Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (43 page)

“It is not a
lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.”

―
Friedrich Nietzsche
 

~~~

Detective
Bronowski

Roman Bronowski
stood at the entrance to the room, genuinely surprised by the setting, as well
as by the man standing before him.

As a seasoned
detective, he thought he'd seen it all, yet André Chevalier was nothing like
Roman expected. Clearly wealthy and urbane, he had the muscular physique of a
fighter with broad shoulders and a flat stomach. Impeccably dressed and
well-groomed, he was much younger than Bronowski had anticipated

How did a man
his age manage to live like this?
Maybe he comes from old money,
Roman
decided.

“This is quite
some place you have here, Mr. Chevalier,” Roman said, as he took in the antique
furniture and palatial décor of the man’s home.

He smiled to
himself, briefly picturing those two overly-excitable furniture appraisers, the
Keno brothers who regularly appeared on Antiques Roadshow. They'd have way too
much fun determining the value of the precious objects filling this room.

Roman was sure
there were no cheap knock-offs here. Everything he saw spoke of class, wealth
and taste.

“Merci,
Detective,” André said, in a heavy French accent, as he rose to greet his
guest.

Roman took the
counselor’s hand and shook it—it was warm, dry and firm. The fellow was dressed
in a three-piece suit that probably cost more than his oldest daughter’s
braces. André Chevalier had that classy, understated look which could only be
achieved with the skill and expertise of a very fine and expensive tailor.

“The counseling
business must really pay off, eh?” Roman commented.

The Frenchman
laughed and the sound of it was warm and carefree. Roman found himself liking
the guy despite his suspicions about the legitimacy of his wealth.

“But yes, of
course!” André said. “That is true. I am well compensated for my services.” He
gave an eloquent shrug, his dark eyes bright with intelligence. “But, that is
because I am the best, you understand.”

Roman found
himself smiling. There was an aura of natural humor about the man, as though he
took nothing in life too seriously. He oozed confidence. Was it real, or was
this part of the show he put on for his clients?

“Please. Call me
André,” he said, and directed Roman to sit on his classy, white couch. Roman
didn’t share his own first name with André.

Just as they sat
down, Chevalier's servant brought in refreshments, a silver service bearing
coffee and tea, milk and sugar, fine china cups and saucers and little cakes.
The manservant appeared to be about fifty years old and he projected a quiet
dignity. If Roman didn’t know better, he thought the man might easily have
stepped out of Victorian-era England.

“Merci,
Gustave,” André said.

“You are most
welcome, Sir,” the servant replied, also in a thick French accent.

“Now,
Monsieur
,”
André said, addressing Roman, “Please help yourself to refreshments and tell me
how I may assist you.”

“I flew all the
way out here because you wouldn’t talk to me on the phone,” Roman admonished,
annoyed by the inconvenience.

"Ah, most
unfortunate. I am genuinely sorry for your waste of time and effort,
Monsieur
,"
he said calmly, pouring himself a cup of very dark coffee. "I was informed
you wished to discuss a client. As you know, I am unable to do so.”

“What exactly do
you
do,
Mr. Chevalier?” Roman said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Don’t be offended, but from the look of this place, I’d suspect that you were
into gambling or drugs.”

André grinned. “
Mais,
non!
Such undertakings do not interest me and I am not offended. I am, as
my servant told you, a counselor. I specialize in treating PTSD and sexual
difficulties.”

Roman narrowed
his eyes. “What exactly do you mean by
sexual difficu
lties?”

André tilted his
head and arched one thick, dark eyebrow. His features were expressive. There
was something about him that made Roman want to smile, but he didn’t.
Frustrated by the case, Roman wanted answers.

“It is perhaps
exactly as you imagine, my friend,” André said with a shrug, taking a moment to
gracefully sip his coffee. “I counsel couples and individuals, relating to
sexual concerns, interests and identity.”

Roman stared at
him blankly, wondering if Grant Wilkinson had sexual ‘concerns.’ Maybe, just
maybe, he had daddy issues? Problems severe enough to kill for? Yet, as a man
who had gone to war and returned home badly scarred, it was more likely
Wilkinson suffered from PTSD.

Roman’s eyes
narrowed. “You really make a good living as a counselor?”

The Frenchman
placed his hand on his chest. Roman thought his expression was reminiscent of
George Washington’s, “
I cannot tell a lie
,” look.

“Me?’ André
said. “I am financially compensated very well. Why? It is because I am very
clever.” He gave Roman a smug, yet boyish grin. “I will show you what I do,
yes?”

