As Sick as Our Secrets

by A B Whelan

  She pulls at her hair. “Then yell at me. Tell me that if I don’t change, I’ll never see you again. Tell me what I’m doing is wrong,” she screams, fat tears rolling down her puffy, red face.

  “If I tell you the truth, you’ll be offended. I’ve learned my lesson in my fifteen years living here.” I put my hand on the door handle.

  Ashley presses her hand against the door to stop me.

  “Try me. Maybe honesty is exactly what I need,” she whispers, wiping the tears from her eyes.

  I turn around and press my back against the door. “Okay. It’s honesty you want. Are you sure?”

  She bobs her head up and down vehemently, avoiding my eyes.

  “You know nothing about me. My life is everything but perfect. It never was. Ever since I was a little girl I had every reason to turn to drugs, to block out the pain, to numb my mind. You have a difficult life? Try living with an alcoholic father who beats your mother, your brother, and you on daily basis. Try growing up without proper care or food, when you go to bed so hungry that the acid burns in your stomach.” I step forward, closer to Ashley, and she backs up. Smart girl. “Nobody paid for my college. I had to struggle my way through it alone because I was determined to get an education and get the hell out Gävle. I tried and tried, but I couldn’t earn enough by bussing tables or selling jewelry in the mall to support myself. And forget about having any fun. I studied and worked until I thought I was going mad. I found my way out of my financial troubles eventually. Do you have any clue how a college girl with no parental support makes money to survive while going to a decent university full time?”

  She shrugs. I know she has a guess, but she won’t say it. Prostitution is too taboo.

  “I went to Dubai as part of an organized hooker flight. I was one of twenty-five girls who were delivered to the sheikh’s palace, where we had to strip naked in front of everybody and gather in the garden. About seventy Arabic men sat on chairs around us and threw tennis balls at us as hard as they could. We had to bend over and pick them up. That’s how they selected the girls they wanted to fuck.

  “I was selected. That meant I had to spend the next ten days in a locked room where I was visited by dozens of men each day. They don’t do this for pleasure. They hate the Western world, and that’s their way of raping Europe—by buying beautiful, intelligent white women and doing things to them that are too painful to talk about.”

  The shock turns Ashley’s face pale. She puts a hand over her mouth. I know what she’s thinking. She meets men on Tinder and asks them to tie her up for fun. I don’t loathe her for it. She grew up in a bubble. Her perspective has never been broadened.

  “I’m so sorry, Olivia. I didn’t know.”

  “Well, it’s not something you share over lunch. But don’t feel sorry for me. There were girls there who had it much rougher than I did. Girls who had to be fixed up by a surgeon before they could return home.”

  “That’s messed up. Is it even legal?”

  “We got paid. The same thick envelope was handed to all of us regardless of how much we had to work.”

  “But you guys did this to finish college, right?”

  “Well, I did. Most of the girls I knew there had big plans too. We didn’t keep in touch, but I heard that many of them spent their hard-earned money on drugs and partying. I didn’t. I couldn’t let myself be sucked into that world. I was so determined to shake off my shackles and live a life any decent human being deserves.”

  Ashley touches my hand. “How could you forget that life? How could you move on?”

  I pull away from her touch and straighten my back. “You just do. You focus on what’s good in life instead of crying over what’s bad, what has happened.”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “No. I gotta go. I haven’t had lunch yet, and I’m due back at the office.”

  She starts toward the kitchen. “Let me throw some lunch together for you.”

  That’s exactly the reason I don’t tell people about my past. I don’t need to be babied or pitied.

  “Don’t worry about it, Ashley. I came over because I did a little digging at the foundation, and I found a few interesting things.”

  “I’m sorry. I envy you for being so strong. For me, it’s not that easy to deal with my demons.”

  I don’t roll my eyes, even when I want to. I won’t comment either.

  “Did Betty contact you? Has she gone to the police station?”

  She rubs the back of her neck. “I don’t know. I need to check my phone.”

