Obsessed (9 page)

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Authors: Devon Scott

BOOK: Obsessed
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Chapter 19
Sometime after eleven.
The man sits on the leather recliner in his living room, the house dark save for the light coming from his laptop screen. It is quiet, too. No one is here, save for him.
It wasn’t always this way.
This once was a home full of life, full of hope.
But no more.
Now he tries not to focus on the sounds the house makes when he’s alone—groans, beams creaking, the wind rustling against the aluminum siding. He doesn’t consider the fact that most of the rooms are bare, the furniture gone. It’s not that he can’t afford to replace things. It’s never been a money issue. It’s just—what? Buying furniture and decorating—breathing life back into a cold, gray house—well, those are a female’s domain. What is needed here is a woman’s touch.
A woman—he pushes those thoughts out of his mind.
Instead, the man considers what he’s accomplished to date. And he is pleased.
He wonders what
they
are thinking about right now. LOL—Laughing out loud.
That’s what he does now. He laughs out loud, knowing that the rug has been pulled out from under them. And with a satisfied grin, he considers that this is only the beginning.
Staring at the laptop screen, he pulls up a travel site. Moments later he is checking flights. Hotels—there are so many to choose from. Grinning and humming, he clicks along, confirming this and that. Rental car?
Why, yes! I’ll definitely need one of those,
he muses.
Thirty minutes later, after completing his task, the man is feeling good.
He’s temporarily forgotten the groans and beam creaks. He’s, for the moment, not focused on the lack of furniture or the coldness of the house. Instead, he’s pumped. Fired up.
Opening a new browser window, he calls up e-mail. Logs in. New message. His fingers are nimble tonight. They seem to fly over the keys, rattling as he types, humming along to one of those tunes he can’t quite place. He sits back, satisfied, and clicks Send. Grins, the e-mail is on its way.
The man gets up and stretches.
He feels alive, more in control than he has in the past six months. Yes, this is what it’s all about, getting back in the saddle, getting back in control, hands on the steering wheel, and
driving.
The man snaps the laptop shut and stops suddenly. There is no sound, no disturbance, yet his body remains still, as if he’s aware of someone in his house. He considers a new train of thought as his eyes dart around.
His head is not pounding.
There is no migraine.
For this the man gives a silent prayer of thanks as he makes his way silently upstairs to his bedroom.
 
