Known to the Victim, page 31
I know I cannot make amends, but I would like to talk. Please call me on my private cell so we may arrange a visit.
She gives her number and then signs with a familiar flourish.
This is exactly what I wanted to read fourteen years ago when my trembling fingers tore open that first letter. I hadn’t spoken to Isabella since the incident a month earlier, and enough time would have passed for her to realize there had to be more to the story. She would contact me, and I would tell her everything. I would apologize—fall on my knees and apologize—and she would hug me and tell me it wasn’t my fault.
Of everyone I’d hurt that day, this was the trespass that kept me awake at night. Isabella had been nothing but kind to me, and I’d made a stupid and juvenile mistake. She needed to know it wasn’t what the tabloids said.
I hoped for an opening into which I could pour my apologies. Instead, her letter swam blood-red with hate and invective that sliced me open worse than any screaming tabloid headline.
And now, fourteen years later, she has sent the letter I dreamed of that day.
I read it again, and I do not fall to my knees with relief. I feel only emptiness edged with annoyance and, if I’m being honest, a hint of outrage.
Now she feels bad? Now she realizes she was wrong? Now she wants to talk to me about it?
I reassemble the package with the cashmere shrug and put it into the closet under the stairs. Then I strike another match, set the corner of the letter alight and watch it burn, charred bits dropping into the sink. When the flame warms my fingers, I drop what’s left and watch the paper curl and blacken.
Then I run water in the sink and let the tissue-thin black pieces dissolve and run down the drain.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. I grab a glass from the drying rack and fill it as Marco descends. It’s only when I turn that I see the opened envelope still on the table, with “Lucy” screaming on the front.
I dart between the envelope and the stairs.
Marco blinks at me. “Everything okay?”
I lift the glass, half-filled with water. He nods and yawns.
“You want one?” I ask.
He shakes his head. Then he sniffs. “Is something burning?”
“Outside, I think.” I wave at the open window.
When he reaches for me, I hesitate. I want to go to him, to fall into his arms and take comfort there.
I have this new life, Isabella, and you cannot touch it.
Except she can touch it. The envelope proves that, and I cannot let Marco see it. So when he reaches for me, I lift the water glass. He takes it with a chuckle and says, “I’ll put it on your side of the bed,” as he retreats.
Once he’s gone, I snatch the envelope and tuck it into a stack of music books for later burning. Then I follow him upstairs.
Chapter 4
The Hamptons 2005
The cab dropped me off at the end of a long, curving drive. Nylah had joked about Mary Poppins, but that was who I felt like as the car pulled away, leaving me standing there, clutching my bag.
This couldn’t be the right place. Admittedly, I didn’t know much about Hollywood stars, but I was certain someone of Colt Gordon’s caliber summered in a gated community, his house fenced and patrolled by gun-toting guards with Rottweilers. According to Nylah, this was a family who couldn’t take their kids to school without attracting a conga line of paparazzi. Yet here I stood, at the end of a gate-free driveway, having passed through zero security on my way in.
It had to be the wrong address.
Or I’d been scammed.
I trusted Mr. Moore, but I’d had no direct contact with Colt Gordon or Isabella Morales. I’d only been interviewed by a woman named Karla Ellis, who claimed to be Colt Gordon’s manager.
She certainly seemed like a celebrity manager, all designer pantsuits and cool efficiency. It also made sense that Colt Gordon and Isabella Morales would let their manager handle staff hiring—running background checks, getting NDAs signed—and Ms. Ellis had done all that. I might feel inadequate for the position, but if I pushed aside my lack of confidence, I did have the experience: years of babysitting, children’s music lessons and lifeguard summer jobs. Ms. Ellis had checked my references, so the job did seem real.
When she’d offered car service from the airport, I should have accepted. At least then I’d be certain I had the right place.