Roman scowled at
his lack of humility. Arrogance irritated him.

“
Oui, oui,
I
assure you,” André said. “I have very great skills and with both men and women?”
He kissed his fingers, flinging them outward in a gesture of perfection. “I am
par
excellence.
It is a gift from the
bon Dieu,
comprenez
vo
us?"
he said with a wry smile.

"Oh,
yeah?" Roman said, curbing his desire to tell the cocky bastard
exactly
what he thought of him and his over-confidence.

"
Mais,
oui,
" André said complacently. "Shall I tell you what I see when
I look at you?"

Roman frowned at
that statement. He didn’t like the way this interview was going. The judge
wouldn’t grant him a warrant to release Wilkinson’s personal counseling
files—not unless some additional evidence was found that would justify such an
invasion of patient privacy. Unfortunately, the case was at a dead end. He was
grasping at straws by coming here.

"You are
married and have children?" André asked.

“No surprise
there,” Roman said after rolling his eyes. “I wear a wedding ring and I’m
certainly old enough.”

“You have been
married…” André studied him, “I would say perhaps fifteen years, no longer.”

“OK.”

“You still love
your wife, but you are no longer satisfied in the marriage bed.”

Roman said
nothing, but he couldn’t school his face in time to prevent André from seeing
he'd made a direct hit.

André raised a
hand in triumph. “Just so! I do not know you, and I do not know your wife, but
I have seen this many times before. Shall I tell you how to correct this
disagreeable concern?”

“Knock yourself
out,” Roman said, becoming interested despite himself. It might be an act, but
the Frenchman had
presence.
His voice was soothing and his manner was
compelling.

André’s dark
eyes were bright. “Nothing in life stays the same,” he said. “All things?
Either they grow or they decline. Treat your marriage like a living thing, my
friend. It must be nurtured daily! The last time you brought your wife a gift
or even flowers—it was when? On your anniversary?”

Roman hid his
astonishment at this deduction. “Yes,” he finally admitted.

“And when did
you last take her out, just the two of you as a couple? A year ago? More?”

Roman felt his
face heat. He couldn’t recall when he’d last gone out with Angela
without
bringing
the kids along. Chevalier was right. He hadn’t been focusing his attention on
his marriage
at all.

André shook his
head sadly. “Americans!” He threw his hands into the air. “You are a man who
takes good care of your possessions—such as the car—but you do not put the same
time and effort into your wife and your marriage! You service your car, as you
wish it to run smoothly—yet do you show such thoughtfulness, care and
consideration of your wife?
Non!
”

Feeling terribly
guilty, Roman said nothing.

“And, after
providing no attention, you
then
expect your wife to
want
to make
love with you? Why would she wish to do so when she does not feel loved or
appreciated?”

Roman sat there
in silence for a while, considering what André had said. He often complained to
Angela about the fact that she never seemed to be in the mood for sex. Yet,
when she
did
take him to bed, he always felt as if she were doing it
merely to get him off her back
… (or her front)
so to speak.

“Foreplay for a
man?” André said. “It is to see a woman smile at him,
n'est-ce pas?
But
for a woman?” He made an eloquent gesture with his hands. “For a woman, desire
begins in her mind. Of a certainty, a woman must be wooed! She must feel
special, cherished and desirable.”

Meeting Roman’s
gaze, André raised a cautioning finger. “You have developed bad habits,
monsieur.
”

The suddenly
somber look on the Frenchman’s face surprised Roman.

“Do you wish to
spend your life alone?” André asked, his piercing eyes glaring at Roman. “No?
Then you must take care, my friend, for your wife?” he said, a tone of
admonishment in his voice. “She is learning to live her life
and to be happy
without you.”

Roman was
speechless.

There was
nothing to say to that, except it was all too true.

“Become as you
were before, when you first were married,” André advised. “
Then
you were
vital to her happiness! For now, you are an irritation, simply someone she must
perhaps cook dinner for. How do you propose to do this?”

Roman turned his
head, and looked out the window, over Las Vegas as he thought about it. A
number of minutes passed while Roman brooded, trying to remember the times he
and Angela had fun together.

André didn’t
interrupt him.

“Years ago,”
Roman said, turning toward him, “before the children were born, we used to go
dancing.”

“Ooh là là!
Une très bonne idée!”
André said enthusiastically, clapping his hands.
“This is a very good idea.
