by J. Conrad
Relief pours through me at the idea that things finally make sense. I draw a long, deep breath and exhale slowly. There’s no telling how many other “little” things like this she did, what she told Trent when they were alone, or how else she manipulated him. Still, I can’t get over Naomi’s apparent willingness to spill everything. Maybe it’s the cathartic effect, and she just wants the whole thing to be over. That makes two of us.
Then, at last, Sedgeworth drops the final bomb. Her death-white face drains of the magenta color it bloomed with only moments ago. “I set the fire in the warehouse building. I made some homemade explosives with a recipe I found online. I set the explosives in the back near some old wiring, hoping it would look like an electrical fire.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Luciani says. “Can you please state your reasons for committing arson on the property?”
Naomi nods. “I wanted Ms. Owen to get in trouble, to get blamed for not seeing that the inspection was conducted properly, and get fired from her job.”
“Had you known Ms. Owen was responsible for the building’s inspection?” the attorney asks.
“Not for a fact. But I knew she was a real estate assistant, and scheduling the inspection is one of their duties,” Naomi says. Her face remains pale and drawn.
I uncross and recross my legs. My mouth curls into a smile, and I bite my bottom lip to conceal it. The property has no service, so “electrical fire” was ruled out from the beginning.
“Did you do anything else to try and get Ms. Owen in trouble with Median Realty, where she was employed?” my lawyer asks.
After a pause, Naomi says, “Yes. A man named Nick Pearlman was interested in buying that same property.” She sniffs. “It seemed like he wanted those old warehouses too much like there was something special about them or he was hiding something. So, when he asked me if I would accept pay to spy on Ms. Owen and the goings-on at the buildings, I said yes. But…” Another sniff. “I told a lie. I told Nick that Ms. Owen’s client paid her under the table to keep a secret. And that I didn’t know what it was, but he definitely paid her to keep her mouth shut about something.”
“Thank you. And was Ms. Owen or her employment negatively affected by this, that you know of?” Mr. Luciani asks.
“I don’t know. I just know that Nick reacted strongly to what I said. I hoped he’d go after her for it, but I don’t know if he did.”
My heart hammers and I cross my arms before leaning back in my seat. Waves of disbelief roll over me. I can’t believe it. Naomi was Nick’s contact. A few feet away, Detective Spade’s pen weaves back and forth across his notepad. Trent’s gaze flicks to me, and I nod. They don’t know the whole story with Nick or who he is, but this explains why he was threatening me—why he was so angry.
Mr. Luciani wraps up the questioning by addressing the final incident in which Naomi tailed me from Trent’s house and jumped me at Berry Spring’s Park. The defense and prosecution also take turns examining Trent, Detective Spade, and me before wrapping everything up. The trial takes a lot out of me, although Korey’s was much more demanding and far longer, with multiple hearings. Still, I’m not sad when I finally get to walk out of here.
I stand from the hard chair and stretch my legs. As I hook my purse strap over my arm and begin making my way to the door with the others, Trent pulls me aside. “We should talk.”
“Ya think?” almost flies out of my mouth, but I catch it just in time. Smile and nod. That’s what I do.
Trent and I sit in Cianfrani Coffee House in Georgetown across from the old courthouse, just like we did the first time we met after both being in the hospital eight months ago. The place is a familiar and safe retreat from our strange lives. The rain finally showed, and it’s still drizzling outside, the blazing August heat subsiding to a humid, southern warmth that carries the smell of wet leaves and granite. From our place on the oversized couch, we can see out the window to 7th Street and catch glimpses of the American flag on the municipal building when the wind stirs it.
Holding my cup of hot tea, I slip off my shoes and sit cross-legged in my black slacks. I give Trent my full attention. I’ve sure been doing a lot of listening lately.