  “Well, let me know.” I make a second attempt to leave the apartment.

  “Aren’t you going to share what you dug up?”

  I look at her for a long time, debating. “Maybe later, if you sober up.”

  “I’m fine.” She trips over a barstool on her way to me.

  “Like I said. Later.”

  “You know, my life is not as picturesque as you may think. Everything I have is from my parents. I can’t take a fucking step without their approval,” she says bitterly, almost aggressively.

  I have nothing to say.

  “I never wanted to go to Berkeley or to be a psychologist. But if I don’t do what they ask of me, they’ll cut me off. How am I supposed to live without their money?”

  “Like everybody else.” I raise an eyebrow. “You’re thirty-two years old. It’s about damn time you stand on your own two feet.”

  She scoffs. “It’s easy for you to say. You have your husband supporting you.”

  She went too far, touched a nerve. I feel my neck twitch, my anger rise.

  “How would you survive without your husband’s money?”

  I know what she’s doing. She’s deflecting her failures onto me.

  “Well, I’m about to find out soon enough,” I say, buttoning up my coat.

  She pours herself a glass of water and chugs it down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I take in a long, deep breath, the kind that requires you to bend your head back and close your eyes. Sometimes you must jump into cold, deep water headfirst. That’s what I’m doing now. I’m ready to jump.

  I step in front of her, look her deep in the eyes, and say, “I believe Richard is the Fifty Shades Killer.”

  *****

  I walk the corridors of The Good Samaritan Foundation a different person. It’s as if a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders. The veil of blind uncertainty and itching curiosity no longer hangs like a cloud over me. At last, Richard’s behavior makes sense to me. As much of a disturbing revelation as it is, it clears things up for me and places my soul at ease.

  When I spot him—his shoulder pressed against the doorframe, arms resting intertwined on his chest, waiting for me—the image becomes clearer. That hazy, well-disguised aura around him is gone and the monster within has stepped into the limelight. Richard, my husband, is the Fifty Shades Killer.

  Once I accepted the certainty—somewhere between talking to Ashley and driving back to work—I regained my confidence.

  Richard is not the first confused and lost man I’ve had to deal with in my life. Most of the men around me have been weak and pathetic and have used violence to conceal their weaknesses. With Richard, his punctuality dancing on the brink of madness, his lack of patience with others’ mistakes, his pathological need for privacy, for secrecy—it was all designed to keep his secret. He remained able to hold dozens of threads dangling from his hands without tangling them.

  After I convinced Ashley that my suspicions about Richard were based on facts—the sketch of Skyler’s rapist, the victims’ nearly empty files at the foundation, Skyler’s handbag in Richard’s car—it was much easier for me to accept reality as well. It’s not me who has gone mad. It’s my husband who is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The revelation is liberating.

  For a decade, I’ve been living with the tormenting thought that I wasn’t a good enough woman for my husband. Or that it was me who brings out the animal in the men I encou
nter. But it’s not me who’s a deviant. It’s the men I attract. I have a superpower that is bad for my health. I am a magnet for violent men.

  I move confidently toward my husband, because now that I have pinpointed the faults in our relationship and in his character, I’m no longer afraid of him. I now have an ace in my hand.

  “Where did you go for lunch?” he asks as he peeks at his watch, indicating that I was away for longer than consumption of a quick hot dog or sandwich would require.

  I know he expects me to lie, but I won’t be doing that anymore. More than once in the past week I’ve felt someone watching me. I’m darn sure it was Richard who put a tail on me. He already knows the answer to his question. He’s just testing me.

  “I actually drove over to Ashley’s place to discuss a few things, but she had nothing edible in her refrigerator, so I picked up a chicken salad at El Pollo Loco on my way back to the office,” I say, looking him straight in the eyes.

  He doesn’t comment on my lunch adventures, but part of his body language gives him away. The creased brow, the clenched jawline underneath his skin—all are signs of his disapproval. I know he won’t make a scene at his office.

