by Nikki Sex
Roman now had his attention focused on his relationship with his wife.
It was perhaps for the best the detective didn’t see the file André Chevalier had been reading when he first arrived. It was the summary of an investigation André had commissioned, titled, “Report on Detective Roman Bronowski.”
Chapter 33.
“My father was one of those men who sit in a room and you can feel it: the simmer, the sense of some unpredictable force that might, at any moment, break loose and do something terrible.”
― John Burnside
~~~
Renata Koreman
Grant and I walk along the Cedar Break Trail, right outside of Dallas. So far we’ve descended down a steep hill and crossed a picturesque, wooden bridge over a lovely little creek. There are plenty of hills and valleys on this trail as we meander through a thicket of eastern red cedar.
Just before we reach a pond, there’s a comfortable bench near a small waterfall. We sit down to take in the view, admiring the flowering dogwoods.
“Oh, look!” I call out, excitedly pointing toward a tiny white bird with a black neck and head. “A hummingbird!”
“That’s a black-chinned hummingbird,” Grant says, amused by my enthusiasm.
“It’s so beautiful.”
We watch this tiny, perfect creature flit around for some time. Grant hands me a flask of water from out of his backpack and I take a drink. I figure that now is as good time as any to let him know what I’ve been thinking.
“I want to tell you something, Grant,” I begin.
“Sure,” he says, taking a long drink of water. Calm and relaxed, he shows no trace of a premonition about what I’m about to say. From the way we’re usually able to read each other, I wondered if he might have already picked up on something from my tone of voice alone.
I watch his throat work as he swallows.
Fucking hell, he’s sex on a stick!
There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his skin and man, I really want to lick it off. Already aroused simply by his proximity, seeing him all hot and sweaty, just makes me even hornier. I want to touch every inch of his hot body. I want to ride him like a cowgirl. I want to make him writhe and scream my name in ecstasy.
Jesus. Get it together, Renata! This is important. Focus!
I clear my throat and look him in the eye. “When I was about six or seven years old, my mother had one friend—my Auntie Julia. She wasn’t really my aunt, but I knew her for most of my life. She was a part of almost every happy childhood memory I can recall—not that there were many of those.”
I laugh, but the sound comes out hollow and humorless.
“Auntie Julia had a little girl named Sally,” I explain. “She was a couple of years younger than I was. I think Auntie Julia and my mom took turns babysitting for each other. Anyway, the three of us used to play hide and seek and bake gingerbread cookies together, making faces on each one by decorating them with M & M eyes.”
“What happened to Julia and her daughter?” Grant asks.
“I have no idea,” I reply sadly. “The thing is, one day when Auntie Julia was looking after me, she noticed some of my bruises and questioned me about them. Nobody had ever asked me about my injuries before, so I innocently answered her questions candidly. I told her my dad beat my mom and me all the time. Auntie Julia immediately informed the authorities.”
Grant’s expression turns grim. His jaw tightens and the muscles in his neck flex. We both know the end of this story.
“Anyway,” I continue, “It turned out confiding in someone outside of the family had consequences I was unaware of. I won’t go into the details—as I’m sure you can imagine, it was pretty ugly. In the end my father moved us to another town.”
“I’m sorry,” Grant murmurs, barely hiding the anguish he has for me in his voice.
“Thank you,” I say. “After we relocated, my mother and I never saw Julia again, but this is the relevant point. When my mother said goodbye to her only friend—” I pause for a moment, unable to continue. My eyes begin to sting and I blink back sudden, unshed tears.
“Are you OK?” Grant asks, his expression concerned.
I nod sharply and clear my throat. “It’s just that I’ll never forget the look in Julia's eyes and the expression on her face. She was a good person—someone who cared and was genuinely trying to help us. I learned then, the best way to safeguard someone you care about is to keep your mouth shut.”
“Yeah,” Grant says. “I get that. What did Julia do?”
I shake my head and take another sip from my flask as I pull myself together. “It wasn’t what she said or did. It was the look of hurt and betrayal in her eyes. She attempted to do a good thing, the right thing, and it ended up badly. You see?”
His eyes soften. “Of course.”
“The point is, I think you’re trying to shield me with silence, Grant.”
He stiffens, but only for a moment. He has a good idea where I’m going with my little story now.
“I know you don’t want to talk about this because of the ongoing murder case,” I say, “but I’ve pieced a few things together.”
Grant peers at me, his expression utterly blank. Man, he's gifted. He’s really good at hiding his emotions. I imagine this ability comes from living with a predator, or possibly in part from his military background.
“Please don’t freak out,” I tell him, “but I think it was your father who sexually abused you.”
“Renata—” he opens his mouth to speak, but I raise my hand to stop him from saying anything more.
I shake my head. “Just hear me out, Grant. I’m only telling you this so you’ll know that I know. You want to protect me. I appreciate that, I do. You’re caught between a rock and a hard place. I understand what happened and why you’re trying to keep it a secret, but you don’t have to hide it from me.”
I can tell I’ve guessed correctly. Grant doesn’t deny his father’s abuse.
