Toronto Collection Volume 3 (Toronto Series #10-13)

by Heather Wardell

  All the ways I could dispose of it raced through my mind, but I picked the most dramatic one and didn't feel bad about it in the slightest. A woman in a gorgeous pink dress had the right to be dramatic. "Aziz, would you mind if we stopped by the Gulf for a few minutes?"

  "Of course not, Madam. Where would you like to go?"

  I described the driveway I'd taken toward the big rock on which I'd sat to make my drawings in the sand, including drawings of the dress I hadn't allowed myself, and Aziz found the spot I meant.

  "Could you open the trunk for me?"

  He did, and I rummaged through my suitcase then kicked off my shoes so I could feel the sand against my feet and set off down the beach toward the rock. When I arrived, I stood next to it on the patch of sand where I'd reawakened my artistic side and opened my fist so I could stare down at Greg's ring in its box.

  I weighed it in my hand, studying it. Since Greg's affair I'd doubted everything I'd said and done. But on balance I'd actually done a lot of good things. I'd made mistakes. Who didn't? But standing there with my pretty pink skirt fluttering in the breeze, they didn't seem to matter. I'd made mistakes. And I'd make more. But they'd be mine, and I would trust myself to make them.

  I was an artistic girly girl with a soft spot for pink and a love of math and science, and I was becoming a damn fine teacher. I would let myself be all those things, and anything else that felt right, and I would learn to love myself exactly as I was.

  I knew I still wanted a man, someday. But I wouldn't be with another one until I didn't need him to love me to know I was loved.

  I took the ring between my fingers and threw it out to sea.

  It flew then arced down into the water.

  I watched until its ripples vanished.

  I didn't feel anything but right.

  As I turned to go, a tarot card seemed to float before my eyes, exactly as they had back in the days when I trusted myself.

  I smiled.

  The card was 'Judgment'.

  Yes, I had judgment. And I'd keep developing it.

  Feeling a thousand times lighter and happier, I walked back to the car, dropping the ring box into a garbage can on the way. Tomorrow I'd go to the school where I would no doubt have to work harder than before to regain Khalid's trust. It wouldn't be easy. None of the work I had to do would be easy. The roots of my issues went all the back to my earliest memories. Learning to love myself would be the hardest thing I'd ever done.

  Aziz looked up from his book. "Ready, Madam?"

  I smiled at him. "Absolutely."

  EVERYBODY'S GOT A STORY

  Chapter One

  The prosecutor's closing argument was reaching its peak. "On that fateful Friday night over two years ago, he took advantage of her trust in him to get her into the apartment building where he felt sure nobody would interrupt them. Then he began to carry out his plan, the plan you've been shown was carefully thought out and pre-meditated. Christophe Durand deliberately drugged Alexa Ryder with a potent anesthetic he bought online as part of his planning, knocking her out so he could abuse and mutilate her at his leisure."

  I pressed my thighs together beneath the long skirt I wore, hating that word. I wasn't mutilated.

  Was I?

  Knowing damn well that I was, that the man with whom I'd thought I'd spend my life had literally etched his control of me into my skin while I lay unconscious before him on the air mattress he'd had me bring to the under-construction apartment, I swallowed hard and stared straight ahead at the front wall of the courtroom and did my best not to listen as she described how he'd ensured I'd never forget him. I didn't need to listen. I knew far too well what he'd done.

  "As if all that hadn't been bad enough," the prosecutor went on, "which of course it certainly was, after hours of it he let her return to consciousness."

  My stomach twisted painfully, as it always did when I had to remember waking up, dizzy and confused, to excruciating pain in my thighs and Christophe's face looming over mine bearing an expression of cold hatred. I could still hear his voice, cool and almost calm, as he said those awful words. "You've been a bad girl, Alexa. You've cheated on me, been with another man. But you'll never be with a man again. I'll see to it."

  I hadn't been a bad girl, and I hadn't cheated. But so far he'd been right on the third part.

