Let Me Know (25 page)

He closes his eyes, and a moment or two later drifts off to sleep.

I curl up in the armchair near the window and read the letters my father had sent Michael and me. The ones sent to me are sealed. Michael’s have been opened, the tops of the envelopes ripped jagged. And for the first time since entering the room, I let the tears fall. Would things have been much different if he hadn’t left us? Mom wouldn’t have become an alcoholic, but would things have been any different for me?

Paul’s father left him when he was a child. It was the one thing that had connected Paul and me at some level. We talked about it when we worked together. If my father hadn’t left me, would Paul still have targeted me? Was that one connection the difference between the girl I used to be and the girl I was forced to become? The girl who is stronger than before. The girl who has found a new meaning in her life.

The girl who will never be what she once was, because of the choices other people made.

I watch my father’s slow, even breaths for the longest time. He made mistakes, but Paul’s obsession with me wasn’t one of them, nor was the stalking and kidnapping. That was all Paul.

I uncurl from the chair and kiss my father’s cheek. “I love you.”

During the night, while I sleep in the chair, my father dies.

Standing on the porch steps of the hospice, I remove a letter from the box. It was the last one he wrote to me. The last one I read. I put the box and my purse down and rip the letter into two. I keep ripping until I can’t make the pieces any smaller, then smiling, I toss them into the wind—and watch them dance and tumble and be free. Free like my father, now that he has finally found peace, and free like me now that I finally know the truth.

Chapter Forty-Two

Marcus

I pull up to the hospice an hour after getting Amber’s call. She didn’t say much when I talked to her, other than where she was and that she was okay. Except...she sounded anything but okay.

She sounded broken.

I wasn’t sure if she’d stay put when I told her I was on my way, but I also didn’t expect to find her sitting on the porch steps, in the cold. I sit next to her and gather her shivering body in my arms. Since my car will be a lot warmer than hers, I stand and lead her to it. She still hasn’t said anything. As it is, I have no idea why she’s hanging out at the hospice.

Once she’s settled and the heater is going full force, I ask the question burning inside me for the past two days, when I discovered she had left, and no one knew where she had gone. “What’s going on, Amber?”

She doesn’t say anything, but the shivering at least slows.

“I’ve been going crazy worrying about you.” Frustration flares, but it’s muted with the relief that she’s safe. “You didn’t even tell me you were leaving. I had to find out about it from Jordan.” I watch a snowplow drive past, clearing the street. “I thought you trusted me enough that we could be honest with each other.”

When I turn back to Amber, her gaze is fixed on the hospice. I open my mouth to ask why she’s here but she starts talking before I can get the words out.

“For years I feared falling in love only for the guy I loved to leave me. My father walked out on my mom. I was afraid the same thing would happen to me. That fear was there with Trent, which is why he never fully had my heart. A small part of it was locked away.”

This is nothing I don’t already know. It’s the one thing keeping a slight wall up between us. Not a full wall. But a wall to part of her heart. I’ve been chipping away at it for weeks, but all the fucking media craziness has kept me from completely knocking it down.

Amber sighs. “My father contacted me a few weeks ago. He wanted to make amends for what he did. I didn’t want to see him. I’ve been hurting for so long, I wanted him to hurt too.” She nods at the building. “He died last night of cancer.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know if I am or not, considering how much he hurt her, but it’s the right thing to say because she does seem to be sorry that he’s dead.

“I realize now,” she says without acknowledging my words, “I was wrong all this time. My father was scared when he left us. He thought he was dying of cancer and didn’t want his family to be there for him. He thought it would be better to go it alone.”

A smile curves on to her face. Not a big one. But at this point I’ll take whatever I can get.

“In the beginning you kept the truth from me about what happened to you and Ryan. And you had every right to do that.” I open my mouth to explain, but she places her finger against my lips. “Don’t worry. I get why you had to. I kept things from you, too.”

Her gaze averts for a heartbeat before she looks back up at me, and her brown eyes are full of warmth and longing. Not longing for sex. Longing for something deeper, something from the bottom of our souls. “But when I discovered the truth, you didn’t push me away. You let me in. You let me love you, scars and all. You’re not my father. You never will be.”

