Page 26 of The Woman I’ve Become

When we’re feeling very, very good, we slip into the hot tangle of bodies moving to the music. Wendy pulls me close, her body sliding against mine. “I don’t know what that guy thinks the drinks are buying him,” she whispers against my ear, her lips warm and wet, “but it ain’t happening.”

We laugh and decide to give him a killer show for his generosity.

We dance, our bodies swaying together, our hips grinding . . . our arms around each other and our lips and tongues trailing over slick, hot skin. The man never takes his eyes off us. It’s crazy exciting.

I forget all about the thing Wendy said about Casey. She’s wrong . . . she just doesn’t know him.

I don’t remember going back to Westport, but Wendy took care of me. I vaguely remember thinking how lucky I was to have her as a friend.

I couldn’t know that was the beginning of the end of us.

Now

13

Westport, Connecticut

My dreams follow me as I wake. Images of the chains that shackled me . . . the sounds I held deep in my throat as he used my body to satisfy his lascivious desires. Tears I learned not to cry for fear of his punishment. I am his. He can do with me as he pleases, and I must not resist. To resist means to die.

Perhaps death would be better.

I blink away the memories and remind myself that I am here, not there. He can no longer touch me.

I shudder and force away the past—the things I have done and cannot undo—that have saturated me. I moisten my lips but it does no good. My mouth is so dry. Even my eyes refuse to open and close smoothly.

With effort I force myself up into a sitting position. I recognize this hazy, heavy feeling. The painkillers left me feeling this way. I haven’t taken one of the pain pills in more than two weeks.

This is wrong.

I glance around the room in an attempt to gather my bearings. My heart nearly stops when I notice the time. It’s morning. I slept all afternoon and night? What the hell? I grab my cell phone and confirm this. Unbelievable.

I think of the paranoia and then the paralyzing fatigue. I recognize this is more than a little disturbing as I struggle to put these events into context. I suppose the anxiety is amplifying all else. The article as well as the podcast interview were unnerving. Abruptly returning here has proven unsettling rather than relaxing.

But none of that explains this drug hangover, and that is exactly what it is. The sluggish feeling, the dry mouth . . . all of it tells the tale.

I brought along the pain medication just in case I needed it. Then the only possible answer hits me, and I move my head from side to side with the realization of precisely what is at play here.

Acacia has drugged me. It’s the only explanation. A jolt of fury stiffens my spine, and I drop my feet to the floor and stand. I sway a bit. Once I steady myself, I walk as quickly as possible to the door, open it and listen. I need to ensure my child is safe. Olivia’s sweet voice drifts up to me. It sounds as if she and Acacia have already started her school lessons for the day.

Then I brace my forehead against the doorframe. I have to pull myself together and confront her. It’s the only way. Knowing that she was put in place to watch me is one thing, but this is a step too far. This is a whole new level, and Olivia isn’t safe—I am not safe. Apparently this trip really was a bad idea.

I straighten. A shower will clear my head a little. I grab new underthings as well as jeans and a tee then head toward the bathroom. As I pass the bedside table I think of the damned necklace stashed there. No matter that it can’t be the same one, I photographed it and sent it to the PI if for no other reason than to document the event. However this ends, someone needs to know all that has happened.

I rush through a shower and dress. The tee I choose sports the logo from Olivia’s school. The jeans are worn soft, my favorites. I grab a sweater just in case. Spring in Connecticut can be cool well into June.

As I pass the dressing table and my laptop, I pause to check my email. When I hired the PI, I created a separate email for sending and receiving information. This one isn’t on my phone or anywhere else.

I swipe at my lips. I need water. I don’t want to go downstairs and disturb Olivia’s schoolwork. My gaze lands on the bedside table where a full glass of water waits. Acacia must have brought it up at some point during the night. I survey the room at large. Evidently she decided to pick up as well. I can only imagine what she thought when she saw the way I had torn the place apart.

Julia is losing it.

I wouldn’t put it past her to have taken photos to document the lapse into hysteria.

I rally the energy to walk across the room and get the glass, but I hesitate before drinking it. Who knows what she may have put in it. Instead I go to the bathroom and pour it out, then duck my head under the faucet for a drink. I wipe my mouth with the hand towel, avoid my reflection in the mirror and return to my laptop.

I enter the passcode and draw in a deep breath, then release it slowly. If I’m lucky, the news that her father was a veterinarian has helped Archer in his search. The photos of Olivia stare at me from my home screen. A smile automatically tugs at my lips. She is such a beautiful child. My heart squeezes with love for her.

I check my secret email but find nothing other than a couple of spam drops. Before closing the lid, I glance at my other email—the one with the icon in my menu. When I open it I’m surprised by the hundred and fifty new emails displayed. Presumably related to the Times article, but I can’t be sure, since they all have different subjects. Strange. I, of course, don’t recognize the sender of the first email, but I open it anyway. Just call me a glutton for punishment.