CHAPTER 23
The spotlights shifted to Abbie, signaling her in the broad audience. The rest of the hall was pitch black, loud applause ringing from the abyss. She could sense all the eyes on her, measuring her up with the scrutiny of a tailor. Robert released her hand, and it slipped away into the darkness. She stood up and puffed out her chest, adjusting her figure-hugging black strappy dress with an asymmetric hem. The streamlined fit showcased her toned physique that she worked so hard to achieve. The sleeveless cut and alluring neckline revealing only a hint of skin, a perfect combo of sexy and professional. She swaggered along the illuminated path to the stage, high heels clicking on the hard surface. She wasn’t just back; she was back with a bang. Twelve months had passed since her last meeting with agent Molina. The case was dead in the water, and Abbie wasn’t looking back. She raised the hemline of her dress as she climbed the stairs leading to the stage, her every move elegant and methodical. This was her moment to bask in the glory, and she was going to squeeze out every ounce. The spotlight followed her heading toward the hostess, a slim brunette fitted with a blush monarch dress that shimmered under the lights. It was a surreal moment. With every step, she wanted to pinch herself to ensure that she wasn’t hallucinating again. As she reached the glass tabletop lectern, she smiled and bowed her head, sliding the red ribbon down her neck until the gold medal nestled between her breasts like a centerpiece. She raised her chin, giving the hostess a warm embrace and a peck on the cheek. The applause and cheering continued to ring around the dark abyss like a modern-day Colosseum. In the meantime, the hostess shuffled off stage.
Abbie adjusted the microphone and positioned herself in front of the podium. The lights turned on, illuminating the multitude of seated suits and gowns below her. The applause had died down, morphing into a tense, anticipatory silence. It was her cue to speak. She didn’t bring any notes or prepare a speech in advance, deeming it bad luck after her last disappointment all those years ago. She would speak from the heart, which was the only way she knew how. Fighting back tears of sheer joy, she clutched the medal with her right hand and beat it against her chest. The audience responded with another quick burst of applause. She cleared her throat and waited for the dust to settle.
“Architect of the year, wow!”
There was a ripple of laughter from the audience.
“I’d like to thank the Institute for this award. It means the world to me. I’ve been absent from the industry over the last few years, and never in my wildest dreams did I think it’d be possible to be standing here right now to receive this award. I’m humbled and honored.” She paused and glanced to her right, where she sat a moment earlier. “I owe this to my dear husband, Robert. I couldn’t do it without you.” She placed a palm over her mouth, silencing her gasps, preventing the welling tears.
The audience exploded into another round of heartfelt applause. It gave her a moment to settle her emotions.
“To be a successful female architect, you need to have a model husband.”
A wave of boisterous laughter made its way around the hall, lightening the mood.
“In the darkest moments of our lives, that’s when we get the most clarity. It’s also a time that we can tap into new realms of creativity hidden within the depths of our soul. I’m grateful that I’ve had the opportunity over the last year to share my work with the world and realize a dream. Thank you. I’ll never forget this moment.” She raised the medal in the air like an Olympic champion, her eyes sparkling. She headed for the staircase, smiling and raising her palm in gratitude as she passed by the audience. In her peripheral vision, a woman in a low-key navy strapless dress strode toward the large hallway exit door. Abbie couldn’t see her face, but from behind, she seemed familiar. The aggressive walk, the toned physique, the color of the hair. Abbie’s eyes darted toward the exit, following the woman’s trail.
“I’m so proud of you, baby!” Robert said, widening his arms for an emotional embrace.
Abbie shifted her eyes toward Robert, losing sight of the woman. As she fell into his arms, the identity of the woman preoccupied her. She glanced over his shoulder and glimpsed her exiting the door.
That’s Molina!
She eased Robert’s arms away and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be right back, I need to go to the restroom,” she said, doing her best not to raise his suspicions. She breezed past him before he could answer, walking as fast as possible without breaking out into a run.
I’m overreacting, that can’t be Molina.
