After Her (31 page)

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say. “I think I may know where to start.”

I wipe away a trail of mucus from beneath my nose and scrub the wisp tears with the palms of my hands. I'm sure I look a mess. Swollen eyes. Clogged nose. Red cheeks. I glance at the glass wall and spot a girl that I don’t recognize. She is my tortured doppelganger. She is who I need to be to face the Lynchs.

32

When I pull into the parking lot, I have one objective in mind.

The clinic lobby is half-empty. A frail old woman and two middle-aged men occupy three of the ten chairs. None of them looks up to acknowledge me when I enter. The television plays on mute, drowned out by the usual muzak sounds humming from hidden speakers. A different receptionist sit behind the front desk. This one is younger and homely. A skinny brunette with a crooked smile.

“Hello, can I help you?” she greets me.

“Dr. Carrick, please,” I say.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Mention that it’s a ‘Vivian’ emergency and I'm sure he’ll be willing to squeeze me in for a little chat,” I say.

Before the receptionist can respond, Carrick appears in the doorway behind her desk. He looks at me and his face falls pale. Those same bloodshot eyes from the night of gala, stare back, devoid of all light, all emotion. I don’t have to speak. He already knows why I'm here.

“It’s alright, Claire,” he tells the receptionist. “Miss Tate is free to come in.”

She says nothing and doesn’t try to stop me from following Carrick into the hallway. He walks ahead of me without looking back, refusing to speak. I imagine cogs turning in his head as he wonders what kind of lie he’ll tell me. The walk to his office is a journey.

The clinic is small, the halls are narrow, but it seems that with each step, the corridor lengthens before us like some optical illusion. Carrick’s office is the last door at the end of the next hallway. He types in some four-digit number into a keypad outside and jerks the door open with a hard nudge.

Upon entering the office, he drops a stack of manila folders onto his desk and proceeds to fiddle with the file cabinet adjacent to his desk. I glance out the window behind his desk, noting the thin of veil of fog collecting in the air outside.

A few degrees and plaques hang on the wall. The room smells of Pine-Sol. It’s a typical doctor’s office. Clean smelling and spotless. I sit in one of the two plastic chairs in front of his desk. The squishy cushion squeaks when I sit. After putting away his manila files, Carrick locks the office door and whirls around to face me.

“So, how much did Vivian tell you?” he asks.

I hesitate, mainly because I didn’t expect him to be so cooperative.

“Nothing,” I say. “But it’s not like I expected her to anyway.”

Carrick smirks then sits along the edge of his desk. A heavy sigh escapes him. A tuft of blonde hair hang low in his eyes. His shoulders pull up, tensed. “I’m sure you’re wondering how long it’s been going on.”

“That’s crossed my mind a few times,” I say. “Yes.”

“Twenty years.”

“What?”

“The affair,” he says. “It’s been twenty years.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “How’d she manage to keep this a secret for twenty years?”

“Vivian is good at keeping secrets. I thought you knew that by now.”

“Did she manage to share any of those secrets with
you
in the last two decades?”

He clears his throat. “I'm not sure what you want from me.”

“You’re the only lead I have to connect me to Sasha,” I say. “I owe her. That girl was only involved in this because I wasn’t smart enough to walk away when she warned me to. I need to know what happened to her.”

He glares at me, his brow furrowed.

“Are you accusing me of murdering that girl?”

I shake my head and turn away. Nerves have gotten the best of me.

“I don’t know what I'm accusing you of. I just thought you could help, but I guess I was wrong.” I stand from the plastic chair and head toward the exit.

“I'm not a total lost cause,” he says before I can leave the room. I turn back and find him standing, arms folded.

“What?”

“She told me about the proposition she offered you to marry Adrian,” he says.

“She told
you
?”

“We weren’t just lovers, Cassandra. We were friends. Friends do confide in each other.”

I turn back into the office, shutting the door behind me.

“Did Vivian tell you anything or hint at something about Sasha,” I say.

“Wait,” he says with laughter. “You think Vivian did this?”

“I just want to do right by Sasha. Whatever happened to her out there, she didn’t deserve it.”

He sighs and I can tell that somewhere hidden beneath his apathetic expression is an ounce of sympathy. He knows
something
. 

“I gave up on getting the truth from Vivian years ago. I don’t know what she’s thinking these days,” he says. “That worries me because there was a time when I could read her, you know? We were team.”

“Do you love her?” I ask. “I mean—are you
in
love with her?”

“Sometimes I think I am. Then I remember. Vivian will always be Vivian. I don’t think she’s capable of reciprocating love,” he says in a voice that suggests he’s learnt this lesson from experience.

“Does Adrian know about you two?”

He chuckles as if the mere mention of Adrian incites hilarity.

“Vivian and I met because of Adrian,” he says. “Did she ever mention to you a place called the
Carnal Chapel
?”

The skin on the nape of my neck tenses at the words. “She called it a sex club. Is that where you two met?” Of course it is. She’d mentioned it outright.
I chose one of the men at the Chapel and made Adrian watch while I danced for him,
she’d said.
Adrian isn’t the jealous type. He wanted to me to go further…

“You’re the man?” I ask. “The one Adrian ordered Vivian to have sex with. That’s
you
?”

