Known to the Victim, page 18
I nod, not knowing what to say.
“I don’t want to make excuses,” she says, glancing away. “My boyfriend was hundreds of kilometers away. I was lonely. Oliver was having trouble with Greta, trying to help with her depression and getting frustrated when he couldn’t. We talked, a lot, and one night . . .” She shrugs and looks away. “He felt terrible afterward. Worse than I did.”
“So it was just the one time.”
Her shoulders hunch in. “I wish I could say that, but I . . .” She takes a deep breath, as if steeling herself, before meeting my eyes. “I fell for your brother, Amy. Hard. He was having such a tough time, and I . . . made myself available.”
So she used the situation to keep sleeping with Oliver, preying on his vulnerability.
I’m good at keeping my expression neutral—I’ve interviewed people for the podcast who make my stomach churn, those who refused to believe a victim or still supported a killer—and I need to call on all that practice to keep my revulsion from showing.
“You said there was something to do with Greta’s death and Oliver,” I say.
She nods. “It wasn’t his fault. I’m just afraid this . . . thing will come out. When Greta died—”
My alarm goes off, startling us both.
“Oh!” Beth says, her eyes rounding in panic. She checks her watch. “I can stay five more minutes—”
Her phone beeps. She picks it up, and the panic in her face intensifies. She shoots a look at the front window . . . where the rideshare car that dropped her off idles.
“Oh God,” she says. “I forgot I’d prearranged pickup. Maybe she can just wait there . . .” She trails off as she sees the problem. The rideshare car is pulled over on a busy road, blocking the right lane during rush hour.
“Can you come with me?” she blurts. “I’m covering the fare through my app. The car can drop me off at the airport and then take you home. We’ll talk on the way.”
I nod and rise, and the floor seems to sway, the exhaustion sweeping over me.
Beth scrambles to grab my arm. “You okay?”
“Long night. Really shouldn’t have gotten decaf.”
I shake myself, and we head to the little car. Beth fumbles with the trunk, and a pickup driver trapped behind the car lays on his horn.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
I get the trunk open while she climbs into the back seat. I struggle to put the suitcase in. It’s not heavy—I’m just too tired to quite manage the spatial-awareness puzzle of getting it into the trunk.
The truck blares its horn again, still trapped by nonstop traffic in the left lane. I get the suitcase in and the trunk closed, and then I slide into the back seat.
The driver—a woman with frizzy hair and sunglasses—gives me a lightning-fast nod before pulling from the curb and joining traffic.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Beth asks me. “You really don’t look good.”
I don’t feel good, either. I think back to what I ate earlier. The restaurant lunch? The snack Castillo bought?
“Amy?” Beth says.
“I’m fine.” I manage the best smile I can. “Now, you were saying something about Oliver?”
“Right! Sorry. I’m a little flustered.”
“It’s okay.”
She nods and lowers her voice so the driver can’t overhear. “I think Greta found out the night she died.”
“Found out . . . ? Oh, that you and Oliver were hooking up.”
My brain really isn’t firing on all cylinders. Is it hot in here? I reach for the window, but the driver has the child lock on. Before I can ask for it to be released, Beth continues.
“Yes, about me and Oliver. I . . . I’m worried that’s what pushed her over the edge. I’m afraid she accused him of hooking up with me, and they argued, and she took her life. That doesn’t mean he’s to blame, but maybe, if he didn’t say the right things, if he tried to defend himself?”
I shake my head. “The police investigated after Greta’s suicide. Oliver was quick to cooperate. There was no sign they’d been in contact that day. The police checked both phones . . .”
My words slur, and I blink hard.
“Amy?”
“Just . . . it’s been a long day.”
“Oh my God, that’s right! Oliver was stabbed. I saw it in the news. I meant to ask how he’s doing, and I completely forgot.”
“He’s . . .” More slurring. “He’s okay.”
“That’s good. I still care about him. I mean, how could I not, right? He’s rich and hot.”