  As I swallowed hard to make sure I wouldn't humiliate myself even further by throwing up in the courtroom, the prosecutor said, "He woke her up so she would know and suffer as he violated her sexually in every way possible."

  Just like every time anything sex-related was mentioned, I felt everyone in the courtroom struggling to keep from looking at me and imagining the details of what he'd done to me. I was the human equivalent of a massive car accident on the highway: you know you shouldn't stare, but somehow you're compelled.

  As the prosecutor detailed how carefully Christophe had planned, how he'd even prepared a written list of what he wanted to do to me so he wouldn't forget anything, I realized that Christophe had turned in the prisoner's chair and was facing me.

  My heart raced but I kept my eyes fixed on the courtroom wall. I couldn't let myself look at him. If I did I might stand up and beg him to tell me why he'd done it all.

  We hadn't spoken for over two years. I couldn't remember the last thing he'd said to me, although no doubt it had been some sort of command. My last words to him, some variation of the 'please don't do it' I'd said over and over during the assault, had come just before the police had burst into the apartment.

  Nothing that had been said in the two years since, in the media or in the courtroom, had explained his actions to me, and I longed to know how he'd been able to treat me like that.

  The prosecutor hit a few of the highlights, or lowlights, of the sex acts Christophe had forced me into at the point of the gun I hadn't known he owned, making sure the jury remembered the worst things right before they went off to deliberate, and I could feel Christophe staring at me the whole time.

  He'd stared at me the same way when I was on the witness stand, recounting those same acts as the prosecutor gently helped me through it. Christophe had known I thought bedroom stuff should be kept private, shared only between lovers, and though I hated it I'd realized on the stand that he was enjoying watching me squirm as the judge and jury and defense lawyer and my family and everyone else in the courtroom listened to the details.

  I'd loved him.

  I hadn't known him at all.

  The prosecutor, mercifully, said, "But you've heard all of this before, and in far greater detail. You've heard expert witnesses tell you that Christophe Durand is a sociopath. He poses significant danger not only to Alexa, not only to any future girlfriends he might have, but to the world at large. Were it not for his one error, Durand would have completed his plan. He would have continued his assault on Alexa until the list he'd prepared was completed and then he would have killed himself in front of her to ensure she never forgot him, to condemn her to a life of guilt and pain."

  My thighs itched from being squished together and I eased them apart a little. No worries on the 'forgetting him' score, although now instead of waking up from nightmares of a bullet piercing his skull I woke up from equally awful dreams in which he told me he'd kill himself when he finished with me and I begged him not to.

  If only those were just dreams.

  He had told me that and I had begged him. I'd begged him for a lot of things during those awful hours, but mostly, as he showed me the list and I saw both what he'd do next and the increasingly small number of things he'd do before the end, I'd begged him not to die, and I'd begged him to take his time torturing me so he wouldn't reach the end of the list. I'd loved him.

  When the cops had shown up, there'd been three things left on the list before "Kill myself". Would he really have done it? Would he have shot himself and left me tied to the half-finished apartment's exposed wooden studs to stare at his corpse until someone found me?

  I didn't know.
But he hadn't had the chance, and so I'd been spared that. And so I'd be okay.

  No, I was okay. I had my job, I had a small but cute apartment near the Hudson River, and I had made it through the buzz of attention after the attack itself. I'd make it through the aftermath of the trial too, because I was okay.

  I said the word to myself over and over, trying to convince myself. Okay okay okay. I couldn't stay focused on it, though, because the prosecutor was still talking and her strong voice could not be ignored.

  "But Durand did make an error. The defense claims that failing to check the construction company's website so he didn't realize the building would contain a work crew that Sunday was Durand's subconscious way of ensuring he could not complete his plan. They seem to forget that Durand's subconscious had no problem allowing him to abuse his girlfriend of nearly two years from Friday night to Sunday morning. Over thirty-six hours of hell for Alexa, with no interference from his subconscious."

