by Nikki Sex
I won’t go to jail for murder… and neither will my brother.
The knot in my stomach loosens as my dread begins to slip away. This time when I smile, it isn’t forced.
This time, my smile is real…
End of Accuse
Avenge: Prologue
“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.”
― Abraham Lincoln
~~~
“You did what?”
“I did exactly what you told me to do—I got rid of the evidence.”
“But you kept a copy, correct?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t want to wake up dead someday when I least expect it. That’s not on my top ten list of things to do. You told me to get rid of it, so I got rid of it. With a job like this, the less I know the better.”
“You idiot! I distinctly told you I needed a copy. What if there’s more than one set of pictures or film clips out there? How will I know exactly what was on Chester Wilkinson’s computer? How will I know who else might be a threat?”
“Oh.”
“Oh? That’s all you can say? The only thing I’m sure of are the photos he took of him and his son. Thank God the district judge is a member of our group. He was able to warn me when he was asked to approve the subpoena for Grant Wilkinson’s therapy records. Why Chester Wilkinson kept incriminating pictures from over twenty years ago, I’ll never understand. The problem is, back then, Chester also took photos and videos of others in our group—including me. What are the chances he kept those? Now I have no way to find out, thanks to you. This is seriously fucked up.”
“It’s gone. Everything’s gone. You’re worrying over nothing.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why don’t you look through your own pictures and videos? Whatever Chester Wilkinson had, you have, right?”
“How the hell do I know? This went back years! Do you have any idea of just how many thousands of images of child pornography I own?”
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh’ is right.”
“Sorry… um…” The man cleared his throat. “I can’t exactly get back what I destroyed. What do you want me to do, Senator?”
“Damage control. You’re our fixer and we can't afford loose ends. I’m not worried about Detective Bronowski—he’s being watched, and the District Attorney will do as he’s told. Get rid of the tech guy who found the stuff. He’s seen it.”
“OK.”
“And frame Grant Wilkinson for his murder.”
Smiling. “That, I can do.”
Chapter 1.
“Curiosity will conquer fear even more than bravery will.”
— James Stephens
~~~
Renata Koreman
Grant came home early this afternoon and let me borrow his car. His endearing housekeeper, Maria, is taking care of Briley so I’m free to go out.
I avoid going out on my own for any great length of time, so I’ve made an appointment at a spa for a facial and a massage. This way my excursion is as pleasurable as it can possible be.
Since this is my own time, I wear my favorite blue flared dress, a soft feminine sweater and heels. My ensemble makes me feel poised and pretty, which adds to my self-confidence.
Lord knows, I need all the confidence I can get.
Making a foray into the outside world—in this case, the local mall—is always a bit stressful. I think I could easily become agoraphobic, never leaving my home. André advised me to continuously face my fears, ruthlessly forcing myself to travel outside of my comfort zone. I make a point of doing so at least once or twice a week.
Today, my outing feels completely different.
It takes a while for me to notice.
A young woman walks by holding hands with a child who I assume to be her daughter. The small child, who is perhaps of kindergarten age, is pointing at something and pulling her mother along enthusiastically.
Our eyes meet while she struggles to keep up with the little girl. The woman’s lips curve in an indulgent smile. It’s an expression from one woman to another communicating, ‘Kids, we know what they’re like, right?’
Uplifted, I grin back at her.
It dawns on me—I just shared a 'moment' with a stranger. It felt good and natural. I'm warmed by this brief but significant connection with someone I don’t even know. I'm proud of myself.
Quite often, while in busy or crowded place, I keep my gaze downcast and my shoulders slightly hunched. Have I been using my posture and closed off manner to keep people away? It’s a startling thought.
Today, I find myself standing tall and actually looking at everyone. I boldly meet their eyes and you know what? They’re not scary. Today, they’re just people.
Yet, they haven’t changed.
I have.
My heart is lighter with this realization. Keeping my eyes lowered when in public was an unconscious behavior. This small improvement is huge. Why can I face the world so much more openly today? What’s changed?
I glance down at my hands, noticing my pink fingernails. I never paint my nails, mainly because they’re all chewed to bits. It’s a nervous habit of mine I’ve yet to master. I only painted my nails because I thought Grant might like them that way.
Grant. Just the thought of him makes my breath catch and sends my heart into overdrive.
I’m self-assured when I go out with him. His protection and support makes me feel safe. Being with him has transformed my world. I hope this new-found confidence sticks and I’m able to build on it. So many good people believe in me, yet sometimes I still find it difficult to believe in myself.
Do I feel braver because he’s so courageous? Or is it because of this euphoric, life-changing love I feel for him? Maybe it’s his love that makes me strong.
Grant loves me.
Sometimes—not often—I fear once he heals, he won’t need or want me anymore. These are stupid self-doubts, but such insecurities are typical for me. I try to ignore my negative thoughts.
All of my life, I’ve hungered to be needed and important to someone. Grant fills that desire, the desperate longing I’ve known ever since I was a child. After Timmy died, I felt so alone. He’s opened my eyes. He is the change.
