Stand (2 page)

Chapter 3

Heat crawled up the woman’s spine and boiled under her skin. Her hands shook and her throat was raw. That selfish, stupid, bitch had dared to interfere. Had dared to get involved, and now her oldest, favorite toy was gone.

With a scream she threw a Waterford vase across the room. The expensive crystal hit the marble fireplace mantle with a satisfying crash. The sound of glass shattering to the floor shocked her out of her rage. She gripped her shaking hands together as she took a few deep breaths.

The woman looked around her uptown condo and felt mildly surprised to see couch cushions ripped apart with a Manolo Blahnik stiletto. Broken glass slivers from the shattered Waterford and an entire set of Baccarat crystal wine glasses sparkled like diamonds on the floor. Priceless original artwork now hung crooked on the walls giving the room a shaken feel.

The woman straightened her Gucci pencil skirt and silk blouse. She crossed the glass strewn room to a beveled mirror hanging on the far wall. She looked at her carefully crafted face in the mirror. Hard work and a fantastic plastic surgeon had given her a face and body that men would die for. She knew. Men had died for it. She had the best of everything, only the best, and she made sure a man acquired them for her.

Men were tools she’d learned to manipulate from an early age. She had mastered the act of portraying a quiet and innocent façade. Men fell for it. When she was young, it was older men who found her irresistible. Now it was all men. The woman had honed her feminine skills to an art form and she was a master. A true Femme fatale.

She loved herself, used men, and hated women. Women were enemies. They took from her, and they hated her.

She’d had many names. Been called many things. As she admired her reflection she remembered the beginning, the first, the reason for her rage.

As the woman smoothed her perfectly dyed red hair and practiced her most charming smile in the mirror, she plotted. Charlotte Marshall had taken from her. She had stolen a favorite toy. The woman’s oldest plaything. She needed to pay. She would pay.

Chapter 4

I arrived at Kathy’s party a little after six. After parking, Max and I walk inside. I don’t ring the bell. The door is always open to me at Kathy’s house. The sound of my friends and family surrounded me. I felt normal, safe, and loved. I needed this night. I felt at peace.

We laughed, talked, and ate. Max entertained the kids in his Christmas sweater. No one spoke about Pheares, but they would have listened if I wanted to talk about it. I felt accepted, like everything that had happened and how it changed me was okay. They understood. That’s the point of family; however it is made up. The group of people in this room are undeniably my family. Pheares is just an ugly fact of my life. They love me anyway, crazy as I am, and all.

______

At five after midnight Max and I were driving home. Happy New Year’s. After the year I just experienced, I was not particularly interested in a great deal of emotional reflection and I had no desire to create any resolutions, other than to not be stalked by a serial killer. Altogether at this point in my night, I was feeling pretty Zen. The party had left me more relaxed than I had been in a while.

Regardless of the pleasant company and comforting feelings, at five minutes after twelve I was not celebrating or resolving. I was driving. My friends may be great, but most of them are married with small children. The celebration doesn’t last long. A light rain fell. It was light enough I only had to use the windshield wipers sporadically.

I do not consider myself to be an overly deep thinker. I do not believe that I have ideas and moments that are unique, so when I explain what happened next I hope that you can relate to how I felt.

Sometimes at night with the rain hitting your windshield the wipers, that rhythm seems to have a hypnotic power. Thoughts get lost. You find yourself almost outside of your body looking at yourself and your position in the world with a new perspective. This was what happened to me that New Year’s night while driving home. Suddenly I had a sense of clarity that I had never experienced before. I was conscious of the rain, of each individual drop falling onto the windshield. I was conscious of the rhythmic swish of the wipers and the glow of streetlights muted by the rain. I saw myself in my car, and I was shocked and saddened by how much I had changed. I saw all the negative effects from my confrontation with Pheares.

