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

by Heather Wardell

  Had I provoked Christophe? Was the assault at least partly my fault?

  I didn't want to believe that, but I did share David's disbelief that Christophe had been capable of such a thing. I really had loved him.

  And he'd changed my life, even before the attack, and his influence still lingered. Though we hadn't been together for years, I continued to dress exactly how Christophe had wanted me to. Nothing else seemed right to me now. With his French background, he'd seemed infinitely glamorous and classy, and I'd let him mold me into what he called 'the perfect lady' in his gorgeous French accent.

  I'd preferred shorter skirts but he'd liked them at least down to my calves, and he had made damn sure I wouldn't wear short ones again. I wore my hair to my shoulders and braided as he'd liked it, my makeup was subtle and neutral as he'd preferred, and even the thin silver chain I always wore around my neck was there because of his influence. I'd never liked the feel of a necklace against my throat but he'd insisted I looked wrong without one, and I'd become so used to that sensation that I'd continued wearing necklaces long after his influence over me should have been finished.

  Before I realized I was going to do it, I reached up and gave the chain a sharp jerk. It fell free into my hand, and I dropped it into the garbage can. I wasn't going to be controlled by him any more. I was going to be myself.

  I went out, forcing myself to keep my head held high, and the advocate met me at the door. "Are you okay?"

  I nodded.

  "Good. The jury's coming back."

  Chapter Two

  Once we'd all returned to the courtroom, Christophe was brought in by two solidly muscled men in navy blue uniforms whose faces looked like they'd never once borne smiles. I looked straight ahead as he passed, then wished I had looked at him instead, had shown him that he didn't control me any more. Would he notice, if he looked at me, that I no longer wore a necklace? If he noticed, would he be angry or be hurt?

  The judge made his appearance, as we all stood, then again everyone took their seats.

  As the jury filed in, I studied their faces and wondered what they'd decided. They all looked cold and distant, and I didn't know what that meant.

  I didn't have long to wait.

  "Has the jury reached its verdict on all charges?"

  A tall woman took a deep breath and got to her feet. "We have, your Honor."

  "Please read the verdict for the court."

  Another deep breath. "We find the defendant guilty on all charges."

  Christophe's mother burst into tears and his grandmother shouted something in French that I was probably lucky not to understand, but mostly relief swept the courtroom.

  I'd have expected to feel that too. Maybe also satisfaction. Vindication.

  I did, a little.

  But mostly I watched Christophe realize that he would be spending the better part of his remaining years in prison, saw his shoulders slump and his whole body seem to shrink in on itself, and I felt sick for him.

  I hated it, but I did. He deserved the conviction, of course, but it hurt to see it happening.

  The judge thanked the jury for its work, told Christophe he would be sentenced in September, and signaled his guards to remove him.

  This time I did watch Christophe making his way along the courtroom aisle. Our eyes met and locked, and he tried to stop but the guards pulled him onward and past me.

  I sat frozen, my heart racing, trying to figure out what if anything I'd seen in his eyes. Had there been regret? Apology? Maybe even love?

  As I admitted to myself that there hadn't been anything at all, that the man I'd loved had retreated from me entirely, the victim's advocate leaned over and hugged me. "Congratulations, Alexa!"

  I turned to stare at her. "For what?"

  She blinked. "It's over." Her brow furrowed. "You do understand what's happened, right? He's going to prison for a very long time. I'd say at least twenty-five years, and it's entirely possible it'll be a life sentence. They found him guilty. You know that, right?"

  "I know," I said, and didn't bother adding that it didn't seem to matter. Everything he'd done to me was still done, and I was still the person who needed a victim's advocate because I was a victim.

  I briefly wondered whether it was me or Christophe facing a life sentence, then pushed that aside as melodramatic. I was free to go back to my apartment, my job, free to again get through the notoriety and then live my life. Christophe would not be free for decades if at all.

  The advocate still looked concerned, so I took a deep breath then gave her a smile. "Sorry. It's just hard to take in, that's all. I do understand. So, what happens now?"

  Relief smoothed her forehead. "Well, there'll be lots of media types outside. You don't have to talk to them, of course, but if you do it'll likely mean they'll leave you alone after. If they don't get a statement they tend to keep trying until they do."

  The idea of standing before all the cameras and microphones made my stomach twist again, but I knew she was right because the same thing had happened immediately after the assault, with reporters even staking out my hospital trying to get an exclusive. "Okay, let's do it."

  She gave my arm a squeeze and got to her feet. Before I could stand too, my mother grabbed me in a hug and whispered, "You're coming home now, right? This is no place for you."

  We'd been having this conversation on and off since the assault, and really since I first moved to New York. I hugged her back briefly then pulled away and shook my head. "I love city life."

  Dad closed his hand over my shoulder. "Think about it, okay? We can help you get better."

  That was the problem. They were insistent that I was still broken, but I couldn't be. It had been two years, after all. Sure, the trial had stirred everything up for me again, but once it again settled I'd be fine. Going back home would just regress me to childhood, and I didn't want that. Plus, I had too many memories of Christophe there from the visits we'd had, and I'd rather stay in my new apartment and not have to think about those.