Despite the disturbing circumstances with the police suspecting him of murder, as well as what we learned about his father molesting Sally Ann’s brother—we’re both incredibly happy.
Something about being with him has helped me to become stronger, more fearless and alive. I can’t wait to see him and to share what I’ve realized.
As I drive up the street toward his house, I recognize the white Range Rover in his driveway. Fuck. With an immediate and unconscious instinct for survival, I speed right past.
Fuckity, fuck, fuck! Betty Jo has come to visit.
Grant’s sister inherited the Wilkinson family’s good looks. Always elegantly dressed and aggressively confident, she has thick brunette hair, and dark blue eyes. Her sharp, photogenic cheekbones complement her determined and somewhat petulant mouth.
Sadly, her beauty is only skin deep, while her ‘wicked witch’ ugliness saturates all the way through. I can’t stand to be in the same room with the woman.
Mitten doesn’t like her either. I smile with smug satisfaction. I trust my cat's opinion—he's a great judge of character.
Betty Jo hates me, and she doesn’t like Grant. Why did she come? All she does is try to make him miserable.
Betty Jo treats me with a mixture of disdain, irritation and disregard. I make an effort to look everyone in the eyes, but that struggle is wasted on her. Superior and ice cold, she lifts her chin and stares over my head as though I wasn’t there.
As Briley’s nanny, I’m merely ‘the help,’ which puts me beneath her notice. It reminds me of when I was homeless. Then, I was invisible and less than human to others. Around Betty Jo, I feel as though I’m right back on the street again.
Betty Jo’s contempt
and the way she looks down at me are huge triggers. I spent my childhood feeling worthless and unwanted. My first fourteen years feeling that way was more than enough for a lifetime.
Now, I make it a point to avoid abusive, toxic behavior, in all its forms.
I park further down the street, put my phone on silent, grab my purse and stealthily sneak into the house. Hiding and being silent were skills I learned in childhood. I can slink around with the best of them!
I could use a bit more ‘me’ time anyway. I need to recover from the shock of knowing Betty Jo is here.
My safe haven, my little box is upstairs. It’s too risky to try to get that far without being detected, so I simply step into a downstairs closet. I’ll stay hidden until she leaves.
I throw a light jacket on the floor and sit down on it, curling up happily in the dark. Once I’m settled, I realize I can hear Grant and Betty Jo talking. They’re in the kitchen, right next door. In fact, I can hear everything.
Briley gurgles loudly, making me smile. He tends to be quite vocal, making the funniest sounds. He’s going to talk his parents’ ears off once he learns real words. Grant’s housekeeper, Maria, murmurs something to him.
“It’s not your fault, darling,” Betty Jo coos with false sweetness, obviously addressing Briley. “Your father married a moron, but no one blames you.”
“Betty Jo,” Grant growls disapprovingly.
“It’s true,” Betty Jo says. “Alex married Sky and look where that’s gotten him. He lost custody of his own child, he and his wife are both drug addicts, and the court has ordered them to attend rehab. What a loser. Now Alex is stuck with an uneducated woman, a moron who doesn’t even have a degree.”
“I will take the baby upstairs to change his diaper,” Maria murmurs, in her thick Spanish accent.
The conversation is becoming heated, so I’m not surprised Maria’s making a quick exit. Years of working for the Wilkinsons must’ve honed the housekeeper’s survival instincts.
Betty Jo speaks in a maliciously gleeful tone. She absolutely adores getting under his skin. Provoking him is a much loved pastime. It comes as naturally to her as a baby alligator cracking out of its egg, then immediately and viciously ripping into meat—only she rips into people.
Grant was the ‘special one,’ the child daddy ‘loved’ best. It makes sense for Betty Jo to be jealous, so I try to make allowances. From what I understand, their father favored his sons.
Would Betty Jo be as resentful if she knew he had been molested as a child? How would she feel if she discovered her father was a pedophile, and her brother had been ‘favored’ only to be groomed and conditioned for abuse?
“Sky makes Alex happy,” Grant says, his voice strained and gruff, as though it’s an effort for him not to yell. “And she isn’t an idiot,” Besides, lots of people with college degrees are still fools, while not everyone has the time or money to continue their schooling. I haven’t completed my degree, either.”
Betty Jo laughs sarcastically. “Well, I wasn’t suggesting you’re a catch.”
I’ve never met anyone quite like Betty Jo. She’s apparently highly motivated and capable at work. When it comes to her personal real estate sales, she’s shrewd, scheming and a complete success.
Despite her outer façade and ability to manipulate people, inside she’s the essence of negativity—a bitter, resentful and hypercritical woman, who wouldn’t know happiness if it bit her on her tight, perfect ass. She continuously violates the rule, ‘If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.’
In my opinion she’s miserable. Miserable people prefer everyone else to be miserable too.
“You’re not involved with that nanny of yours, are you?” Betty Jo accusingly asks her older brother. She spits out the word ‘nanny’ as if it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Of course not.” The lie rolls off his tongue with such ease you’d think he practiced it.
His prompt and easy rejection hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. Shock rips through me. My eyes well with tears. Grant doesn’t love me? Nobody loves me.