At that moment, I had three separate defensive weapons on my person. The difference one year had made was glaringly obvious. Sadness for the person I had become overwhelmed me. The person I was before Pheares was innocent and happy. The Charlotte I was now was afraid, constantly. The innocence I once had was forever lost. I could never regain the carefree woman I used to be. I would always know the truth about what one human could do to another. I had seen it first-hand. It wasn’t fair. Grief filled me for my innocence that was gone in a way I could never have predicted.

On the heels of that sadness came anger. No, it was more than anger. It was righteous indignation against the evil of this world. Men like Pheares killed. Women like Georgia terrorized. Too many innocents killed, too much innocence lost. I burned with anger. When would it stop? Something needed to be done.

Pulling into my garage made me pause for a moment. I had developed rituals to make myself feel safe. Normally when I drove into my garage I looked over the house and garage for any signs of disturbance. I kept the garage empty to eliminate places for anyone to hide. Only, after scanning everything for safety, would I actually pull in. That was my routine. Once inside I always closed and locked the garage door by remote before I ever stepped foot out of the SUV. Then I would get my mace, gun, or baton ready before unlocking the house door. Inside, I always check each door, window, closet, and shower before settling in and finally getting comfortable.

That night, burning inside with righteous indignation, I was determined to get out of my SUV and walk into my house like any normal person would. I made it to my laundry room, which is right off the garage, before the panic hit and I had to go back and go through my ritual.

I felt disappointed that my determination had expired so quickly. I wanted to defeat Pheares here, as well. Living in fear meant that he controlled me from the grave. I was blindly searching for direction and purpose.

I decided to do a little research before going to bed. Do you ever open a search engine and sit there with your fingers above the keys with no idea what you actually want to search for? That was me. I stared at the Google home page with no direction in mind.

Eventually I started a search for “find missing persons.” After sifting through some advertisements and background checking sites I stumbled onto something amazing. There were organizations and professionals that conducted private searches for people that were missing – organizations that existed to help the police. I was intrigued. This was what I wanted to do. It was what I felt I was destined to do. I had escaped. I had looked evil in the face and lived to tell my story. How could I not help others do the same?

Part of me wanted to sign up to volunteer right that second. I wanted to jump in. A year ago I would have. Now I was more cautious. I decided to sleep on it before I made any decisions.

Before I went to bed I checked my e-mail and blog. Most of my e-mails are personal or from my agent. Sometimes a fan e-mail ends up in my private e-mail. I think it was from when I first started writing and I only had one e-mail address.

There was a new e-mail from premiere93GL.

Dear Charlotte,

I just wanted to write you to say thank you for your books. I have enjoyed them so much. I feel like I can really connect to you.

Keep writing!

#1 fan

I wrote a quick stock fan appreciation reply, took care of Max and Kitty, and headed to bed.

______

New Year’s Day dawned clear and beautiful, and cold. I didn’t have much planned for today besides dinner with my family. I spent the majority of my day writing. I had been struggling ever since I finished the book about Emily. Fortunately that book and my other two were still selling well. Financially I was okay, but I needed to find a way to get past my current block and the best cure for that is to just sit down and write.

At about three that afternoon I finally saved my document and put my laptop away. It wasn’t great writing, but it was writing. I looked at the clock and felt anxiety creeping in over tonight’s family dinner. Burning off some of that nervous energy might help. I had just enough time for a quick run before getting ready for dinner.

______

Max and I rounded the end of my driveway after a three mile run when I saw something on my front step. I took him inside through the garage, shedding our outside gear in the laundry room and getting him a nice big bowl of water, before heading out to the front step to see what had been delivered on New Year’s Day.

I opened the door to see a huge bouquet of pink carnations in a black urn. At a quick glance it looked like at least two dozen. I didn’t see any florist card or packaging.

The carnations were beautiful, if a bit strange for a New Year’s flower. I carried them into my kitchen and set them on the counter.

“Hey Max, look what I got.”

He was too busy drinking water to answer. I shivered like a draft was blowing over the back of my neck. Despite how beautiful the flowers were, there was something off about them. I checked again but there was no card, no florist wrap or marking on the urn. The urn itself was strange, heavy. The sort of thing you would place ashes in, not flowers. My fingers trembled as a I touched one of the petals and I was filled with an awful premonition.