How could it be Molina? Why would she attend the awards ceremony? Questions swirled in Abbie’s mind as she picked up the pace, bursting through the hall’s exit doors into the grand lobby. The discreet chatter of a handful of guests and tailcoat waiters milling about replaced the raucous sound of the audience. She glanced left, no navy-blue strapless dress. She turned right and spotted the woman slipping into the restroom on the far side of the hall. Abbie removed her high heels; barefoot, she would get a better grip on the marble surface. Without giving it a second thought, she charged after the woman, high heels in hand. She didn’t pause for a minute to wonder how out of place she looked, running barefoot through the lobby clutching her medal. Every passerby stopped, aghast, watching her wild pursuit. A few feet from the restroom, she heard her name ring out through the lobby.
“Abbie, stop! What’re you doing?” Robert called out.
She glanced over her shoulder for a brief second, but ignored his pleas and disappeared into the ladies’ room. Cursing under her breath, she paced up and down along the row of oval white sinks. The wall-to-wall mirror reflected a posh elderly lady in a red dress exiting the third stall. There were eight stalls lined up in a row, all of which seemed empty.
Damn it! What’s happening to me? I saw her enter the restroom.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. “This is ridiculous,” she said out loud, trying to find humor in her feeble mental state. If the hallucinations were back, there was no knowing what she was capable of. She bent down and strapped on her high heels, then twisted the faucet, letting the water run. Placing her index finger under the rushing stream, she dabbed the cool moisture on her face without ruining her makeup. “Get a grip on yourself, Abigail, you’re better than this,” she said out loud again as if she was her spectator in an out-of-body experience. In the mirror, she noticed that the door to the eighth stall wasn’t fully ajar. She turned off the running water and dried her hands with the rolled-up cotton hand towel, watching the stall. No movement or sound came from within. She ambled toward it, more concerned with how she would explain this bizarre episode to Robert. Her high heels clicked liked castanets on the white marble flooring, the sound echoing through the restroom. Each step swamped her with anger and self-loathing. It was supposed to be the night of her life, but instead, she had made a mockery of herself by chasing ghosts. She shoved the stall open without a second thought.
CLICK.
The chilling sound of a cocked gun. Molina sat upright on the toilet seat cover, legs apart, and aiming a pistol. She shook with desperation, like a drug addict craving her next fix. “If you make a peep, I’ll send a bullet through your brain. Step inside and lock the door,” Molina motioned with the pistol for her to enter.
Abbie remained frozen to the spot, her muscles taut, unable to speak.
Molina grabbed her forearm, flinging her into the stall. She slammed the door shut and wrapped her arm around Abbie’s neck in a fierce chokehold. “You crazy bitch. You killed them all, didn’t you?” she whispered in Abbie’s ear, her labored breath reeking of alcohol.
“No . . . no . . . I had nothing to do with it. Why’re you doing this? Please . . .”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Molina said, her voice raw with adrenalin-fueled anticipation. She pressed the barrel of the gun into the soft area below Abbie’s chin and jawline.
“I swear to God I didn’t do
it. Please, don’t do this. Please!” Abbie begged for her life, the cold steel of the barrel shaking against the underside of her chin. Molina was having a meltdown, so there were no boundaries and nothing to stop her. Abbie clenched her facial muscles and shut her eyes, bracing for the eternal lights out, clinging to her only hope that it would be instant and painless. She always imagined this moment, expecting to feel an onrush of fear. But it was nothing of the sort. The vast weight off her shoulders stunned her just as much as the absurdity of being murdered on her greatest night. The long trail of victims pointed to her, and if she was guilty, Molina was about to do her the biggest possible favor—at least Robert and Jonah would lead a normal life.
CLICK.
Molina uncocked the pistol. “I believe you.”
Abbie shot open her eyes, surprised that she was still alive and even more bewildered by Molina’s sudden change of heart.