“That first night we met, I could tell she didn’t want to be there,” he says. “She looked nothing like any of the other woman that frequented the Chapel. She exuded innocence. Just Adrian’s type. Virginal and naïve. She was uncomfortable. Adrian didn’t care. He wanted what he wanted. Vivian just wanted to be noticed again, to feel loved and Adrian…he was too busy with his head up his ass to notice.”

“Adrian told me that Vivian was the one that pulled away,” I say. “He said that she lost interest in him. I don’t know which of them is telling the truth about that and I don’t care. It has nothing to with Sasha. If you know anything, if Vivian mentioned anything,
please
just tell me.”

He shakes his head and rubs his chin, giving the notion some real thought.

“No,” he says. “Vivian is a lot of things, but she’d never resort to murder for no reason. Everything she does is calculated. There has to be some personal gain. Otherwise, she won’t waste her time. If you’re looking for someone to blame, why not Adrian? He has murdered before. Who’s to say he wouldn’t do it again?”

Adrian has drugged women. Adrian has even admitted to some unusual kinks and the man is a bona fide alcoholic in denial. I can’t imagine him hurting Sasha. He seemed to like her. The two of them spoke only once and he appeared completely enthralled by her. He had no reason to want her dead…did he?

“You really don’t like him, do you?” I ask.

Carrack’s lips curl into a sneer. “Like him? I wish I’d killed that man when I had the chance.”

I lean forward in my chair, white-knuckling the cushion.

“What’d you say?”

He blanches a shade whiter, eyes widened as if he’s just realized what he said. 

“You should leave now,” he mutters abruptly.

I remain seated, convinced that I can sway this to work out in my favor.

“Carrick,” I say. “It’s okay. I won’t—”

“Get out of my office!” he snarls and jerks out of his chair. The pitch of his voice causes the office walls to tremble. Words lose themselves in my throat. I can’t speak. With him glaring at me, I don’t want to risk pissing him off any more than I already have.

“Okay,” I say while holding my hands up as if he has a gun to my head. “I’ll leave. Just calm down.”

His shoulders quiver. Fists tremble atop the desk. His eyes never leave me. They trail me to the door as I walk backwards toward it. I don’t want to turn my back on this guy. Once I’m outside, Carrick slams and locks the door behind me. I stand in a daze in the middle of the hallway, wondering what to do with myself next.

After scurrying back to my car, I rummage for my phone. I can barely dial with my hands shaking so much. The phone rings. Once. Twice.

“Hello?” Karen answers.

“It’s Cassandra. I have a name you should look at. Jack Carrick.”

She pauses and I hear her fingers clack against keyboard buttons. I imagine she’s at the police station behind her desk, guzzling her usual espresso with a splash of whiskey to take the edge off.

“Is he anyone important?” she asks.

“You said that your people questioned everyone at the gala. What about him?”

“We checked everyone’s name against the invitations sent out for the party. His name never came up,” she says. “Vivian must have invited him under a
pseudonym
. Do you have any clue why she’d do that?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Jack Carrick and Vivian have been lovers for twenty years.”

I hear Karen gag on her coffee. I imagine her doing a spit-take.

“I don’t know how the hell this went under our radar,” she says. “I combed over every single detail about that woman!”

“I just got done talking to Carrick. There’s something weird about him, Karen. I don’t know what it is, but something is weird.”

“How ‘weird’ are we talking?” she asks.

“I don’t know much about him. All I have is that he’s been Vivian’s physician since she was diagnosed with cancer,” I say. “He hates Adrian. And he was
really
adamant about not discussing it. If you’re looking for a suspect, check him out.”

“Alright. I’ll call you back if we get any more information,” she says. “Oh and Cassandra?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s best that you keep these conversations between the two of us,” she says. “I’m not authorized to work this case. Technically, neither are you. I’d catch hell if anyone found out I'm allowing a civilian to conduct vigilante work on behalf of the police. If the wrong people find out then—”

“I know,” I say. “I’ll do all of the footwork. You just handle the technical aspects.”

“Cassandra, just make sure you watch yourself, okay? You’re not trained for any of this. Don’t overexert yourself and do
not
confront any of these people until you’ve called me first. Understand?”

“You don’t need to parent me. I can handle the Lynchs,” I say. “You do your job and I’ll do mine.” I hang up on her and immediately regret the words. Famous last words.

33

Sometime around 8:30, I drive by Frank’s restaurant just as he’s closing up for the night. After parking, I kill the engine, but the key remains in the ignition as I stare out the windshield then at the restaurant, asking myself,
why am I here?

I can’t bring myself to enter the restaurant. I linger outside for several minutes before allowing myself to alert Frank.

“Frank?” I tap on the glass door until he acknowledges me then lumbers over to open the door.

“Cassandra? What in hell are you doing here this time of night?” he asks.

“I didn’t want to go back to my apartment,” I say. With no hesitation, he steps aside to let me inside and locks the door behind me then watches as I stagger into a table booth. 

