My heart cracks down the middle as I stare at him in complete and utter shock. Tears stream down my face, and a choked sob rips from the very depths of my soul. “I did this. She was only in your apartment because I begged you to let her stay. She never would’ve gotten near you otherwise. I’m so sorry, Callan.” I’m full-on crying now. “I’m so sorry she did that to you.”
He’s crying too, gripping my hand, and shaking his head. “It’s not your fault. It’s not mine. The responsibility is all on her.”
“Please let me hug you.”
He opens his arms, and I fall into them, shuttering my eyes as we comfort one another. More tears are birthed from my soul, and we sob as we cling to one another for an indeterminable time. His body is shaking, and I’m sure mine is too. Of all the theories I’d imagined over the years, this was never one of them because it’s too sickening to comprehend. “She needs to die, and I want it to be at our hands.” Anger is quickly replacing the all-consuming shock, sadness, and pain. I know what he said before, but I really think I could do it. “How dare she violate you like that. That fucking cunt needs to die a painful death.”
“I have imagined so many creative ways to make her pay, but it’s not so cut-and-dried.”
The pain in his voice pushes my anger aside, and grief mushrooms inside my chest again. “I’m so sorry, Callan.” I hug him closer. “I’m so sorry you experienced that, and you went through it alone. I should’ve been there. I should’ve helped you through it.” Nothing was how I thought it was, and immense guilt is waiting in the wings to accost me. I ease back and stare at his face. “How did you cope? You were shouldering so much responsibility and pain. I don’t know how anyone could survive such abuse and trauma.”
“I very nearly didn’t.” He leans his back against the sofa, and I reposition myself beside him. I rest my head on his shoulder as I take his hands, needing to hold him. My brain hurts. My heart hurts. My head is a fucking mess.
“She had done that to me, but I didn’t remember. Thinking back on all the things I’d had to do to keep the charade up made me ill. How she must have gloated, knowing what she’d done, thinking she’d gotten away with it because she’d drugged me and I’d been unconscious. I’d posed for magazine photos with my arms around my rapist. I’d gone to sleep in my parents’ house beside the woman who’d drugged and taken advantage of me. I’d watched the person who abused me give birth to my daughter, the product of her manipulation and violation.”
“That must have messed with your head.”
“It did. It seriously fucked me up. If I’d known it at the time Darcy was born, I’m not sure I could have loved her. I hate admitting it, but I don’t think I would’ve been able to get past the trauma to see the innocent child who needed my protection and love. By the time I discovered the truth, she already owned a part of my heart, and there was no question of giving her up for adoption. Darcy is a victim as much as I am, as much as you are,and her needing me was the only way I could get out of bed each day.”
“I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like.”
“I went through a rough few years. I’d been raped—something I couldn’t acknowledge or say out loud for years—lost you, lost the career of my dreams, and I was a single father at twenty with no clue how to take care of myself, let alone this innocent little girl who was relying on me for everything. I tunneled through a whirlwind of emotions. Everything from shame, confusion, anger, denial, grief, self-blame, self-loathing. Like, how could I let her get me in that position? I felt so stupid. I knew she was plotting something. Why hadn’t I just thrown her out of my house? I was embarrassed that my body had betrayed me while I was passed out. I’d never felt weaker. How would anyone believe a pint-sized female had overpoweredme? She’s five foot nothing; I’m six three. How the fuck did I let her do that to me? I didn’t even realize a woman could rape a man. Never even thought of it. I was so ashamed and terrified of the media finding out. I might’ve been a washed-up celebrity at that time, but I think the story still would’ve made headlines. I was ashamed for those thoughts too. Round and round it went until it felt like I was going mad.” His throat rasps, and his body is rigid with tension. “I didn’t tell anyone at first until I cracked and told Travis.”
“Drink this.” I grab a bottle of water and hand it to him. He drops the stress ball onto the sofa and brings the bottle to his lips as I snag the second one and take a long drink.
