“Caution bells are clanging, Angel.” Sternness crept into Ragno’s tone. “Exactly where did you get this fact?”
“Not relevant.”
“Always relevant.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“With you, probably true. Zeus is correct about boundaries, you know. One day—”
“Ragno. Not now. I’m worried.”
“Tell me what you’ve got. Perhaps the client file I built for you was incomplete in some way. I don’t usually make that kind of mistake, but there’s always a first.”
Momentarily relieved that Ragno had more data, he asked, “So you know more about her than what you put in my file?”
“Yes. She’s a high priority client and her data is sensitive. Only my hands and eyes have touched the entirety of the data we accumulated on her, then I personally determined what went into the agent files. Give me your question, and I’ll double check your material with my file.”
“Here’s my question, and it’s a doozy: Did you know she was sexually assaulted during the kidnapping? Did she ever report that fact?”
Ragno’s keyboard was silent. “No. I know without looking. She didn’t, and hasn’t, reported that. Not to anyone. Medical or police. As a matter of fact, when she was interviewed by police, she told them, no. And remember, I’ve done a Black Raven-style profile on her.”
Meaning Ragno had collected data that even the client didn’t realize Black Raven had accessed. Black Raven operated under the assumption that a job well done required both knowledge and power.
“That’s exactly what happened.” Gabe heard Ragno’s fingers pecking at the keyboard. “She was sexually assaulted, and she didn’t report it.”
“Okay. I’m now in her file. She was hospitalized for a few days afterwards. Contemporaneous medical records indicate there was no sign of sexual trauma.”
“I know,” Gabe said. “I read that in the file. I don’t think medical personnel found the signs, and from what I’m reading, she didn’t tell them about it.”
“What happened?”
He shut his eyes, trying to fight rage. “Forced oral sex. He burned her back with the cigarettes when she didn’t cooperate. It lasted for a long—”
“Don’t need more.” Ragno went quiet for a second. Totally quiet. No words, no keyboard clacking. Only a few deep breaths, as she absorbed the fact.
“Sorry. That was stupid of me. You okay?”
“Yes. It’s just that…” Ragno drew a deep breath as her words trailed, “Over the two years that I’ve monitored her job for Sebastian and Brandon, I’ve identified with her in some way, you know?”
Yeah. He could fully understand why, and he felt like an ass for reminding Ragno of her own history. “Sorry.”
“No need for that. I’m just saying, I get it. I admire her determination to overcome what happened to her.” Her voice faded. “At the same time, I hate that she has that to overcome.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“And how, exactly, do you know this fact?”
“Journals.” He rolled his neck and shrugged his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension that was building.
“Please tell me you’re not reading her personal diaries.”
He drew in a deep breath. “I am.”
“Oh, Gabe. That’s the worst sort of privacy invasion.”
“I know. I’m damn sorry I started, but I can’t unknow what I now know.”
“Stop. Now. If she truly has never told another soul, she certainly doesn’t want you to know.”
“I can’t. Have to know more. I’ll call you later.” As he ended the call, the stark quiet of the attic room settled around him as he read.
Dear Journal (Sept.20) –
Every second, of every day, I’m afraid. Terrified—of noises, of shadows, of people. Nighttime is the worst. I scream in my sleep and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t even know when I’m screaming.
My dad and my brothers are insisting I see a psychiatrist. I don’t need a shrink. I need for VM to have never touched me.
I had to give up my own house. I’m too scared to be alone. Dad’s house has twenty-three rooms. Over fifteen thousand square feet. I’ve moved into the housekeeper’s quarters. I’ve taken over the small room next to Evelyn’s room, where she does her ironing and watches television. It has a Murphy bed. She tells me she doesn’t mind my nightmares.
Evelyn’s living area is the furthest I can be from Daddy’s bedroom. I’m here, because my brothers tell me my screams are horrific. When I awaken, Evelyn is always nearby. I never remember the screams, but I sometimes remember the dreams. My screams while I’m sleeping are killing our father, so my brothers say.
