Nineteen
One Year Later
Dear Calla, People always say you can’t live in the past, but I think that’s crap. The past is what defines us and makes us who we are. Why does the past get such a bad rep? ~Signed Stop Hating
Once upon a time there was a girl who spent years hiding in the dark. She trusted the shadows more than she trusted the monsters in the light. Unfortunately, the longer she hid, the more confident she became, until one day she decided to tiptoe out of the shade and re-engage with the world she left behind. Ironically, the devil is the first one to greet her on the other side.
A bead of water slips down between my shoulder blades, and I focus on the cool trail it leaves behind. Every other part of me hums with such a heated, electric charge that I wonder whether I can use the current to my favor—maybe electrocute the son of a bitch across from me.
I don’t know how long my lawyer has been stretched out on my couch, waiting for me to get out of the shower. I do know that my gasp of surprise was the last time I took a breath. Shawn Rethers has yet to say a word. While movies usually depict women screaming and yelling at intruders, I’m too paralyzed to even shift from my place by the kitchen counter. I could run into the bathroom or my bedroom, but neither door has locks. He blocks the door with his casual stance daring me to try to get past him.
When he takes in a breath, I finally release my own. He shifts his body and leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees. The knees of his jeans look worn, like he’s sat this way countless times. His black long-sleeved shirt strains against his wide girth, and when he tilts his head, rolls of fat punctuate his neck. With the top three buttons of his shirt open, I can see the top half of a gold cross sticking out from his collar.
For some reason, this one detail sticks with me. A man who wears a cross has faith in God—has faith that he’ll be judged for his sins at the end of his life. Maybe I can remind Shawn about the whole not killing part of the Ten Commandments, and we can read the Bible together and have a good laugh about his forgetfulness. By the brutal way he stares at me, he definitely needs the reminder.
Sixty-two days ago, I was driving back to my apartment in Raleigh, North Carolina and received a text from Mila. Then one from Jacob. Then another from a number I didn’t recognize.
OMG! Call me! Ding dong, the dick is gone!
Get your ass home.
It’s over.
The minute I pulled into the narrow parking spot assigned to my upstairs apartment, my cell rang, and someone identified themselves as a Baltimore County detective.
“There’s been a bit of development in your case, Ms. Kennedy. Someone has come forward and—” the man paused and changed the tone in his voice, “—claimed responsibility for the creation and distribution of your videos.”
The air in my basement apartment instantly grew heavy as I sat up, my hand gripping my phone tighter. “Who?”
There was a beat of silence before the detective said quickly, “Your lawyer, Shawn Rethers, had your boyfriend, Mr. John Seder, under video surveillance for a different case his firm was working on. When he reviewed the films, he manipulated the videos and…”
I don’t remember standing. I don’t remember walking over to my vanity or gripping the edge of the frame. Living a nightmare had blurred the lines between my reality and imagination, and I didn’t know where one started and one ended. I stared at my reflection like I needed to ground myself in the moment—like I needed a witness to assure me I wasn’t dreaming.
And now, three hundred miles and fifty days later, my nightmare sits in front of me, putting his filthy shoes on my brand new couch.
“Been a long time, Calla.”
I hate the way he says my name in a sensual, familiar voice like we were once lovers who shared more than mutual loathing.
“You better not have hurt my fucking dog.” I must mentally overcompensate for the dissonance in his voice because I wind up sounding like a man who smokes twelve packs a day.
The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his mouth tips into a derisive sneer. “Dog’s fine. Bit of an attitude problem. You really should’ve socialized him more when he was a puppy. Had to give him a little something to calm him down, but I don’t hurt dogs. Not my thing.”
He stands after much effort and my stomach rolls. While he’s a good few inches shorter than me, his large stomach had covered the gun sticking out of his waist band. Now that he’s standing, the metal gleams against the pendant lighting above my couch.
He must notice the renewed fear in my features because he glances down at the gun. He nods like he’s acknowledging its presence then walks over to my entry table and flips through the books neatly stacked on the edge.
“Let me be the first to welcome you back to Maryland.” He looks over his shoulder, his eyes looking playful. “I even bought you a welcome home present.”
He turns around and crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. Anger has slipped from his expression, and it’s been replaced by a strange sort of dullness. While he had initially looked like he was waiting for the right moment to pump me full of bullets, he now looks calm enough to be a pizza delivery guy waiting for his tip.