  “Come in for a second.” He waves me into his office. “I’d like to show you something.”

  He leads me to his desk where his silver computer screen glistens in the sunlight like a jewel-covered box. On the screen, there is a profile picture of a mountain cabin listed on the popular vacation-rental website Airbnb.com.

  “What do you say we celebrate your first day at work with a short getaway?” he asks, this time succeeding in exhibiting a completely unreadable expression on his face. I can’t distinguish his true intentions: does he plan to drink wine and eat cheese in front of a fireplace with me, or does he plan to bury me in the woods off a beaten path where nobody will ever find me?

  “Where is this place?” I lean in closer to the screen, taking in as much information as my memory can handle.

  “El Capitan Canyon, north of Santa Barbara. It looks like a solitary place where we could unwind, get in touch with nature, ourselves. No cell phones. No e-mails. No work. Only you and me. What do you say?”

  I scroll through the posted images showing a romantic log cabin where the massive, snow-burdened canopies of ancient oak trees cast shadows over winding roads stretching out for miles. Which one of these secluded sites will be my final resting place?

  In the backdrop behind the tall pine trees, there is a towering mountain, the El Capitan. Does Richard plan to push me to my death once we reach the top?

  Once again, fear and uncertainty wash over my confidence, and my mind flares up with brutal images. I have a gun, I assure myself, but it brings me no relief.

  “I don’t know. What if we get buried in the snow and get stuck on the mountain for weeks? Don’t you have to get back to work?”

  Jessica pokes her head in the doorway, rapping on the wooden doorframe lightly, probably only doing so because I’m here. “Mr. Walton is on the line for you.”

  “I’ll call him back.” Richard flicks his hand at her. His reaction comes as a surprise to Jessica, as her face loses color and her shoulders droop. Her pointy eyes connect with mine, but I can tell she didn’t mean to stare me down; it was an unintended reaction.

  “Look, you’re busy. We talk about this later, okay?” I implore, backing from his desk. “I don’t need to be celebrated,” I add, clearly stating that I have no desire to exchange the safety of the busy city for an uninhabited hunting cabin.

  Richard closes the tab in his browser, and the pictures of the cabin are replaced with the company’s web page. “Well, I already booked it. We’re leaving tonight.” He lifts his phone receiver from his desk. “I’ll call Walton back, and then I’ll take you home to pack.”

  “What about food?” I ask an inane question to stall.

  “Margit is taking care of it.”

  Here we go again. My childhood all over again. Men order me around. My life is not my own. I’m a faithful dog trained to withstand abuse and do as I’m told.

  Betty

  FRIDAY

  Electrified by the success of my open house—which is a result of the current local hot market situation and not my professional skills—I arrive home to meet Cathy, a folder full of brochures and notes tucked under my arm. The plastic smell of microwave dinner welcomes me in the foyer. My sister, leaning over the countertop in the kitchen, is munching on Alfredo pasta with chicken and broccoli from a Lean Cuisine box while Brad and all five kids spoon greasy macaroni and cheese into their mouths.

  “How did it go?” she asks through a mouthful of food.

  “Better than expected,” I say, setting my oversized bag on a barstool and my folder on the counter. “I just wish I had asked the owners to leave the house before people started to show up. Buyers want to imagine their own stuff in a house, to see their lives taking over a new space and not hear about grandchildren playing on the living room carpet while wearing dirty diapers.”

  I take out a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water. As I drink, I squint at my sister’s dinner. “Some people have no common sense.”

  She’s mistaken my eying her as interest in her food. “Want some?” she asks, pushing the plastic container toward me.

  I indicate with a spastic twitch of my head that I don’t want any of her food. “Actually, I was thinking of taking you out tonight. I need your help with something.” Brad is engrossed in watching some show on television, sitting in the middle of the kids’ circle like a cock in a poultry farm, but to ensure he can’t hear me, I turn my back to him. “What I need is your expertise on local prostitution.”