It is after one
AM
when Michael slips stealthily out of bed. He does so not because he’s attempting to hide his actions but because he does not want to wake his wife. Today has been trying for her. Kennedy needs her sleep, and Michael doesn’t want to do anything to upset that.
He’s been awake for the past twenty minutes, just staring up into the darkness. He can hear Kennedy’s steady breathing, and he should be deep into REM sleep as well. Yet he can’t sleep. Too much has happened today. He feels helpless, and he hates the fact that he can do nothing to ease his wife’s pain.
Michael eases out of the bedroom. His first stop is Zack’s room. Their son is fast asleep on his side, the Transformers Optimus Prime action figure in his clutches. Michael smiles as he pets his son’s head.
Downstairs to the first floor and into the den.
The desktop is in sleep mode, but it comes to life with a quick touch of the mouse. He sits down, calling up a browser to scan his mail.
It’s as if he’s had a premonition that something bad is about to happen. And that is the reason why he can’t sleep. He knows it’s related to what has transpired today. He senses that this thing that has happened to them is not done.
Calling up AOL, scanning the in-box for fresh messages, he sees one that catches his heart.
When he opens it, his blood turns cold.
Reading the message, there is no longer a shred of doubt.
Chapter 20
The BMW roars to life. Ninety seconds later, Kennedy puts the automobile into gear and pulls into the street, Zack watching her in the rearview mirror.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” he asks inquisitively.
She glances back at him and proffers a weak smile. Even a seven-year-old can sense its lack of authenticity. “Mommy’s fine. I just don’t want to make you late for school.”
Kennedy has the duty of dropping off Zack. She’s not heading into work today. Michael left an hour ago.
She heard from Jackson Blair first thing this morning. He asked how she was doing then got straight to the point.
“Kennedy, I’d like for you to take some time off.”
Kennedy gulped and silently counted to four.
“How much time?”
“A couple of weeks. Until this thing blows over.”
Kennedy was livid and did nothing to hide her resentment.
“Two weeks? You’ve got to be kidding. We’re a small association. No way your legal counsel can be gone that long.”
“Kennedy—let me worry about that. Besides, I think it would be best if you were not here. I don’t want any further distractions, and that’s exactly what you’ll be if you’re in the office. A distraction to those here.”
“You’re serious?”
“Kennedy, I’m not firing you. If I were, I would tell you and be done with it. I just want to give our office a breather from yesterday’s incident. Take a couple of weeks and then come back. This thing will have blown over by then—our people will be focused on other issues. Trust me.”
Kennedy’s exhale is audible.
“Jackson, can I at least continue working? I can’t sit on my butt for two weeks and do nothing, you know that!”
“I do not want you communicating with the staff.”
“Jesus, Jackson—throw me a bone, please. At least give me Daniel. I’ll funnel stuff through him. That way no one except you is communicating with me directly.”
Jackson pondered her request. Kennedy held her breath. It seemed like forever, but finally he spoke.
“You work from home. You only communicate with Daniel or me. And you do nothing—no work—for another forty-eight hours.”
“Jesus, Jackson.”
“That’s my final offer. Take it, Kennedy.”
Kennedy plays the conversation over in her head as she steers onto South Dakota Avenue. Traffic is light, and for that she is grateful. Through the rearview she spies Zack sitting peacefully in his car seat, his attention directed to the DVD player situated in the headrest. Kennedy is appreciative of the momentary quiet.
She doesn’t agree with Jackson’s decision to keep her out of the office, but then again, she knows she’s lucky. It could have been a whole lot worse.
Worse.
That gets her thinking about the new e-mail.
Michael had shared it with her this morning.
YOUR WIFE’S A SLUT AND NOW EVERYONE IN HER OFFICE KNOWS IT. HOW’S IT FEEL WHEN SOMEONE FUCKS YOU OVER? I SAID YOU AND THAT BITCH WOULD REGRET IT AND YOU WILL. I PROMISE.
The pain was instantaneous. It was as if every muscle conspired against her—they all constricted, and suddenly Kennedy felt faint. She had to reach out to her husband for support. Michael was speaking, but the words were hollow and didn’t make sense.
Then she could no longer hear him.
All sounds had vanished.
The only words that had clarity were those in front of her.
Words that cut straight to the bone.
It was Michael who spotted it first.
The same e-mail address from the sender of the offending photos that went to her job. egnever.
Revenge
spelled backward.
Chapter 21
Joe Goodman glances at the cell phone ringing and vibrating on the marble counter. He had been reaching for the electric coffeemaker when his cell went off. He frowns; the number appears familiar, yet he can’t quite place it. Joe flips open the cell and presses the phone to his ear.
“Detective Goodman,” he answers in his baritone voice. Joe is a big man: six feet two inches tall, two hundred and twenty-five pounds, dark-skinned, with short hair and a manicured beard. His rugged good looks are marred by a three-inch curved scar on his right cheek—courtesy of a seventeen-year-old drug dealer from D.C. whom he shot in the head after the teenager knifed him. Joe played football at Virginia Tech and still works out on the regular. He’s dressed casually this morning: jeans, dark sweater, and black work boots. A .40-caliber Glock 22 is strapped to his right hip, next to his Metropolitan Police Department badge.
“Joe? It’s Kennedy.”
For a moment, Joe is quiet.
“Kennedy? As in ex-wife Kennedy?” He pours the freshly made coffee into a ceramic mug and tears open two packets of Sweet’n Low.
“Yes, Joe. This is your ex-wife,” Kennedy says, more subdued than she had intended. Joe is digging in the refrigerator for the milk, which is in the back, behind the OJ, soda, and water.
“You all right?” he asks, noting her submissive tone.
“Can we meet?” Kennedy asks. “I need to talk to you.”
Joe checks his watch. It’s just past nine-thirty; he’s not on duty until noon. “Okay,” he says. “Where do you want to meet?”
“You still in the same place?”
“Yup.”
“Good. I’m in the neighborhood. I can be there in five.”
The call goes dead, and Joe frowns, touching his scar, a habit when something troubles him.
 
