Page 32 of The Woman I’ve Become

Then it becomes a whole different ball game.

No matter how hard Acacia works to conceal all her little secrets, she will never be able to. She is on the verge of recognizing that I see this about her. She won’t be able to pull off her best self for much longer.

I’ve been doing this far too long to be easily fooled. I might have caught it sooner if not for all the physical misery and drug haze after the accident. I have definitely been off my game. But I see clearly now.

We all have our secrets. Be it Helen, Phillip, or even the highly trained former special agent Rick Howard. Secrets are a part of life. Little, big, good, or bad. This is why so many plans go awry. Even the tiniest seemingly insignificant detail can make all the difference.

I will give Acacia a second chance—primarily to show she’s regained my confidence no matter that she has not. “For now, you’re not fired, but you are on probation.” At her look of relief, I add, “Going forward, keep Phillip out of this.”

Acacia stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re right. This is your journey, Julia. No one else has the right to set the direction or to select the participants.”

Exactly. And now we both understand the way this is going to work.

I’ve been in this game alone from day one. I have no reason to believe it will end any other way.

Twenty Years Ago

15

Julia

Westport, Connecticut

I watch Wendy’s borrowed car disappear into the night. I wish I had gone with her. Just driven away and never looked back. When I can no longer hear the sound of the Mercedes engine, my surroundings close in on me.

The woods wrap around me in a wide river of darkness threatening to swallow me up. Where is the moon? I search the sky, but the murky clouds have everything obscured. There is nothing, only me and the night sounds that suddenly feel louder, threatening.

I turn to my driveway. Having Wendy drop me at the house might have woken my parents. My father is a very light sleeper. Not to mention it’s nearly four a.m. He might even be up by now. I just need to get inside, shower and change, and then grab a couple hours of sleep. I’ll sneak back out here and wait for a ride to school. There are a couple of boys who will gladly give me a ride in hopes I’ll finally agree to a date.

Not happening.

Headlights in the distance punch matching holes in the blackness. I stop. Is Wendy coming back? A grin rolls across my face. I should go with her. We could find a place to hang out, eat, and then just wear our racy outfits to school—still smelling like cigarettes and alcohol. We would both get sent home for sure. My parents would really freak out.

I step back onto the road, right in the path of the car, and shield my eyes from the headlights with one hand.

As the car nears I realize it’s not Wendy in her foster mother’s Mercedes. The sound is different. It’s like a soft rumble . . . a lion quieting its ferocious roar to a satisfied purr after a lethal battle.

Rather than run, I freeze. I can’t breathe. Maybe it’s all the liquor I consumed. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. But I can’t move.

The car stops a scarce dozen or so inches from me. So close I can smell and feel the heat rising from the engine. But I can’t see the driver. The headlights have me blinded.

A door slams, and I tell myself again to run.

Then the driver is standing between me and the car. His scent is the first thing that seeps into my senses. It’s him. Casey.

“What the hell, Julia?”

His voice is rough, angry. And he’s so close he must feel my heart beating against his chest.

“What’re you doing here?” The words sound like a child’s. He’s never been this close to my house. I had no idea he even knew where I lived.

“Get in the car.”

The memory that he stood me up hits like a lightning strike. Outrage rushes through me. “No.”

He doesn’t repeat himself. Instead he yanks my backpack from my shoulder, tosses it aside. Then he grabs me around the waist, lifting me off my feet, and carries me to the passenger’s-side door. When he has closed me inside, he goes around to the driver’s-side door and gets in.

I wait as he turns the car around, using my own driveway to do so. Good thing it winds through the woods before reaching the house. My heart is thundering, and there is so much I want to say—to demand—but my voice won’t work.