Page 13 of The Woman I’ve Become

But that wasn’t the last occasion Rick touched base with me. This need he has to check on me is just one of the reasons why I keep my distance.

Yet here we are. Again. With my story in the media and him at my door.

“Rick, it’s good to see you.” I accept a hug to punctuate the lie. He lingers longer than necessary, as always.

When he draws back, I note that he remains fit at fifty-three. A bit of gray is sprinkled in his sandy hair. Unlike Phillip, who keeps the appearance of aging at bay by whatever means necessary—primarily a top-notch colorist and Botox. Rick’s brown eyes are still sharp, and his smile remains ever charming.

Years ago he assured me that he would never let the Judge case go . . . not until the bastard was found. I wonder how that’s going?

He hasn’t mentioned the case to me in ages.

“You look great,” he says. He gives me a head-to-toe-and-back once-over, and then his smile slips. “Phillip brought me up to speed on the article.”

“I’m sure you read it,” I say, knowing full well he did. I close the door and set the lock before turning to him once more.

He nods. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Get the Times to reveal their source.” I smile and lead the way into the living room, where he ushers me to the sofa as if he fears I may drop at any moment. This is yet another part of recovery that I hate. I was broken, yes, but I’m healing. “Or perhaps print a retraction.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.” He settles next to me.

“What are your thoughts on the article?” I ask, taking a stab from another direction. I’ve always found Rick to be somewhat difficult to read. His training, I suppose.

He exhales a big breath. “Anyone who worked your case knows every word is bullshit. You couldn’t possibly have been associated with the man who killed those girls.” He shakes his head. “The very idea is ludicrous. You were just a kid. The serial killer we dubbed the Judge would have been much older. Not someone you would have socialized with.”

Interesting assessment, under the circumstances. “Since he was never identified or captured,” I say, “someone has to be the bad guy. I guess it’s going to be me since I’m the only one who walked away from that nightmare.”

“Sadly.” He nods, then a frown furrows his brow. “The part that surprises me is that you decided to come here. Do you think this is a good idea? There are lots of people in this town who still remember the case but who might not recall the facts properly—who might believe this crap.” Hard lines of worry mar his face. “There are a lot of vulnerabilities with this location, even with the gate and the rent-a-cop.”

This decision was the only good idea in all this, I opt not to say. “You’re here,” I remind him. Rick lives in Westport. He moved here with his wife and kids a few years after the investigation fizzled out. He claimed he fell in love with the place after working the Judge case.

The case that turned my life upside down . . . ended it, for all intents and purposes. It was years later before I was able to really live again. And now here I am, hunkering down once more.

My gut clenches. The case was never technically closed. It has been inactive for the better part of two decades. But for a time, it was the case everyone was focused on. The Judge was all the media talked about. Families in the tristate area struggled to keep their daughters safe. Constant warnings were issued on the news and the radio for five terrifying years, during which time a dozen young women—girls, really—were murdered. Despite the extensive multi-agency investigation, no one was able to stop the Judge.

Until me, it seems. Aren’t I the hero?

Perhaps in a twisted sort of way, I am. No one has a damned clue what I had to do to make that escape all those years ago. Even as I think this, the vivid recall of blood slipping down my naked body—of my footprints in that same crimson fluid—floods my being.

“He could be here as well,” Rick points out, drawing my attention from the disturbing thoughts and back to him.

Ah, yes, the FBI toyed with the conclusion that this monster, who destroyed so many beautiful young women, lived on one of his hunting grounds. The truth is, he could be anywhere. As far as the world knows, he could still be kidnapping and killing young women using a different MO—one that doesn’t lead back to his other work. Or perhaps he has merely evolved beyond the need to show off his handiwork. People go missing every minute of every day. There is rarely any sort of connection among them or any resolution for the families.

Sometimes bodies or remains are found, and sometimes they are not. Even after being found, some bodies are never identified. More cases of the missing go unsolved than not.

Any one of those victims could be another of the elusive serial killer called the Judge.

But I have my reasons for doubting this.

“There hasn’t been a single abduction or murder attributed to his MO in two decades,” I remind him, fully aware that he knows this better than me. I mean, he was an FBI special agent, and he worked the case.

“True, but sometimes serial criminals change their MO for that very reason.”

I almost smile at the idea that he read my mind. “I’m aware.”

“He never left a single shred of evidence, and no one ever survived to talk about what happened.” Rick looks to me. “Until you.”

“And I was no help to the investigation.”