  When the full meaning of what I said hits me, I raise my hand at her defensively. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I didn’t mean to imply that you’re the type of girl who sleeps around for money, but you do go out a lot, more than I do. I mean, you know places…people…” I trail off.

  I should have thought my request through before blabbering some offensive, incoherent nonsense.

  Cathy, in her full height and pride, comes face-to-face with me like a dueling animal ready to fight.

  “Are you calling me a whore because I like to party?” she hisses through clenched teeth, flexed fists hanging by her sides.

  “Gosh, Cathy. Why do you have to be so sensitive?” I rub my forehead in exasperation. “Let me explain. The girls and I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to dress up as prostitutes and hang around local places, like Skyler did, to see if we can spot the Fifty Shades Killer.”

  Her fingers relax and uncurl, so I continue. “I volunteered to go out tonight to snoop around a little, thinking that you’d be game.” I cock my head slightly to the side with an innocent look in my eyes.

  She nods at me. “Are you fucking kidding me? You, Mother Teresa, will go out in a miniskirt and stilettoes to hit on strange men?” She chuckles loud enough to attract Brad’s attention.

  “You home? Did you sell the house?” Brad asks, a mouthful of half-chewed pasta slurring his words.

  I pat at the folder. “Not yet, but we have several serious offers.”

  “Bring me a beer, honey. We need to celebrate,” he says, then slaps Joey on the back of his head. “Come on, congratulate your mother.” The kids erupt in an exaggerated chorus of well wishes and then return their attention to their screens of assorted electronic devices and bowls of pasta.

  I nod at them appreciatively and then resume my focus on Cathy. “I need to get out of the house anyway. Why not kill two birds with one stone? Besides, if, let’s say, we do happen to come across the Fifty Shades Killer, then we actually did something for the public good.”

  “You’re insane. You wanna get killed?” She picks up her bowl of food, then tosses it back on the counter with a theatrical effort.

  “We aren’t going to get killed. We’re going to gather info on how these things work around here. I’m not getting into any car with a stranger.”


  She pokes her food with her fork. “I don’t know. From what I gather, the guy has a certain type he’s into. I’m too old for him, and you? I mean, come on. A mother of three, closer to forty than thirty?”

  “Do your magic on my face. You’re a pro at putting that shit on your face. You don’t even look like you when you wear makeup.”

  She takes the water from my hand, drinks it, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I dunno. This whole thing sounds stupid and dangerous.”

  “You’re really surprising me here, Cathy. I thought you’d jump at the opportunity. I’m beginning to wonder if you aren’t as well versed in the local nightlife as you insinuate.”

  “Fuck you!” She bursts into a sudden rage, her typical defense mechanism.

  “Hey! Watch your language!” yells Brad from the living room.

  “You play Call of Duty in front of the kids, but you’re worried about me exposing them to bad language?” Cathy yells back.

  As I watch the two engage in a battle of words, my thoughts circle back to my earlier worries. What was I thinking to volunteer to go out into the night and do a little surveillance job for Ashley? I must be desperate for excitement. Or losing my mind.

  To escape the raging war between my husband and sister, I toss my bag over my shoulder, pick up the folders from the countertop, and start toward the stairs.

  “Hey, sis!” Cathy runs after me, panting and hyped, stimulated by the argument. “Let’s do this. I’d rather turn tricks on the street than listen to another one of Brad’s stupid, pointless lectures that make absolutely no sense.”

  It’s too late. My boiling hot lava drive to be someone I’m not has cooled off and turned to stone. “Don’t worry about it. I need to go over these offers anyway. You were right. It was a stupid idea to begin with.”

  Gearing up to convince me, she climbs the stairs after me. “Look, I don’t think it’s a stupid idea, but Temecula is not like L.A. or New York. You won’t find working girls wearing down a street corner somewhere. Here, pimps list encrypted ads in local papers to find Johns. I know a couple of guys who know people who know people, so maybe we can find something out tonight, but I can’t make any promises.”