by Devon Scott
“Ken—you’re the general counsel to the association. They have no grounds for firing you.”
“Of course they do. Whether or not I had anything to do with willfully sending those photos, my conduct outside of work does not bode well for me.”
Michael knows this to be true but stays silent on the issue.
“You need to stay positive. There are a number of likely outcomes. Don’t focus on the negative ones.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Michael is quiet for a moment.
“Have you tried calling Daniel?”
Kennedy glares at him.
“And say what?”
“Sweetheart, you and he are close. He doesn’t bullshit you, and he won’t now.”
“I’m his boss.”
“So what? Who else in that office can you really trust? He’s the one. So call him—if for no other reason than to check in and see what’s going on.”
Kennedy plays with her hair for a moment, twisting the ends around her finger. Michael watches her closely.
“Maybe.”
“It’ll make you feel better.”
“Okay.”
Kennedy slips out of bed and reaches for her BlackBerry. Michael watches her speed-dial her assistant as she crosses the room toward the window. She parts the curtain, glancing down to the deck and small backyard that abuts a narrow alleyway. A six-foot-high wooden fence separates their backyard from the alley.
Daniel comes on the line after several rings.
“It’s Kennedy.”
“I know,” he says, voice animated. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m frustrated, angry, and scared. Other than that, I’m fine.” She tries to smile, but it comes out flat.
“I am so sorry, Kennedy. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Kennedy is appreciative of his concern.
“What’s the word around the watercooler?” she asks.
“People aren’t saying much. They know what happened, but Jackson did a good job of squelching further dialogue.”
She asks, “How so?”
Daniel snorts. “You know Jackson. He pulled us all together as soon as you walked out the door. Told us to not discuss this situation with anyone and to immediately delete the e-mail. He said in no uncertain words that anyone found to have forwarded the photos to anyone, either internally or externally, would be summarily fired, no questions asked.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I think he’s been personally calling anyone outside the association who may have been on the distribution list.”
“Okay. I’m glad to see that he went to general quarters on this.” Kennedy looks encouragingly at Michael. He nods imperceptibly. “Does Jackson know the extent of the . . .” Kennedy searches for the right word. “Extent of the e-mail distribution?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt it. I do know that Reggie came in a little after lunch and began working on the problem from the technical end. He went around to each one of our machines and did some techie stuff—I assume he made sure we deleted the message and didn’t forward it on. He checked your computer, too.”
“Okay.” Kennedy’s mind is racing.
Daniel pauses, anxious to ask the question that burns in his mind.
“So, do you know who sent the e-mail?” he asks.
“No, I don’t. Either someone gained access to my home computer, or . . .” Kennedy stops; she decides Daniel does not have a need to know anything further. “Anyway, I would appreciate it if you’d keep me informed. Call my cell anytime, if you hear anything. . . .”
“I will, Kennedy. Anything else you need for me to do in the meantime?”
Kennedy slides back into bed, pulling the covers up to her neck. “No, that’s all for now. I need to speak with Jackson and find out what his next steps are. Thank you, Daniel.”
She ends the call, places the BlackBerry on the nightstand, and lies flat. Michael extinguishes the light, and their room plunges into darkness.
“Sounds like that went well,” he says.
“It did.” Kennedy fills him in on the details.
“I’m glad Jackson acted promptly. Now your office mates can’t sit around gossiping about you. They’ll forget about this incident very quickly. Something else will take its place shortly. Life will go back to normal.”
Kennedy doesn’t respond. She turns onto her side, facing Michael. He can’t see her but faces her nonetheless.
“What was her name?” she whispers.
Michael moves closer.
“Who?”
“The woman we slept with in Belize.”
Michael thinks for a moment.
“Ana.”
“That’s right. I had forgotten.”
“Really? I thought she was quite memorable.”
Kennedy smiles for perhaps the first time this evening.
“Yes, she was. I meant her name, not what we did.”
Michael places his hand on Kennedy’s shoulder and strokes it softly.
“We never heard from her after our trip.”
“No, we didn’t. She didn’t give us her information. As I recall, you gave her our e-mail.”
“Yes, but she never wrote to us.”
“Right.”
“And you never sent the photos to anyone else.” Kennedy hasn’t phrased this as a question, but Michael knows it is.
“No, sweetie, I didn’t.”
Kennedy processes that.
“I’m scared,” she says after a momentary pause.
Michael moves closer, until their bodies are touching.
“I know you are. But we’ll get through this, I promise.”
“It doesn’t make sense. It feels like someone is trying to get back at me or at us for something. But what? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I know. It doesn’t add up.”
“And yet, those pictures are definitely of me. And of her.”
Now it’s Michael’s turn to process her words. Husband and wife are silent, alone with their thoughts for a moment more. Kennedy breaks the hush first.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asks.
“You know you can.”
“Is there someone on the side?”
“Where did that come from? Of course not.”
“Someone is angry with me. With us. This feels to me like the actions of some scorned lover.”
