Page 4 of The Woman I’ve Become

The reality is that no one, not even Phillip, has the vaguest idea just how bad this could actually become. The full weight of that knowledge sits squarely on me. If I can’t alter its trajectory . . . it will likely cause immense damage.

Certainly it could be the end of me. I almost laugh at the idea. Not the first attempt, by any means.

A shard of pain slices through my hip and has me gritting my teeth. I shift on the sofa to a more comfortable position. Whatever else might be impacted by this, my primary concern is for Olivia. She shouldn’t have to go through what is no doubt coming. Phillip, either, if I’m being completely fair.

“You will need to talk about the accident and perhaps revisit your decision regarding the other,” he announces after another lingering silence. “It’s the only way to frame this mess in any sort of sympathetic light. Combine that with the nightmare you went through back then, and we’ll have them all cheering for our family.”

A new thread of uncertainty weaves its way through me, along with the usual second thoughts that come with this territory. I want to stand my ground and insist on my privacy. For the love of God, it’s me who almost died in that car accident. And yes, I have toyed with the idea of the other—publishing a memoir about the worst time in my life. But I’m just not ready to have the world talking about it again.

Still, this is war, and any sign of weakness is less than optimal. Drastic measures are necessary.

Admittedly, loathe though I am to do so, in this instance, he may very well be right. It’s likely the only way to derail this coming disaster in the public forum. It’s the first line of defense in any political battle, really—distraction.

I draw in a breath. “We’ll do whatever we must to combat this disgusting attack.”

“No matter the damage control we do,” he counters, his expression grave, “there will still be questions.”

As if I don’t understand how this works. “Of course.”

“Talia Brant owes me a favor. I’ll have her contact you about an interview for her podcast. She has millions of followers, here and nationally. The sooner we get in front of this and shift the narrative, the better.”

I cringe but keep my voice optimistic. “Whatever you think is best.”

Phillip gets a call, so the discussion ends on that painful note. I exhale a lungful of air, grateful for the momentary reprieve.

I haven’t spoken about that part of my past with a reporter or anyone else in a very long time. I have consistently refused their calls for interviews. Ignored the pleas for a memoir from publishers. But now I stare at my phone and the email Phillip forwarded to me . . . at the words that have shaken our calm, happy world and will be printed in tomorrow’s issue of The New York Times for all to see.

She lied about everything. Julia Anderson, now esteemed Dr. Julia Belmont—wife to the front-runner in the city’s mayoral race—was never kidnapped. She was hiding out with her lover, who was involved with the serial killer known as the Judge. Just how much does she know about what happened to all those murdered young girls? Did she help decide who was next? This heinous secret can no longer stay buried.

Images flash like lightning strikes in my brain. The chains . . . the leather stinging my flesh. My cries for mercy and eventually for death. I grit my teeth and force the memories away.

Someone has risen from their dark hidey-hole, and countermeasures are required. Painful, yes. Essential, no question. The true issue at the center of this is simple: As long as there is anyone still breathing who knows your secrets, they will show themselves at the most inopportune time.

The possibility has always been just one step behind me. But that isn’t the worst of it, really. There are certain things I can never allow to be inadvertently revealed. The glint of sharp steel and deep-red splats of blood flicker before my eyes like a viral reel in a social media feed.

No one can ever know. I will die first.

How utterly paradoxical, I realize, since I almost did die just three months ago. But I didn’t. And now I must do whatever it takes to protect Olivia.

Nothing else matters.

I know just how to do that.

3

True to his word, Phillip arranged the interview for the very next morning. It was almost providential. Talia Brant was happy to clear her schedule and to delay the podcast she had scheduled for this upcoming Friday. She is eager to get the interview done and prepared for that newly vacated timeslot.

How lucky for me.

I have scarcely thought of anything else or even slept since Phillip shared the news with me yesterday that the article was being published. As anticipated, the Times refuses to share its source with our attorney. For endless hours last night, I scoured the internet in search of anything new related to the events of twenty years ago.

There was nothing beyond the usual rehash of old news. Nothing on the player who is my primary concern. It’s possible that she is dead but shared the secret before dying. Not likely—the dead part, I mean. I couldn’t be that lucky. Someone new to the equation with only secondhand knowledge would be far easier to manage, but that scenario is even more unlikely.

It must be her. My instincts won’t let go of the idea.

I imagine her lurking about nearby to watch my seemingly perfect world crumble. Knowing her as I do, there is unquestionably much more trouble coming.

She fooled me once, but she will not fool me again.