“I didn’t kill him,” he says.
“I know. “You already told me that and I believe you.” My brows draw down in concentration. “Do you have any idea who did?”
His gaze meets mine. “Yes, but that’s not up for discussion,” he replies in a no-nonsense tone of determination.
“OK.”
Huh. That’s interesting.
Grant obviously knows who killed his father and wants to protect the murderer. I immediately connect the dots.
Merde! Grant and his sister and his mother don’t get along, so it can only be his brother Alex. The obvious truth crystallizes in my mind. Oh hell, of course! Grant’s little brother Alex would have been sexually abused too! Why would an abuser stop at one? Many fathers or stepfathers interfere with the whole family.
Everything makes perfect sense.
Mentally, I swiftly shift gears. “I’m glad you didn’t kill him—not that I’d ever suspect you.”
Grant almost rolls his eyes at that. “I’ve killed people, Renata.”
“Yes,” I murmur calmly. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of killing, I’m saying that throwing a man off a balcony is not your style.”
“No?”
“No,” I say firmly. “And as painful as it is, he was your father and I think you cared for him. You couldn’t have done it. The Army may have trained you to kill, but you’re not a murderer.”
Grant’s face pales for a moment when I mention the word murderer. Shit! What’s that about?
He shakes his head. “No, not really a murderer, just a fool.”
“You’re no fool,” I state calmly. “You’re human, subject to the same naivety, misjudgments, illogical affections and screw ups as the rest of us.” I smirk, trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t work.
“Under no circumstances do I want you dragged into this,” Grant says, his jaw tight. “I don't want you to have any more dealings with the police.”
I give him an ironic smile. “Thank you. Believe me, the idea of getting involved
with the law doesn't appeal to me in the least.”
He’s frowning now and I wonder if it was wise to tell him what I’d guessed.
“I was thinking about your therapy,” I say. “Now, you no longer need to hold onto that secret or wonder whether or not I know.”
He turns toward me with a stubborn scowl marring his features. “We can’t talk about this ever. It’s not safe. Don’t you see?” He says in a tone of exasperation. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“It’s my choice and my risk,” I explain evenly. “I’ve already made up my mind what I’ll say if the police interview me.”
“The police aren’t going to talk to you!” he says, his features flaring red with anger.
My back straightens and my chin goes up. “I don’t care if they do,” I tell him. “I’ve already decided I’m going to lie to them. Honesty is the best policy—André will tell you that. Yet, he’ll also agree there are no absolutes, thus there IS a time for lying. Only you and I know what is said between us, and I already know you’ll never compromise me.”
“You stubborn woman!” Grant grips my shoulder, which surprises me with his problem with touching. “Renata, we have to be so careful,” he says, his eyes full of emotion. “Don’t write anything down, not by text, paper or email, and never mention this subject on the phone.”
“I’ll be careful,” I tell him confidently. “Nothing bad will happen.”
However, as I’m saying this a little voice inside me echoes the thought, famous last words.
Chapter 34.
“Denial can be a most useful, temporary shield. Unfortunately, such flimsy armor will not last a lifetime. It is best to face your past—and do so quickly, before your past returns to face you.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Renata Koreman
A few minutes pass while I wait for Grant to get himself under control. He’s taking a moment to think this over. That’s fine. It’s all a bit of a shock, I know.
I wonder if his abuser actually scared the crap out of him? Grant cared for his father—he loved him, I think—but there is always fear instilled with abuse. Fear of being caught, fear of hurting others, fear of being hurt. As far as I can tell, Grant’s father was really scary. He’d been a very big man, surrounded by an aura of guns and violence, not to mention the power he seemed to have over everyone.
I’m positive Grant was actually afraid of him. I wonder if Grant knows this, or if his subconscious is still hiding this unpleasant and perhaps too painful truth?
Eventually Grant stands up and dusts off his jeans.
I peer up at him, enjoying the look of him and his long, long legs.
When I reach out for Grant’s hand, he’s quick to take it. He helps pull me to my feet, but doesn’t let go. Instead he laces our fingers, binding us together.
I smile, because he’s definitely becoming more comfortable holding my hand.
“Your father and my father should never have become parents,” I say. “Your situation with your father was more difficult than mine in many ways.”
His eyebrows arch as he grips my palm. “You think so?”
“Oh, definitely. Your problems were so much less cut and dried than mine. Despite his inexcusable actions, your father had a good influence on you too. You loved him but he betrayed your trust, and he sent confusing and contradictory messages about love and sex.”
Despite the sensitive subject matter, a comfortable silence hangs between us, while Grant processes my words.
“André said something similar to me,” Grant admits. “My father singled me out. I was the special one, the oldest and the favorite child. I still don’t understand it.” His eyes look haunted. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.”
I shake my head. “If you brought him back to life and asked him what the fuck he was thinking, I’d bet your father wouldn’t be able to explain why he did what he did to you.”
He releases me, tucking his hands deep into the front pockets of his blue jeans.
