by A B Whelan
“I don’t know,” Ashley sighs. “Maybe I should call Peter and ask him what he thinks we should do. You know how a good lawyer can twist and turn anything, and I’m not going to prison for that waste of space. Olivia?”
Olivia puts her hand on her stomach as she looks out of the window, and her eyes linger on the barista in the Starbucks window. I need her to take my side because I’m beginning to sound like a dog who is all bark and no bite. A mean voice that riles people up but doesn’t walk the walk.
“I’m pregnant,” Olivia announces with the same devastation in her voice. I feel as though the oxygen has been sucked out of the car. “If it comes out in the media that Richard is the Fifty Shades Killer, my son will grow up knowing that a psychopath murderer’s blood pulses through his veins.”
The air becomes colder in the car, as if an otherworldly soul had just entered our midst.
“That’s messed up,” says Ashley, pulling Olivia into a hug.
My heart sinks. “Don’t say that. A child is a miracle. A beautiful thing.”
“Not if the father is a serial killer,” Olivia whimpers.
“Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe if you tell him…” I say, trying to insert something positive into this tragic conversation.
Olivia pushes Ashley away. “Then what? He’ll change?”
“I’ll kill him for you,” Ashley offers, watching her friend through tear-glazed eyes.
Olivia shakes her head and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “No. You two will go home. I’ll take care of this alone.”
“No way!” yells Ashley, and, strangely, I feel riled up to express my support as well. “Whatever we do, we do it together. Now let’s go back to the house before we draw too much attention.”
Ashley
WEDNESDAY
The drive back to Campbell’s lair seems twice as long with the dead silence in the car. It stopped raining an hour ago, and the beams of my headlights, like searchlights, scan the slippery road and the bushes ahead of us. It’s Olivia who notices a strange new set of tire tracks in the mud leading to the house. My heart begins beating out of my chest. Mad thoughts start racing through my mind. The police got here before us, Campbell has an accomplice, or he managed to free himself and call for an Uber. My arm starts to itch underneath my skin. I grip the steering wheel harder to suppress my need to scratch it.
“Where’s your gun?” I ask Olivia.
She looks at me with her pale face and shrunken eyes. “I didn’t bring it with me. Richard would have found it on me.”
“Shit! I left mine on the table in the house.”
“Let’s turn back,” Betty says, panicking.
Olivia pops open the glovebox. “Your taser’s here.”
“Great! You can zap yourself once your husband shoots us dead.”
As I round the corner slowly a hazy image of the front yard opens for me. Concealed in mist, a small sedan is parked under the flickering front porch light, its left back door open. A warning signal beeping. I see signs of a struggle—footprints in the mud and a knocked-over flower pot.
The front door stands wide open. Light from the house pours onto the tile in the veranda.
“Hand me that baseball bat,” I tell Betty as she follows my instruction without arguing.
Olivia pulls me back as I try to get out of the car. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think? I’m gonna go see what’s going on.”
“I’m coming with you.” She arms the taser. It’s working.
I nod at her. “Betty, if you hear us screaming, call the police.”
She holds up her cell phone with shaking hands. I notice a shudder passing through her. “Lock the doors,” I tell her.
I don’t feel comfortable having a pregnant woman assisting me in this dangerous situation, but as much as I want to tell her to run away, to get to safety, I do need someone to boost my courage and stand beside me.
The night is quiet, and the air is heavy with the smell of wet wood and rotting plants. Not even the sound of insects can be heard. I look inside the sedan. The back seat is blanketed with pizza boxes and dotted with soda cans and old burrito wrappers. In the front, the ashtray is overflowing with cigarette butts. I close the door and the beeping stops.
One last glance at Betty in the car and I enter the house, Olivia right behind me. Oh, how I hope she won’t tase me in the back in a moment of panic.
My back pressed against the wall, I peek around the corner. Richard’s cuffs hang open like an S&M showroom, and he’s gone. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” The path to the torture chamber is lined with chairs turned over, open books, and broken pictures. I step on a pile of broken glass, and the crunching sounds sends a shiver through me.
“We are fucked!”
I look back at Olivia. Hearing her cuss still throws me off balance. She is standing by the table, holding a box of chocolates and a bouquet of red roses in her trembling hands, a look of incomprehension on her flushed face. “He took your gun, but he left us a present.”
I feel light-headed. I can’t breathe.
A terror-filled shriek bursts into the room and ripples through me. All at once, I’m alert again. “Betty!” I exclaim and start running toward the door. I nearly trip over the threshold as a deep, thundering sound echoes into the night from the nearby woods.
I race down the hillside, following the direction what sounded a lot like a gunshot. Thorn-laden bushes grab hold of my pants and sweater. My foot slips in the mud. I’ve never run this fast in my life.
Then I stop. I’m confused. No more sounds to lead me. Olivia slams into me, and we fall to the ground. I jump back to my feet and quickly drag her up. “Are you okay?” I ask, pointing to her belly. She nods.
Behind her in the woods, I spot a weak beam of light. “There! Look!” I whisper.