As I made my way down the long drive, I spotted a gardener. The front yard was clearly the work of experts—at least a half acre of rolling green lawn and gardens filled with tall grasses that swayed like ocean waves. In one of those gardens, a woman knelt, tugging weeds.
As I walked over, she twisted to toss a weed into the bucket, and I saw her face.
Isabella Morales.
I stood there, mouth opening and closing in the perfect imitation of a beached fish. She saw me—or heard the gulp-gulp of my fish breathing. As she turned, she fixed me with the smile that smote a million telenovela addicts, and I nearly did a schoolgirl swoon.
“Ms—Ms. Morales?” I managed. “I—I’m sorry for sneaking up. I thought . . .”
“That I was the gardener?”
I was about to say yes. Then I noticed her smile had dimmed, and I realized how that sounded—mistaking a Latina for the hired help. Which wasn’t the case at all—I’d only seen her back and giant sun hat.
“No,” I said. “I thought I had the wrong house. I expected . . .” I gestured like an idiot. “Armed guards and piranha-filled moats.”
She chuckled and pushed to her feet. “We leave our piranha in LA, where they feel more at home.” She peeled off her dirt-crusted gloves. “The security here is far more discreet. It’s a very small community, and the summer residents contribute generously to the local law enforcement. The neighborhood also hires private security to patrol. I’d warned them you were coming today, but I still expected—”
The buzz of a cell phone. She took it out, glanced at the screen and smiled. “And there it is. A text telling me that your taxi was spotted.” She tapped out a reply. “We’re spoiled out here. It’s a chance to give our kids the illusion of a normal life, but it really is an illusion. I’ll need to send your photograph to the security firm and the local police department, or the first time you go out walking, they’ll escort you to the village border.”
As she pocketed the phone, I got my first good look at her. She was smaller than I expected. Maybe five feet two. A scarf barely contained her long black curls. Oversized sunglasses covered half her face, but the skin below it was flawless and makeup-free. She wore a sundress under a gardening apron, and the dress showed off the curves that were as much her trademark as that smile.
Isabella Morales had the kind of figure that shouldn’t be possible—lush curves with a tiny waist. I’d read tabloid articles that insisted her waist was the result of industrial-strength corsets. Yet there was no way she had shapewear under that sundress, and the apron was cinched tight enough to show her waist in all its enviable glory. My waist might not be a whole lot bigger, but only because I had the narrow hips and chest to match.
When Isabella reached for the weed bucket, I picked it up and got a smile for that. Then she said, “The kids are out back. Colt’s inside, I think. I suppose you’ll want to meet him.”
She said it lightly, as if aiming between wry and teasing, but a note of tightness cut through.
When I didn’t answer, she glanced over, her brows rising. “Not a Colt Gordon fan?”
My face heated. “I . . . I’ve seen Fatal Retribution. The first one, at least.”
Nylah had gifted me DVDs of the other two, and I’d meant to watch them, but I’d run out of time. I stumbled on with, “I liked it. I’m just not really into action movies. I’m more a telenovela fan. Mi Hermana was just . . . It was amazing, and it got even better after you started writing for it and . . .”
My cheeks blazed, threatening nuclear-grade heat. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fangirl. I won’t do that while I’m here. I promise. I know it’d be awkward. I’m just . . . My abuela got me into telenovelas, and I’ve followed your career and—”
I swallowed hard. “God, that sounds stalkerish, doesn’t it? I’m so sorry. I’m just a fan of your career, what you’ve accomplished, and I didn’t angle for this job. I didn’t even know it was you. Mr. Moore said it was for Colt Gordon, and I didn’t recognize his name and—” I stopped in horror.
She laughed, a throw-back-her-head laugh that echoed through the yard as I prayed for the earth to open up and swallow me.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Morales,” I said. “I’m babbling, and I—”
She reached out and squeezed my upper arm. “You’re fine, Lucy. We just won’t tell Colt that you didn’t know who he is.” She grinned, dark eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry—following my career isn’t stalkerish. The real stalkers don’t give a rat’s ass about my actual achievements. Now, come and meet my family.”