They sit across from one another, a plate of muffins between them. Kennedy sips at her coffee while breaking apart a cranberry-orange muffin. Joe works on a bran muffin, slathering the halves with butter.
“I see you’re still eating healthy,” she says.
Joe stares at her uncomprehendingly.
“What are you talking about?”
Kennedy nudges her chin in the direction of his plate. “You’ve used like five pats of butter on that poor little muffin, and I’ve lost track of how many sugars are in your coffee.”
“I’ll have you know my cholesterol is under two hundred—”
“Due to medication, no doubt!”
Joe considers his ex for a moment with deadpan eyes.
“It’s great to see you, too, Kennedy. We should do this more often.”
Kennedy grunts while Joe stirs his coffee and takes a satisfied swig. “So, what’s new? I know this isn’t a social call,” he says, giving her his attention.
“I need your help, Joe. If it wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Go on.”
Kennedy eats a few bites of her muffin before wiping her hands on a paper napkin.
“Last Sunday night, Michael and I received an e-mail from an unknown person. It was threatening, but we thought it was probably addressed to the wrong person. Then on Tuesday, while I was at work, my job received an e-mail. It went to most of my coworkers—again, it was from an unknown person, but this time the e-mail contained . . . it contained revealing photos.”
Joe is watching her closely. He can sense her discomfort. She lowers her gaze and swallows hard. Joe waits for her to continue. When she does not, he asks calmly, “Revealing photos of whom?”
Her gaze rises to meet his.
“Me.”
“Okay.” Joe processes what he’s heard so far. He pulls out a wirebound memo pad and makes a few notes. “Any idea who sent the messages?” he asks.
“None.”
“Did you happen to notice if the two e-mails were from the same sender?”
“They are not.”
Joe nods.
“Any enemies or someone who has reason to harm you?”
Kennedy shakes her head. “None that I know of.”
“How about your husband?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asks.
“You don’t sugarcoat it, do you?” Kennedy replies.
“Just doing my job,” Joe says. “I assume that’s why you’re here.”
Kennedy glares at him.
“No, I’m not involved with anyone, Joe. And neither is my husband. We have a very good marriage.”
Joe accepts what she says at face value. He switches gears. “Who has copies of the photos that were e-mailed to your job?”
“No one.” Kennedy adds, “As far as we know.”
Joe leans back, sipping his coffee. “So, I assume they are your photos. You took them or Michael did.” He glances at Kennedy, who nods. “And you’re telling me that neither you nor he shared the photos with anyone else?”
“That’s correct.”
“And yet they made their way to your job. How did that happen?”
“You tell me. We assume our PC at home was compromised in some way.”
“Has your home been broken into?”
“No.”
“Who has a key to your place?”
“Besides Michael and I, my parents and his.”
“Any workers having access to the house? Recent repairs, housecleaning, babysitters, et cetera?” Joe has demolished his muffin and is eyeing Kennedy’s. She pushes the plate with her half-eaten one over to him. Joe grunts happily.
“We have a cleaning service that comes biweekly. And yeah, occasionally we get a sitter for Zack.”
“So one of the cleaning crew or your sitter could have easily seen the pics on your computer and made copies.”
“That’s not possible. The computer in the den is password protected. And the photos are on a password-protected external drive and hidden deep in a subdirectory.”
“And you’ve never gotten up from the computer, leaving it unattended? In other words, isn’t it possible that you or your husband forgot to set the password when leaving for work or when you went out?”
“Michael says no. But I don’t know, Joe. Honestly, I don’t know.”
Joe scribbles a few more notes.
“Your husband has not received any e-mails containing incriminating photos, right?”
“Correct.”
Joe nods. “And these photos. They’re just of you, the two of you, or what?”
Kennedy takes a gulp of her coffee. She grits her teeth as she sets the mug down. Joe looks up from his memo pad. Kennedy is taking several seconds too long to answer. He contemplates what her answer might be, and feels sorry for his ex. She may be many things, he muses, but none warrant this.
Joe is unprepared when after a prolonged sigh the words escape from Kennedy’s lips.
“Nude photos. Of me and another woman.”

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