Max let out a sigh as he stopped gulping water and broke me from my revere of the flowers. I turned away and rushed upstairs to get ready. I was going to be late for dinner.

______

My parents live in a two story brick colonial in Haddon Heights, New Jersey. At least once a month we are expected to make an appearance. When I pulled up on New Year’s Day I was the last of my siblings to arrive. I parked in the driveway behind my sister’s minivan and my brother’s Charger.

I took a fortifying breath before Max and I went inside. Stepping through the front door I was immediately surrounded by the comforting scents of a Marshall family dinner – ham, potatoes, and greens. The table was already set with a glass of wine beside each place.

My nephew, Bobby, saw me first. He ran headlong toward me and gives the best hugs. My younger sister and brother waved from the living room. My older sister Catherine called out a welcome from the kitchen. My siblings have all been great. They don’t treat me any different now than before. I appreciate it. It feels normal. My parents, on the other hand, treat me like I am crazy. Oh they won’t come out and honestly say so, but that judgment comes across in everything they do.

My mother’s house is a showroom. Designer curtains and throw rugs along with glassware from Italy and antique silver. When I was younger my mom worked for a few years as a teacher. Since then she has been a happy homemaker, and her house is her exhibit. She called to me from the kitchen.

“Darling, how good to see you.” She came to me with her arms open. The hug was so enthusiastic you would think I hadn’t seen her in years. But then she scanned me with a critical eye and frowned.

“Oh, you’re looking so skinny. Come on in and have a seat. Do you feel okay? Can I get you anything to drink?” This is our relationship now, she babbles, worries, finds fault, and treats me as if I will fracture at any moment.

“Ed, Ed, come here. Our pretty girl’s home.” My father is uncomfortable showing emotions. Before Pheares I could expect an uncomfortable hug and that was about it. Now he avoids any potential contact with emotions. I’m lucky if I get brief eye contact. Between my mother’s fussing and my dad’s indifference, I felt ready to scream.

My siblings, niece, and nephew are my salvation. We tend to band together, especially on big occasions like New Year’s Day. My younger sister Tina interrupted my mom’s smothering with a vital question about stemware. I was released and forgotten.

At the dinner table my siblings kept the conversation going while my nephew Bobby and I compared bruises. My workouts with Moshe give me a regular array of bruises that he thinks are about the coolest thing ever. My parents don’t approve of my self-defense training. They show this in both subtle and not so subtle ways. In fact my father generally just says “I do not approve.”

Despite the parental conflict over the changes in my life the family dinner was nice. Spending time with my loved ones is always a good thing.

I left with a doggy bag filled with enough food for three more meals. Feeding me seems to give my mother some comfort, like she is still doing her job to take care of her child. I don’t tell her that I throw the majority of the leftovers away. I accept it.

______

Max and I got back home a little after eight in the evening. I went through my entrance routine. I didn’t bother trying to go inside without it. Last night proved it might be a while before I felt comfortable enough to forgo the ritual. Once I was inside with the alarm set, the flowers caught my eye. They sat there mocking me. They were an intrusion into my safe place. A message I didn’t understand from an unknown sender. I told myself I was being foolish, but I threw them out, urn and all. When that was done, I could relax. I was ready for some quiet time and a good movie.

With my pajamas on, Kitty curled up on my lap, and Max lying next to me on the sofa, I settled in to watch
Last of the Mohicans
, an oldie but goodie.

The story of Hawkeye and Cora could not keep my attention. I kept thinking about Emily and the other murdered girls. I felt compelled to do something to help. Maybe by helping others I could find some peace myself.

When the last of the credits drifted by I still didn’t have an answer and that gnawing urge to take a stand against all the bad, all the Pheares and Georgia’s of the world, settled deeper inside.

When I turned out the light and went to sleep the question of what I could do to make a difference still circled my mind.