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

by Heather Wardell

  It all looked familiar, and it all hurt my heart.

  I had to go see him. I had to hear his words. I had to understand.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I made it through the conference, and surprised myself by enjoying it. Only one of the many crime writers I met decided to bring up my past. I told him questions about my life were inappropriate, and fortunately I didn't like his book anyhow so I didn't have to deal with conflicting personal and professional impulses. The other writers were perfectly appropriate, and the delight of the three whose full manuscripts I requested made me feel good all afternoon.

  So did seeing Fred that night. When I walked into the hotel banquet room he'd booked for the party with the rest of the Toronto group, his whole face lit up. He rushed over and gave me a huge hug, then drew back and said, "I've missed you. Nobody else can make my coffee right."

  We all laughed, and I hugged him again, and he squeezed me even tighter and said softly, "How are you doing? Honestly."

  "I'm getting there," I murmured, hoping it was true.

  He patted my back and said, "Good girl," with such satisfaction and pride that my throat tightened.

  "Dad, you're crushing her," Rhonda said, her voice full of laughter. "Maybe you could let her go and, I don't know, hug your daughter? I haven't seen you since Christmas."

  "But she's nicer to me than you are," Fred protested, but he released me and said, "Okay, fine. Nice to see you, Rhonda. Your name is Rhonda, right?"

  She rolled her eyes but hugged him, then stepped back and let him shake hands with the others. He then brought over the New York contingent, who greeted everyone since they'd all met the year before. They all remembered me, of course, and were just as they'd been before, friendly without making me feel uncomfortable.

  Only Carly did that.

  I was standing talking to Howard and two New Yorkers about the crime books we'd seen that day and about the karaoke party Fred insisted we have the next night, and Carly started chattering to a third, the editor who'd left me the note offering to talk during the trial.

  She was a little ways away so probably thought I wouldn't hear her over the noise, but her "Poor Alexa, with everything that's happened to her I can't imagine how she can work. You know about all that, right?" came through loud and clear.

  Before I could do anything, the editor said, "I know it's none of my business, and I know it's never once affected her work," in a voice colder than the ice in my glass, then turned sharply and walked away.

  None of the people in my little group acknowledged this in words, although I could tell we'd all heard, but one of the New Yorkers with me gave me a tiny wink and I returned an equally small smile. Knowing they still had my back made me feel better about how Carly didn't seem to have a single functioning social filter. I supposed part of why Rhonda and Fred trusted her so much was because she couldn't possibly plot anything without blurting it out.

  The only other awkwardness came at the end of the evening, when the party broke up and Fred stood with me and the other Toronto people chatting for a few more moments before we went up to our hotel rooms and he went home.

  "Now, I know you'll all be at the karaoke bar tomorrow night at nine to listen to my brilliant singing, but what are you up to tomorrow during the day?" He beamed at me. "You have big plans, Miss Alexa, or are you gonna come make me coffee?"

  I'd be at karaoke, but I wouldn't sing. I didn't need to tell him, that, though, so I made myself smile and look casual and shake my head. "Sorry, I do have plans."

  Cutting off Fred's woeful reply, Carly said, "Yeah, you know this city inside and out, I bet. You should take us on a tour."

  "She can't," Howard said. "She's off to meet a friend."

  Carly nudged me. "Who is he? Is he cute?"

  "She," I said, "is a friend I haven't seen for ages." I forced another smile. "Not a group activity, I'm afraid."

  Carly gave me a fake pout. "Well, when you're done, maybe?"

  From my research into the Rikers visit process I knew I could be there for hours depending on how many other visitors showed up. "I have no idea when I'll be back. You're better off making your own plans."

  "There are self-guided tours online," Rhonda said, "or you can take a bus tour."

  Carly decided to do that and began attempting to coerce the others into joining her, and I saw my chance to escape. "Good night."

  They all echoed it, and Howard pulled me close for a short kiss then said, "Have a good day tomorrow. Enjoy your visit."

  Unlikely.

  Chapter Twenty

  At eight o'clock Friday morning I stood nervously in the borough of Queens waiting for the bus to take me to Rikers Island. I hadn't thought there'd be a crowd with me but I was surrounded by people, mostly women, many with young children. Some of the mothers were jumpy, cuffing and snapping at their kids for the tiniest of offenses, but most seemed resigned and quite a few were joking and laughing and seemed unconcerned.

  I wasn't unconcerned. I was terrified. I'd never done anything like this and I'd never felt so alone.

  Why hadn't I asked anyone to come with me, or at least told someone where I was going? If I didn't come back, they wouldn't have a clue where to look for me.

  I pulled out my notebook and began writing as fast as I could, trying to get all the fear out of my head and onto the pages. It did calm me, a little, but I knew the only thing that would really calm me would be getting out of Rikers, not getting into it.

  After a few minutes the bus pulled up, its sign reading "Rikers Island". Glad I didn't have to ask, I joined the crowd as we all piled on. I'd read that I'd need to pay for the bus ride, but lots of my fellow travelers complained about that. Some clearly adult women had student passes and were furious that the bus driver didn't believe they were in their teens. I took a seat near the front and stared out the window, trying to ignore the noise and the fussing. I was going to see Christophe and nothing else mattered.