I’d move out, but I’m too scared. I really need help.
I feel like a scared, frightened child. All of the time. Phillip and Stone just don’t get it. I want Dad to be strong again. I want him to be his sweet, funny self. But, I can’t forget that what happened to me is partially his fault. Dear God, I’m not blaming Dad, but I hate myself, and him.
The reality is I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive my father. And I think he knows it. If Dad wasn’t alive, I’d kill myself. I know just how I’d do it, too.
Gabe reread the last two sentences. More foreboding twisted his stomach into a hard knot. He wanted to shut his eyes from her suffering and torment, but there was no way he’d stop. Though he knew he should walk out and leave her secrets to her, behind the locked door of the room she’d tried so hard to keep secret, he kept reading. If she had the courage to live and write it, the least he could do was have the courage to read it.
Dear Journal (Oct. 15)—
I haven’t left Dad’s house in a month. I can’t. Haven’t slept more than three hours at a time in weeks. I can’t. “Friends” are making it worse. They have no clue. If one more friend calls to check on me, then starts telling me what I need to do, I’ll scream. “You need” to get out. “You need” to go for a walk. “You need” to eat more. “You need” to get a good night’s sleep.
NO! I need to forget. Any idea how? If not, shut the hell up!
Phillip, being the ever-responsible older brother, has called a psychiatrist who makes house calls. I’ve lost eighteen pounds since the kidnapping. With the taste of VM in my mouth, it’s no wonder I have no appetite. Worse, no attention span for anything other than the gory details of what he did to me, which play over, and over, and over again in my mind.
I’ll talk to the psych. I’ll tell him what I told the police. The doctors. The nurses. Not one fact more. Aren’t the rest of the things he did to me bad enough?
Gabe kicked off his shoes and pulled a pillow between his back and the wall. He then picked up the journal again, placed it on his lap, and kept reading.
Dear Journal (Nov. 1) –
Three visits with the psych, and I like him. But I don’t trust him with all of my secrets, because he’s a friend of my brothers. If I told the psych that I’m now craving death like I used to crave chocolate, he’d have to hospitalize me. At a minimum, there’d be some type of intervention. My dad wouldn’t be able to handle it. And I’m freezing. All the time. Doesn’t matter what I wear or whether the temperature is really cold. The chill comes from within, and the chill is almost as bad as the urge to scratch my scars. The ever-present coldness makes me think VM reached into me with those soul-less eyes of his and drained all the warmth from my body.
The doctor has a good idea—something to do, rather than a pill to take. Because pills aren’t helping me.
I’ll start painting and sketching again. I will. I will. I’ve been an artist all of my life, though I never took my ability seriously. Life was too much fun to do anything seriously.
The doctor thinks painting will force me to focus on things that I can see, rather than things I’m imagining. Or remembering. I did have a knack for it, in my other life.
I’ll start slowly. Sketch. Pencils. Paint. A canvas. A paintbrush. I’ll start with the view o
f oak trees in my father’s backyard, from the room next to Evelyn’s room, now the only room where I feel like I can breathe.
Painting is a solitary endeavor. While painting, I won’t have to interact with anyone. That might be the best part of it, because everyone I talk to now looks at me with eyes clouded by what happened to me. They pity me. They tiptoe around me. Yet, they can’t stop looking at me. In this small city that’s always been my home, I’ve become a curiosity, for one very wrong reason.
By one o’clock, he was midway through the journal where the entries were dated mid-December, 2014. She was painting, and she was able to leave the house. She usually went out with either Taylor, or her brothers, Phillip and Stone. Destinations? All with her art in mind. A drive to see something she wanted to paint. A walk on a quiet street, or in a quiet park. A place where she could paint for a couple of hours.
There was one place where she would go alone. She’d go to an area she described as empty, where any wharves where work was getting done seemed far away, where the levee grass was tall, and the buildings of the city rose on the horizon on her right as she faced the river. She’d visit the place on the levee where VM had left her for dead.