  I stood without answering and the advocate escorted me to the fiercely sunny front steps of the courthouse where I found a crowd of reporters waiting for me. The advocate held up her hand for quiet, and once she had it she explained that I was of course relieved that it was over and pleased that the jury had made the right decision, finishing with, "You may ask Alexa a few questions now."

  An older man in the front of the group gave me a friendly but distant smile. "Is that true, Alexa? Are you relieved and glad they've put him away?"

  The memory of how I'd felt when they convicted him swept me, but I forced it aside. "Of course. I am grateful that the jury listened to everything and understood how it happened."

  A different voice called, "Do you still love him?"

  I hadn't expected that, and I stared blankly in the direction of the young man, half-hidden behind the older one, who'd asked the question.

  When I didn't answer, his eyes lit up and he pushed his way to the front. "Lance Birch. You remember me, right? Well? Do you still love him?"

  I did remember Lance, now that I could see him. He was a crime writer who'd had huge success with his first two non-fiction books then been vilified when his third book turned out to be far more fictional than he'd admitted. He'd been trying for the last three years to get his career back, and for the last two years to get me to give him my story. Making money from what had happened, though, felt awful to me, and I knew from work that nobody in the industry had any respect for him any more, so I kept putting him off.

  He was a persistent guy, though, and he proved it again now. "Alexa, do you still love Christophe Durand after everything he did to you?"

  The reporters all leaned in, microphones at the ready.

  I took a breath of the humid August air as if I were about to speak, but I didn't because I didn't know what to say. Of course I didn't love him. I couldn't.

  But I also couldn't say it.

  Before I could find any words the advocate
stepped in. "That's an inappropriate question and Alexa clearly does not want to or have to answer it. One final question, from someone else, and that's the end of this."

  Lance tried to speak but a woman shouted over him. "What will you do now, Alexa?"

  "I'll go back to my life," I said. "Try to put this all behind me. Try to forget."

  She said, "How exactly do you intend to do that?" but the advocate stepped in before I could answer. "We're finished here, thank you."

  She led me away, while I pondered the excellent question.

  I didn't have a clue.

  Chapter Three

  My parents wanted me to go back to their hotel and spend the rest of the day with them and Ricky, but I knew they'd be trying to convince me to move home with them. I didn't want to move, and I didn't want to be lectured either, so I insisted that I needed to go back to work.

  During the trial, I'd noticed again people's strange caution in dealing with me. It had been there in full force right after the attack, but had faded away as my visible wounds healed. It was back now, though. Everyone seemed to see me as fragile, in need of careful handling. I didn't like their perception that I was weak and broken, but I wasn't above using it, and when I said that I thought I'd feel better with work keeping my mind off things my parents backed down at once. I did concede to their request for dinner that night, though, since they'd be leaving New York and returning home the next day.

  "Maybe with you?" Mom said hopefully. "I'm sure we can get another seat on the plane."

  I shook my head. "Even if I do decide to go home, I'd need more time than that to pack."

  She reluctantly accepted this, and I escaped the courthouse via the back door to avoid any lingering media.

  I took the subway to my apartment in Chelsea, hiding behind sunglasses and a big floppy hat. At the last stop before mine two guys got on chattering about the case and how "that girl probably liked it but then felt guilty and took it out on him".

  I sat with my head down, begging myself not to throw up, as the train rattled through the tunnel and they went on and on with complete inaccuracy about the details. When we reached my stop, I let the other riders leave first then got up and bolted for the door just before it slid closed again, so that if they recognized me they wouldn't be able to do anything about it. I heard, "Shit, I think that's her!" from one of the guys as I did, but the door closed behind me and I didn't look back.

  I hurried the half block from the 14th Street station to my apartment then up the stairs to the third floor. My shaking hands had trouble with the two locks on my door, but eventually I got inside and locked the door of my sanctuary behind me. The apartment was one little bedroom and a combined kitchen/dining/living room with the tiniest bathroom I'd ever seen, but it was all mine.

  I sat on the couch, staring at the age-roughened hardwood floor, until I knew I wouldn't throw up then stripped off my clothes and took a long hot shower to wash everything away. After standing beneath the water for ages, I washed myself while keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the shower wall then again stood still and let the water pound down on me. It eventually brought up tears, as I'd known it would, and I let them pour down too until they stopped.

  As I scrubbed my body dry, as always keeping the towel between my gaze and my skin, I told myself there'd be no more tears in the shower. Or anywhere. I was fine now. It was over.

  I said that again and again while I did my makeup and braided my damp hair and dressed in work-appropriate clothes, and once I'd had a quick lunch and was again walking along my street on the way to the subway station I had managed to make myself believe it. I was fine.

  I reached work without anyone recognizing me, although as I walked up the blazingly hot Fifth Avenue toward our office building I did hear snatches of conversation about the case from people going the other way. Phrases like "what the bastard did to her legs" and "just rough sex gone wrong" proved two things to me: the city was again talking about me and Christophe, and again there was no agreement about what had happened.