Mon ami,
you have lost what you once had, but
with careful thought and attention, what has gone will return.”

Bronowski
frowned.

“Do not be
unhappy, my friend,” André said. “Your marriage? It will never be as it was.
None of us are able to return to the past. Yet as of this moment, you have the
ability to make your relationship with your wife
better
than it has ever
been before.”

Detective
Bronowski left André Chevalier’s home with his mind preoccupied. The idea
Wilkinson had gotten himself involved in something untoward, some seedy
underworld-related problem, had disappeared.

Roman now had
his attention focused on his relationship with his wife.

It was perhaps
for the best the detective didn’t see the file André Chevalier had been reading
when he first arrived. It was the summary of an investigation André had
commissioned, titled,
“Report on Detective Roman Bronowski.”

“My father
was one of those men who sit in a room and you can feel it: the simmer, the
sense of some unpredictable force that might, at any moment, break loose and do
something terrible.”

― John
Burnside

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Grant and I walk
along the Cedar Break Trail, right outside of Dallas. So far we’ve descended
down a steep hill and crossed a picturesque, wooden bridge over a lovely little
creek. There are plenty of hills and valleys on this trail as we meander
through a thicket of eastern red cedar.

Just before we
reach a pond, there’s a comfortable bench near a small waterfall. We sit down
to take in the view, admiring the flowering dogwoods.

“Oh, look!” I
call out, excitedly pointing toward a tiny white bird with a black neck and
head. “A hummingbird!”

“That’s a
black-chinned hummingbird,” Grant says, amused by my enthusiasm.

“It’s so
beautiful.”

We watch this
tiny, perfect creature flit around for some time. Grant hands me a flask of
water from out of his backpack and I take a drink. I figure that now is as good
time as any to let him know what I’ve been thinking.

“I want to tell
you something, Grant,” I begin.

“Sure,” he says,
taking a long drink of water. Calm and relaxed, he shows no trace of a
premonition about what I’m about to say. From the way we’re usually able to
read each other, I wondered if he might have already picked up on something
from my tone of voice alone.

I watch his
throat work as he swallows.

Fucking hell,
he’s sex on a stick!

There’s a thin
sheen of sweat on his skin and man, I really want to lick it off. Already
aroused simply by his proximity, seeing him all hot and sweaty, just makes me
even hornier. I want to touch every inch of his hot body. I want to ride him
like a cowgirl. I want to make him writhe and scream my name in ecstasy.

Jesus. Get it
together, Renata! This is important. Focus!

I clear my
throat and look him in the eye. “When I was about six or seven years old, my
mother had one friend—my Auntie Julia. She wasn’t really my aunt, but I knew
her for most of my life. She was a part of almost every happy childhood memory
I can recall—not that there were many of those.”

I laugh, but the
sound comes out hollow and humorless.

“Auntie Julia
had a little girl named Sally,” I explain. “She was a couple of years younger
than I was. I think Auntie Julia and my mom took turns babysitting for each
other. Anyway, the three of us used to play hide and seek and bake gingerbread
cookies together, making faces on each one by decorating them with M & M
eyes.”

“What happened
to Julia and her daughter?” Grant asks.

“I have no
idea,” I reply sadly. “The thing is, one day when Auntie Julia was looking
after me, she noticed some of my bruises and questioned me about them. Nobody
had ever asked me about my injuries before, so I innocently answered her
questions candidly. I told her my dad beat my mom and me all the time. Auntie
Julia immediately informed the authorities.”

Grant’s
expression turns grim. His jaw tightens and the muscles in his neck flex. We
both know the end of this story.

“Anyway,” I
continue, “It turned out confiding in someone outside of the family had
consequences I was unaware of. I won’t go into the details—as I’m sure you can
imagine, it was pretty ugly. In the end my father moved us to another town.”

“I’m sorry,”
Grant murmurs, barely hiding the anguish he has for me in his voice.

“Thank you,” I
say. “After we relocated, my mother and I never saw Julia again, but this is
the relevant point. When my mother said goodbye to her only friend—” I pause
for a moment, unable to continue. My eyes begin to sting and I blink back
sudden, unshed tears.

“Are you OK?”
Grant asks, his expression concerned.

I nod sharply
and clear my throat. “It’s just that I’ll never forget the look in Julia's eyes
and the expression on her face. She was a good person—someone who cared and was
genuinely trying to help us. I learned then, the best way to safeguard someone
you care about is to keep your mouth shut.”