Early in the morning, she’d drive herself to the river. She’d go along Tchoupitoulas Street and drive downriver from the Uptown neighborhood where she lived in her father’s mansion, through the French Quarter, past the Marigny neighborhood, and beyond. She’d drive to where Cold Storage Road hit the River Road.
Dear Journal (Dec. 20) –
If I just walk into the river, the current will take me. The Mississippi River has some of the most powerful water currents in the world, and I’m not that great a swimmer.
It will be an easy way to die.
I’ll wear cowboy boots and heavy clothes and I’m betting it will happen pretty quickly. The murky water will suck me under. In all likelihood, no one will ever find my body. I’ll leave a note in Evelyn’s evening prayer drawer. By then, it will be too late, but they’ll know that I’m gone. It will give them closure.
My brothers will be okay without me. Dad? I can’t do it to him. It would kill him.
Gabe knew her father had died that Christmas. He hesitated before reading more, then drew a deep breath and continued. He’d been ten when his father was murdered. The pain over losing him was something Gabe would never forget, and Andi’s words told of heartache and longing that reminded him of his own abject grief. He kept reading, though, because of what she’d written earlier. He wondered whether she’d tried to kill herself, once her father’s death removed her one obstacle to suicide.
Gabe’s watch vibrated as he turned pages. He glanced on the digital readout. Tyre, with his one thirty call. Activating his mic, he said, “Tyre. Details.”
“Relatively quiet afternoon, sir. Except Ms. Hutchenson has now decided she is not going to the opening. Asked me to communicate that to you.”
“She offer a reason why?”
“No, sir.”
“Any idea why she changed her mind?”
“Seriously?” Said with the tone of, ‘as in how the hell would I know,’ Gabe let out a breath of exasperation.
“Was there a precipitating phone conversation?”
“No, sir.” Dropping his voice to a whisper, he said, “Absolutely nothing I observed. And trust me, I’m being observant. Do you know how many colors she blends to make rusty orange? Well, I do. And there’s a parade on the other side of the French Quarter, so this end of the park is quiet, and...”
He tuned out Tyre. Though it was almost time for him to get his ass out the door and to the park, he kept reading. Six months after her kidnapping, a few days into the start of a new year, he found the answer.
Dear Journal (Jan. 5)—
I tried to kill myself this morning.
Obviously, my plan didn’t work.
A boy/young man (he’s lying about his age) named Pic (not his real name) saved me. I’ve never met anyone like him. Homeless? A runaway? He won’t say.
He has a haunted look in his blue eyes that makes me pause and forget about my own problems. The ages-old, sorrowful, sad, hard, cynical look in Pic’s eyes tells me the horror of what he might have experienced parallels my own. And that says one hell of a lot.
My mom used to tell me, before VM, when I was young and the world was perfect, that all I had to do was look a little past my nose and I’d see others who are less fortunate, others who are walking a path that’s much harder to bear than my own.
I’d forgotten that pearl of wisdom, until I looked into Pic’s eyes, after I tried to kill myself.
Oh dear God, why is this sweet kid living on the streets? Was there no one around to help him? Here I live, in a mansion, with all the help and comfort money can buy.
Yet I tried to kill myself today.
Pic tells me I need to admit it, and move on. I’m so desperate, I’m taking advice from a homeless runaway. Okay–step one. Admit it and move on. So I keep writing it, because I can’t believe I’m even alive to write about it.
I tried to kill myself.
I failed, even at that.
So, what’s left for me? Not sure, yet. Today I tried to kill myself. I’m still in shock over it. Today I tried to kill myself.
It’s a secret that I’ll take with me to my grave.
Only Pic—my new friend, who I have to figure out a way to help—will ever know. I’ll never tell anyone else. God, I'm ashamed. Ashamed that I allowed VM to almost win. Ashamed that people will pity me even more if they discover how sick I really became. If anyone (other than Pic) knew I tried to kill myself, I’d shrivel up and die. I couldn’t live with the shame.