“Everything Naomi said and did around me, where it concerned you, was under the guise of care or concern,” he says. Coffee mug in hand, he shakes his head as he comes to grips with the insanity of it all. “She acted like she was your biggest ally, rooting for you behind the scenes. Sometimes she told me not to say this or that to you because you were still recovering from your trauma. She always told me I needed to think of what was best for you.”
I nod but stay silent.
Trent continues. “She’s the one who told me you were having an affair with the guy who was threatening you—Nick Pearlman. Said she found it in your case files when she asked her father to do some checking up on you—for your safety, of course.”
I snort. “Of course. I bet her ‘father’s research’ didn’t tell her that Nick Pearlman isn’t even his real name.” Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.
“It’s not? Did Spade finally find something on the guy?” Trent asks. He gets more comfortable, and the leather couch creaks.
Thinking quickly, I say, “No, that’s why we think he was using an alias. There’s no one by that name his age except someone who died over a year ago.”
Trent takes a drink of his coffee. “Naomi was always telling me not to mention her to you—that it would upset you. She told me not to get involved with you, to break off seeing you to any degree, really, because she said I was being selfish, and you were too fragile for any kind of relationship.”
I crack a smile. “I believe it.”
Trent’s mouth falls open. “You find this funny?”
I chuckle and set my tea on the small, round side table. “Kind of, yeah.”
At this point, I’ve been through so much hell my sense of humor is all I have left. The mirth falls away from my expression, and I stare down at my lap. I take a deep breath and look up at Trent again. “Was it true what she said? About how you feel about me?”
Trent’s jaw tics the way it does when he’s awkwardly uncomfortable or irked about something. He hesitates as he searches my face. “Yeah. It’s true.”
“Did Naomi tell you not to tell me that?” I ask. The words sound soft and small.
“No,” Trent replies. “That was all me.”
I take three dresses from the closet and lay them out on the bed. All are autumn-appropriate, but I can’t decide between red, blue, or green. Pretty much any bold color looks good on me. After tugging on my pantyhose, I slip into the red one. It has an empire waist with a few large faux garnets in front. It’s cute. I grab my new strawberry body spray and spritz my neck once from ten inches away. That’s plenty—no need to smell like the farmer’s market.
As I push my feet into my black high heels, Margarita pops in and stands back to look at me. “Oh, I like that one!”
“Thanks. I can’t even remember the last time I wore it.” I turn and glance behind myself in the mirror to check out my back. Not bad.
“Rebecca and Ann are ready downstairs. We can take my car if that’s okay,” Margarita says. Her tight, dark pink dress suits her.
“Sure,” I say. “I’m ready too.” I take my small purse from the nightstand.
We trot down the stairs and meet our housemates in the living room. Ann stands a few feet from the entryway fiddling with the clasp of her necklace. I get behind her to lend a hand.
“Aria, I’m so thrilled you’re going out with us. I just can’t wait. Just think, it’s your first time since you moved in. Aren’t you excited?” Ann says while I fasten the delicate, silver chain around her neck.
“Ann, shush!” Rebecca says.
I laugh. She thinks if anyone mentions it, I’ll change my mind about going. “It’s okay. Yeah, I’m really excited. I think it will be fun.”
We’re going to Alamo Drafthouse for dinner and a movie, and afterward, who knows.
I might let them drag me to a club. Rebecca tucks her fists beneath her chin and gives Margarita a silent squee. We lock up the house and file into Margarita’s electric blue Toyota RAV4.
I chat a bit on the drive, but after we pull onto Interstate 35, I let the streams of red taillights mesmerize me and lapse into contemplation. This fall, Rance Epstein was convicted of the 1987 murder of Juliana Lange. He got life without parole, and Logan Weber was finally exonerated. I want to show Trent the article on KXAV’s website, but I’m not ready to open that can of worms yet.