“No, Kennedy, there has never been anyone on the side. I think you know that.”
“Then how do you explain what is happening?”
“I can’t, Ken. I’ve been pondering that very question ever since you first called me this morning. We haven’t fucked anyone over. We haven’t messed with anyone’s spouse or partner—”
“As far as we know,” Kennedy interjects.
“I guess anything’s possible. But we’ve been upfront with those we’ve hooked up with. We’ve been careful about providing too much personal information. We don’t do this close to home, so that we aren’t running into folks we know. So I’m not sure what it could be.”
“And yet, today my entire job found out that I’m bisexual.”
Michael pulls Kennedy to him, wrapping his arm around her. Her head goes to his chest.
“You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re a damn good person, Kennedy. You’re a loving wife, a devoted mother, and an excellent attorney. You work hard, juggle your family responsibilities like a pro, and yes, you play hard, too. That’s not a crime.”
Michael feels the tears on his chest. He strokes his wife’s hair.
“Then why, Michael, do I feel like a criminal?”
Chapter 19
Sometime after eleven.
The man sits on the leather recliner in his living room, the house dark save for the light coming from his laptop screen. It is quiet, too. No one is here, save for him.
It wasn’t always this way.
This once was a home full of life, full of hope.
But no more.
Now he tries not to focus on the sounds the house makes when he’s alone—groans, beams creaking, the wind rustling against the aluminum siding. He doesn’t consider the fact that most of the rooms are bare, the furniture gone. It’s not that he can’t afford to replace things. It’s never been a money issue. It’s just—what? Buying furniture and decorating—breathing life back into a cold, gray house—well, those are a female’s domain. What is needed here is a woman’s touch.
A woman—he pushes those thoughts out of his mind.
Instead, the man considers what he’s accomplished to date. And he is pleased.
He wonders what they are thinking about right now. LOL—Laughing out loud.
That’s what he does now. He laughs out loud, knowing that the rug has been pulled out from under them. And with a satisfied grin, he considers that this is only the beginning.
Staring at the laptop screen, he pulls up a travel site. Moments later he is checking flights. Hotels—there are so many to choose from. Grinning and humming, he clicks along, confirming this and that. Rental car? Why, yes! I’ll definitely need one of those, he muses.
Thirty minutes later, after completing his task, the man is feeling good.
He’s temporarily forgotten the groans and beam creaks. He’s, for the moment, not focused on the lack of furniture or the coldness of the house. Instead, he’s pumped. Fired up.
Opening a new browser window, he calls up e-mail. Logs in. New message. His fingers are nimble tonight. They seem to fly over the keys, rattling as he types, humming along to one of those tunes he can’t quite place. He sits back, satisfied, and clicks Send. Grins, the e-mail is on its way.
The man gets up and stretches.
He feels alive, more in control than he has in the past six months. Yes, this is what it’s all about, getting back in the saddle, getting back in control, hands on the steering wheel, and driving.
The man snaps the laptop shut and stops suddenly. There is no sound, no disturbance, yet his body remains still, as if he’s aware of someone in his house. He considers a new train of thought as his eyes dart around.
His head is not pounding.
There is no migraine.
For this the man gives a silent prayer of thanks as he makes his way silently upstairs to his bedroom.
It is after one AM when Michael slips stealthily out of bed. He does so not because he’s attempting to hide his actions but because he does not want to wake his wife. Today has been trying for her. Kennedy needs her sleep, and Michael doesn’t want to do anything to upset that.
He’s been awake for the past twenty minutes, just staring up into the darkness. He can hear Kennedy’s steady breathing, and he should be deep into REM sleep as well. Yet he can’t sleep. Too much has happened today. He feels helpless, and he hates the fact that he can do nothing to ease his wife’s pain.
Michael eases out of the bedroom. His first stop is Zack’s room. Their son is fast asleep on his side, the Transformers Optimus Prime action figure in his clutches. Michael smiles as he pets his son’s head.
Downstairs to the first floor and into the den.
The desktop is in sleep mode, but it comes to life with a quick touch of the mouse. He sits down, calling up a browser to scan his mail.
It’s as if he’s had a premonition that something bad is about to happen. And that is the reason why he can’t sleep. He knows it’s related to what has transpired today. He senses that this thing that has happened to them is not done.
Calling up AOL, scanning the in-box for fresh messages, he sees one that catches his heart.
When he opens it, his blood turns cold.
Reading the message, there is no longer a shred of doubt.
Chapter 20
The BMW roars to life. Ninety seconds later, Kennedy puts the automobile into gear and pulls into the street, Zack watching her in the rearview mirror.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” he asks inquisitively.
She glances back at him and proffers a weak smile. Even a seven-year-old can sense its lack of authenticity. “Mommy’s fine. I just don’t want to make you late for school.”
Kennedy has the duty of dropping off Zack. She’s not heading into work today. Michael left an hour ago.
She heard from Jackson Blair first thing this morning. He asked how she was doing then got straight to the point.