“Can I get you something? A drink? Some food? I haven’t cleaned the kitchen yet so I'm sure I can scrap something together.”

I slide closer to the window in the booth to watch as the rain begins. Droplets peck the glass and I remain transfixed by my own thoughts. Frank sits in my booth. I feel him watching me before he ever says a word.

“I heard about Sasha. You take all the time you need off before coming back to work.”

I shake my head and turn away from the window to face him.

“I'm not even really sure what to do with myself right now,” I say.

“I know, honey,” he says and I see the scrutiny in his eyes. I sniff back tears then entwine my fingers atop the table to stop them from trembling so much. Frank notices and rests his hands atop mine until the trembles stop. When he squeezes them inside his fists, I welcome his touch by squeezing back.

“I need you to talk me out of something, Frank.”

“Sure, of course, just calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”

I take his advice and breathe to relax. I then search my purse and fish out my cell phone.

“Here,” I say while handing him the device. “Take my phone and don’t give it back to me until morning.”

Frank stares briefly, obviously questioning my sanity with his expression.

“Cassandra, what’s going on with you,” he says. “I know that this isn’t
just
about Sasha. I’ve seen some things on the news. And that article on the internet…Cassandra, I know none of it is true, but—”

I shake my head. “I can’t get you involved.”

“You show up at the restaurant this time of night begging me to hide your cell phone and you won’t bother me with the details?”

“I can’t be in that apartment right now,” I say. “Everything is a reminder of her. I need somewhere else to sleep for the night. Please let me sleep at the restaurant.”

“I can’t just leave you here in the middle of the night,” he says. “Not like this.”

Tears streak my face as I think about the alternatives of avoiding my apartment. I don’t want to face that dreadful emptiness, not with the aura of
her
haunting those rooms. I don’t want Frank involved either. Then I remember Karen’s words—words that suggested I do the opposite of what I want.

I stare at my cell phone, regretting the decision harassing my thoughts. I don’t want to consider it, but it’s all I have left. Karen was right. I owe Sasha. Frank continues staring at me, trying to comprehend.

“Do you need me to call anyone for you?” he asks.

“No!” I say, hoping to sway him away from that decision. “I’m the only one who can make that call.”

“Are you sure that you—”

“Frank, it’s okay,” I interject. “I know what I have to do. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

He hesitates, but eventually leaves the booth and heads toward the counter to count the day’s wages. I remain in my booth, gazing at the rain soaked window, fidgeting with my quivering fingers and staring at that phone, begging myself to reconsider my next choice, but it’s no use.

I can’t go back to the apartment. I can’t stay at the restaurant for the night and I don’t want to involve Frank any more than I already have. The only decision I have left is the one I don’t want to make.

“I can’t believe I'm doing this.” I retrieve my phone and I dial. The phone rings only once before a familiar voice answers.

“Cassandra,” he says. “I'm not surprised that you called. I'm only surprised that you called so soon.”

I imagine a smug smile on his face as I clutch the phone to my ear and grit my teeth.

“I thought you said that your assistant would answer this line,” I say.

“Yes, but I never said this would be my assistant’s personal cell number. Isn’t it better that you have my number instead?”

“You tricked me into calling your private cell,” I reply. “You and Vivian love toying with people, don’t you?”

“You aren’t anyone’s toy,” he says. “You have more power over us than you think.”

I shudder at the tone of his voice, haunted by the lascivious subtext of what he isn’t saying aloud. Karen mentioned how easily Adrian will open up if I pretend to give in. Despite the nausea in my gut, I have to try this for Sasha’s sake.

“Then its time I use it,” I say.

He pauses. After the brief lull, he replies, “What can I do for you?”

“I can’t go back to my apartment,” I say. “I don’t think can deal with being there alone. Everything reminds me of Sasha. Since I don’t have the balls to go home, I guess that makes me homeless.”

“You must have forgotten who you’re talking to.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” I say, wanting to cut to the chase. “I need somewhere to stay for the night.”

“Very well,” he replies. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“It
is
a problem. I just don’t know how else to solve it,” I say.

“I assure that you won’t regret any of this,” he says. “You might even thank us.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Adrian chuckles.

“Then I'm going to have to work overtime to prove it.”

“If you’re gonna hold me captive I will make sure that I get the best of everything from this arrangement,” I say. “I will continue to act as Vivian’s intern, but I won’t be anyone’s toy. Not anymore. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

I smile at myself, feeling smug, as if for once I have
some
control of the situation.

“I'm at Frank’s restaurant. I need you to pick me up. Send a chauffeur or something.”

“No,” he says. “I’ll personally pick you up and bring you to the manor to sleep in one of the guest rooms for the night.”

“I don’t want this, Adrian, so don’t expect me to be enthusiastic when you see me.”

He doesn’t reply then simply hangs up the phone. I sit for several minutes clutching the phone to my ear, simmering in the anguish stirring in my stomach. I can’t bring myself to move so I wait in the booth, staring at rain on the window, watching it trickle down the glass in jagged streaks of condensation.