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“Good,” I say. “I think they should stay there.”
“For a bit, yes. I agree.” That’s what he says. But it’s what he doesn’t say that really counts. He doesn’t say that I’ve been nothing more than a tool for him, all these years, all this time. He doesn’t say that he sought me out, that he’s been lying to me all along. He doesn’t say that his architecture firm is a front, that he’s been heading the agency all along.
He doesn’t tell me any of the things I heard watching and listening to JC Warren’s recordings from inside our home. He simply says, “The press is all over this. As you can imagine.”
He doesn’t know what I know. He doesn’t know if I know anything at all. So, he doesn’t explain why he’s used me to take out his competition—he doesn’t say it’s because he is the biggest pedophile of all.
I don’t say it either.
There’s time for that.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Charlotte
Michael was right. The media is all over this. It is apparently a story worth chasing. All the way to Alaska, and of course, they are geared up and waiting back home. The cost of fame, violence against women—whether or not my profession, flight attending as a whole, is sexist. It’s all laid out there, to be pored over, discussed ceaselessly, my life examined under a microscope.
This does not make for a good situation. My husband doesn’t say it but I can tell. He wishes I’d died in that fire. Most likely that was his intention when he had it set. He hadn’t known, couldn’t have known— that I was in the garage—that a kind neighbor seeing the log cabin go up in flames would rush over to make sure everyone got out okay.
After my surgery, I am not allowed to travel for several weeks.
After five days, Michael returns to Texas.
Although they will remain in his mother’s care, he wants to check on the girls. I have FaceTimed them every day. They are eager for me to get home. But I am certain they are nowhere near as eager as I am.
Three weeks after I was rescued, I am finally able to return home to my own bed. Despite the physical therapy and sheer determination, I am still fairly reliant on Michael to do most things for me.
The press once again has rained down on us, on our street, on our neighborhood. I even supposedly have best friends I’ve never even met. Everyone talks like they have something new to say, something that has never been said before. A group of “Justice Warriors” were detained last week, and from what I learn online, most groups have started to fizzle out. Hard crime is a bit much for your average homemaker, I suppose. It isn’t all a disappointment. It’s not all a waste. There are well-wishers, flowers, cards, meals, and an overflowing Fund Me account.
Michael excels at playing the concerned and caring husband, and I am more than happy to let him.
So long as we have all of this attention on us, it will be difficult for him to do anything drastic where I am concerned. The girls are safe and moderately happy at his mother’s, and this buys me time to come up with a plan.
“I don’t know if you should return to work, you know, after…” he says one morning over coffee. “We have enough money in the Fund Me account…I was thinking you could take some time and…I don’t know…relax. Or maybe write that book you’ve always talked about.”
The sentiment makes me smile. “We’ll see.”
It’s funny how different he looks now that I don’t care about him anymore. Now, I can see how ordinary he is, how it was my love that made him special, that made it seem like he was a good husband and father—that placed him on a pedestal.
But in all honesty, it was more than love that made me fall for Michael. Our relationship started out as transactional in nature, and it will end that way too.
My father used to say that about police work. The way things end are often the way they start. I never really gave much thought to what he meant, but it makes sense.
Earlier this week, I had a long conversation with Hayley over FaceTime. She is having problems with the same boy I nearly dosed with laxatives. If only. “There is a fundamental truth I have learned,” I said to her. “If you aren’t certain of who you are and what you want, you will attract people all too eager to guide you into finding those answers.”
“Speak English,” she huffed.
“I am. Hayley, there are endless people,” I told her. “People with endless opinions, rules, requirements, and suggestions for how you should live your life, for how you should behave, but none of them are able to take into consideration the only thing that matters: they cannot truly understand, nor do they care about your desires in the way you do, so they are not in any way equipped to guide you.”
“Elliot isn’t trying to guide me, mom. He’s trying to date me.”
“No, Hayley. He’s trying to manipulate you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because you asked.”