“Kennedy, I’d like for you to take some time off.”
Kennedy gulped and silently counted to four.
“How much time?”
“A couple of weeks. Until this thing blows over.”
Kennedy was livid and did nothing to hide her resentment.
“Two weeks? You’ve got to be kidding. We’re a small association. No way your legal counsel can be gone that long.”
“Kennedy—let me worry about that. Besides, I think it would be best if you were not here. I don’t want any further distractions, and that’s exactly what you’ll be if you’re in the office. A distraction to those here.”
“You’re serious?”
“Kennedy, I’m not firing you. If I were, I would tell you and be done with it. I just want to give our office a breather from yesterday’s incident. Take a couple of weeks and then come back. This thing will have blown over by then—our people will be focused on other issues. Trust me.”
Kennedy’s exhale is audible.
“Jackson, can I at least continue working? I can’t sit on my butt for two weeks and do nothing, you know that!”
“I do not want you communicating with the staff.”
“Jesus, Jackson—throw me a bone, please. At least give me Daniel. I’ll funnel stuff through him. That way no one except you is communicating with me directly.”
Jackson pondered her request. Kennedy held her breath. It seemed like forever, but finally he spoke.
“You work from home. You only communicate with Daniel or me. And you do nothing—no work—for another forty-eight hours.”
“Jesus, Jackson.”
“That’s my final offer. Take it, Kennedy.”
Kennedy plays the conversation over in her head as she steers onto South Dakota Avenue. Traffic is light, and for that she is grateful. Through the rearview she spies Zack sitting peacefully in his car seat, his attention directed to the DVD player situated in the headrest. Kennedy is appreciative of the momentary quiet.
She doesn’t agree with Jackson’s decision to keep her out of the office, but then again, she knows she’s lucky. It could have been a whole lot worse.
Worse.
That gets her thinking about the new e-mail.
Michael had shared it with her this morning.
YOUR WIFE’S A SLUT AND NOW EVERYONE IN HER OFFICE KNOWS IT. HOW’S IT FEEL WHEN SOMEONE FUCKS YOU OVER? I SAID YOU AND THAT BITCH WOULD REGRET IT AND YOU WILL. I PROMISE.
Sent from [email protected].
The pain was instantaneous. It was as if every muscle conspired against her—they all constricted, and suddenly Kennedy felt faint. She had to reach out to her husband for support. Michael was speaking, but the words were hollow and didn’t make sense.
Then she could no longer hear him.
All sounds had vanished.
The only words that had clarity were those in front of her.
Words that cut straight to the bone.
It was Michael who spotted it first.
[email protected].
The same e-mail address from the sender of the offending photos that went to her job. egnever.
Revenge spelled backward.
Chapter 21
Joe Goodman glances at the cell phone ringing and vibrating on the marble counter. He had been reaching for the electric coffeemaker when his cell went off. He frowns; the number appears familiar, yet he can’t quite place it. Joe flips open the cell and presses the phone to his ear.
“Detective Goodman,” he answers in his baritone voice. Joe is a big man: six feet two inches tall, two hundred and twenty-five pounds, dark
-skinned, with short hair and a manicured beard. His rugged good looks are marred by a three-inch curved scar on his right cheek—courtesy of a seventeen-year-old drug dealer from D.C. whom he shot in the head after the teenager knifed him. Joe played football at Virginia Tech and still works out on the regular. He’s dressed casually this morning: jeans, dark sweater, and black work boots. A .40-caliber Glock 22 is strapped to his right hip, next to his Metropolitan Police Department badge.
“Joe? It’s Kennedy.”
For a moment, Joe is quiet.
“Kennedy? As in ex-wife Kennedy?” He pours the freshly made coffee into a ceramic mug and tears open two packets of Sweet’n Low.
“Yes, Joe. This is your ex-wife,” Kennedy says, more subdued than she had intended. Joe is digging in the refrigerator for the milk, which is in the back, behind the OJ, soda, and water.
“You all right?” he asks, noting her submissive tone.
“Can we meet?” Kennedy asks. “I need to talk to you.”
Joe checks his watch. It’s just past nine-thirty; he’s not on duty until noon. “Okay,” he says. “Where do you want to meet?”
“You still in the same place?”
“Yup.”
“Good. I’m in the neighborhood. I can be there in five.”
The call goes dead, and Joe frowns, touching his scar, a habit when something troubles him.
They sit across from one another, a plate of muffins between them. Kennedy sips at her coffee while breaking apart a cranberry-orange muffin. Joe works on a bran muffin, slathering the halves with butter.
“I see you’re still eating healthy,” she says.
Joe stares at her uncomprehendingly.
“What are you talking about?”
Kennedy nudges her chin in the direction of his plate. “You’ve used like five pats of butter on that poor little muffin, and I’ve lost track of how many sugars are in your coffee.”
“I’ll have you know my cholesterol is under two hundred—”
“Due to medication, no doubt!”
Joe considers his ex for a moment with deadpan eyes.
