Page 72 of The Woman I’ve Become

I know just where to take her. I heard my keeper speak of this man many times—the Monster, they called him. He goes through lots of girls and is always looking for someone new. Another complaint is how he takes far too many chances rather than sticking with the strict protocol of acquisition. This works well for my plan.

Getting the duffel into the back of the minivan isn’t so easy but I manage. Then I drive to Manhattan to a corner brownstone near Columbus Avenue and leave her the same way her lover did me, except hog-tied in a duffel and at the back door of the keeper’s house.

I watch from the iron side gate, hidden by the shrubbery, to ensure the door is answered. I rang the bell multiple times. Finally the ogre of a man steps outside, stares at the duffel for a moment before sliding the zipper just far enough to see what’s wiggling inside. He glances around and then wheels it inside.

“Enjoy your new life, friend,” I murmur as I make my way back to where I parked. I drive away without a backward glance . . . without a glimmer of guilt.

I go back to the borrowed house and clean up any trace of my presence there. The next morning I return the rented minivan. But rather than take off out west somewhere as planned, I go to the drugstore and pick up a box of hair color. I think I’ll spend the summer in Europe. My old friend’s not going to need that vacation.

Not until three months later, only a few days before the scheduled date to return to the US, I realize what I want to do next. All summer I’ve posted photos on Julia’s social media, always careful to capture an angle that doesn’t reveal too much of my face, though admittedly we do look quite similar. I also study her previous posts. The way she dresses now. The makeup. The way she wears her hair.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror of the Paris apartment where I’ve spent most of the summer.

It’s the perfect plan. I will become Julia.

I get a new life and a direct path to Casey Duval.

I cannot wait to watch him die.

Now

31

Westport, Connecticut

Every cell in my body stops doing whatever it does. It’s her. The red hair—auburn, she would insist—the blue eyes, the ones that were always the tiniest bit lighter than mine. The pale skin and barely there sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheekbones that she hated and kept covered with concealer.

Then I note the changes. A few threads of gray have invaded her hair. The scar on her left cheek. The two fingers on her right hand that are not quite straight. She is so very thin. Her jeans hang on her bony hips. A pale-blue sweater sags against her skeletal torso.

I moisten my lips, force myself to take a breath. “Julia. I wish I could say it’s good to see you, but it’s not.”

She sits down on the sofa. Her hireling joins her there while I remain bound to the dining-room chair that was dragged into the room for that express purpose.

What do I say to the best friend I haven’t seen in so many years? To the one who left me to an unimaginable fate.

Why beat around the bush? I’ll just get right to the point.

“What do you want?” I stare at the two, waiting to see who’s going to have the balls to just say it.

I’m dead—that’s the end game. I get that part. But I need to know what else is on the agenda before the big finale. There are numerous other steps necessary first. I’ve considered this at length.

Julia laughs softly. “Just one thing, and it’s damned sure not some fictionalized memoir.”

Evidently she watched the podcast. Maybe she’s one of the many who left nasty comments. I mentally roll my eyes and wait on the edge of my seat for the rest. The seconds tick off like little bombs in a minefield. I resist the urge to sigh. She needs to spit it out.

“I want my life back.”

Of course she does. “I’m afraid that one might be a little tricky.”

“You heard her,” Acacia or whatever her name is—oh yeah, Alicia—demands. “You are living her life, and she wants it back.”

I imagine it’s more about the trust fund than anything else. Oh and this house. I doubt Julia is interested in Phillip or my child.

I force all the emotion out of my head and press my lower back against the chair so I can feel the security of the gun I tucked there. Thankfully they didn’t find it. I doubt they even checked. More of that overconfidence.

Forcing more strength and courage than I feel into my voice, I ask, “So what took you so long?”

Julia glares at me. “You know the answer. It’s a miracle I survived what you did to me.”