I blink at her.
She continues, “Oh! And single now, right? After that thing with his girlfriend? He must be single. Do you think I could see him? Or you could just give him my number, let him know I still think about him.” Her eyebrows waggle.
“Wh . . . what?”
“Where exactly was he stabbed?” More brow waggling. “Not any place important, I hope.”
What the hell is going on here?
My mind feels as if it’s slogging through molasses. There’s a dim awareness that something is very, very—get out of the car now!—wrong, but I feel as if I’m watching this in a movie, internally shouting at a clueless character while my butt stays firmly planted in the seat.
Wrong. So wrong. Need to get out.
I reach for the door handle, but my fingers only claw in the general vicinity, unable to grasp.
Hands grab me. I twist, panic rising far too slowly. I flail, my hands still all but useless, barely obeying. One manages to snag Beth’s hair as I try to push her back.
Beth pushes me away . . . and her hair stays in my fingers, a wig pulling half-free. She yanks it from my hand and then calmly pats it back into place.
My brain screams for me to fight, shout, anything. There’s a driver right there, in the front seat, and I can’t even make my mouth move enough to call for help, managing only a garbled sound that’s swallowed by the traffic.
Beth looks over at me, her expression distressed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t have a choice. They were threatening me, and I . . .” She sniffles. “I had to do it, or they’d have gone after my children. I’m so sorry.”
Then she rolls her eyes, and the false sniffles disappear. “Yeah, no. Not at all sorry. And screw the kids. Well, if I had any, I’d say screw them. They can fend for themselves, right?”
My mouth works, the world blinking, as if someone is flicking a light switch.
“This is about money,” she says, almost cheerfully. “Let’s just hope Oliver wants to see his little sister again, huh?”
I blink, struggling to focus. I’m sliding down in my seat. I manage to turn forward, to see the driver, my mouth opening again, trying to tell her something is wrong.
The driver pulls off her sunglasses and meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. The eyes that look back at me are so familiar my brain stutters to a complete halt.
“Night night, Amy,” Laura says, and everything goes dark.
Chapter 21
I wake three times before I accept that I’ve been kidnapped. The first two times, I startle up in a panic, only to decide I’m dreaming at home in my bed. I don’t try to sit up or turn on a light or do anything to confirm this conviction. Blame the drugs swirling in my system. I wake, and the drugs pull me back under, my brain so groggy that “dreamed I was kidnapped” seems the only explanation.
Hell, even once I’m awake enough to realize otherwise, “dreamed I was kidnapped” feels like the only answer.
Kidnapped? Really? My sister-in-law kidnapped me? Things like that don’t happen in real life. It’s like . . . Well, it’s like my sister-in-law faking her death. Or my brother being framed for attempted murder.
Or my mom being taken from a parking garage at eight a.m. and murdered by a guy she’d briefly dated.
It feels unreal. All of it does. But I know what happened to my mother is true, and I am equally certain that Oliver is being framed and that Laura is alive so . . . Is this so unbelievable?
It feels unreal because it’s happening to me. Why would Laura kidnap me?
I remember what Beth said about money. Is that what this is? A kidnapping for cash?
And who the hell is Beth? Not Greta’s former roommate. She’s the right age, but they must have known I couldn’t access much information surrounding Greta’s death.
I’d given Beth two opportunities to drug my coffee. First, when I offered to order her drink because she’d been so obviously flustered. Second, when I used the bathroom to give her privacy on a call. I’d been a decent person, and she’d taken advantage of it.
Yeah, not much point in being indignant over that. The important part is that I’ve been kidnapped.
I noticed right away that I’m not bound and gagged. I’m just in a dark room on what feels like a cot.
I’d been knocked out while we were driving through the heart of Grand Forks. Are we still there? In a house? An apartment? An abandoned building? I have no idea . . . because I was unconscious when we arrived.