And with those simple words, the rest of her wall crumbles. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going away. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I do. More than you can ever imagine. But until I knew why my father was so desperate to talk to me, I didn’t want to tell you. I wasn’t planning to tell my mom or Emma or Jordan, either. I needed to face my demons. On my own.” She smiles. This time it’s bright and full of life, the sun burning away the last of the morning fog.

I lean over and kiss her cool lips, thanking the powers of the universe, once again, for bringing us together.

Chapter Forty-Three

Amber

Paul looks nothing like I remember. Gone is the disheveled guy who haunts my nightmares. Gone is the twenty-five-year-old who wore casual shirts and jeans when he volunteered at the animal shelter. Gone is the sweet-looking guy I trusted with my friendship.

The Paul sitting next to his lawyer is nothing like those versions. This version is dressed in a suit and his light brown hair has been trimmed short. If this were any other situation, I might have thought he was possibly another lawyer waiting for his client to enter the courtroom.

Except I know better.

This is the same thought I’ve had since I first saw him during the opening arguments, and during everything up till now. But I can’t help but compare this man to the one I once knew as my friend.

“Amber,” the D.A. says, pulling my attention away from Paul. But even though I’m no longer looking at him, I can feel his gaze fixated on me. Searching for my weaknesses. Searching for the best way to break me.

I can barely breathe. I’m trapped in the basement all over again. Waiting. Praying. Knowing it’s going to end soon. Knowing I’ll die when that moment comes.

My hands start shaking.
I
can do this.
I
just have to survive all the questioning.

Now if only I can convince myself that.

I glance at the people sitting behind the D.A’s table. My mother, grandma, Marcus, Emma and Liam are all watching. Emma looks like she’s going to be sick, and I hate that she has to be here. She never met Paul, but she’s a witness for the D.A. They want to throw a shadow of a doubt that Paul and I were involved in anything beyond friendship, contrary to what the rumors claim. Melissa, my former teammate, is listed as a witness for the defense.

I shake my head at how far she’s willing to take the lie. Doesn’t she realize she could go to jail for perjury?

“Amber,” the D.A. repeats, “on the night you had a flat tire, in your words, please tell the court what happened.”

I dig my fingernails into my legs, willing myself not to break down. Not here. Not now. I swallow past the basketball-sized lump in my throat and glance once more at Marcus. He gives me a reassuring smile, telling me I can do it. He knows I can.

“I had basketball practice that evening at my high school. Once it was over, I drove home. But on my way I had a flat tire and had to pull over. It was dark and raining, and I had no idea how to change the tire, so I called my brother, Michael. He said he would be right there. While I was waiting, a blue midsized car parked behind me. Paul got out and asked me what happened. I told him I had a flat tire, and he offered to fix it. He went back to his car, and that’s when Michael showed up. He parked his car in front of mine.”

My stomach clenches at what comes next. I fight back the urge to be sick. “He asked me who the other car belonged to and I told him. Paul was still in his car when Michael opened my trunk and removed the spare tire.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Paul finally got out of the car again when Michael started changing the tire. He walked behind Michael and raised his arm. I didn’t have a chance to warn my brother before Paul shot him in the back.”

I flinch at the sound of the gunshot in my head. “He shot him again.” My voice cracks. “And again. And again.” I open my eyes and the tears I was holding back flood my face. “Michael slumped to the ground and I ran to him. Screaming. I didn’t know what to do and I didn’t know why Paul shot him. He didn’t even know my brother.”

“Then what happened?” the D.A. asks, her tone full of sympathy.

“I kept telling Michael to hold on, help was on the way, even though I knew it wasn’t. My cell phone was in the car and I was too scared to leave him alone with Paul. I begged Paul to call nine-one-one, but he didn’t move. I stood up to get my phone and something hard hit me from behind. That’s all I remember.” I start sobbing. I can’t stop.

I cover my face with my hands and let my heart break as I watch in my head the image of Michael bleeding to death—and know there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

A loud hammering, which is not much louder than my heartbeat, intrudes on my pain. The judge says something about a ten-minute recess while the witness pulls herself together, but I don’t know if I can. This is only the beginning of the trial. This is only the beginning of my having to recount my story and each of its painful memories. And right now, all I want to do is curl up and die. Like I came close to doing so many times as Paul’s prisoner.