* * *
Isabella led me into a cool, shady house, every window thrown wide to let the sea breeze waft through. There was nothing about the decor that screamed, “interior designer,” but it was the kind of beach house that you saw in a magazine and tacked up on your dream-life wall. Every piece of furniture whispered a siren’s call, inviting you to curl up with a book and a lemonade. Even strawberry lemonade would be fine. No need to worry about stains. This was a house for sandy feet and spilled wine and wet hair.
“Colt?” Isabella called as we walked through the living room. Then louder, “Colt?”
She turned to me and shook her head. “Either he’s gone for a run, or he’s in the exercise room. That’s what happens when you hit forty and dream of being the next James Bond. Once again, I am grateful to be working off-camera.”
Isabella opened one set of patio doors. The back wall was all window with multiple doors. She led me onto a stone deck surrounding an in-ground pool.
“Yes, we have a pool two hundred feet from the beach,” she said, sounding almost embarrassed. “The water can be cold and . . . Well, while it’s a private beach, the waterfront is public. We certainly do let the kids use the beach, but if passing boats linger, please let us know. And if you see a camera . . .”
“I’ll bring the children in immediately and let you or Mr. Gordon know.”
“Colt. He will insist on Colt, and I’ll insist on Isabella. Now, speaking of the kids, they should be right over here.”
We passed a low wall to find a boy swimming. That would be eight-year-old Jamison. He was reedy with sun-bleached hair and peeling red skin on his shoulders. The older girl reading on a lounge chair was Tiana. At ten, she had her mother’s brown skin, sturdier build and dark wavy hair.
“Jamie,” Isabella said with a sigh. “Where is your swim shirt?”
“Same place it always is,” Tiana said without glancing from her book. “Not on him.”
“I don’t need it when I’m swimming,” Jamison said.
“It’s a swim shirt, dork,” Tiana muttered. “When else would you wear it? While skydiving?”
He started to respond. Then he saw me, his freckled nose scrunching. Before I could say hello, he dove.
“That’s Jamie,” Tiana said, and now she looked up, her sunglass-framed eyes on me. “He’s not being rude. He’s just avoiding conversation, which sure, is kind of rude, but he doesn’t mean it like that.”
She set the book down and rose with a grace as mature as her words, and when she extended a hand, I hurried to shake it . . . and tripped over the leg of a lounge chair. As I stammered apologies, Tiana’s lips pressed together. She lifted her glasses onto her head, and her eyes met mine.
“We’re just kids,” she said.
Behind me, Isabella admonished her daughter, but I knew what lay behind Tiana’s very adult look of disapproval: years of people stumbling over themselves around her family, years of not being treated like a normal child. And oh, look, here was her new music tutor, starstruck already, stammering and stumbling, eager to e-mail her friends with “OMG, I’m here!!!” complete with surreptitiously snapped photos.
When she said, “We’re just kids,” I paused only a heartbeat before coming back with, “And I’m just a klutz.” I took her hand in a firm clasp. “Lucy. Your Mary Poppins for the summer.”
As I said it, I realized the reference might not mean anything to her, but she snorted and rolled her eyes.
“You gonna teach me to sing and dance on rooftops?” she asked.
“Sing, yes. As for dancing . . . you did notice me tripping over my own feet, right?”
Another snort, but some of the disapproval leached from her eyes. She lowered herself onto her lounge chair again and picked up her book. I glanced at the cover, expecting something suitably tween-friendly. It was 1984.
“Nice beach read,” I said.
The corners of her mouth twitched. “I thought so.”
Behind us, Isabella held the swim shirt over the pool edge for Jamison, who was ignoring her by swimming underwater. I kicked off my sandals, took the shirt and jumped in, not even thinking of what I was doing until the water closed over my head.
