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What the hell did Alexandra send? I slip an arm around Kayla and draw her close.
Margaret perches on the edge of a chair and reaches for the folder. “How would you describe your breakup with your ex? The woman you were dating before you proposed to Kayla?”
“Less than amiable,” I say.
Kayla leans forward. “Alexandra threatened him.”
I cross my legs and give her a gentle kick in the process. What the hell happened to following my lead?
“How?” Margaret demands, turning her laser focus on my fiancée.
Kayla gives me a sideways glance and then turns her attention back to Margaret. “He wouldn’t tell me,” she says in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I think she might have a sex tape.”
What is it with Kayla and the sex tape? That happened once. I’m careful about cameras now. And I doubt my best friend watched the damn thing. If she published a sex tape, I wouldn’t watch it.
Okay, that’s a lie. I would take a look to see if she’ d been talked into something that made her uncomfortable. I wouldn’t enjoy watching it.
What if Kayla did see that tape I made? What if she liked what she saw?
I uncross my legs and lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs. I need to focus. I can deal with “what-ifs” surrounding Kayla, that damn tape, and her potential reaction later.
Margaret’s gaze zeroes in on me. “Does your ex have a t
ape?”
“No,” I say firmly. “Alexandra wanted to keep the relationship going, but she doesn’t have a tape to hold over my head.”
I hope.
Margaret nods. She thinks I’m lying, but I’m guessing a potential recording of my intimate moments doesn’t concern her nearly as much as what is in that folder. She opens it and I feel every muscle in my body tense.
Kayla senses I’m ready to detonate, and not in a good way. My best friend reaches over and places a hand on my left thigh. Her pinky finger brushes against my arm. Her touch grounds me. I’m ready to face the next hurdle that blackmailing bitch tossed my way.
“An envelope was left with the doorman around five this afternoon,” Margaret begins. “The security guard called up after the woman left. He said she insisted that I read this immediately. She asked to come up, but ran away when Steve—he’s the guard on duty—asked for her driver’s license to scan for the visitor’s log.”
“That’s standard practice?” Kayla asks.
“Yes,” Margaret says. “But he knows most of my clients and waves the requirement. For example, the building has Gavin’s ID on file.”
“What’s in the folder?” I hold out my hand, unwilling to wait in suspense while Kayla and Margaret discuss security procedures. I don’t give a damn how Alexandra dropped off the package. I want to see what she brought.
Margaret withdraws a packet of paper-clipped photographs and hands them over. One glance at the top image and I know they are from the same era as the picture she used to blackmail me on Friday night.
“Oh, God,” Kayla whispers, peering over my shoulder as I remove the paperclip and leaf through the half-dozen pictures. They are all from around the same time, my freshman year of high school, all shot in the same place, and probably on the same day.
“That poor child,” Kayla adds.
I stare at the final picture. I’m sitting at my foster parents’ kitchen table. Bruises cover my face. There are tears streaming down my cheeks. But it’s not the black, blue, and purple marks on my skin, or the fact that I’m crying that shake me to my fucking core. There’s a flicker of hope in that child’s eyes—in my eyes—that seemingly begs the other people in the room, hell maybe the person taking this picture, to save me.
Save me or I’ll die.
The thought would run through my head while I lay on the bathroom floor at my foster parents’ home. Those words played on repeat while I walked the halls of my high school, listening to kids tease and taunt me.
Terrance, why don’t your clothes fit? Why do you smell funny, Terrance? Why don’t you just die already, Terrance?
Yeah, I heard that last taunt so much I started wondering if maybe I should die. There was no hope for the kid in these pictures. Like the psychologist said, that kid was held captive by his abuse. He was a failure, and he always would be. Looking at those images now, is there any question why I needed to be someone else?
Kayla recognizes the kitchen in the image. But she’s letting me take the lead now. I heard her choice of words—that poor child. She’s giving me the option to select door number one, and admit that I’m being blackmailed for my past. Or I could go with door number two and claim that my ex is making the whole damn thing up.
