Obsessed

by Devon Scott

  “You.” Kimberlyn’s eyes are downcast. Suddenly Kennedy is acutely aware of the stillness in the office. It’s as if work has ground to a halt. As she marches behind Kimberlyn to her office, she notices with a rising sense of dread that the staff is staring at her. Kennedy’s stomach knots around itself. Just what the hell is going on?

  Kennedy’s office is in the corner of the building, a fifteen-second walk from the conference room. In that time Kimberlyn has maintained silence; the staff of about ten people is clocking her position the way an owl does its prey. She feels sick and has no idea why.

  Kennedy reaches her office and stares at the computer screen. Kimberlyn closes the door and presses her back into the wood quietly. Her lips are mashed tightly together. Kennedy sits and calls up her e-mail, willing her hands to stop shaking. At the top of her in-box is a new message in red from a sender she does not recognize:

  egnever620@yahoo.com. Subject: Interesting.

  Kennedy glances over at Kimberlyn, who in a whispery voice says, “Most of us at the association received it.” She pauses while Kennedy opens the e-mail and a gasp escapes from her lips. In the half second it takes for her eyes to lock on to the image that stops her heart cold, she knows she’s finished. Kennedy’s face goes white. She stabs at the mouse, shutting the offending window as she mouths to herself, “Oh my God!” Her hand is at her breasts as Kimberlyn clears her throat.

  “I’m trying to track Reginald down. Perhaps he can delete it from the mail server, but . . . it may be too late. Everyone’s seen it.”

  Kennedy is deteriorating; she witnesses it in her own reflection from the computer screen. The face staring back at her registers severe horror. An image is burned into her retinas: Kennedy’s nude form in the throes of heated lovemaking. The lover in the photo: another woman.

  “I’m so sorry, Kennedy. I’ll do what I can to reach the IT guy.”

  Kennedy doesn’t turn when Kimberlyn leaves, closing the door quickly behind her. She remains still in front of her computer, not breathing, as if catching the breath in her throat will somehow erase this obscene incident that has her doubled over in pain. A moment passes before she exhales. Then she calls up the offending e-mail.

  There it is.

  No text. Just three images, one atop another, all of her and the woman in vibrant color and crystal clear, completely nude and sexually explicit.

  Nothing left to the imagination.

  Old photos, close to four years ago, from an encounter she and Michael had with a woman in Belize. Kennedy hastily deletes the e-mail and turns to reach for her phone. A knock at the door breaks the cacophony inside her mind. She ignores the noise and instead speed-dials Michael. Her door opens and Jackson Blair, executive director of the association, walks in. His face is grave as he shuts the door behind him, taking a seat across from her.

  He shakes his head morosely before speaking.

  “This is bad.” Jackson lets the weight of his statement sink in before continuing. “As far as we can tell, the pictures have been mailed to a number of colleagues outside NAUD.”

  “WHAT? HOW?” Kennedy is numb. Her entire body vibrates with fear.

  “Unknown.” Jackson’s voice is steady. “We’re looking into that as we speak. The first order of business is damage control. Right now it’s got us shut down.”

  “Oh God.” Her head is in her hands. Jackson stands.

  “I’m sorry, Kennedy. Your personal business should be of no concern to us. But this”—he holds his hands wide and gestures toward the ceiling—“this . . . is tricky. As an attorney, you know better than most how these things can be misconstrued. So let us deal with it. Right now I need you to go home and wait to hear from me before doing anything rash. Okay?”

  Kennedy is rising now, grabbing her purse, her BlackBerry, and her coat from the rack in the corner. She moves past Jackson, who pats her shoulder lightly, but the action does nothing to console her. He says nothing further. Words cannot comfort her now.

  In an instant, Kennedy’s world has shattered.

  She heads toward the stairs. It takes every ounce of strength she can muster to will her legs to move. All eyes are upon her. It’s a dream, Kennedy tells herself as she shuffles along the low gray carpet, eyes downcast, feeling the stares bore into her like deep puncture wounds.