  Her sarcastic tone on the last word provoked a few quickly-stifled chuckles in the courtroom. She went on as if she hadn't heard. "His error stopped him only from killing himself, not from essentially killing the woman Alexa Ryder had been. No, regardless of this error, Durand did nearly everything he'd set out to do, and he certainly did change Alexa forever. And for that reason, you must convict him of all charges."

  The prosecutor paused, letting her last words ring out, then said, "The prosecution rests," and returned to her chair.

  Christophe's lawyer rose. He was an older man, who bore a startling resemblance to my grandfather, and he'd seemed almost as uncomfortable cross-examining me on exactly what Christophe had stuck into me where and how long it had lasted as I'd been answering the questions. I couldn't imagine Christophe had chosen his lawyer based on how difficult I'd find it to talk to him, and yet if he'd tried he couldn't have done a better job.

  The lawyer stood silent for a moment, and despite myself I felt for the guy. Not an easy case for him.

  The cops, alerted by the construction workers, had broken down the door while Christophe was actively assaulting me, and they'd told the court exactly what they saw and how clear it had been to them that I was in no way a willing partner. Christophe had put his gun down, needing both hands to control me, but he'd lunged for it and had been promptly subdued by the officers. They'd hauled him out of the room and then, being so kind and gentle that it had embarrassed me even more because they so obviously saw me as in need of pity, had taken photographs of the ropes binding my wrists and ankles and the other trauma to my naked body before finally cutting the ropes and covering me with a blanket for my trip to the hospital. The medical reports, too, were all too clear. The evidence against Christophe was overwhelming.

  The lawyer did his best. He obviously couldn't argue that I hadn't been assaulted, or that Christophe hadn't had a gun, but he'd gone with the 'she liked it rough and it went a little too far' defense that I'd been warned would likely be his only possible path.

  To his credit, he'd seemed awfully uncomfortable with it throughout the trial, but he really hadn't had much choice given the evidence. He'd called as witnesses my three boyfriends before Christophe, who had all uncomfortably admitted that I hadn't been averse to being tied up with silk scarves or blindfolded or even spanked a little. The prosecutor had, of course, pointed out on her cross-examination that none of that bore any similarity to being bound with rough ropes that had dug so deeply into my flesh that I still bore faint white scars, but the image of me consenting to less than gentle treatment had no doubt stayed with the jury.

  Would it lead them to set Christophe free?

  The lawyer said, "Mr. Durand made mistakes. No question about that. He misjudged the situation in a most tragic way. But it was absolutely not his intention to cause any harm to Ms. Ryder. We've established she did enjoy rougher sexual activity, and Mr. Durand believed everything they did together that day was consensual. He would not have brought a list of activities, which could be used as evidence against him, if he did not. And after all, Ms. Ryder went willingly into the building with him."

  And she'd been disgusted with herself for that ever since, even though I'd had no idea Christophe had planned anything more than a little potentially public sex like we'd both enjoyed on many other occasions. I couldn't have known he had far different plans this time, and yet somehow I felt guilty and stupid. I'd actually brought the mattress on which he'd assaulted me, on which he'd carried out his horrible list of 'activities'.

  "As for the construction crew in the building, Mr. Durand is grateful that they showed up when they did and prevented him from accidentally going too far. Mr. Durand does of course deeply regret any pain Ms. Ryder did suffer before the crew arrived, but I do not believe it's right to punish him for simply misunderstanding his partner's intentions on this occasion." Looking relieved, he added, "The defense rests," and took his seat amid a faint buzz in the courtroom. Behind me, somebody muttered, "Hard to understand her intentions when you gag her," and someone else chuckled.

  He had gagged me. For a while. But once he'd made it clear to me that the building we were in was empty for the weekend and nobody would hear me he'd removed the gag so I could beg him.

