26
Westport, Connecticut
The call with Olivia was lovely and made me feel so much better. Catherine helped her to find the perfect present for her friend, and she is very excited about tomorrow’s party. I feel greatly relieved now about her being back in the city.
But there is another problem. Helen isn’t answering her cell again.
This concerned me so much that, despite the storm, Acacia and I went to her house.
She wasn’t home, so we drove around to the usual places she shops and then past a number of the houses she manages during the off season, but she was nowhere to be found.
I left her a voicemail urging her to please call me or come by as soon as she can.
I don’t understand why I’m having such difficulty maintaining contact with her. It isn’t the norm. She did mention the sketchy cell service. Maybe I’m overreacting.
Really it’s not like the trouble has been going on for long. We arrived at the lake house on Tuesday evening and this is only Friday afternoon. Yet somehow it feels like far longer. The ghosts of my past have ruthlessly haunted me, somehow expanding the time, making it feel slower and heavier.
Back home Acacia parks in front of the garage, and we simply sit there. The rain has stopped. Still, I can’t seem to bring myself to get out and go inside. My nerves are vibrating, warning that I need to be doing something more, but I have no idea what that something is.
It’s the waiting on someone else’s move that is driving me mad.
I could never play chess.
“Are you ready to go in?”
I close my eyes for a moment before meeting her expectant gaze. This part, too, is growing more and more wearying. “No.”
Her fingers tighten impatiently on the steering wheel, and I want to scream.
She expects me to be the same as before.
Doesn’t she realize that her actions cannot be dismissed without consequences?
I am confident she doesn’t yet realize I know the rest as well—that she is working for the person or persons who want to cause me harm, and it’s not my husband—at least not only him.
Perhaps she is somewhat suspicious that I know more, but she can’t be certain.
She and her boyfriend killed Eleanor. She is working with the enemy—whoever that term encompasses. She has drugged me on at least one occasion. She planted the necklace. I know all of this, and I am prepared for whatever is coming because I know the whole story.
Acacia will never know all that I do.
“What?” I finally demand.
She shifts her attention to me. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to. Your face, your posture says it all. Haven’t I clarified everything for you? What else do you want from me?”
Good God, what more does she need to hear?
What my friend and I stumbled into twenty years ago went so far beyond just ugly, just bad, that there is no way to adequately describe it.
It was far more than a mere serial killer—the evil easily defined and recognized as those driven to kill by factors they cannot control.
This was the evil you don’t see. The kind that lurks behind power and wealth and the appearance of normalcy.
Those who are not driven by uncontrollable urges at all but who do these horrific things simply because they can.
The story was never going to end well. Not twenty years ago and not now.
“I keep thinking about you pretending you didn’t see Wendy that day. Never telling the police anything about her.”
This again? What the ever-loving hell?
“She and I both made mistakes that spawned this terrible result.” And that is all I intend to say on the matter.
I get out of the car, slam the door, and storm away. Pain sears through my body. My muscles still don’t appreciate sudden moves.
Acacia catches up with me halfway to the barn.
Despite the sopping wet grass, I have this overwhelming need to once again confirm my surroundings are safe and secure.
It’s likely futile considering the woods around the property, but my instincts are persistent on the matter.
Certainly the security guard at the gate would have mentioned any visitors who showed up attempting to reach me.
He was only too happy to regale us with the details of how he sent two reporters away.
Except who’s to say the enemy will arrive in a vehicle?
Going through the woods on foot is completely feasible.
I don’t know why Phillip didn’t consider that a guard at the gate was useless other than for deterring the less creative reporters.
Certainly neither the gate nor the guard will deter an enemy truly intent on reaching the house.
Like the one I know is coming.
Particularly in light of the fact that the enemy’s minion is already here.
“Why are we going back to the barn?”
“I need the exercise.” Sounds like a good excuse.
“Julia, please.” She stops, halting me with a hand on my arm. “Why don’t you just tell Phillip and Rick the truth. Maybe they can help.”