  It’s a nightmare, and the silence is deafening.

  Chapter 16

  The call goes immediately to voice mail. So Kennedy dials Michael’s work number instead. A receptionist picks up.

  “Is he in?” Kennedy pants, seemingly out of breath.

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Handley is in a meeting,” she says with a hint of attitude.

  Kennedy is in no mood.

  “This is his wife, and it’s an emergency. I need you to go get him out of the meeting. Now. I’ll hold.”

  Kennedy drops her BlackBerry onto the passenger seat as she steers around a taxicab. It’s double-parked, most likely to pick up a fare. Amazingly, the taxi driver honks his horn, but Kennedy isn’t focused on that. She’s tapping her left hand on the steering wheel, counting the seconds until her husband comes on.

  He gets on about three minutes later.

  “Kennedy? What’s wrong?”

  Michael hears his wife crying. “Baby? Talk to me!”

  Kennedy blurts out, “My job received an e-mail with nude photos of me and that woman from Belize. Oh, Michael!”

  “WHAT?” he yells in amazement. “An e-mail? From whom?” Michael closes the door to his office and takes a seat, calling up his work e-mail.

  “I don’t know from whom. All I know is that it went to the entire fucking association!”

  Michael’s e-mail is clean, as far as he can tell. No new messages. He breathes a sigh of relief.

  “The pictures are of you and which girl?” he asks.

  “The woman we met in Belize four years ago.”

  “Jesus.” Michael’s mind is racing. He’s wondering who sent the photos. They’ve had zero contact with the woman. At least, he hasn’t had any contact with her.

  “And you haven’t contacted her or her you?” he asks, immediately regretting the question.

  “NO, Michael. I would have told you if there had been contact. You know that.”

  “Okay. Let me think.”

  He can’t even recall her name. Why would anyone send nude pictures to his wife’s job? Suddenly Michael remembers the e-mail that was waiting for him when they returned Sunday night. He feels his veins go ice cold.

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “Heading home. Jackson told me to leave. . . .”

  “Oh fuck.”

  Kennedy is suddenly racked with sobs. Her wailing comes through the phone loud and clear.

  “Baby, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Figure this out?” Kennedy retorts, wiping her face with the back of her hand, her makeup cascading down in rivers. It’s the least of her worries right now. “My fucking career is over, you get that?”

  Michael swallows hard and shakes his head. Before he can respond, his wife’s voice is loud and cold. “I need you to meet me at home.” A second later she adds, “Now, Michael.”

  Michael knows this is not a request.

  He powers off his computer and heads for the door.

  When Michael walks in the front door, Kennedy is waiting for him in the kitchen. She’s appears regal, standing in her pinstripe brown suit with her back to the island, a mug of hot tea in her hand, its wispy curling steam wafting upward. Michael kisses her perfunctorily, observes her unfocused, blank stare.

  “We’re going to figure this out,” he says, rubbing her shoulder.

  For a few seconds she is silent, as if she hasn’t heard him. Then her gaze rises to his as she asks, “Have you checked your e-mail?”

  “Yeah. Nothing in mine. I was going to check AOL now.” Michael swallows hard and downshifts his gaze. The action does not go unnoticed.

  “But?” Ke
nnedy is staring at him.

  “Nothing.”

  “Michael. What?”

  Should he have said something on Sunday about the hateful e-mail?

  In retrospect, yes. But at the time, not saying anything seemed like the prudent thing to do.

  He raises his stare to meet her own.

  “I got an e-mail on Sunday from someone I don’t know. Something about ‘You and that bitch fucked me over.’ I deleted it.”

  Kennedy takes a moment to process what has been said.

  “It said what?”

  “I don’t recall the exact words. Here—let’s see if it’s still in the trash.”

  Michael walks into the den, followed closely by Kennedy. He sits, logs in to the desktop and clicks on the AOL icon. Moments later he’s staring at his in-box. No new messages other than spam. Michael opens the trash folder and finds the offending message.