“Yeah,” Grant
says. “I get that. What did Julia do?”

I shake my head
and take another sip from my flask as I pull myself together. “It wasn’t what
she said or did. It was the look of hurt and betrayal in her eyes. She
attempted to do a good thing, the right thing, and it ended up badly. You see?”

His eyes soften.
“Of course.”

“The point is, I
think you’re trying to shield me with silence, Grant.”

He stiffens, but
only for a moment. He has a good idea where I’m going with my little story now.

“I know you
don’t want to talk about this because of the ongoing murder case,” I say, “but
I’ve pieced a few things together.”

Grant peers at
me, his expression utterly blank. Man, he's gifted. He’s really good at hiding
his emotions. I imagine this ability comes from living with a predator, or
possibly in part from his military background. 

“Please don’t
freak out,” I tell him, “but I think it was your father who sexually abused
you.”

“Renata—” he
opens his mouth to speak, but I raise my hand to stop him from saying anything
more. 

I shake my head.
“Just hear me out, Grant. I’m only telling you this so you’ll know that I know.
You want to protect me. I appreciate that, I do. You’re caught between a rock
and a hard place. I understand what happened and why you’re trying to keep it a
secret, but you don’t have to hide it from me.”

I can tell I’ve
guessed correctly. Grant doesn’t deny his father’s abuse.

“I didn’t kill
him,” he says.

“I know. “You
already told me that and I believe you.” My brows draw down in concentration.
“Do you have any idea who did?”

His gaze meets
mine. “Yes, but that’s not up for discussion,” he replies in a no-nonsense tone
of determination.

“OK.”

Huh. That’s
interesting.

Grant obviously
knows who killed his father and wants to protect the murderer. I immediately
connect the dots.

Merde!
Grant and his sister and his mother don’t get along, so it can only be his
brother Alex. The obvious truth crystallizes in my mind. Oh hell, of course!
Grant’s little brother Alex would have been sexually abused too! Why would an
abuser stop at one? Many fathers or stepfathers interfere with the whole
family.

Everything makes
perfect sense
.

Mentally, I
swiftly shift gears. “I’m glad you didn’t kill him—not that I’d ever suspect
you.”

Grant almost
rolls his eyes at that. “I’ve killed people, Renata.”

“Yes,” I murmur
calmly. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of killing, I’m saying that throwing a
man off a balcony is not your style.”

“No?”

“No,” I say
firmly. “And as painful as it is, he was your father and I think you cared for
him. You couldn’t have done it. The Army may have trained you to kill, but
you’re not a murderer.”

Grant’s face
pales for a moment when I mention the word murderer.
Shit! What’s that
about?

He shakes his
head. “No, not really a murderer, just a fool.”

“You’re no
fool,” I state calmly. “You’re human, subject to the same naivety,
misjudgments, illogical affections and screw ups as the rest of us.” I smirk,
trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t work.

“Under no
circumstances do I want you dragged into this,” Grant says, his jaw tight. “I
don't want you to have any more dealings with the police.”

I give him an
ironic smile. “Thank you. Believe me, the idea of getting involved with the law
doesn't appeal to me in the least.”

He’s frowning
now and I wonder if it was wise to tell him what I’d guessed.

“I was thinking
about your therapy,” I say. “Now, you no longer need to hold onto that secret
or wonder whether or not I know.”

He turns toward
me with a stubborn scowl marring his features. “We can’t talk about this
ever
.
It’s not safe. Don’t you see?” He says in a tone of exasperation. “I’m trying
to protect you.”

“It’s my choice
and my risk,” I explain evenly. “I’ve already made up my mind what I’ll say if
the police interview me.”

“The police
aren’t going to talk to you!” he says, his features flaring red with anger.

My back
straightens and my chin goes up. “I don’t care if they do,” I tell him. “I’ve
already decided I’m going to lie to them. Honesty is the best policy—André will
tell you that. Yet, he’ll also agree there are no absolutes, thus there IS a
time for lying. Only you and I know what is said between us, and I already know
you’ll never compromise me.”

“You stubborn
woman!” Grant grips my shoulder, which surprises me with his problem with
touching. “Renata, we have to be so careful,” he says, his eyes full of
emotion. “Don’t write anything down, not by text, paper or email, and never
mention this subject on the phone.”

“I’ll be
careful,” I tell him confidently. “Nothing bad will happen.”

However, as I’m
saying this a little voice inside me echoes the thought,
famous
last
words.