  The crowded bus made its bumpy way across the bridge and disgorged us all at the visitor centre. Inside, an officer shouted, "Fifty cents, fifty cents," over and over as the rest of the visitors bustled around and I stood confused trying to get my bearings and wishing I didn't feel like I was the one being put in jail instead of the one visiting. The place had such an institutional atmosphere. Not a surprise, since it was an institution, but it still felt awful.

  "In there, hon," a skinny woman nearby said to me, waving her hand at a wall of lockers. "Phone, cigarettes, makeup. Can't take any of it in."

  "Got it. Thanks."

  I stuffed my phone and lipstick and powder compact into a locker then found two American quarters in my wallet and locked the oh-so-dangerous things away.

  The woman ran a ragged-nailed hand through her scarily blonde hair. "First time here?"

  I nodded.

  "Follow me. You get used to it."

  God, I hoped not.

  I followed her and the crowd of people as we slowly moved to and then through a metal detector, wondering if I would get used to it. Would this be my only visit? What if Christophe and I were able to really talk? Would I come back to see him? What would be the point?

  For that matter, what was the point of being here now?

  Once I'd passed the metal detector my new friend pointed me to a counter. "Get your card there. You know his booking number?"

  I did. I'd looked it up. Typing Christophe's name into a Department of Corrections web page and getting back the details of where the man I'd loved was incarcerated for assaulting me had been one of the most surreal moments of my life. I'd sat staring at the screen for ages before finally making myself write down the information.

  Her inmate was being held in a different facility. I hadn't known until I'd looked it up that "Rikers Island" wasn't a single prison but a collection of detention centers on the same island. I hadn't known a lot of things about this whole process.

  But as I waited in the long slow-moving line to get my pass to see Christoph
e, I decided I knew one thing for sure.

  I knew the point. I knew why I was here.

  I would look at Christophe and watch his reaction as I asked him why he'd done it. Whether he told me right away or refused to speak or simply let his eyes fill with regret, I'd learn something.

  And then I'd finally have the answer I needed so I could move on.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Moving on wasn't a quick or easy process at Rikers. Once I had my card, printed with Christophe's information and a painfully unflattering picture of me taken by an unsmiling clerk, I waited ages for the bus to take me to Christophe's building. Then I waited there for another metal detector, and then for an officer to stamp my card with the time I'd arrived. I was shocked to see I'd already been in this process for almost two hours. It felt shorter, and at the same time like I'd been there forever.

  That must be how Christophe felt, I assumed. Day after day of the same non-events. But today would be different, because of me.

  "Everything in the locker," an officer was calling over the noise of all the visitors.

  I watched the others around me and realized she did mean everything. No jewelry was allowed, and neither was the scarf I'd worn to hide Howard's necklace. Of course, since the necklace wouldn't have been allowed either, Christophe wouldn't have known anything about it, and I felt stupid about trying to hide it though I knew it didn't matter. I still didn't love wearing the necklace but I appreciated Howard giving it to me so I wore it every day I saw him.

  My purse and the first locker's key went in this locker too, and my passport that I'd been using for ID, and my shoes. All I had left was the key to this locker and the card with my photograph. Take away the key and I might well have been an inmate arriving for her sentence.

  The urge to flee struck me, hard and fierce, but I resisted. All of the guards and security were for my protection, and Christophe's too since I kept seeing posters of bloodied prisoners with captions explaining that this was why people weren't allowed to bring in knives or other weapons. It was all keeping me safe, helping me fulfill my goal of understanding.

  I had a lot of trouble keeping that in mind, though, as I went through the final metal detector and scan.

  "Shake your bra," the officer monitoring the detector said once I'd passed through.

  "Pardon?"

  "Pull it forward and shake it."

  I had no idea how to do that, but gave it my best shot. It must have been sufficient, because she then barked additional orders at me. "Run your fingers through your waistband. Pull out your pockets. Pull down your socks. Open your mouth."

  I did as commanded, struggling not to whimper. Her brusqueness brought back how Christophe had ordered me around during the assault and my memories were rising like a tidal wave hitting the island.

  She handed back my pass without a word and I somehow managed to walk forward following the straggly line of visitors ahead of me.

  Answers, I thought to myself. Answers.

  I thought the word again and again, and had almost managed to calm myself by the time I reached the top of a flight of clattering metal stairs. An officer stood there next to a basket into which the other visitors were depositing their passes. I put mine in too, then joined the others in sitting in the waiting room.

  After about forty-five minutes, which I spent wishing I had my notebook and mentally planning and re-planning what I'd say to Christophe and wondering what he would say in return, an officer called out, "Clifford Lamott."

  A woman jumped to her feet and dragged several kids with her toward a door marked "Visiting Area".

  "Cameron Christianson."

  Another woman hurried to the door, and I realized that the officers were calling us by our inmates' names instead of our own.

  I was trying to figure out how I felt about that when I heard, "Christophe Durand".

  Terror flashed through me but I made myself get up and walk on noodly legs to the officer.