  No subject header. Sender: hate620@fastmail.com.

  FUCKERS. YOU AND THAT BITCH WILL REGRET FUCKING ME OVER.

  Kennedy leans toward the screen for a moment before straightening up.

  “And you didn’t feel the need to share this with me . . . why?”

  She is seething.

  “Ken, I didn’t see the need to worry you. I thought it was a mistake. Meant for someone else.”

  “And now? You still think it’s a mistake?”

  Michael purses his lips, contemplating the question.

  “Now I don’t know. We need to figure out who sent those pics.”

  “You should have told me about the message, Michael.”

  “Okay, Kennedy.”

  “Where are our photos?” Her arms are folded tightly across her chest.

  “Where they’ve always been,” he replies.

  “Show me.”

  Michael points to the external drive sitting alongside the monitor. “They’re all on this drive here. Buried underneath a bunch of subdirectories.”

  “And the external drive is connected to the computer all the time?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t think there was a problem with keeping it connected all the time.”

  “Can someone access the drive from outside our home?” she asks.

  He turns to look at her.

  “I don’t see how. We’ve got a firewall, and the machine is password protected. And our wireless is protected by password as well.”

  “Yet someone got those photos. And sent them to my job.”

  “Yes.”

  Kennedy reaches over and yanks out the USB cable from the external drive. Then she pulls the power cord from the back. The drive goes silent.

  “You think that’s really necessary?” Michael asks.

  Kennedy’s eyes narrow.

  “Damn straight.”

  She rubs at her temples as she leaves the room.

  Chapter 17

  The rest of the day is trying for both of them.

  Michael finishes out the day attempting to work from home but gets very little done.

  Kennedy can do nothing but worry. She sees her entire career imploding before her face. She has no one to call—Kennedy has plenty of friends, coworkers whom she confides in and, of course, family members, but none of them can know what has happened. How do you tell your best friend or your mother that nude photos of you and another woman are making the rounds?

  Michael suggests she lie down for a few hours. But Kennedy, being the motivated, high-metabolism woman she is, can’t stomach taking a nap in the middle of the day. She tries to work, but her mind won’t concentrate on anything.

  Why on earth would someone do what they had done to her, humiliate her, practically ruin what was, up until today, a stellar career?

  She can’t fathom it.

  As she sits on the couch in the family room, the stereo set on low to a smooth-jazz station, she reflects on the woman in the photo.

  What transpired between them occurred almost four years ago. She and Michael had gone down to Belize for a winter vacation. Zack had stayed with Kennedy’s parents in Atlanta. They had hooked up with this woman—whose name escapes her now. They had met at the resort, shared lunch and a good number of drinks, then frolicked in the pool together before retiring to their hotel room later on that evening. The encounter had been a wonderful one. Unrushed, plenty of foreplay, and enough interaction and attention to satisfy both Michael and Kennedy. The next day they had gone back for seconds and thirds, as Kennedy recalls without the usual grin. What had happened to the woman? They had exchanged contact info, as they sometimes do with partners, but had never heard from the woman again. Not too surprising given their circumstances.

  What happens in Belize stays in Belize....

  Could these photos have been sent from the woman?

  Not likely.

  They never shared the pics with her or anyone else, for that matter. As far as Kennedy knows, the photos have been on their external drive all this time.... Only Michael would know for sure, but he doesn’t share the intimate details of their sex life with anyone without her permission. Those are the rules, and up to this point, she’s never had any reason to think Michael could be up to something behind her back.

  More likely, someone had gotten into the computer. But how? And more importantly, why?

  Those questions would keep her up tonight, sleepless and frenetic, craving answers....

  Michael offers to pick up Zack and grab some dinner. Kennedy is grateful for the quiet. Her husband has been really wonderful, attending to her every need this afternoon, but his actions are beginning to grate on her nerves. She hasn’t been able to do much—and talking about it just makes her angrier than she already is.

