Page 62 of The Woman I’ve Become

“Are you listening?”

I nod.

“If he no longer wanted you, he would have ended you and disposed of you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do as he says. Make him happy. He obviously likes you. Keep him liking you, and you’ll be fine. Make him trust you. Make him want you more and more.”

“Okay.” My voice sounds so small.

Then she does the strangest thing. She hugs me and whispers in my ear, “Do all those things and watch for an opportunity.” She draws back. “You’ll be fine.

“When the bag is nearly empty,” she points to the one I’m holding, “pull the needle out of your arm.” She indicates a small wad of white fluffy cotton she has left on the counter. “Put the cotton on the injection site and hold it tight until the bleeding stops. Remember, eat, drink, and exercise. Take the vitamins. Stay strong. Stay pretty. That’s not just important, it’s everything.”

Then she’s gone. It almost feels as if I imagined her except for the bag in my hand and the needle in my arm.

She’s right. I need to get strong again. I need to please him so much that he learns to trust me completely. I will make him yearn for me as he has never yearned for anyone.

Then I’ll make my move.

Now

26

Westport, Connecticut

The call with Olivia was lovely and made me feel so much better. Catherine helped her to find the perfect present for her friend, and she is very excited about tomorrow’s party. I feel greatly relieved now about her being back in the city.

But there is another problem. Helen isn’t answering her cell again. This concerned me so much that, despite the storm, Acacia and I went to her house. She wasn’t home, so we drove around to the usual places she shops and then past a number of the houses she manages during the off season, but she was nowhere to be found. I left her a voicemail urging her to please call me or come by as soon as she can.

I don’t understand why I’m having such difficulty maintaining contact with her. It isn’t the norm. She did mention the sketchy cell service. Maybe I’m overreacting.

Really it’s not like the trouble has been going on for long. We arrived at the lake house on Tuesday evening and this is only Friday afternoon. Yet somehow it feels like far longer. The ghosts of my past have ruthlessly haunted me, somehow expanding the time, making it feel slower and heavier.

Back home Acacia parks in front of the garage, and we simply sit there. The rain has stopped. Still, I can’t seem to bring myself to get out and go inside. My nerves are vibrating, warning that I need to be doing something more, but I have no idea what that something is.

It’s the waiting on someone else’s move that is driving me mad.

I could never play chess.

“Are you ready to go in?”

I close my eyes for a moment before meeting her expectant gaze. This part, too, is growing more and more wearying. “No.”

Her fingers tighten impatiently on the steering wheel, and I want to scream. She expects me to be the same as before. Doesn’t she realize that her actions cannot be dismissed without consequences? I am confident she doesn’t yet realize I know the rest as well—that she is working for the person or persons who want to cause me harm, and it’s not my husband—at least not only him. Perhaps she is somewhat suspicious that I know more, but she can’t be certain.

She and her boyfriend killed Eleanor. She is working with the enemy—whoever that term encompasses. She has drugged me on at least one occasion. She planted the necklace. I know all of this, and I am prepared for whatever is coming because I know the whole story.

Acacia will never know all that I do.

“What?” I finally demand.

She shifts her attention to me. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. Your face, your posture says it all. Haven’t I clarified everything for you? What else do you want from me?”

Good God, what more does she need to hear? What my friend and I stumbled into twenty years ago went so far beyond just ugly, just bad, that there is no way to adequately describe it. It was far more than a mere serial killer—the evil easily defined and recognized as those driven to kill by factors they cannot control. This was the evil you don’t see. The kind that lurks behind power and wealth and the appearance of normalcy. Those who are not driven by uncontrollable urges at all but who do these horrific things simply because they can.