“As you can see, Abigail, I’m no longer with the FBI. They relieved me of my duties for the foreseeable future, labeled as unfit for service.” Molina lowered the pistol and slumped on the toilet. “There’ve been another four murders over the last year. Two of the victims were women in their late thirties. The other two were young girls . . .” Molina paused for a moment, burdened by the weight of her words. Her eyes burned with the most agonizing pain. She was in hell and there was a price to pay. “One of the girls . . .” Molina drooped her head, allowing her bangs to fall over her eyes, refusing to let Abigail see the tears. “The most recent victim . . . was my daughter.”
Abbie’s knees weakened, and she leaned her back against the door to stop herself from falling. This was a mother’s worst nightmare. Her heart bled for Molina, whose suppressed sobs were gut-wrenching. There was no doubt that this was a targeted killing. She had asked herself countless times, Why did this happen to me? But Molina’s daughter? That was unthinkable. The killer had sent an obvious message: this was personal.
Abbie placed a comforting palm on Molina’s slouching shoulder.
“I don’t need your God damn pity!” Molina snapped, brushing Abbie’s palm away. She stood up and pushed her against the stall’s door with a violent thud. “They all had the same tattoo. Your tattoo, the tearful eye.”
Abbie shook her head from side to side, her cheeks glistening from the free-flowing tears.
“You know something about that tattoo, don’t you?” Molina stared at her, dead in the eyes.
She looked down, avoiding the fiery pain in Molina’s eyes that prodded at her emotions. “I’ve never seen that tattoo before in my life. I wish that I could help you,” she said. Telling Molina the truth would be equivalent to confessing to killing her daughter. There were no other parallels to draw from it. Yet she had her doubts, and she wasn’t suicidal.
“You’re lying, your entire body language screams it. What I don’t understand is why you’d hide critical information from me. I’m pretty sure you’re not the killer, so why? Who’re you protecting?”
“I don’t know what the tattoos mean. I want the killer brought to justice just as much as you do!” Abbie did her best to sound convincing. At least the second part was true.
Molina rested her chin on the barrel of the pistol, glaring at Abbie, her eyes bloodshot. “Besides justice, I have nothing else to live for. There aren’t going to be any arrests because I’ll torture and kill the animal who murdered my daughter.” She lowered the pistol, tapping it against her kneecap. “I can promise you this, if you had any part to play in this or are protecting somebody, you won’t be getting the benefit of the doubt next time.”
Abbie shrugged, struggling to exhibit calmness, an icy shiver snaking through her body. She knew that this grieving mother would find her justice, and she hoped to God that she wasn’t the one that would pay the price.
Molina pounced to her feet, “Okay, now that we got that out of the way, let’s get down to business.” She once again pressed up against Abigail, only an inch from her mouth. “I didn’t come to the awards ceremony to kill you. If I wanted you dead, you’d have been gone a long time ago.” She narrowed her eyes, highlighting the aggression in her tone. She pulled back her shoulder-length hair and tied it up in her customary bunched ponytail. “No need to hide anymore.” She smirked and adjusted her dress. “You weren’t supposed to see me. I came to the awards ceremony to follow up on another potential suspect . . .”
“Who?” Abbie blurted out.
“I’m not going to say. It could be irrelevant.”
“Tell me who.” Abbie grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Get your hands off me. I don’t have to tell you shit. I know you’re hiding information yourself.”
“What do you want from me?”
Molina grabbed Abbie’s hand and placed a small black device in her palm. “Here, take this. It’s a similar device to the pager I gave you at the station. If you want justice, use this one.”
“I already have it. What do I need another one for?” Abbie focused on the yellow and red buttons; the device was identical to the one she already had.
“The FBI has access to the other one, and you’re still their prime suspect. It’s your choice. I already told you my plan.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because we have a shared interest and you don’t have a choice,” Molina said, turning her right arm upward as if she were readying it for an injection. “Take a look.”
The fancy restroom stall contained a strip of ambient LED lights, so Abbie had to squint to notice the small tattoo on the inner side of Molina’s forearm. For a moment she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her again, so she leaned in closer. Inked on Molina’s arm was a rose and in Chicano lettering the name Abigail.