I literally stop breathing as terrible childhood memories vividly whirl through my mind, like malevolent ghosts.
Between one heartbeat and the next, I'm suddenly back there again. On the fringe, disempowered—a helpless target of bullying and abuse. That’s me, a shy, frightened little mouse.
Shut up, you stupid little bitch.
Stinky! Stupid, stinky, stutter girl!
My newfound confidence disappears. I’m left feeling cold and empty with a head full of insecurities.
You’re not involved with that nanny of yours, are you?
Of course not.
Why would he deny our relationship like that? What does it mean? Is he ashamed to be with me? My throat feels thick and tight. I can’t believe the anguish that explodes inside of me.
It’s unbearable! No amount of pain killer could ease this ache.
“Can you say trailer trash?” Betty Jo quips, using her most snarky tone.
It’s true, a nasty, inner voice whispers. I didn’t even have a trailer, I lived on the street. No family. No connections. No money.
The darkness in my closet seems darker than ever. A heavy silence fills the air in the room next door. I can feel his black fury scorching right through the wall. The man is a powerful force of nature.
Moments pass while I imagine his inner turmoil. Grant is a protector of women—it’s who he is. Yet, if he were going to impulsively strike, now would be that time.
“Don’t be stupid,” he snaps back at her. His words snarl out viciously, like the growl from an enraged guard dog. “You’re a real bitch, Betty Jo, you know that? No one says anything shitty about Renata, not in my presence—not if they want to keep breathing. I’m lucky to have her here to care for Briley.”
I love that he stood up to his sister for me. That knowledge gives me comfort, despite his disavowal of our involvement. He’ll always protect my honor.
I suspect Grant’s manner or expression has scared Betty Jo, because she backs down immediately, her tone becoming practical and persuasive. “I’m simply suggesting it’s not a good idea to fuck the help.”
“You’ve seen Briley, now it’s time for you to go,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. I swear I can feel his hostile vibes. I can’t see him, but even from the depths of this little closet, I know he’s about to explode.
I turn my head, straining to hear but can’t pick up any words. I suspect he’s already marching his witch of a sister out the front door. Good riddance to bad rubbish, but the damage has been done. Grant’s denial of our relationship echoes in my mind. Thankfully, the other words he said do as well.
No one says anything shitty about Renata, not in my presence—not if they want to keep breathing.
Doubts continue to assail me. Feeling sick, I curl tight into myself and whisper my mantra. I’m OK, I’m OK, I’m OK.
Hot, silent tears run down my cheeks. I know Grant cares about me, but why did he deny our involvement? I’m afraid I know why—I’m worthless. I’m a failure. Who would want me?
These are ridiculous, repetitive thoughts I’ve often used to beat myself up with over the years. I’ll just have to work through them.
It’s been a long while since I’ve had a complete meltdown like this. Feeling unloved or unwanted makes me want to curl up and die. Or run away. Or wish I could remain in this closet forever.
I feel so sad.
How could I have deluded myself into believing a guy like Grant returned my feelings? Maybe he only stood up for me because he's a gentleman. It's his Southern upbringing. Did I read our entire relationship wrong? I'm such an idiot.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Chapter 2.
“Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.”
― Phyllis Diller
~~~
Renata Koreman
Hours pass. All is quiet as I lay curled up on the closet floor. Eventually
, I hear Grant and Maria speaking Spanish, then the front door opens and shuts.
I check my phone and see several missed calls from him. Maria’s gone home, and I have to be there for Briley. I can’t stay in hiding.
Snap out of it, idiot. Time to face this problem.
Life is hard, too damned hard. Sometimes it seems only the toughest survive, and even they don’t have it easy.
André would remind me I’m no longer a child. Running away, refusing to speak about an issue, hiding or throwing a tantrum aren’t grown-up solutions. I need to face my problems and work things out.
Because I'm an adult, I’m supposed to act mature.
And I thought being a kid was a pain in the ass.
When it comes to matters of the heart, we’re all vulnerable, uncertain and powerless as children. Love causes even the strongest of us to be at the mercy of the people we love.
After a long, internal pity party, I finally force myself to climb out of the closet and walk into the kitchen.
“Renata!” Grant exclaims joyously, relief and elation shine in his eyes. “I didn’t hear the garage door. Where have you been?”
His handsome, familiar features light up as he strides toward me, taking me by the shoulders. The ravaged, scarred side of his face doesn’t throw me, yet the sight of his powerful, muscular frame is always a carnal shock to my senses.
He’s so damn masculine, sexy and distracting. He’s been a soldier—a warrior, and he still looks the part.
I’m excruciatingly aware of him. Every feminine part of me can’t help but sit up and take notice of his powerful male energy.
Grant worked today, so he’s wearing perfectly pressed gray slacks and a white, fitted, button-down shirt, open at the throat. His dark brown hair feathers carelessly over his forehead and down his nape.
Despite how upset I am, I long to touch him. I curl my fingers into fists and resist the urge. Stupid hormones! Apparently, my body hasn't gotten the memo that I’m mad at him.
