Page 8 of The Woman I’ve Become

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll draw the attention of the Judge and that—if, in fact, he’s still alive and free—he’ll come back to finish what he started? After all, you are his one failure.”

For a single instant I consider giving her the answer that will truly shake her—not to mention the rest of the world—but that would be a mistake. I cannot take the risk.

“Like I said before, it has been twenty years,” I insist, ensuring there is nothing soft about my voice now. When this interview is aired, I want there to be no mistake—I am not afraid of what’s coming. “I believe time has proven that his reign of terror is over.”

The slightest smirk tests the arrogant reporter’s ability to keep a neutral face. “It sounds as if you’ve kept a watch for any similar abductions.”

Impatience sparks, but I tamp it down. “I would be a fool not to, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed,” she concedes with a touch of humility, as if this were a tennis match and she just lost the last round.

“Serial killers rarely change their MOs, and almost never stop until someone or something stops them,” I remind her. After all, I’m the one with the doctorate in psychology, aren’t I? “It’s possible, of course, but unlikely. The man who abducted me always wore a mask. Since he never left any trace of DNA evidence or even so much as a fingerprint on or around his victims, his identity, as we’ve established, is unknown.” I stare out the window once more, wishing this day were over already so I can leave all this behind. “Let’s be honest, if he wanted to find me again, he could have years ago.”

“So, really, you’re not the slightest bit afraid?”

My attention settles on her once more. “Not at all. If by some twist of fate he is out there, let him come. Let him rise from whatever hole he has been hiding in so he can be caught. No one wants that more than me.”

It’s true. I’m not afraid. Not really. There is the risk, of course, that this whole fiasco could be a trap—a different one than I recognize. In any strategy things can shift. Go wrong. Players can react differently from what is expected. An unknown variable can pop into the mix.

My only real concern is for my daughter.

Ultimately, there is little I can do except hope that I am the one who will live to see how this ends.

4

I feel exhausted by the time Talia and her photographer are out the door. I stand at the window watching as the two rush along the sidewalk, ignoring the questions from the reporters who surge toward Talia like fans spotting their favorite celebrity. I watch until they vanish from view.

A nap is what I need, since I hardly slept last night. But I feel an urgency to stay alert, to be watchful. Whatever is coming, it is imperative that I am prepared.

“I’ve made tea.”

The sound of Acacia’s voice draws me from the unpleasant thoughts. I turn to face the young woman who is part nanny, part personal assistant. She, too, is an aspect of this new reality to which I came home after the accident. No matter that it has been two months, between the pain and the physical therapy as well as the medications, I’m still getting used to her.

Or perhaps the better term is getting acquainted with her. Basically, Acacia Hanson remains a bit of an enigma. A very unexpected one.

“Tea would be lovely.” I summon a smile.

Acacia beams a radiant one back in my direction. “It’s a beautiful afternoon. I thought we might grab a little sun on the terrace.”

I feel a new tension coil inside me despite her seemingly genuine efforts. Even if I didn’t have certain suspicions, there is just something about her that sets me on edge. “Sounds good.”

Giving her credit, Acacia goes to great lengths to do the best job possible. She is eager to do whatever I need and to be like a big sister to Olivia. Phillip is very pleased with her. Of course he is. Acacia is quite young, only twenty-two. Attractive. Attentive.

I resist a sigh. Phillip is the man I married when all I could see . . . all I could think about were the goals I needed to accomplish and finding a sense of empowerment and security. He is older, thirteen years, in fact, but money had absolutely nothing to do with our union. Love had little to do with it, either, if I’m honest. In fact, despite almost nine years of marriage, I’m not sure love has ever been a substantial part of our relationship. Various levels of need are involved. Ultimately, it is accurate to say that our love for our daughter is what fully binds us. She is what makes us complete.

Likewise he needs me to present the well-rounded picture of family—a well-loved psychologist wife and an adoring daughter. My own as well as his dedicated philanthropic work quells any perception of being out of touch given our combined wealth and the lifestyle that goes with our Gramercy Park brownstone and the Westport, Connecticut, lake house.

All is exactly as Phillip hoped it would be when he began the pursuit of a wife. A woman who has the right look, possesses intelligence and is accomplished in her field of expertise. One who pretends not to notice his little affairs and who always shows up—at least until recently—when he needs to paint the perfect picture of the classic American family.

Since the accident, most of my time and energy has been focused on healing, our daughter, and very little else. Although I haven’t been able to attend many of his campaign rallies and fundraising dinners of late, his family name and all those other politicians he has supported over the years will ensure a win for him.

To be blunt, considering all that has happened, this campaign is a great relief to me. It means he is rarely home.

I shake off the thoughts and journey through the kitchen in my halting gait to the terrace where Acacia has prepared a lovely setting for our tea.

I sit down as she pours and offer a fitting compliment. “Eleanor would be proud of you.” I wish Eleanor were here. I miss her immensely. My heart aches at the painful loss.

Eleanor Winston was the best part of marrying into the Belmont family—besides Olivia, of course. Eleanor made me feel welcome immediately. She was an amazing house manager, and when Olivia came along she helped me hone the mommy skills I needed. If I’m honest, she was more a mother to me than my real mother. Phillip often said the same thing. He adored Eleanor. She worked for his parents until we married and then she came to work for us. Phillip’s parents had downsized considerably and no longer needed a house manager.