If I thought I was in the city, I’d scream. But Laura is smart. If I’m not gagged, that means no one will hear me, and I’ll only alert her that I’m awake.
I take a moment to listen, hoping for some distant sound that will give me a sense of my surroundings, but it’s quiet. I inhale and smell mildew. No clues there then.
I rise slowly from the bed. Then I stand. My knees wobble—I’m still groggy—and I pause to let the light-headedness of standing pass.
Once I’ve gotten my balance, I feel my way around in the pitch dark until I touch a wall above the head of my cot. There’s another wall to my right, with the cot pushed up against it.
Hands to the wall, I follow it only a meter before reaching a corner. I continue feeling along that until there’s what feels like a doorframe. My fingers lower to a doorknob. I very carefully turn the knob, bracing against a squeak—
“Hello, Amy,” Laura’s voice says right outside my door.
I stop.
A humorless chuckle. “I can see the knob turning. I know you’re up and around.”
I still don’t answer. I’m hoping she’ll come in. That would give me a chance to do something, anything. Attack her. Push her aside and flee.
But again, she’s smart and I’d like to think I am, too.. If I’m not bound, she isn’t going to open that door.
She sighs. “You never were the brightest bulb, were you?”
I bite my tongue. She’s trying to get a rise from me, just like online when she hinted about me being “too close” to Oliver.
“I shouldn’t be surprised you ignored the message I left at your car,” she says. “I had hoped for better, but alas . . .” The door shifts, as if she’s leaning against it. “I know you never liked me much, Amy.”
“I liked you fine, Laura. You’re the one who didn’t like me.”
There’s silence. Then, “Is that what he said? Of course it is. Oh, Oliver, you are so predictable. Let me guess. He didn’t say it outright. He just hinted and insinuated while acting as if he was trying to keep you from knowing.”
I want to ignore her, chalk this up to more needling, but in my mind, I hear Martine.
I wanted to respect your boundaries, Amy, but I always thought I’d love to have a coffee with you sometime, just the two of us. Get to know you. Overcome whatever concerns you had.
I know I wasn’t what you wanted for Oliver.
I shake that off. It’d been obvious that Laura didn’t like me, and if Oliver tried to keep me from knowing, that was what any decent person would do.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I did it?” she says after a few moments of silence.
“Why you did what? Faked your own death? Shot Martine? Framed Oliver? Or kidnapped me? It’s a long list, Laura, and I’m not sure where to start.”
Another of those humorless laughs. “Seems Beth was right—you’re a little quicker these days. She’s the one who came up with that silly story about Oliver hooking up with Greta’s roomie. I didn’t think we needed to be so subtle. She’d been doing her homework, checking into you, and she thought subtlety was required. Good call, too. You’re more paranoid than I expected. Still, you did get into a car with a stranger.”
I grind my teeth. In one breath, she’s calling me paranoid—not careful or cautious but paranoid—while in the next, she’s implying I did something foolish. I didn’t. I got into a car with the proper rideshare logo, in broad daylight, during rush hour.
“Amy?” she prods.
“Why did you try to kill Martine?”
“Jealousy. She’s sleeping with my husband.” A pause. “Is that what you expect me to say?”
“No, because you left Oliver. You don’t give a shit who he’s with these days. You shot her to frame Oliver. So I guess it’s not so much a question as the fact that I can’t comprehend murdering an innocent stranger to hurt someone else.”
“Why not? Men kill their children to hurt their wives. Women kill their children to hurt their husbands. Comparatively speaking, killing a stranger is far less monstrous, don’t you think?”
I snort an answer.
“You should be nicer to me, Amy. You forget where you are. But you were always like this. The kind of girl who strolls through life, grabbing with both hands, heedless of others. Or is that the real you? You don’t seem like someone who’d care about their brother’s girlfriend getting shot more than they’d care about being kidnapped themselves. Hmm. Maybe we aren’t what we seem. Maybe we just appear that way to those whose perception is controlled by others.”