  They return around seven o’clock. Zack runs in, backpack clad and full of energy, with Michael behind him, pizza and breadsticks in tow.

  To Kennedy’s surprise (and that of Michael), she actually dozed off while Michael was gone. She had been on the couch with her laptop when she fell asleep. Michael notes that she still looks depressed, but at least she’s putting on a happy face for their son.

  They eat their pizza while hearing about Zack’s day. Afterward, he retires to the family room and the Xbox 360. While cleaning up, Michael notices the message light on their cordless phone blinking. He reaches for it to retrieve the message.

  It’s from a woman. No one he recognizes.

  “Hey, you. I just wanted to say that I’m running late, but I’m on my way. I can’t wait to see you. To be honest, I’ve been thinking about you all day. Thinking about the wonderful things you always do to me when we’re alone. Well, guess what? I can’t wait to be alone with you tonight. I’m wet just thinking about it and of you. See you soon . . . Ciao bella.”

  Michael stares at the phone. He hits a key to replay the message. Listening to it, he eyes Kennedy curiously. She catches his gaze and raises an eyebrow. Finally she asks, “What is it?”

  Michael hands the phone to her. “A voice mail from some woman—no name.”

  Kennedy puts the receiver to her ear and listens. Her eyebrows crinkle. She presses a button and frowns.

  “From an unknown number,” she says, checking her watch, “left about a half hour ago.”

  “You didn’t hear the phone ring?” Michael asks.

  Kennedy shakes her head.

  “Nope. I told you, I dozed off. I’m surprised I didn’t hear it, though.” Kennedy saves the message and hangs up. Her brow is still furrowed. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Wrong number?” he offers, knowing it sounds lame.

  “After everything that’s happened? I don’t think so.” Kennedy struggles to keep her voice even, with Zack in the next room.

  “I disagree. It probably comes down to nothing more than a wrong number. The message isn’t threatening—it doesn’t reference you or me by name. It contains nothing that points to us or to something we’ve done. I think it’s simply someone misdialing and not realizing it.”

  “Okay. But to be safe, I’m thinking we should cal
l Joe.”

  It takes a few seconds for Michael to process what his wife has just said. He turns and faces her, his cheeks suddenly flushed.

  “Absolutely not!” Michael does nothing to hide his anger.

  “Keep your voice down!” Kennedy grabs his arm and leads him into the den, out of the earshot of their seven-year-old.

  Voice low, her stare locked onto his, she says, “Joe is a police officer and—”

  “And your ex-husband. No fucking way I’m getting him involved in this. I don’t want him seeing naked pictures of my wife with another woman.”

  “Michael—I don’t want that, either. But things are happening that neither of us can explain. First that hateful e-mail on AOL. Then compromising pictures of me with a woman e-mailed to my job. Now some chick leaving messages on our answering machine. It may not affect you that much, but this shit has blown me away. And I’m not about to sit back and let nature take its course. We need to do something.”

  “Yeah. We do. But Joe isn’t an option. End of story.”

  Michael glares at his wife before marching away.

  Chapter 18

  Ten-eighteen PM.

  Michael presses the button on the remote, powering down the wall-mounted plasma. They’re in bed, a king-sized espresso-stained oak bed of minimalist design. Matching nightstands against a soothing blue wall, blue/purple/black bedspread, and blue and black pillows create a calming setting. It is what is needed right about now. He glances over at Kennedy, who is struggling to get comfortable under the weight of the covers.

  “You okay?” he asks carefully.

  Kennedy settles toward the edge, away from him.

  “I guess.”

  “Heard from Jackson yet?”

  “Nope.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, with a trace of sarcasm.

  Michael nods to himself. “I’m sure you will. It’s a bit premature for him to call you without any facts.”

  “You sound just like a lawyer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. I just wish he had called. It’s driving me crazy, not knowing if I have a job to come back to.”