Shock Eden
Shell Shock
Eden
The cab pulls away from the terminal, and I realize I’m shaking. Why have I allowed Andrew’s wife and children to drive away without telling the woman the truth about her precious husband?
Shell shock. That’s the only reason I can think of.
The confluence of events has overcome me.
I am overwhelmed, blown away, rocked to the core.
Being face-to-face with Andrew after all these years, hearing that scary voice, then meeting his sweet new family, and seeing all that Chloe has missed out on, has torn my soul to pieces.
But maybe it’s for the best. I don’t want to scare Brooklyn off entirely.
Right now, Andrew’s new wife trusts me, and I need to keep it that way.
I might have to use that trust later. She’s in danger with him, though she will never believe me.
And I am already feeling very protective toward her and the kids. The kids especially.
Besides, I have her contact information. People are too open with their personal data. I’ve already looked; the phone contact has all of her particulars—email, number, social media handles, business address.
Now I can call her anytime, under the pretense of checking on Andrew’s whereabouts and assuring myself that she’s okay. I pat myself on the back for my cleverness, but it’s too soon to celebrate. There is more to learn.
I take the bus to the employee lot, looking over my shoulder the whole time.
My car is cold. I crank up the heater and start scrolling.
It only takes me a few minutes to back trace all of Brooklyn’s info.
The woman has a career, a presence, a footprint.
And everything is registered in what I assume is her maiden name: the house, the cars, the school records.
It all ties to an address in Franklin, Tennessee.
His name isn’t on anything. No social media, under Andrew or Trey. No articles written about him. No images. Nothing.
Which doesn’t feel right. In any normal circumstance, for a man his age, there’d at least be something.
Of course, if I were Andrew Locke, with a dead wife in my past, I wouldn’t be out there as myself.
But there’s nothing about the case. No media stories.
No YouTube videos. No true crime podcasts. And that makes no sense.
Heart in my throat, I look up my sister’s name. She died before she had a chance to really live, and while she wasn’t hugely active online, there is very little about her—surprisingly little. Even the autopsy report I have printed out to read myself to sleep with has disappeared.
It takes me a second to realize what must be happening here.
That son of a bitch. He must have hired someone to scrub his name from the internet.
A reputation cleanse. There are plenty of companies that do it.
It’s especially handy for white-collar criminals or those idiots who were canceled and need a fresh start.
Rich kids who did dumb things and were trying to get into Ivy League schools have their socials scrubbed all the time.
More serious criminals with means do as well. Criminals like Andrew fucking Locke.
Nicely played, Andrew.
Brooklyn, though, has plenty about her life out there to be mined. I should really tell her she needs to protect herself more. She needs to adjust her privacy settings.
Though the internet’s dangers are nothing compared to living under the roof of the monster she’s married to.
How has he kept his true nature hidden from her for so long?
I peruse the Zillow page of their sweet little house.
Like so many people who assume the internet is a safe place, they haven’t taken the sales photos down from the listing.
Pets take on the looks and personalities of their owners; houses do as well.
Brooklyn Thomas Locke is well matched to her Instagram-worthy French country cottage with its white brick walls, gray slate roof, and pale-blue shutters.
Inside is lovely as well: an updated chef’s kitchen, marble double vanities, and a claw-foot tub in the main bedroom’s en suite.
The downstairs has a coveted open floor plan with coffered ceilings and timber beams. Upstairs, there is a bonus seating area and two more bedrooms that seem to be the perfect size for young children.
There’s even a smaller room that is dressed up as a nursery. It’s all charming.
I follow all of Brooklyn’s feeds and am rewarded with even more data.
Brooklyn smartly keeps the kids’ faces off her socials—it’s so dangerous for people to show off their kids in their public lives.
I don’t see any pictures of Andrew here, either.
They must have an agreement. Her feed is primarily a business account, tied to the food that she photographs and writes about.
Looking deeper—scrolling, scrolling, scrolling—I realize the branding changes.
The fabulous, travel-worthy shots from around the world come to a halt, and the food photos begin.
I check the dates—about seven years ago.
Right around when they bought the house.
Neve told me she was seven . . . So Brooklyn made a career change after her second was born.
Something that kept her closer to home, closer to her family.
They settled down like proper little suburbanites.
The anger bubbles inside me, black and rotten. Chloe should be the one living in that charming house. Chloe should have the children of Andrew’s loins. Chloe should be jetting off to an Italian vacation with her family.
Those adorable kids should be my niece and nephew—a little older, clearly, but mine.
They should have been mine, full stop. But I would have been more than happy to have them through my sister.
Life doesn’t always go as planned, does it?
This is why I don’t like kids, why they make me so uncomfortable. It’s hard to see them and not think of Chloe. She died pregnant. If she couldn’t have them, neither should I.
But these kids, his kids . . . curious and even tempered and well mannered and beautiful; well spoken for their ages, clearly precocious. Oh, to be influencing those clever minds, educating them, helping them grow into adults . . .
What their lives might have been if Andrew hadn’t murdered Chloe.
The murder scene parades in, as it always does.
No matter how I try to erase it from my memory, no matter how much time has passed, it is seared into my brain as clear as a photograph.
So much blood. Chloe didn’t deserve to die like that.
I hated her, sometimes, yes, with a passion.
That didn’t mean I wanted her to stop breathing.
I loved her much more than I hated her, though she didn’t necessarily know that. Sisters always have friction.
I don’t care what anyone says. You can love someone and still hate them, too.
Focus, Eden. Andrew has to pay for what he’s done.
And the path to retribution goes straight through his precious little family. Brooklyn and I are friends now. I am going to cultivate that friendship, and I am going to keep her safe.