  "Visit denied," he said.

  I blinked. "Pardon?"

  "He won't see you."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Stunned, I followed the not visibly sympathetic officer's instructions and retraced my steps back to the stairs.

  The stairs of failure.

  I'd hoped to get answers but now all I had was more questions. Did this prove he felt guilty for what he'd done? Or that he didn't? Or that he didn't want to tell me either way? Did he hate me? Or love me too much to be able to tell me why?

  I gathered my things from the locker and was soon on the bus back to the first building. I leaned my head against the frame of the open window, not wanting to think about how many heads had been there before mine but simply unable to sit up unassisted, and rode with my eyes closed until I heard a rough voice shouting, "Hey, baby, hey, ladies!"

  Startled, I opened my eyes to see we were passing what looked like a university dormitory, and inmates were leaning out their windows and waving at us.

  "Yeah, you, baby," the guy shouted again, and others joined him, suggesting in the most awful language possible precisely how they would treat me and what they would stick where should they manage to get me alone and naked.

  I jerked my head away from the window, disgusted. The bus was full of women, some of whom were leaning out the windows laughing and telling the guys they wouldn't be able to handle them, so the inmates probably hadn't even noticed me. But it felt like they were directing their comments right to me, their suggestions of doing exactly the kinds of things Christophe had done, and their disgusting imagery made the already horrible day a million times worse.

  I finally escaped the bus, and as I made my way back to my hotel I also tried to make plans for the rest of the day.

  I didn't get very far.

  I couldn't imagine that I could hide how I was feeling from the others, and yet I'd have to or else I'd have to share the whole story. Including the part where Christophe refused me.

  I left the subway and walked wearily along the busy sidewalk toward the hotel, wondering what was happening in the minds of all the other people and whether any of them also had such an ugly life story.

  The hotel's automatic doors opened and I stepped gratefully into the quiet atmosphere. I stood blinking for a second as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer inside lighting after the sun outside, then shock rushed through me.

  "Jake!"

  He stood up and came toward me, and we stared at each other for a moment before he said, "Are you okay?"

  I took a breath to give the breezy 'just fine' I'd need to give everyone else, then instead said, "No." I could tell from his eyes that he knew I wasn't, so why lie?

  He gave a single nod. "I'm sorry."

  "Why are you here? Why didn't you go with the others?" Why did I have to face him now when I wasn't ready to hide what had happened?

  "I told them I wanted to stay here and relax."

  "And did you? Relax, I mean?"

  He shook his head. "No, I was waiting for you."

  He hadn't needed to tell me that. It had been obvious as soon as I saw him from the tension in his body and on his face.

  He took a small step closer. "Did you go to visit... him?"

  My turn for a single nod.

  After waiting, clearly to see if I was going to go on, he said, "How did it go?"

  From Carly, that would have been a nosy question. But I could tell that he was genuinely concerned, and I already knew that he'd keep my secrets, so I said, "Not well." At the memory of exactly how badly it had gone, my stomach churned and I swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.

  Jake reached out a hand toward me, hesitated, then laid it lightly on my shoulder. "Do you need to sit down?"

  I swallowed again and felt my body relaxing. His support made it easier, somehow. "Yes. If you don't mind."

  "Not at all. It's why I'm here."

  He guided me, still with that hand on my shoulder, to a secluded corner where two armchairs seemed to be awaiting us. Once we'd settled
into them, I said, "How long have you been here? And why?"

  "Last night at the party I figured you might be going to visit him, and I thought it might not end well. Howard went off with the others on a bus tour of the city, so I thought I should stay here in case you needed anything."

  Realizing what this meant, I said, "You sat here all morning waiting for me?"

  He nodded, then shrugged. "Well, since nine. I didn't think you'd be back any earlier than that."

  He'd been waiting almost four hours. I wanted to thank him for his consideration, but I couldn't because I was too busy feeling uncomfortable. "How'd you know I was going? I didn't say so."

  "No." He sighed. "If I could visit the woman who... accused me, I would. So I thought maybe you were doing the same thing."

  I stared at him, shocked that he'd equate us, and he hurried to add, "Just that we both want answers. At least, I know I do, and I figure you probably do too. Not that we're the same. You were the victim and I was the..." He shut his eyes. "I had hours to figure out how to say this and this is the best I could do? Pathetic."

  To my surprise, I chuckled. He opened his eyes and looked at me, and I said, "I get it." I did, too. We'd both had what we thought we knew about a situation turned completely upside down, and it was natural to want to know why.

  He smiled with relief and amusement, then leaned forward as his eyes turned serious. "Did you get your answers? Or even one?"

  I bit my lip and shook my head, then told him that Christophe had chosen not to see me.

  Jake breathed, "Damn, that sucks."

  I nodded. Yes, it did.

  After we sat silent for at least a minute, I said, "And I don't know why. I don't know whether he was too embarrassed to see me, or whether he hates me because he's in jail because of me, or whether he loves me and so didn't want me to see him like that... I don't know, and I hate it. And I think a part of me still loves him and I hate that too. But mostly I want to know why. What do you think?"