Everyone, including Paul, leaves the courtroom, and I’m vaguely aware that the D.A. is talking to me. I think about the lotus tattoo on my back and the charm Marcus gave me, and how the flower symbolizes strength and rebirth. I lived through hell, but I survived. And it made me stronger. Strong enough to make sure Paul is locked away forever.

I breathe in deeply and accept the glass of water the D.A’s assistant hands me.

“Do you think you can continue?” the D.A. asks as I take a sip of water.

I nod. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I swear.”

A crack reveals itself in her hard demeanor and she manages a small smile. “You’re doing fine, Amber, given the circumstances. No one expects this to be easy for you. You’ve been through so much. Just hold on for as long as you can, okay? It’s my job to make sure Mr. Carson pays for all his crimes against you, your brother and your boyfriend.” She rests her hand on my arm, and I absorb any extra strength she’s willing to share.

Everyone returns to the courtroom. My family, friends and Marcus all throw me worried glances, poorly disguised by their you’re-doing-well masks. I nod at them, then pretend no one else in the room exists, other than the judge, lawyers and Paul. And I’d be happier if I could pretend he’s not in his seat, watching me with the empty expression on his face.

Behind him is a woman a few years older than me, with the same light coppery-brown hair as Paul. She’s studying me, a mix of emotions on her face, none of which I can get a firm grip on.

I tear my gaze from the woman who has done nothing but destroy me with her lies about the love letters I never wrote. Unlike the ones Paul sent me, which were printed from a computer, her fake ones were handwritten and will be included into evidence, unless the FBI gets back to the D.A. soon. Mom was able to pull in a few favors, and now they have the one major piece of evidence the case pivots around.

I’m not the one on trial.
Paul is.
I
didn’t do anything wrong.
I repeat the words several times in my head while toying with the lotus flower charm on my bracelet.

“Amber,” the defense says, voice smooth as if he’s on my side. But I know better.

I’ve spent over an hour answering the D.A.’s questions about everything that happened to me during the time I was held captive. I couldn’t even look at the spectators or the jurors, humiliation burning on my face. Now it’s the defense’s turn to cross-examine me.

“You claim you didn’t write the letters to Mr. Carson in which you professed your love and suggested what sexual acts you wanted him to perform on you.”

“That’s right.” Exhaustion sits heavy on me. I fight to keep it from creeping into my voice.

“Then why does the police expert claim your handwriting and that of the letter is a match?”

“He made a mistake. I didn’t write those letters. I’ve never written a love letter. Ever.”

“Not even to a boyfriend?”

“Not even to a boyfriend,” I say firmly.

“So, if you didn’t write them, who did?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Paul’s sister, since she was the one who supposedly found them.”

He nods, but it’s not to agree with me. He’s pretending to be thoughtful. “The police expert compared her writing with that of the letters, and they were not a match. That means you’re the only person who could have written them.”

“Your Honor,” the D.A. says, “does Mr. Bischoff have a question for the witness?”

The judge looks sternly at the defense. “Your question, Mr. Bischoff?”

The asshole nods. “According to you, Miss Scott, Mr. Carson whipped your back. Is that right?”

“You saw the pictures.” After I was found, the ER physicians took tons of photos of my body from all angles. I’ve seen the ones of my back. The skin was raw, sliced open, bleeding, and showed signs of infection. Marcus and Emma didn’t see them, but they could tell from the jurors’ expressions the pictures were bad.

“I did, and I’m sorry my client didn’t have the clear mind to take you to the hospital after the sexual act you wanted him to perform on you went awry.”

“Objection,” the D.A. says, her tone sharp. She stands. “The pictures clearly show signs of physical abuse inflicted on Miss Scott, not a sexual act she willingly partook in.”

“Approach the bench,” the judge says in a tone warranting no argument.

They do as instructed, leaving everyone in the courtroom to wonder what the heck’s going on. I can’t believe the asshole lawyer is trying to make it sound like I wanted Paul to abuse me. How Mom managed to sleep at night when she was a defense lawyer is beyond me. No wonder she started drinking after I was brutalized, knowing Paul was the type of person she often claimed was innocent, the type she often defended.

The lawyers walk away from the judge after a heated discussion.