I have, however, come to a few hypotheses about Logan. You don’t need to kidnap a woman and fly her somewhere by helicopter to give her a packet. He likely did that to instill within me the fear factor necessary to carry out my task and lie to the police. The gun helped, too, of course. Would Logan have shot me? I doubt it. Would he have killed Trent? I doubt that even more. Regardless, I’m going to let the dust settle a while longer before telling Trent but especially before reporting Logan. The dust is still in whirlwind status if you ask me.
Naomi was sentenced to twenty years in prison for her various crimes. She would have got more but for her insistence that even when she tried to throttle me in the field and pulled a knife at the park, she had no intention of killing me. The building she burned wasn’t occupied and was unused. Still, any future chance at a career in law enforcement is ruined. Unless she’s released early, she’ll be forty-five years old when she gets out and will have to start her life over. It’s a sad ending to a sad tale, I guess, but damn, that girl’s crazy.
Margarita cracks the two front windows. The wind whistles through the openings and forces the scent of fresh autumn leaves into the SUV. I glance down at my waist, which has no pockets or belt, only sequins. The flowing hem of the red dress drapes over my knees. Today is the first time I’ve gone out without my knife and pistol—there’s only my pepper spray in my purse. My intuition tells me that taking another life isn’t in the cards for me. I’m more than okay with that.
“Aria,” a female voice says in some distant background.
Not only did nothing in the past months have to do with Ayden, but Naomi managed to get me to see an aspect of myself no one else had. Despite being as mad as a March hare, she was right about something. She told me that I needed Trent. It nicked me at the time, like a piece of shrapnel under my skin. But it was true.
When I look over my life, with all its morbid tragedy, my difficulties all seem to stem from one thing. I always needed someone. I always thought I needed someone no matter what, and I craved a relationship regardless of what it did to me. I thought that having someone, anyone, was better than having no one, so I wouldn’t have to be alone. I needed Korey, and that’s why the abusive relationship lasted as long as it did. And I needed Trent, just as Naomi said. I needed him too deeply, too avidly, when he wasn’t in the right frame of mind himself to have any kind of relationship with me. Now that I see this, I’m okay with whatever we decide to do in the long run. There’s also the fact that he embroiled himself in investigating a suspicious accident at a local farm last week, and I want no part of that. We visit a few times a week, but I’m still staying in Round Rock. Only time will tell.
“Aria?” Rebecca says. She turns in the passenger’s seat. “Are you all right? Is the noise too much? We can close the windows if it is.”
“I’m better than all right, but thanks for asking. No, I like the highway breeze. Leave them open.” I smile. In my peripheral vision, I catch Rebecca exchanging glances with Ann beside me.
“We’re almost there,” Margarita says from the driver’s seat.
“Good. I’m starving,” I say.
Everyone laughs like I’ve said something hilarious, so I just grin back at them. I peer outside. Margarita pulls into the movie theater’s parking lot and starts looking for a space. We pass a median near the street where the branches of a row of oak trees sway rhythmically. Several leaves spiral to the ground. From here, I can see the illuminated, red letters of the Alamo Drafthouse sign and a yellow glow spilling across the entryway. A couple walks hand in hand toward the three sets of glass doors. Other patrons gather at the outdoor tables.
All this time, I’ve been so sure the universe was punishing me—Aria, the monster— for killing Ayden Nemeth. At last, I know this isn’t true. If it was punishing me at all, it was for my bad choices in relationships. I guess, in the end, we’re our own executioners.
I count myself lucky to have escaped the hangman’s noose. I’ve lived to tell the story, just as Trent lived to tell his own. I unbuckle my seat belt and step out into the clear, crisp evening. Each footfall finds the concrete stable beneath me. The fabric of my light gown flutters with my easy gait as I take in the present moment of walking beneath the sapphire sky amidst bursts of city lights. I’ll never again have a slipknot around my neck. I’m not a victim. And I’ll never be alone because aloneness isn’t so much a condition but a state of mind.
Trent and Aria’s story continues with the following books of the series, in order:
* * *
Blood in Truth
Flesh and Blood
Blood Is Thicker
* * *
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