Page 39 of The Woman I’ve Become

No, that last part is definitely not a good option because Acacia and her boyfriend, if in fact the man seen with her at Eleanor’s home was involved, would disappear, and there would never be justice for Eleanor.

The real problem—the only reason Acacia is still with me, in fact—is because there is so much I need to know. Who set this scheme in motion? Though I am fairly certain, I need confirmation. What is my enemy’s ultimate goal? The answer to that is probably nothing more than the end of me. So even in those fleeting moments when I tell myself that it doesn’t matter—the who or the what in all this—I remind myself that, in fact, it does.

I cannot go back to my life until this thing is finished.

I think of my sweet Olivia already asleep in her bed, unaware of this business that could change her life so dramatically. I must see this through no matter the difficulty and danger. To do that, there can be no mistakes, no getting distracted going forward. I will not trust anyone with what we eat or drink. I will watch my one known opponent closely, consistently.

“That’s the trouble,” I say finally. “Only someone involved with me before the abduction twenty years ago would know about the necklace, which begs the question, who could that possibly be?”

Acacia only listens.

“Eventually, well after my escape, the authorities came to the conclusion that the Judge was either dead or in prison because there have been no victims that match his MO since. I have no idea if this conclusion is correct or not.”

“His identity was unknown, so it’s impossible to be sure,” she agrees. “For that matter, he could be out there, watching us right now.”

“Absolutely, yes.” Having her believe this is a necessary part of my strategy. “I never saw his face. I know where I escaped from, but that was a dead end according to the detectives and agents investigating the case twenty years ago.”

“They found nothing at the place where you were held.” She’s looking at me again with that openly suspicious expression. “I honestly find that difficult to believe.”

“Believe it,” I say, uncaring if she does or not. “It’s as if when he recognized I had escaped, he cleaned up any evidence and disappeared.”

This is mostly true. There was a cleanup detail for certain aspects of the scene, no question. Which is just another reason I can’t trust Rick. The cleanup was in all likelihood set in motion by someone involved in the investigation. The timing and the attention to detail were all too carefully choreographed. I know this because of the parts that did not make it into the news.

“Maybe you were never meant to be one of his victims,” Acacia counters. “You escaped when no one else did. You didn’t see any other victims, no matter that another girl disappeared on the same day.”

“I have no idea if that scenario was investigated,” I say, pretending not to notice her thinly veiled accusation. “Even a victim rarely hears all the details of an ongoing investigation.”

Acacia shrugs. “It’s possible someone in the original investigation who saw you as nothing more than a spoiled rich girl leaked the story to the Times. Maybe that person thinks it’s time you paid for what you did.”

Anger sparks, but before I can set her straight, she goes on, “Doesn’t matter who leaked those lies. I know you’re telling the truth.” She looks at me then, a lingering, assessing stare. “I’ve seen the scars on your back from where the kidnapper tortured you.”

The bastard did love that whip. “Among other things,” I confirm. Things I will never talk about with anyone.

“That had to be really awful.”

I nod. I should appreciate the sentiment, but I recognize the words are just more platitudes. The expected response. Her way of smoothing over the way she antagonized me moments before.

“So what is the big secret this stalker is trying to suggest you’re keeping? And why leave a necklace for you to find? Why not just make his move? This whole gaslighting game feels a little inauthentic.”

Interesting question coming from her.

“It’s Wendy Neely.” Saying the name aloud is unsettling. In fact, I can’t recall the last time I said it out loud. My heart rate picks up. My palms start to sweat. I watch carefully for Acacia’s reaction.

Her poker face in place, she asks, “The other girl who went missing around the same time you did?”

“Yes.”

“Are you saying you actually did see her while you were in captivity?” The slightest hint of curiosity has slipped past her carefully controlled expression. “You’ve maintained all this time that you didn’t.”

That she goes directly to that question doesn’t surprise me. “I saw her before my abduction, not after.”

“Wait, wait. You said you didn’t know her.” Now she’s glaring at me, something like anger flashing in her eyes before she can conceal it.

“We were friends,” I admit. “Wendy and me. We kept it a secret because the parents wouldn’t have approved.”

“Because she was a bad girl?”

“To those who chose to see her that way, yes. We had to sneak around to hang out. She gave me the necklace. It has to be her. No one else knew. The article, the necklace. It’s her. I know it.”