“Miss Scott,” the man I’m beginning to hate with everything inside me says, “according to the medical report from the ER physician on duty, there were no internal or external signs indicative of rape. Photos entered as evidence also fail to show signs of rape. Is it true you were not raped and all sexual intercourse between you and Mr. Carson was consensual?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled,” the judge says, “but I’m warning you, Mr. Bischoff, to proceed with caution.”

I swallow back the memories but can’t stop the tears. I brush my hand against my cheek. “By the time Paul had decided to stop punishing me for not talking to him and refusing to eat, I barely had enough will to live, let alone fight him off. And I knew if I tried to fight him, I’d lose. He would rape me and he would kill Smoky.”

“Smoky being the kitten Mr. Carson gave you because you had always wanted a pet?”

“Yes.”

The asshole lawyer puffs out his chest. “So Mr. Carson gifted you a kitten and you had consensual sex. That doesn’t sound like the makings of a murderer as you want the court to believe.”

I look at Mom and remember what Dad said. She’ll never let me down. And I can’t let her down. I need to fight. Fight and show everyone there’s a reason I survived. A reason Paul is on trial.

“I never said the sex was consensual. Not in the sense that most people here would describe it,” I say, finally finding my voice, like when I presented in class, like when I talked at the candlelight vigil, and like when I spoke on live TV. “I knew if I didn’t do what he wanted, he would kill me. That doesn’t make it consensual. That makes it self-preservation.” I sit straighter, gaze locked on the asshole lawyer, staring him down.

“I wanted to live and the only way I could do that was to be a willing—” I finger quote the last word “—partner. Please do not take it to mean I wanted to have sex with him. Because I didn’t. I wanted to live and return to my family. Show me in what law book it says that’s a crime. Show me, Mr. Bischoff, the law book where it says it’s against the law to have sex in order to stay alive, because if you don’t, the man will kill you.” My voice grows stronger with each word, each sentence.

“Show me where it says I’m not a victim because I had sex to stay alive. And just so you know, because you want the intimate details of my sex life with Paul, I cried while I was having sex with him. I cried when he was done and left me numb on the bed. I cried when I was positive I couldn’t do it anymore.

“Maybe this is how women respond when they have sex with you, but I assure you, Mr. Bischoff, this is not the response of a female who is enjoying the act.”

Asshole Lawyer turns a brilliant shade of red, but the majority of the people nod their approval.

I expect the judge to strike the gravel and call me in contempt, but all he says is, “Mr. Bischoff, do you have any more questions for the witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor, I do.” He turns to me. “If you wanted him to stop, then why didn’t you use your safe word? If you had used it, then he would have known the sexual fantasy was over and he would have stopped.”

Mom prepared me for this question; otherwise, I’d have no idea what he’s talking about. “I didn’t have a safe word because I never consented to any sexual role-play.”

“It’s in the letters you wrote to Mr. Carson.”

My heart stops beating and all the blood drains to my feet. “The letters I didn’t write,” I counter.

Asshole Lawyer smirks. He knows I’m screwed. Whoever forged the letters included a safe word. If I claim I used it, then the abuse will be considered criminal instead of a sexual role-play, and therefore Paul raped me. But it means I have to lie and admit to writing the letters. “I don’t have any more questions.” He walks back to his seat.

The euphoria from besting him at his game vanishes, and I return to my friends and family.

Marcus leans over and whispers, “You did great, Kitten.” He threads his fingers with mine, and his warm hand reminds me I’m not alone. No matter what the outcome, he’ll be there for me.

My chest tightens. Even if Paul gets a reduced sentence and is eventually free to stalk me again, Marcus will be there for me. And then both our lives will be at risk.

The police officer who was on duty when Trent’s wrecked car was found is called to testify. He’s listed as a witness for the defense.

“What did you find when you approached the vehicle?” Asshole Lawyer asks.

“There was a teenage boy trapped in the mangled wreck. He was unresponsive when I checked him. He died en route to the hospital.”

Struggling to hold back a sob, I tighten my hold on Marcus’s hand, to the point I’m positive I’m crushing his bones. He doesn’t try to loosen my grip.

“Did you find anything else? Like evidence that Mr. Carson was responsible for causing the accident?”