  My stomach twisted, remembering the other reasons he'd wanted my mouth free of obstructions, and I made myself a promise: I wouldn't think about the gory details any more. It had been over two years, and although the prosecutor had said Christophe had destroyed my life I was still among the living. True, the anonymity I'd sunk into after the initial public reaction to the crime was gone now, and I again felt uncomfortable walking the streets of New York. But last time, after a few weeks, people had largely forgotten me. They would again once the trial was over.

  And I'd forget too.

  *****

  My parents and Ricky and I stood in a corner of the crowded courthouse lobby as the victim's advocate who'd sat with us throughout the trial explained what would happen now.

  "The jury could come back any time from five minutes to five weeks. If it goes longer than today, I suggest you stay at your hotel and I'll let you know when they're ready to render their verdict."

  "Do you think it's going to take that long?"

  She looked at my dad and shook her head. "Honestly, I'll be shocked if they're not back before lunch time."

  We all glanced at our watches together. Ten forty-five.

  "Well, good," my brother said. "I still think they should just let me kick the guy's ass instead. Save the taxpayers the bill. If I'd been here none of this would--"

  "Ricky!" My parents snapped in unison, and he subsided.

  I didn't need him to finish it, though, to know what he meant. He'd said the same thing often enough over the last two years, maintaining that if he'd been in New York City with me instead of rural Alberta with our parents he would have been able to prevent the assault because he'd have recognized that Christophe was bad news.

  Even though he'd seen Christophe every year at Christmas and had never had anything worse to say about him than the typical big-brother "He's okay, I guess". Even though nobody had thought Christophe was anything more than a loving boyfriend with maybe a little jealous streak.

  Not even his best friend had thought that.

  As if thinking of him had conjured him up, David walked into the lobby and began looking around. Our eyes met, and though I turned away at once I knew it wouldn't stop him and sure enough he was soon standing beside me.

  "Get away from her," the advocate said. "She's made her position clear in the past."

  I had, on the first day of the trial, when I told him that none of it would have happened without him then ran into the bathroom to throw up.

  He ignored her. "Alexa, I'm sorry. I really am. I had no idea he was capable of that." He swallowed hard. "I'm so sorry. Please. Can you ever forgive me?"

  Forgive him for acting like my friend, for asking me how things were going with Christophe and getting me to admit that I was starting to wonder whether al
most two years was long enough, and then telling Christophe everything I'd said? For hugging me after our last talk and then telling Christophe that too? That simple innocent hug had fueled Christophe's worst assaults on me while he told me over and over that I'd never be able to hug anyone else again, that nobody else would ever want me, that he'd make sure of it.

  Christophe had gone way too far, but David had set him in motion.

  I shook my head once, feeling too sick to speak, then pushed past him and walked away toward the bathroom.

  "I never thought he'd do anything like that," David called after me, sounding frantic and near tears. "I still can't believe it."

  I turned back and stared at him, and his face went white. "No, I believe it. I mean, the jury saw the... God... Alexa, I didn't mean that. I just can't accept he would do something like that. So out of character."

  So therefore I must have provoked him?

  I almost said it, but my stomach churned again and I had to race for the bathroom through the crowd of people. On the way, I briefly locked eyes with Christophe's grandmother. She'd come over from France for the trial, and though we hadn't spoken her eyes made it clear that she felt sure I'd provoked him. I'd seen that in a lot of other eyes too, the doubt that someone like Christophe would really go that far without being forced into it.

  His mother was the only one who'd actually articulated it, telling the media that her good French boy couldn't have done such a thing without an awful American girl goading him into it. Though I was actually Canadian, that little sound bite had kept the case alive in the news and on the Internet far longer than it might have been of interest otherwise, although of course the sordid details had also fascinated people.

  The sordid details of the assault on my body and soul.

  I made it to the toilet just in time.

  Once I'd thrown up, with any luck for the last time in this courthouse, I rinsed out my mouth and fixed my makeup and redid my braided hair. Then I stared at myself in the mirror.