Today I tried to kill myself.
I have to become stronger. Have to be braver. VM almost won. Almost succeeded in killing me. He sure as hell killed the Andi I was. And no one will ever love the ‘me’ I've become. Because for true love, they’d need to know everything. And telling the whole truth isn’t an option.
One thing is certain—I have had enough pity from my own sad, sorry self to last the rest of this lifetime. Pic, thank you. I didn’t tell you this today, because I was worried I’d scare you off, but I swear, one day I will get to the root of why your eyes tell me that you’ve experienced a hell as bad as my own. I’ll figure it out, and I’ll fix it. I promise.
Pic, thank you. You have given me a reason to live.
Dread shot through Gabe’s core, with the focused precision of a bullet hitting its mark. Gabe shut the journal, placed it where he found it, rearranged the pillows, and stood.
Sick to his gut with a premonition that reading her journals had resulted in an inevitable, cliff-hanging dead end, he tried to remind himself of a truism that guided his life.
Everything always works out.
Unfortunately, his mind produced scenarios where things hadn’t worked out. His thoughts raced across a finish line, marked by another of his guiding principles. Help her. She’s pushing a burden uphill that’s far too heavy for her to carry alone. But the details of her burden weren’t his business, because he shouldn’t know anything that was written in the journals.
She’s doing better now. Coping. She’s brave. Living with her fears, and doing a damn good job of it. Doesn’t want or need my help, except for what she’s paying me to do.
And I shouldn’t forget it.
Shake it off. This is just a job and she’s just a client. Yet he wanted this job to work out for the better and right now, he couldn’t fight the unease that snaked through him, telling him of impending personal doom. Because the longer he stayed on the job, the more he’d care about her. And the more he cared about her, the more he was lying to her by knowing things that she didn’t want a soul to know. Blatant lying wasn’t his style. Not on important things.
Yeah, that’s me. Honest. One day, I’ll have to tell her I read her journals.
He could only imagine her reaction. Exiting the room, he relocked the door, and moved the painting of the cath
edral back into position. As he descended the stairs, the nagging foreboding stayed with him.
Dammit. I should’ve respected her boundaries. Joke’s on me, though. As Zeus had told him a million times, ‘There will come a time that you overstep and can’t fix the damage you’ve created.’
Walking down the stairs, Gabe tried to shake off the uneasy feeling with another life-guiding principle. Embrace the suck—a Black Raven mantra.
Jobs tended to mirror real life, and, like life, every job had a certain amount of suck. But this job was going to have suction force like none other. He’d inadvertently created this unique, multi-faceted suck by snooping through the pages of her journal after he’d allowed her to get under his skin.
And there was only one thing he could do about it. Accept it. Embrace it. Own it.
He couldn’t un-know what he now knew about her. Couldn’t undo what he just did. This job’s suck was going to pull like none other. All he could do was open his arms wide and embrace it.
Chapter Sixteen
Andi
Backing away from her easel and canvas, Andi studied the greenery and arched footbridge she’d painted, then let her gaze wander through the park. Though Crescent Park attracted fewer people than the French Quarter, plenty of locals frequented the sliver of green space that ran along the river.
Today, though, only an occasional jogger or biker passed the grassy, off-path spot where she’d set up her easel. There were none of the young homeless who so frequently grabbed her attention.
She stood with her back to the river. A wharf positioned at the water’s edge, once used for moving ship’s cargo, was now wide-open recreational space. Agents Two and Three stood behind her, in her line of vision if she looked over her shoulder. Silent. As they should be.
A biker approached on her right. He wore neon exercise clothes and a helmet. Going fast. Really an exerciser. He stayed on the bike path and showed no indication of veering from it. Not someone who seemed likely to stop anywhere near her. No threat.
Concierge (Black Raven Book 3) Page 16