Now that’s a new strategy coming from her. I wonder what she would say if I actually did exactly that? Is she so certain I don’t know what she is up to? Now this, this is a prime example of excessive confidence. Psychos exude it. Silly, silly girl.
I brace my hands on my hips and exhale a weary breath.
“Do you honestly believe that Phillip wants to know all of this? He’s running for mayor of New York City.
Do you think this would help him win? His wife withheld information in a serial killer investigation—one involving multiple murders.
Not to mention he’s already trying to push me over some edge based on what you have told me. ”
How could I have believed she was so smart?
“Why on earth would I trust him, given all that?” I demand.
Then again, IQ has nothing to do with good old common sense gained by real life experience. Add to that the fact that arrogance is blinding and we have this right here—Alicia whatever her real name is, a.k.a. Acacia. I glare at her as I wait for her no doubt dazzling response.
She blinks, frowns, and struggles to come up with an answer.
“Exactly,” I say for her. “He does not want to know. Why do you think he was happy to see me go as soon as I finished responding to the article? He doesn’t want to be a part of this, trust me.”
I recognized that part well before Acacia accused him of the rest.
“Well,” she manages to spit out, “that’s disappointing. You should be able to count on your partner no matter what.”
Obviously she has never really known a man like Phillip who has it all and needs every aspect of it to be perfect. Anything less is unacceptable.
“But what about Rick?” she demands. “He was an FBI agent. He worked on the Judge case. He should be happy to help.”
I exhale a weary breath. “He and his agent pals and all the detectives on the case couldn’t solve the mystery back then.
Do you really think he, or any of them for that matter, will want to own up to having had the answer—or at least part of it—right under their noses all along?
I, for one, don’t think they would exactly be on my side under the circumstances.
Lies were told, evidence was withheld. Names, etcetera, that might have helped their case.
But not a single one, including Rick, was going to push the teenage daughter of Carlisle Anderson for more details.
People were hurt—died—because no one would risk upsetting the one source that could have changed everything. ”
“You,” she dares to say. “You were the key to everything, and none of them wanted to take a chance on making your rich daddy angry.”
Too pissed off to respond, I continue to the barn. I grit my teeth and work extra hard to ignore the stiffness that a fast walk like this is revealing. I really need to be back in PT.
“I’m sorry.” She easily catches up with me.
I glance at her. “For what?” I ask rather than suggesting the apology is for being a little shit.
For thinking she knows more than me. For believing she has a fucking clue about what really happened.
For being a goddamned traitor and allowing Eleanor to be murdered.
Actually I want to kick her ass. But I can say and do none of that.
All I can do is grin and bear it until the real enemy makes her appearance. I have to play this ridiculous game until she emerges. She is the key to everything—the final move in how this ends.
“Because,” she says, dragging out the word as if scrambling for an explanation, “you were basically a kid. You were scared, and you made a mistake you couldn’t undo.
You allowed your father’s name and position to excuse your choices.
I cannot even imagine how difficult this is now, looking back.
I shouldn’t be questioning your every decision. ”
How sweet. She wants me to believe she understands and sympathizes with me.
Yeah, right. “As long as you’re not reporting everything I say and do back to Phillip, I can get over all the questions.
” No matter that they are monotonous and exasperating and totally motivated by betrayal, I don’t mention.
I stop as we reach the barn. Take a few breaths and force my mind away from the past. Focus. Pay attention to details, I remind myself.
Acacia opens the barn doors and finds the switch to turn on the lights. The place looks exactly the way it did the last time we tromped out here. Not one thing has changed. By the time we’ve gone through the building, I am exhausted.
“Do you want to check the cottages as well? Or maybe have a look in the woods again?”
Now she’s just being a bitch.
“I think we’ve seen enough.” Besides, the cottages are locked. As for the woods, the area is too big and full of hiding places to even begin.
The walk back to the house takes forever. At the side entrance, I stop and turn to the water. I’ve been here three-plus days, and I haven’t even taken a walk on the beach. The water soothes me, reminds me that not everything is chaos. Its placid surface is quieting today.