I caught Isabella’s laugh of surprise and Tiana’s muffled voice, but I stayed under, holding the swim shirt out for Jamison. He saw me, his dark eyes widening. We both surfaced, and he took the shirt with a crooked smile.
“That’s one way to do it,” Isabella said, still laughing.
I swam to the side just as feet slapped on concrete, and Tiana said, “Hey, Dad.”
I glanced up, straight into the sun, and squinted. I could only make out the shape of a man. I started to heave myself out. Then I realized I was wearing a soaking-wet sundress and dropped back into the water.
“Jamie was being a goof,” Tiana said, “pretending he couldn’t see Mom with his swim shirt. Our summer Mary Poppins fixed the problem.”
A low chuckle. “I see that.”
The figure bent at the poolside, and a hand appeared from the sun-shaded shadow. I squinted up into a face that sent a jolt of recognition through me. I might have blanked on Colt Gordon’s name, but seeing that square jaw, the cleft chin, those bright blue eyes, I instantly recognized him.
Those eyes met mine in a direct look that only lasted a second before they moved on, to my relief. I was an eighteen-year-old girl in a movie star’s house—I didn’t want to catch his attention. But he met my gaze only perfunctorily, quickly shook my upheld hand, and then rose, calling to Jamison.
“Give me a minute to change, buddy, and then I’ll join you while Lucy gets herself settled in.”
Jamison nodded, and with a peck on Isabella’s cheek, Colt strode into the house.
I exhaled and climbed out as Isabella handed me a towel.
Celeste Turner has a woman living in her shed. A woman who is definitely not supposed to be there. The local police, however, are ill-inclined to help. Celeste is a newcomer to a region of rural Florida. It doesn’t matter that her family is originally from the area or that she returned to nurse her dying grandmother. All the locals see is a “city girl” who swooped in to secure her inheritance . . . a rundown house in need of extensive repairs. Celeste needs her new life to work, and this woman is a threat to that.
* * *
Then she meets her. To her surprise, she finds out that Daisy is polite and friendly; a backpacker who is just making her way through the area. Quickly, Celeste begins an unlikely and beneficial friendship with Daisy–she can’t help herself and, besides, Daisy will be moving on to her next stop soon. Why not take advantage of the extra help?
* * *
Both women have secrets they want to keep buried, and when a body is discovered in the glades near Celeste’s house, they must move quickly to prove their innocence and protect the lives they’ve built for themselves.
* * *
You can read more about The Life She Had on my website by clicking here. You can also turn the page to read the first three chapters free!
Chapter 1
Celeste
My mother used to tell me that I can’t run away from myself. At thirty-three, I still have no idea what the hell she meant. I only know that it wasn’t intended as a gentle warning. It was a slap in the face.
No matter how hard or how fast you run, dear daughter, you cannot escape yourself.
The last time I heard those words, they’d dripped with smug satisfaction. Twenty-one years old, and I’d literally just escaped from a nightmare. Found a damned pay phone—the only one in the county—and, fingers shaking, dropped in the coins and dialed a number that made tears stream down my face, buttons blurring until I had to blink them back to continue.
I-I got away, Mom. I finally got away from him. Can I come home? Please?
Those words ignited the last shreds of my dignity, burning them to ash at my feet. I remembered the girl I’d been five years before, furious at a world—and a family—who blamed me for a tragedy that had nothing to do with me. I’d made mistakes, endless mistakes, but I hadn’t done that.
He’d believed me. The boy I met online. He believed me. Sympathized with me when I needed it, and raged with me when I needed that.
Come stay with me. Start over. They don’t deserve you. They don’t understand you. I do.
At twenty-one, I cringed at the girl who’d fallen for such obvious bullshit. At thirty-three, my anger is aimed where it belongs: at the asshole who’d targeted a desperate teenage girl. And at the mother who picked up the phone five years later.
You can’t run away from yourself.
She said that and then hung up. I never contacted her again.
