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“Bart,” Trap says, not bothering to shake hands. “Glad you could make time to see us.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, coming to my office like this?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to discuss this at our next Chamber of Commerce meeting,” Trap says. “By the way, you remember Alix Key, don’t you?”
He bristles. “Of course I do. I remember every alleged murderer currently being investigated by Delaware police. Every alleged accessory after the fact, too.”
Trap shakes his head, like he’s just heard a very sad story. “That’s not the way you want to play this, Bart.”
“You think I’m playing? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the Attorney General for the state of Delaware. The two of you are represented by counsel. It’s the height of impropriety for you to be here without your lawyers.”
“I don’t know, Bart. I’d say the height of impropriety is raping a woman. Along with assault and battery. Are those the right charges? For pissing on someone and beating the crap out of her with a riding crop? I’m not a lawyer, but there has to be something on the books for torture, right?”
There’s a long moment when everything stops. I can’t feel my heartbeat. My lungs don’t expand for breath. I’m waiting, waiting, waiting, and Trap is curling his fingers like he’s about to take a swing, now that the ugly words are out of his mouth.
Bart Carver stands frozen like a rabbit when a hawk soars overhead. Call it my psychological training, call it the survival instinct of a woman kept as a slave for three years, call it nothing more than women’s intuition, but I can read every one of his thoughts as if they’re written on his face in ink.
He’s stunned that Trap knows the truth.
He’s astonished that I told anyone; he must have thought I was too out of it at the time to remember—or maybe too ashamed to speak.
He’s frightened that he’s alone with two people who are already suspected of murdering a man connected with his crimes.
But ultimately, he’s confident that it’s my word against his. He’s a respected government official, and I’m a deranged nut case whose video has been watched more than twelve million times.
“Get the fuck out of my office,” he says. “Before I call security.”
“Wrong answer,” Trap says.
Carver goes for his phone. At the same time, I slam my briefcase down on his desk. I thumb the locks, and they sound like gunshots. I reach inside and take out my laptop computer.
Trap and I talked about this. We considered bringing a thumb drive. We thought about putting the video on a website and giving Carver the address. We thought about printing stills and letting him wonder what else we have in our possession.
But ultimately, we want to make him go away. Him and his prosecutors and the threat of a criminal case that will destroy our lives. Our lives, and the life of Braiden Kelly, because his face has been exposed too.
We can’t leave Carver with any doubt at all, with any hope of escape.
So I open the computer. I press the gray triangle in the middle of the screen. I turn the device toward him, and I watch him realize his professional life is about to end.
The video plays without sound. That’s the way Herzog planned things—he kept himself out of the frame to make it seem like Carver acted entirely on his own.
I don’t watch the screen. I’ll never forget a frame of what happened.
I don’t watch Trap either. I can still see his face reflected in the basement gym’s mirrors. I can see his rage and disgust and pain as my body is abused.
I watch Carver.
I watch denial: That’s not him. That’s not me. That’s not something that actually happened.
I watch rage: Herzog had no right to film him. Trap and I can’t possibly have this proof.
I watch bargaining: He has a reason for what he did, a justification. He’ll tell us if we let him.
I watch depression: He can’t cope. He can’t go on. He’ll never survive.
I watch acceptance.
All the stages of grief, like a movie sped up to triple speed. Carver bounces through them so fast I’m a little surprised he’s still standing.