Grant sighs deeply. “Probably not. I never witnessed affection between my father and my mother. We did things together as a family in order to look good, but none of us were close. We never talked to each other. If something troubled me, I ignored it. Denial was a way of life. Having never experienced real connection, I had no idea of what I was missing. Sometimes I wonder if that was what my father was looking for with me, that sense of closeness.”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “I feel that closeness and connection with you.”
“Me too,” I murmur, barely able to meet his powerful gaze.
When he looks at me, a tingle of awareness courses through my body. I know exactly what he’s talking about when he discusses that rare sense of closeness. Grant sees me and I see him. It’s frightening and thrilling to be so completely exposed, but I can trust him.
Grant isn’t thinking of his father’s betrayal right now. His attention is completely upon me.
“At least nobody killed anybody in my family home,” he says.
I give him a wan smile. "True. My father, well I didn’t love him—especially when he was drunk. He was a mean, violent asshole I avoided at all cost. Your abuse was so scheming and manipulative that you sought attention from your father.”
Grant winces. His sudden frown is one of confusion, then dawning suspicion, followed by a hint of growing anger. It’s clear to me that he’s jumping to all sorts of incorrect conclusions.
“André never told me anything,” I say quickly. “I simply have a good understanding of exactly how pedophiles operate.”
“Oh,” he says, visibly calming.
“That’s what makes your betrayal much worse than mine, in my opinion. Of course, this isn't a competition! The winner would be the loser and hell—we both lost out in the parent department.”
Grant laughs bitterly. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? I think you had a much worse childhood than I did, and you think the same thing about me. Together, we make each other feel better about our own lives.”
“Pretty funny!” I say with a laugh. “In a dark and twisted way.”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
White Rock Escarpment is formed from chalk and rises to a height of about 250 to 300 feet. The trail narrows and Grant gestures gallantly, so I go first. I can’t refuse him, but I prefer him to go first. That way I can watch his long legged stride and admire his perfect, tight ass.
We cover the hilly ground, climbing back to the top of the cliff. I find myself breathing heavily—but not for the reason I like best!
“You’ve gotten over your childhood so much better than I have,” Grant says.
I stop suddenly and spin to face him. “Me? I’ve been a mess! You’ve only been working at this for a couple of years,” I say, “and you’ve only just begun to practice becoming intimate. Honestly? You’re doing really well.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely,” I reassure him. “Besides you’re seeing me at my best,” I laugh. “Poor André was stuck with a crazy woman for years.”
We continue walking, steadily climbing to the top of the cliff. I can feel Grant going into thinking mode again.
“Thank you, Renata,” he says after a while.
I turn toward him. “What for?”
“For helping me overcome my doubts,” he says.
I wait because he looks like he’s going to say more. When he doesn’t, I tell him that he’s welcome and we just keep walking. When we reach the top, right at the skyline, there’s a mound of rough stones, built as some type of a memorial or landmark.
“Do you know who put this here and what it means?” I ask, indicating the mound.
Grant turns toward me. “Two people died falling off this cliff—they fell from this very spot.”
I move as close as I can and carefully peer over the edge. Yikes. It’s a long, vertical drop, straight to the bottom. I grimace at the thought. I can easily believe one person went over, b
ut how did two fall?
My mind immediately latches onto the idea of double suicide. Maybe two people as screwed up as Grant and I both are, came out here to finally put an end to their lives of misery.
I jump when I find Grant has suddenly come up behind me. He grabs me by the waist and pulls me backwards, letting go the moment I’m in a safer area.
“Jesus!” I gasp. “You gave me a fright!”
“You made me nervous standing so close to the edge,” he explains. “I imagine you’re wondering how both people fell to their deaths?”
“Yes.”
Grant strides to a nearby fallen tree, where a person can see both the memorial and the view from the cliff’s edge. He sits down and pats the log.
“Have a seat,” he says.
“Is it a long story?” I ask with a grin.
He shrugs. “Long enough.”
“I love stories,” I say cheerfully.
Grant smiles and begins, “It happened over a hundred years ago. Some people say the man had taken a mistress. He brought his wife up here, planning to push her to her death. But at the last moment, the woman recognized his intent. As he pushed, she held on to him and took her husband right over the cliff edge with her.”
“I see,” I murmur.
I imagine the scene unfold before me. A woman suddenly realizes her husband's betrayal, and her furious fight for revenge. There are countless examples where couples—once madly in love, grow to violently detest each other. But can love actually turn to hatred that quickly?
I stare at Grant, certain I could never do that to him. I can’t imagine not loving him. If he pushed me off a cliff? Well, I don’t think I’d try to take him with me. Revenge would be far from my thoughts. If I grabbed him, it would be in a fruitless attempt to save myself.
Knowing the kind of person I am, I’d no doubt find a way to blame myself somehow… on the way down.
“OK, what’s the other account of this tragic tale?” I ask him.
“Oh, there are many versions of this story,” Grant says. “As many versions of it as there are people. Some say the woman slipped, and while trying to save her, the two lovers both went over the cliff. There’s even a Romeo and Juliet version, where the two families disliked each other so much their parents wouldn’t let them marry. Thus, the lovers committed suicide together.”