Light is easier to follow than sound. I close my eyes for a second to visualize what I’ll find in the clearing ahead of us. Then I gently push the branches out of my way.
There is someone lying on the forest floor and bleeding from the chest. It’s not Betty. It’s Richard Campbell. Olivia’s husband. The serial killer. A windswept, battered-looking woman is holding a gun over him. She looks at us to acknowledge our presence. Then she drops the gun and collapses to her knees. Somehow, I’m not afraid of this girl. Her appearance and that look in her eyes remind me of Skyler and the first time I saw her in my office.
Olivia and I exchange a look of silent agreement. I pull my phone from my pocket and call Betty.
“Come down the hill quick and meet us here. We have a problem.”
Olivia
A MONTH LATER
I was questioned by the police about the disappearance of my husband, as his dear mother reported him missing. Then I was questioned by the police again when they found Richard’s body washed up on the shore of Lake Hodges at Hernandez Cove, where all his victims were found.
The police had nothing to keep me in custody. I had a cast-iron alibi. On the night in question, I was with Ashley Hayes, a high-class psychologist from Los Angeles, licking my wounds after my tragic breakup with my husband.
The detectives came to the house in Los Feliz and searched Richard’s study. They found his research about the Fifty Shades Killer and all his notes and pictures pinned to the wall. Newspaper clippings, police reports, short bios about the victims. A map with cities and locations pinned and tied together with colorful threads.
We did an excellent job setting everything up. TV crime shows do come in handy.
Verizon tracked Richard’s movements the night of his murder. It led the police to a vacant house Richard’s mother owns, the house where he grew up. There they found more evidence of Richard playing detective. Nobody seemed surprised by this. After all, his foundation is about helping battered women, and most of the victims had worked with The Good Samaritan Foundation. It was only natural that he had an interest in finding out who was responsible for the death of those runaway girls.
/> I moved back to the house. Richard had never filed for a divorce, so to Grace’s disdain, I inherited everything. I don’t sleep in my old bed. When I close my eyes in the dark alone, I’m haunted by nightmares. Ashley says that being pregnant is making me emotional and that the hormones are to blame. I don’t really care why I’m so nervous and jumpy; I only know that I am. So, I gave my old bedroom to Julie, the only victim of Richard’s who was able to escape him and live. Though she is a murderer, I’m not afraid of her. She is the gentlest soul I’ve ever met. She reminds me a lot of my mother—well, of how I imagined my mother was when she was young. We never talk about that night. We carry on with our daily lives like normal people do.
She’d been watching Richard and plotting and planning her revenge since she managed to escape him after three months of captivity, torture, and brainwashing. She was the one who had followed Ashley and me as we conducted our search for Skyler all over town, waiting for the right moment to strike. We created that moment for her.
A month after Richard’s death, the detectives came back to the house to see me. Richard’s murder was officially ruled a homicide by the Fifty Shades Killer. His murder is still unsolved.
The police had been going over Richard’s notes to find potential clues to the identity of this most-hunted serial killer, but they couldn’t find much. We made sure of that.
A few weeks later, things started to quiet down, and the papers didn’t write about the murders anymore. Their audience lost interest, and some new and exciting news came along.
It’s spring now. Time for love. Time for a new life.
I’m good at blocking out the trauma in my mind, and I refuse to think of what happened. Period.
There is a lot to do at the foundation. People depend on me. This time, women and children are getting the help they need and deserve. I’m making sure of that.
Richard is a hero in the office. I simply smile when people express their adoration of him to me. I do it for my son. Or daughter. I won’t ask. I want it to be a surprise. A beautiful and life-changing surprise.
Sometimes I catch myself crying in my sleep. I fear for the future. I fear how my baby will turn out. Do monsters breed monsters? I can’t allow myself to think that way. My baby is just as much mine as Richard’s. He doesn’t only have my violent, drunk father’s genes. He also has the best of my sweet mother in his blood. We will focus on the positive.
History is written by the winners, and for the first time in my life, I’ve won.
Olivia
FIVE YEARS LATER
I know that my expected guests have arrived when the startled deer lift their heads from the feeder and take off into the nearby woods. Earlier, I had Pablo refill the two crates with alfalfa and feed on the outer rims of the property so that my dear pets wouldn’t miss their breakfast.
I spill my remaining cup of coffee onto the dormant lawn, rinse my mouth with water, and take a mint out of my pocket.
I hear the gentle humming of engines before I see the cars. I’m excited because our plan is working. The foundation is expanding. We have already opened a safe house in Chicago and one in New York City. And finally, after years of being abused, neglected, and humiliated, I’m in the position to help others who have suffered similar fates. However, my enthusiasm fades when I see three black Escalades cutting through the morning mist and rolling into my driveway. I didn’t expect hippies in old VW bugs, but I didn’t expect the secret service either. It’s been a challenge to find people whose primary motive to join our family is to continue our work, not just get on the bandwagon to make a quick buck.
“Mrs. Campbell?” A woman with a rectangular haircut, red lips, and eyes brimming with confidence calls out to me. I shudder at the sound of my own name, but I mask my irritation with a smile.