“My daughter’s name was Abigail. What a coincidence, hey?” Molina’s sarcasm was merciless.
Abbie’s vision blurred, her senses numbing. Molina’s face flashed by her like a merry-go-round. Her body smashed against the door, the black abyss beckoning.
Molina gripped both sides of Abbie’s head with her bare hands. “Look at me. Pull your shit together. I lost my daughter, which is worse than dying.”
“What’s going on? I’m losing my mind.”
“I’ve already lost mine,” Molina shouted, frustrated by Abbie’s weakness. She did not pity her despite knowing all the details of her ordeal. The price of losing a daughter was incomparable to any other pain, and if she was still here and focused on finishing the job, she expected Abbie to do the same. She slapped her on the cheek to get her focused.
“I’m fine.” Abbie raised her palms in protest.
“The killer sent a simple message. You’re the focus of his attention. He’ll come for you, and when he does, I’ll make him pay.”
Goosebumps covered Abbie’s neck and arms as her thoughts switched to Jonah. There were no rules and nothing to stop this psychopath besides an emotionally rattled Molina. For some inexplicable reason, she was his primary target, and he could hurt her most through Jonah.
Molina shoved the stall door ajar, “You better get back to the party. I’ve got work to do.” She placed a firm palm on Abbie’s shoulder and winked, “If you press the device I gave you, there won’t be two dead Abigails.”
Abbie stumbled toward the sinks, the stall door slamming shut behind her. In the mirror, her pupils seemed enlarged, reflecting the bordering LED lights. She rinsed her hands in the basin as if she was washing off the blood of the murdered girls, envisaging it swirling amid the white porcelain. As she stared deep into the center of her pupils, only one thought tyrannized her mind: Am I the prey or the predator?
CHAPTER 24
She swaggered out of the restroom, back to showtime. This was supposed to be the night of her life, and she wouldn’t let anything ruin it. The unexpected meeting with Molina was nothing more than a bump in the road. She had learned to cope with much worse.
“Wh
at happened, baby? I saw you running barefoot through the lobby. Didn’t you hear me?” Robert said, his arms outstretched at his sides. He had waited outside the restroom.
“All the excitement got to me, and I was desperate for the restroom. Sorry honey, for startling you.” She embraced him, brushing her cheek up against his torso like a cat curling up to its owner. She ran her fingers through his hair, kissing his nape. “I can’t wait to get home tonight so we can celebrate just the two of us.” She smiled and pouted her lips, his firm, caressing hands around her lower waist eased her apprehension. He wasn’t in the least bit suspicious—easy bait.
They returned to the hall just as the main course was being served. Onstage, a jazz band played classy ambient music, setting a relaxed tone, and blending in seamlessly with the sounds of chatter and cutlery. It wasn’t loud enough to drown out these sounds, but it was enough to be the focal point. As they neared their table, Abbie wondered why Molina was at the event. Who was she tracking, and why wouldn’t she tell her? She glanced around at the guests, the crème de la crème of the architecture world with their spouses, all dressed to the nines. Although she loathed many of her pretentious and competitive colleagues, none of them were possible suspects. But Molina wasn’t there for cocktails, somebody had piqued her interest, and she was sure that it wasn’t her.
“I’m going to get a drink from the bar,” Abbie said as Robert took his seat at the table. “Would you like me to get you anything?”
Robert raised his half-full whiskey glass, shaking his head.
She made her way to the bar, stopping along the way to acknowledge the phony congratulations from her colleagues. They had all doubted her, snickering at her previous disappointments. But here she was, in the most unlikely of circumstances, head and shoulders above all. She had earned the most coveted prize in the industry, and global recognition beckoned. The thought alone brought an immense sense of self-worth, and her smile radiated from within. She needed it for herself, validating the sacrifice.
Eye For Her: A gripping must-read thriller Page 13