Instead of a tip, I know he’s waiting for me to ask him the most obvious questions, but I can’t bring myself to follow his script. I can’t bring myself to do anything except tighten the belt of my bathrobe.
Shawn feigns patience, but after thirty seconds of silence, he shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me. He motions to the couch as if he’s inviting me to sit, but insolence keeps me frozen in place. When he motions again—this time using his gun—my knees buckle and I stagger over and sit on the edge of the cushion.
He walks over to the arm chair and sits, lazily putting the gun in his lap. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and just studies me like I’m some sort of puzzle he needs to solve. After a dozen quiet seconds, he loudly sighs, and I jump at the sound. Putting both feet on the ground, he leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his stomach once again covering the gun.
“Would it help if I told you it wasn’t personal?”
Fear and anger knot together, making it feel as though my stomach has been anchored to a heavy weight. His words repeat over and over inside my mind, and every repetition breaks down some of the panic spiraling too close to the surface.
My fingernails dig deep into my palms and the pain gives me a false sense of control over the situation. “You had an entire library of digital images, hundreds of hours of video surveillance, photographs, so much incriminating evidence you could’ve used against countless clients. You were sitting on a landmine of information that could’ve ruined anyone you wanted to. Instead you chose Seder. You chose to use me. So, no, don’t tell me it wasn’t personal. Just tell me why it was so personal.”
He shrugs, unimpressed by the malice in my voice. “Believe what you want, but no, this wasn’t personal. You were just a name on a piece of paper. Someone I was told to ruin.”
The shock of his words hits me full force and my head snaps back like he smacked me across the face. I shake my head as if recovering from the blow. “Wait. What? The police said you were tracking John...”
A satanic smile spreads across his lips as he shakes his head.
I grab the collar of my bathrobe as wave after wave of defeat crashes down on top of me. “All of this. This was all about Drew? Some kid who tried to make money off of virginities? You did all of this because of him?”
He sits back and rubs his back against the chair like he has an itch he can’t reach. “No. I did all of this because of In Ruinam.” He pauses, I assume for effect, and then tips his head to the side. “Don’t suppose you heard about them in that cramped little apartment in North Carolina.”
I grip the edge of the cushion beneath me as a warning voice whispers in my head. Run.
“Raleigh was a good choice, Calla. Thousands of people you could’ve met—could’ve started over with. Except you hid behind those tacky yellow curtains only talking to your landlord and that nosey neighbor who never let you take out the trash in peace.”
My eyes snap closed as I try to hide how shaken I am by his words. I had thought Raleigh was a good choice too. I loved everything about the apartment, but it never felt like home. While I spent my days writing, reading, and being the paid caretaker for the woman who lived above me, I couldn’t shake the paranoia that followed me everywhere I went. I couldn’t stop the compulsions, the constant thoughts that kept me glued to the small space, always feeling like someone was lurking just outside the walls, waiting for me to step outside.
Shawn claps his hands, pulling me out from behind my eyelids. His features become more animated as he rubs his hands together. “Ms. Kennedy, may I present In Ruinam? In Ruinam, may I formally present Ms. Kennedy for discharge?”
I don’t know what I expect by his grand display, but nothing happens.
I stare at him, not wanting to be caught off-guard by whatever he’s planning. He motions to the table by my front door, and I slowly turn my head. An awareness crashes down over me when I see a small black box sitting on top of my stack of books. Narrowing my eyes, I try to make sense of what I’m looking at and that’s when I see the green light blinking on the corner of the box.
Tapping a beat against his knee, he stifles a yawn with his other hand. “Let’s go back to the night you met Seder. You were late meeting the teachers from your school because you got stuck behind a chicken truck. You showed up and your car was covered in feathers.” He sits back and laughs. “Your Cooper looked like a freaking hen by the time you got to the bar. Probably why you didn’t eat the chicken wings when someone had them sent to your table.”
He laughs again and shakes his head. “I voted for roast chicken, but the kitchen staff only had wings.” He shrugs, “Totally worth it when they delivered the appetizers to your table. Bar was dark as anything, but I thought you were going to pass out right there on the sticky floor.”
Confusion continues to derail my thoughts as I try to follow his confession. “The night I met Seder? You were there?”
An image of the wood-paneled bar comes into focus. Peering around the mental image, I remember watching Seder walk in. He stood tall and formidable with his cropped hair and tight T-shirt. His cargo pants accentuated his narrow waist, but his tattoos were the most alluring thing about him. He looked like the model bad ass, the quintessential man I would want in my bed and life.