I descend the steps and greet my guests with hospitality, although I’ve already made up my mind not to do business with them. They have traveled all the way from Detroit—on a luxurious company plane, no doubt—to sneak a peek at our day-to-day operations. I will not disappoint them, at least not completely.
“What a magnificent piece of land you have here, Mrs. Campbell,” says the man who seems to be the youngest of the six. His sleek, combed-back hair glistens although there is no sun to shine on it.
“We like it.” I smile. “Come this way.”
“I’d assume that you are getting plenty of offers from developers to build on this land,” he continues. I notice all the other members of this delegation studying the front yard and the front of the building.
I ignore the question, just as I ignore the inconsiderate murmuring about the worth of my property. I promised a tour of the house, and that’s all they’ll get from me today.
Prior to this meeting, I did my research on their nonprofit organization, and this group of fine women and gentlemen is not what I expected. Yet, I’m not surprised. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a bunch of rotten fruit in beautiful packaging. The Good Samaritan Foundation doesn’t hire marketing teams to sell its image to the public like many other nonprofit organizations do.
“Forgive me if I’m paddling into private waters, but you and your late husband used to live here, right?”
I recognize the elderly man, Steven Goforth, as the founder of this nonprofit organization from the foundation’s website.
“Yes. Richard and I were living here. I know what you’re thinking,” I say, smiling. I can feel the heat spreading over my cheeks. I don’t sense any judgment in his voice, but I pretend it’s there anyway. “It was after Richard’s passing that I decided to turn the house into our organization’s headquarters. I believe you’ll find the improvements quite satisfying.”
“I’ve studied your books of the past five fiscal years. I’m very impressed about your operation.” His hand pats my shoulder. I thought for a moment that this one man cared more about the work we had accomplished than the number of donations we had received.
I once again feel let down.
“All right!” I say, ushering them up the staircase. “So, this part of the house used to be an oversized foyer, and we refurbished it for the reception. That’s Katie,” I say as I motion to a young woman with pigtails and black-rimmed glasses who is sitting behind the front desk and wearing giant pink headphones.
She moved out of her family’s home—if you can call the run-down trailer she used to live a home—and emancipated herself legally from her heroin-addict parents. The Good Samaritan Foundation helped her with the paperwork and the transition to adult life. She has been working with us from day one and lives in one of the twenty-five bungalows on the lot we built during the past five years. She has three roommates—girls from similar backgrounds. One of them works at the foundation, and the other two work in the city. All three of them are participating in our college preparation classes as well.
Though it’s quite impressive, I don’t tell Katie’s story to our guests because she is not a lab rat or a circus monkey to show off. I will talk about our transitioning program when we get to the bungalows.
Katie pulls out the pencil she has been coiling up on the cord of the headphones and waves at us. She is in the middle of a call—judging by her responses—with another teen who needs someone to hear him or her out.
I lead the group to the left wing, where I show them our calling center. The smell of fresh coffee and baked goods lingers. In the corner of the room, there is a cooking nook where our members bake together, share recipes, and eat. We have two professional psychologists on duty 24/7, although most of the people who answer phones are abuse survivors. I like this program. It’s healing for people on both ends of the line.
I tell the members of the delegation to help themselves to the hot beverages and snacks, but they politely decline. This time I strongly sense their ill-served prejudice. Some of our transitioning members do look a little rough around the edges. They do try hard, and we are here to encourage and support them, not judge them.
I slowly pou
r myself a cup of coffee that I don’t need, and I take a slice of apple pie from the crumbling pile of dough. “Oh, it smells so good.” I’m enjoying the sighs and heavy breathing of the investors—the involuntary and most likely overlooked signs of their displeasure.
Huyana, who’s been with us for only three weeks, calls out to me. “It tastes better than it looks, I promise.” She laughs. The others voice their support for her pie.
“You guys always treat me so well. I feel like we have our own little perfect bakery here. Maybe we should think about opening one,” I suggest. The next moment the entire room erupts in a passionate conversation about what kind of baked goodies they would make and what the name of the bakery might be, and the guys chime in with their ideas for decoration. We quietly walk out of the room and let the brainstorm take off.
“What a great idea, Mrs. Campbell.” The man with a flat, round face and small, beady eyes says to me. “People always feel connected with the sick and the less fortunate. We could launch a huge marketing campaign around it. Like every muffin you buy, we give a free muffin to a starving child in Africa or something.” His enthusiasm is rather shallow and pathetic. I’m grateful the people in the calling center can’t hear him.
From the corner of my eye, I spot the founder and hush his man down with a simple air-patting of his hand. The faster this tour is over, the better.
The next room is our art center. It used to be my favorite room in the house. I kept the colored glasses on the windowsill and the antique cashier machine collection on the side wall, but the furniture has been replaced with work tables, painting stands, stools, and chairs.
Seeing us, Ashley attempts to rub the charcoal off her face but smudges it instead. She wears an apron, and a bandana holds her hair back. I’ve never seen her so happy and confident as when she is in this room or in the backyard with her art students.
