. Moisten my lips and nod.
“That part still puzzles me,” I explain rather than tell the truth.
“One day after his routine visit he failed to secure the door. I kept waiting to hear the click. I heard it every day, every time he left. But it never came that last day. Eventually I dared to climb those stairs and see. The door was unlocked. The house above the basement level was empty, so I left. I ran and ran. I can’t tell you how many times I fell.
It was raining. I was bruised and scratched and wounded but so thankful to be free. ”
“I’m sure your parents were immensely grateful to have you home.”
I manage a smile. “Yes. It was a crazy few weeks with the investigation and worrisome reporters. But I was alive and that’s what mattered.”
“But,” she counters, her expression suspicious now, “they never found the man who took you.”
“They didn’t. The house I escaped from was completely clean when they returned. It was a summer house, and the owners had no idea their house was being used for nefarious purposes.” Not the real story, but one that works for now.
She waits, staring at me expectantly as if she recognizes there is very little truth in my story. Certainly, I imagine, it isn’t anywhere close to the version she has been given if these sorts of details were discussed.
Whatever the case, she wants more. I suppose if I’m going to take advantage of the situation that presents itself, she needs to believe I trust her to some degree.
Her certainty that she can fool me is far greater than her common sense, obviously.
Overconfidence, just another indication of a pretender.
“It was a couple of days after my escape when my father was watching the news that I saw Wendy’s face on the screen. She had vanished. The police questioned me about whether I had seen her, and I lied. I told them over and over that I had not.”
“Why lie?”
I see no judgment on her face . . . only interest. She is shamelessly fascinated.
“Because she was with Casey. I knew if I told the police that detail, then Casey would be considered a suspect. I didn’t want to get him into trouble.
I had this foolish notion that he would come back for me.
Besides, I was pretty sure Wendy just went off on her own and never looked back, whether she stayed with Casey or not. ”
Except the news showed the other girls—the ones Casey scoped out—and still his secrets were kept. There was no way to pretend Casey wasn’t involved when those headlines hit. But that made no difference. I push the thought away.
There is no need for Acacia to hear that part from me.