  Well, I'd survived all that last time, and I would again. It was just a matter of putting up with it until people lost interest and started talking about something else.

  My coworkers, bless them, had long ago stopped talking about it, and none of them had said a Christophe-related word during the case except the one editor who'd left a note on my desk offering her ear if I needed to talk. I'd smiled at her the next time I saw her, appreciating her willingness to talk and her subtlety in making the offer, and she'd smiled back, and she and the others had let me be. I appreciated their silence. I knew they felt for me, but nothing anyone could say would make it better.

  Which did not stop my boss from trying.

  I reached my desk by his office, and before I had a chance to sit down he was on his feet and beckoning to me through his floor-to-ceiling interior windows.

  I stuck my head into his office. "Yes?"

  "Never mind yes," he said. "Get in here. Door shut, please."

  I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. "What's up?"

  "You know what's up. Why are you here?"

  "You called me in," I said innocently.

  He shook his head, his long curly grey hair swirling in a way that always reminded me of a lion's mane. "Alexa, my dear, give it up. You know what I mean."

  I sighed and dropped into his visitor's chair. "I do. I just feel like I'll be better off here."

  He folded his big age-gnarled hands atop his desk. "Are you sure? You know you can take as much time as you want."

  Belying my 'no tears' resolution, my throat tightened. I swallowed hard. "I know, Fred. And I appreciate it. It's just... here, everyone knows me as me, not as..."

  "The victim," he said softly when I didn't finish.

  We'd had this conversation before, right after the assault, when I'd come back to work while my wounds healed but hadn't been able to handle editing crime books as I had before. I'd felt like the authors were studying me, like they were considering putting me into their novels. I'd come into his office back then planning to quit to get away from it all, and he'd instead created a job for me as the assistant he really didn't need. He was by far the sweetest man I'd ever met.

  "Yeah." I shrugged. "I can hear them, on the street, talking about it. It'll stop eventually, like it did before, but for now it's not fun."

  Fred closed his hand into a fist. "If I were thirty years younger, Alexa, I swear I'd go to that prison and take care of things for you. The old-fashioned way."

  I had to smile. "Last time you said you needed to be forty years younger."

  He smiled back. "I guess I'm ten years more mad." He opened his hand and reached out to pat mine. "You are a brave and beautiful girl, Miss Alexa, and I am allowed to call you a girl without facing a lawsuit, right? I'm never sure, these days."

  I laughed, as always feeling better in his presence. Maybe he was really the reason I'd wanted to come to work. He was the only one who openly discussed the whole mess, and while I appreciated the others' silence somehow I was also glad Fred didn't keep quiet. "Yup."

  He squeezed my hand then released me. "Sweetheart honey cupcake buttercup?"

  "Don't push your luck. I'd hate to file that suit after all and take over your company."

  We smiled at each other. He sobered first. "You're right, you know. People will stop talking about it. Some reality show star will release a sex tape or drive her car into a tree and that'll be the new big news. I am sorry you're dealing with it now, and I know it was awful for you at the beginning too, but you've faced it once and you can again. You'll be okay. You're tough. Like my Rhonda."

  I'd never met his daughter, who ran our nearly two-year-old Toronto office, but I wanted to someday. The Toronto staff came to New York every year for a whole-staff party but I'd skipped it the last two years, not feeling ready to party with strangers who as crime editors would know exactly who I was. Maybe this year I'd be able to handle it. "I hope so."

  "I k
now so." He patted my hand again. "Hang in there. You'll be okay."

  I tried to smile.

  "Now get back to work, would you?"

  My smile came easier this time. "Yes, boss. I hope you're right, boss."

  "I am. I always am."

  Chapter Four

  He wasn't right. Not even close.

  Day after day I went to work and hid in my corner by his office then went home and hid there until it was time to go back to work. Whenever I heard anyone speaking on the street or the subway I flinched in case they were discussing me, and all too often they were. Even when nobody was talking about me I felt sure they were looking at me and recognizing me, and the suddenly averted gazes I saw wherever I went told me I was frequently right.

  None of my favorite places in the city gave me any comfort either. After the assault I had found a sort of peace through hours spent sitting in a sheltered corner of Bryant Park or Union Square and scribbling my thoughts into my ever-present notebook. I'd written how much my body hurt and how much more my heart hurt, and how I didn't know if either of them would ever heal enough that I could get back to being the person I'd been before. Writing it all out had helped, though, and over time I'd come to believe that I'd be able to overcome what had happened to me. Now I was right back at the beginning, and I didn't know if I had the strength to get over it all again.

  If indeed I ever had.

  The trial had brought up all the details I'd worked so hard to forget, even some details I hadn't remembered before because they'd been blurred by the drugs Christophe had given me and the pain he'd caused. Seeing the photographs of the crime scene and my poor body in the courtroom had made every last detail all too sharp and clear. Those images were now branded on my brain and I saw them every time I closed my eyes.

  Even my little apartment didn't soothe me like it had at the beginning, because one of my neighbors seemed to have figured out who I was and she somehow always managed to be on the stairs when I was so she could stare at me.