As soon as I’d interviewed with her for an internship, we’d hit it off. I’d been hired the next day, working with her and the team for two summers. The moment I’d passed the bar, I’d had a job offer. Since then, I’d worked my butt off, including long hours, holidays, and weekends for the cause. Which was protecting victims. As I’d told Maverick, she was one of a handful of people who knew about Maria Rivera’s involvement with Samuel Wells.
“Word on the street is you’re asking questions about the upcoming execution as well as about the missing attorney.” Her voice was more comforting than I was used to. What I adored about her more than her uncanny ability to discover the truth was how she never minced words. Maybe that’s where I’d nurtured my ballsy personality.
There was no way of lying to her.
Nodding, I gave her the courtesy of turning to face her while we talked. “I believe it’s prudent to ask questions before a man loses his life. Especially if there’s even a tiny chance he’s not the killer. There’s a woman’s life on the line.” I was fearful there’d be more.
Her eyes opened wide, searching mine just as I’d done with myself in the mirror.
“Hold on. So you suddenly believe Ashley Boudreaux is the Python Killer’s new victim? He just came out of hiding?”
“I don’t know what to think.” And I didn’t. A full day of mulling over her disappearance along with reading portions of my diary had done nothing but create shadows crawling from every corner of every room like monsters threatening to consume my very soul.
“You do realize if you look up the word evil in the dictionary, you’ll see Samuel Wells’ picture. Right?” The twinkle in her eye never wavered. We’d had multiple discussions over the years regarding how evil a person would need to be to not only feel zero remorse about taking another human life but also overtly revel in the methods of what Samuel had called his creations of art.
Including pictures of victims lined up like prized heifers, blue ribbons pinned to their chests. He’d done so after their deaths, requiring the remaining victims still alive to rate them on a scale of one to five. Even now, I shuddered and rubbed my arms, ribbons of ice crawling through my veins, dragging me into the darkest memories of the ordeal.
Then he’d tossed them out into the swamp like trash.
“I know. I’m just crossing t’s and dotting i’s. You know how I am.” My nerves were getting the better of me and she knew it.
“Yes, I do, which is why I’m concerned for you. From what I heard, you weren’t asking to ensure Mr. Wells’ guilt, but offering a concept of his innocence. That seems very out of the ordinary to me. Do you want to tell me what’s going on? Is this survivor’s guilt? That I could completely understand, but if so, I’d tell you to take a few days off and regroup. If only to remind yourself how special your life has become. You know what I’m talking about. A quick trip to the Caribbean.”
“No money.”
At least she didn’t challenge me with the truth. I’d built a tidy sum in my bank account since I rarely spent any money on frivolous or shiny objects.
Sighing, she rolled her eyes. “O-kay. Then binge watchingBreaking Bador maybeTheSopranoswhile feasting on an endless supply of ice cream and bonbons.”
There was no doubt my facial features crumpled together, forming a mismatch of repulsion.
“Come on. You work too hard, Alexia. Being overworked leads to added stress, which can lead to mistakes or in certain cases, a break with reality. The cops are handling Ms. Boudreaux’s disappearance. Let them do their jobs. Unless you decided to make a career change.”
While she was smiling, I could easily tell she was concerned. “I assure you I haven’t experienced a break with reality. Just a moment of reliving the past.”
“Which is completely understandable, but you are one of the hardest working people I know. There is nothing to feel guilty about. You did the right thing in naming him.”
Yes, I was a hard worker, but for a reason. To keep my soul from being lost to the swirling darkness I’d experienced before. While the bastard had wondered if I dreamed in color, his last words to me had been about dying. They’d remained with me, a constant reminder of the level of control he’d had over my psyche.
Leaning my head against the wall, I realized Betty wore the same expression as Maverick. Cautiously concerned with more than a dash of anxiety. “Survivor’s guilt? Maybe, butthe questions burning a hole in my mind don’t require binge watching overzealous television series and does anyone actually eat bonbons any longer?”
“They do if they need instant comfort away from monsters.” We both laughed. “I’ve looked at Wells’ file. He’s a guilty man. You do not need to lose sleep at night worrying about whether the FBI captured the wrong man. They didn’t.”
My thoughts drifted for the umpteenth time to Maverick.
My never-wrong instincts told me he was having me followed. While he was a talented author, he sucked at certain investigative skills. I certainly know the difference between private investigators and monsters. The shoddy dressers typically drove shitty vehicles and were terrible at keeping out of sight.
In my mind, they’d always been spy wannabes.
With monsters, you only developed a feeling of being watched, the creepy-crawlies that almost never left, even if there was no one lurking in the shadows.
In fact, it was beginning to be a tiny bit annoying, although I did appreciate his continued interest in my safety.
“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside while we live.” I’d never forgotten the phrase.
Betty’s silence was rare. She had an odd look in her eyes, which almost immediately she blinked away.
“Where did that come from?” she managed a full minute later, obviously shaken by my tone as well as the phrase itself. I wasn’t known for being a poet. Far from it. I was direct, always to the point, which had garnered me a ruthless reputation.