I watched him straddle the back of a chair and held my breath when he scanned the room as he tipped back his beer. The minute his eyes met mine, I knew I wasn’t going home alone that night.
“He had the waitress bring you a dirty martini. You had only been drinking a diet coke, so you were surprised he knew what you really wanted.”
I can’t stop the gasp from slipping out between my lips.
He nods as though he understands my surprise. “Funny story really. I don’t suppose you remember a certain doll dressed in a hula skirt? Some college kids supposedly voted and crowned you Hottest Blogger or something like that.”
Blood drains from my face, and I sway slightly on the couch.
He digs under his fingernails with his opposite hand. “That’s how Drew and his buddies first got access to your house. Stroke of luck that your best friend put that on your mantel. They had full view of most everything in your apartment.”
I’ve lost all sense of time and space as the truth collapses in on me. I struggle to breathe around the pressure growing in my chest. I don’t feel strong enough to stand, to move, to speak. Instead I sit rooted to the edge of the cushion stripped of all defenses.
Shawn looks up from his fingers and taps his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Not looking so good there, princess. How about I gloss over some of the details so that we can get to the good stuff? Drew did some of the preliminary work, but we upgraded the surveillance when we were assigned to your case.”
He waves. “I’m not saying the boy didn’t collect great data. In full disclosure, we used quite a bit of it to write the perfect script for your life. But once In Ruinam became involved, we couldn’t allow any room for error. He was cool with it. I mean as cool as a sociopath can be.”
“Jesus.” Tears roll down my cheeks, but I don’t bother wiping them away. This man has witnessed every side of me—every emotion, every pain, every indiscretion.
I’m surprised by his pause. For the first time, Shawn looks open, honest, like someone’s son, brother, friend. He looks at me almost like we switched seats, and I’m the demon he’s trying to outrun.
He blinks, breaking the moment and then hides behind a blank expression. A hint of color on his cheeks is all that remains. “I wanted respect. I wanted power. And the only way to get that in my world is with In Ruinam. I cashed you in, ruined your whole life, and now I will have access to everything I’ve ever wanted. So no, it wasn’t personal. But it was fun.”
His momentary lapse in egotism messes with my humiliation, allowing fury access to my mind. I grind my teeth and say slowly, “What the fuck is In Ruinam?”
Shawn winks as if commending me for flawlessly delivering a line of his script. “In Ruinam is power and control. They’re the men responsible for the success of our governor and mayors, prosecutors and police. They’re the building blocks for some of the greatest businesses in Baltimore, stealing from the rich and giving to the richer. Blackmail, lawsuits, larceny, theft, A&B, B&E. You name it, they use it. They’re specialists, the great puppeteers of the business world, and their only objective is to control the lives—the bank accounts—of as many people as possible.”
I smack the pillow next to me, letting my anger rise to shattering levels. My breath hitches in my throat as I scream, “What does this have to do with me?”
He smiles like he’s once again pleased by my response. “Wondering when the fight would come out.”
I gesture to the gun. “If fight is what you’re looking for, put the gun away, and I’ll fight you for hours. I’ll even throw in a few punches if that’s what you’re gunning for.”
He cocks his head as if he’s considering the offer but keeps his tight-lipped smile in place. “Enticing but unnecessary. While you like to think your upper cut is as strong as your exercise instructors back in Raleigh, you couldn’t bruise a fly.”
Shock mixes with an odd sense of anger as I lean forward, mimicking his earlier stance. “Care to test out that theory?”
He chuckles and shakes his head, ignoring the hit to my pride. “I’ll make you a deal. I finish what I need to do, and we’ll go a few rounds.”
I keep my face calm and focused while my pulse thunders just under the skin. Gesturing to the floor between us, I raise my eyebrows in mock surrender.
He bends his head as if bowing. “Gratias tibi. Calla Kennedy, I am your Sicarius.”
Curiosity overrules self-preservation as I lean forward and bite out my question. “Is that just a pompous way of saying that you’re a sicko? News flash. I already knew that.”
I watch as a slithering smile sweeps across his features, sending a new round of chills to every inch of my skin. He sticks his tongue between his teeth, looking playful, but the room feels heavier, like the immediate threat intensifies the longer he’s silent. With a quick arch of his eyebrows, he whispers, “I'm your assassin.”