“After that, I started to deny it,” he continues. “Like, if I numbed myself to it, pretended like it hadn’t happened, I could forget it ever did. But my subconscious wouldn’t let me. I was having vivid nightmares, and it got so bad I was afraid to sleep. I was drinking too much coffee and staying up all night in front of the TV. I had headaches and stomach issues. Constant panicattacks, and I was depressed. I looked like shit. My parents were worried, but I couldn’t open up to them. How could I tell them this?”
“I totally get that, but they know now, right?”
He bobs his head. “Travis told them. I punched him in the face when he told me, but it was the right call, and I know he did it because he was trying to help. Mum cried, and Dad wanted to track her down and order a hitman to take her out. They were as worried as I was that she would renege on the agreement and come back.”
“How did you get her to go away?” I ask, watching him trail his fingers along the outline of the snake inked on his arm.
“When Scott hand-delivered the evidence, I approached her and made her a deal. I wanted to go straight to the police, but I couldn’t. The evidence she’d showed me about Tonya’s murder wasn’t on the laptop. She had a phone in your name and a message thread of communications with the killer. She’d paid someone to take pictures of her meeting the killer and handing over the cash. There was also photographic evidence of her watching from the sidewalk as he ran Tonya down in his car, the plates clearly visible in the frame, confirming it was the car used to murder a woman in broad daylight.”
“But she was supposed to be in England, right? If you can prove she was in the US at the time of Tonya’s murder, surely that’s enough to cast doubt?”
“I had hoped the same, and I got the PI on the case, but the cunt left no trail. As far as I was concerned, she was supposed to be on a trip with the other wives and girlfriends in Paris, but they told me later she had pulled out at the last minute. She must have used a fake ID to fly to the US, but we could find no trace of her. We checked flights from all the London airports to New York, Connecticut, and Vermont, and we couldn’t locate her. Same with car rentals and public transport. We even scouredtraffic cam footage for the hitman’s car, and we found him, but it looked like he was traveling alone. If she was in the car, she was hiding.”
“It’s really fucking scary how calculating she is. She has gotten away with murder twice that we know of.” A shudder works its way through me. “What if she has killed others?”
“It’s quite possible. She’s an arch manipulator. She’s been concealing shit and manipulating situations her whole life, and she’s good at it. Even the photos were cleverly done. They were carefully taken to hide her face and the height difference, and she had dyed and styled her hair exactly like yours. The clothes she was wearing wereyours. Even her perfume was yours—that murdering bitch wore it to keep fucking with my head. I knew it was enough to get you arrested, so I couldn’t risk going to the cops. There was no guarantee they’d agree with my version of events when I had no proof.”
“What motive would I have had for killing my best friend’s girlfriend? Someone I considered a friend too?”
“She had a narrative for that. You were obsessed with Paige and hated the time she spent with Tonya, so taking her out of the equation meant she’d be all yours. Sound like someone we know?”
“Fucking creepy.”
“Yeah. That explanation sent shivers down my spine, and there was no way I could risk your life by going to the police. Not when she seemed to have thought of everything. The other issue was my daughter.”
I knock back more water to ignore the temptation to pour myself another large whisky because nursing an alcohol hangover tomorrow alongside my emotional one doesn’t appeal. Seems like Callan feels the same, as he’s abandoned his tumbler in favor of his water bottle.
“I knew if I reported the rape to the cops, it would make the headlines. Not because I’m an ex-footballer, but because female rape of males is so rarely reported. I found a few older U.S. cases that had been reported globally because of the nature of the crime. I don’t particularly want the world knowing what happened to me, but I could live with it. However, I don’t want everyone knowing that’s how my daughter entered this world. I don’t want Darcy ever knowing. I don’t want her thinking I don’t love her completely and fully. I don’t want her ever feeling less than.” He throws back his head and sighs before meeting my gaze. “As it is, it’s going to be difficult explaining how her mother didn’t want her and that she wasn’t born of a loving relationship. I never want her to know she’s the product of rape, but I won’t lie and pretend I loved her mother.”
A lump forms in my throat. “I fully understand that, but what about justice for you? Justice for Tonya and Mara?”
“Tonya’s killer is dead, and Gwen’s behind bars. She’s out of our lives, and that’s enough for me.”
