But he didn’t drive a car, so he didn’t have a place to leave a camera. He drove a loud motorcycle. Could we really have failed to notice that revving sound in the silence that night? Except we had noticed—I suddenly remembered being startled by the noise of an engine somewhere in the distance. Could that have been Fortini?
Looking once again through all the photos, I was struck by how deliberate the shots seemed, each one of us caught on camera either individually or in a group. The cursor jumped and I accidentally clicked open a video. A naked man was having sex on a familiar ornate iron bed, his back to the camera. Ray Fortini seemed to realize that he didn’t have the right shot, because he pulled out, his face turning to the camera for a moment, a study in concentration, before he reached up to wherever he had it positioned—it appeared to be hidden on the tall chest of drawers—and changed the angle slightly. As he stepped back, the camera autofocused on a naked woman with her head covered in a tight black hood that had an opening only for her mouth. She was lying spread-eagled, handcuffed to long chains attached to the bed frame and wearing ankle restraints that had a metal bar between them, holding her legs apart. Fortini grabbed her by her skinny hips, and unceremoniously hauled her in different directions so that he could capture more of her body and his on film. He grinned at the camera as he reached for something out of view and then stepped back in with what looked like a riding crop. He started hitting her with it, flicking it over different parts of her body while she twitched and turned but couldn’t get out of range because of the restraints. He flipped her onto her stomach and whapped her across the butt over and over before he tossed the crop aside and entered her again, slamming into her so violently that she jerked forward on the bed, his hands on her hips forcing her back into position, his grip and the restraints holding her in place. I felt as if I could hear her body breaking apart; I winced at every violent thrust, even though there was no sound. I couldn’t stop watching, as transfixed as I was repulsed, until he climaxed, head back, mouth open in a long, silent scream. He fell forward across the woman and grabbed the hood, yanking it off and jerking her head up by the long, light blond hair that tumbled down, and then I was the one crying out, because as he forced her face toward the camera I recognized her. It was Heather.
chapter thirty-nine
HEATHER
They’d been watching me. A video camera perched high in one corner of the room where Detective Kasper escorted me after I’d been summoned back to the local police station to discuss the “concerns” they had over the timeline for the night Viktor died. It was an innocuous-looking space. A laminate-topped table and three basic chairs and thin industrial carpeting on the floor. They’d probably been standing on the other side of the large mirror, waiting for me to crack and tell them everything. Sitting back in the chair, I’d resisted the urge to look directly at the camera or the mirror, or to tap my feet or do anything else that made me look as nervous as I felt.
Daniel was at his grandmother’s again. He practically lives there now; Anna has seen to that. She stocks her house with his favorite foods and buys him lots of toys, claiming it’s to comfort him because he lost his father. I think it’s to help her because she lost her son. She wants to take him away from me, she’s already taken away his affection, but she couldn’t take the child that I carried. Not that she knew about the pregnancy. I was more than four months along, my bump still easily covered with loose-fitting tops. My daughter. I am sure it was a girl. I’d started thinking about names that I liked, Amelia or Isabel or maybe Elizabeth after my mother. Not Betty though, as her nickname. I’d let the names play on my tongue while lying in bed at night, or showering in the morning, jutting my stomach out and rubbing my hand across my belly in a way that I couldn’t do in public.
That’s when the bleeding started. A few drops splashing around my bare feet and the shower’s stone floor like red rain. Nothing to worry about, at least according to the Internet. They swirled in the water and disappeared down the drain. Another drop or two meant nothing. I wouldn’t worry. But then, sitting in the room at the police station, I felt a gush of blood, frighteningly warm, running down my leg. I stood up to get to the door, but doubled over with a terrible, cramping pain, and that’s how I knew for sure they were watching me because the door opened and in rushed Detective Kasper and a female police officer and the next thing next thing I knew I was in an ambulance being taken to the hospital.
They couldn’t stop the bleeding. The hospital staff talk to me in hushed and solemn tones. “Just rest, dear,” a nurse says softly, helping me lie back on the bed as they whisk away the sheets carrying the rest of my baby. There is so much blood. Her blood. “This is very common in the first trimester,” the doctor says in soothing tones, “it doesn’t mean that you can’t conceive again.” But then someone whispers that I’m a widow, and I see the pity on her face. They feel bad that I just lost my husband and now I’ve lost his child, too. I don’t correct them. No one must know that Ray is the father.
The first time he hit me I knew I liked him. His hand hard across my backside as I passed him in the dark hallway on my way to the restroom at his bar. I jumped, whirling around to give this guy a piece of my mind, and there Ray stood, grinning at me. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” he said, and there was something in his smooth voice and dark eyes that stopped me from speaking. I could feel his handprint tingling for hours afterward.
I’d met him a week earlier. Viktor was away again at some conference, and Daniel was with his grandmother. My friends were all busy—it was a Saturday night and they were all occupied with their families. Sitting home alone, again, flipping aimlessly through the local paper while I waited for the microwave to cook my Lean Cuisine, I saw an ad for a band playing that night at The Crooked Halo. I hadn’t been to a bar alone since I began dating Viktor, and we hadn’t been to a bar together in several years, not since a hospital charity function. It had been at one of those overpriced jazz clubs with a multi-page cocktail menu and hipster waitstaff. The Crooked Halo was different. It looked like your average neighborhood bar hosting some barely known musical group, so nothing about it should have been appealing, but facing the prospect of another night alone in that house, I thought, why not?
It was fun getting ready. It reminded me of my modeling days, using clothes and makeup to transform into someone else. Skinny jeans, silver tank top, and heels. My hair in loose waves, hoops in my ears. I felt like a teenager with a fake ID, especially when I pulled up in front of the bar, which turned out to be in a blue-collar neighborhood similar to the town where I’d grown up, although it was only a twenty-minute drive from Sewickley Heights.
The band was just getting started—I could hear the thrumming of the bass outside. I paid the five-dollar cover and entered the crowd, feeling the energy from the music. It was pretty packed—maybe the group was better known than I’d thought. I jostled my way to the bar and waited to catch the eye of the bartender. He was a tall guy, well over six feet, and one of those men who fill out a T-shirt. Not a muscle-head, but muscular. Dark, curling hair, a bit of scruff. He was laughing at something a customer said as he slid a beer down the black bar. I saw him register my arrival, keeping an eye on the clientele. “What can I get you?” he said, strolling toward me, and then I saw him really look at me, and I saw his eyes react, while the rest of his face remained impassive.
“A Blue Moon,” I said, leaning forward to be heard over the music.