Before I can answer, Laura says, “I didn’t kill Martine. I injured her. I knew what I was doing. Someday, she’s going to look back and realize that I actually saved her. I don’t expect a thank-you card, but she’ll understand.”
“That you saved her from my brother?”
“Believe that . . . or don’t believe it, Amy. I don’t know you, despite having been your sister-in-law for two years. I still can’t tell whether you’re a victim or a co-conspirator.”
“Victim of Oliver?”
“Ah, co-conspirator then.” She cuts off my protest. “Yes, my vote is for victim. You seem far too earnest to run a podcast about predators while sheltering one. He’s using you, like he uses everyone.”
“Then explain,” I say, my voice lowering. “Explain what happened to you so I understand.”
“So you can defend him, you mean.”
“No, I—”
She cuts me short. “I’m not justifying myself to you, Amy. I don’t actually give a shit whether you believe me or not.”
“Are you saying you faked your own death to escape Oliver?”
“I’m not playing this game.”
I move closer to the door. “It’s not a game. I want to understand. You faked your death, but now you’re back for justice?”
“Still not playing.”
Yeah, she’s not playing—because she’s the one running the game.
Let’s say Laura faked her death to escape Oliver. Forget whether or not I can see him driving anyone to that. Say it happened, and that’s a fact. She flees and then, three years later, realizes she’s left a predator at large.
That happens. Women come forward years after they escaped, and then get “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Well, because their priority—understandably—was getting to safety. Once they feel safe, they may think of others in their abuser’s life, and they go back to accuse him.
That makes sense. Laura flees Oliver’s abuse and then returns to ensure other women don’t suffer at his hands. And to do that, she . . . shoots the woman she suspects he’s now abusing? Shoots her and then gives up on justice—while he’s still awaiting trial—and instead kidnaps his sister for money?
None of that makes sense.
Laura faked her own death for reasons unknown. Was she in trouble? Did she have some greater plan—a miraculous return, complete with book deal? Had Oliver done something—cheated on her, maybe—and this was her revenge?
What matters is that she’s back, and she has some vendetta against Oliver, and she’s decided she’ll settle for cash. Maybe that was the goal all along.
“What do you want from me, Laura?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.
“Nothing,” she says. “I just came to explain what’s going on so you don’t scream yourself hoarse and ruin your pretty hands banging at the door.”
I scowl. “Have I done any of that? I presume if I’m not gagged and bound, screaming and pounding wouldn’t do any good.”
“Smart girl. Maybe you’ll get that PhD after all. We’re outside the city, Amy. No one will hear you shouting, though you’re welcome to try. Best thing you can do is sit tight and wait for Oliver to pay up. Oh, and there is a light in there. I’ll let you have the challenge of finding it—give you something to do. Turn it on, and you’ll find reading material, a toilet, food and water.”
“You do know Oliver’s in the hospital, right? He can’t bring you any money.”
“He’s getting bail, just as I said he would. In a day or two, he’ll be out. Then you’d better hope he pays up.”
Chapter 22
I don’t panic. Maybe that’s the lingering drugs deadening my reaction. Or maybe it’s just common sense. Laura isn’t threatening to kill me. She hasn’t tortured me. I won’t think of what’s to come if Oliver doesn’t pay, because I know he will. He’ll pay, and she’ll let me out, and then she’ll run again. I’ll tell the police, and they’ll know who was framing Oliver, and he’ll be free. At great cost, but at least it’s only a monetary one.
I find the light. It’s a switch by the bed that illuminates a bare bulb in a socket. From that, I can see my surroundings. I’m in a windowless room, maybe eight feet long by five feet wide, like a pantry or walk-in closet. The walls are builder-beige with obvious marks where someone has hastily repaired before painting, and the floor is what looks like remnant carpet, poorly installed. A slapdash job on a house put up for sale or rental. The “no windows” part means none of that helps right now. It’s just data I can give the police later to find it for any clues.
