The Mistaken (20 page)

Was this about hatred? Or was it power and control
he sought? Maybe revenge as he implied? But for what? I’d done
nothing. Could this be about Beck? Had he crossed the wrong person?
Was this man a jealous husband? A jilted lover? His motive was
completely lost on me.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice a choked
squeak.

His brow furrowed as he bore down on me with his
furious eyes. “Because I want
you
to feel a small fraction
of the fear and pain you caused my wife—my
pregnant
wife—right before she died.”

I stood up straighter, shocked. “
What?
That’s
insane. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t done
anything
to
anyone!
”

His eyes widened in surprise for the briefest
moment. Then they narrowed as he looked me up and down, appraising
me. “How dare you? How dare you deny what you’ve done. You couldn’t
stop lying if your life depended on it.”

“Because I didn’t do anything! You’ve got your facts
all wrong!”

His seethed through gnashed teeth. “
You miserable
bitch!
You target innocent people, steal from them, destroy
their dreams, mangle their lives. And for what? For
money?
Y
ou’re a pathetic whore!
”

I gasped at his accusations. “You’re crazy. I’ve
done nothing.
Nothing!
Now get the
hell out of
here!”

“I’m not going anywhere until you admit what you’ve
done.” He latched onto my throat with both hands, his expression
mad with fury. “Say it. You killed my wife!
You murdered my
child! Say it! Say it!
”

He dodged is head from side to side, bobbing and
weaving as I clawed at his face. Even as blackness started to close
in, my vision turned red, and my rage boiled over.

“Fuck you
and
your wife!” I croaked.

He jolted to a stop, his hands falling from my
throat. He grabbed me by the arms and hurled me onto the bed. I
kicked and twisted to get away, but he climbed on top of me. His
knee wedged between my legs. He reached up under my dress and tore
my underwear away.

“No, no, please! I’m sorry,
I’m sorry!
I
don’t know her, I swear! I don’t know your wife! Please!
Listen
to me! I don’t know her! Please! Please!”

My throat burned raw with fiery tendrils lacing
through to my ears. I struggled against him with every ounce of
energy I had. But his weight had me pinned. His other knee forced
my legs apart. He fumbled with his jeans. Pushed them aside. I
pounded my hands against him. Thrashed his shoulders and head. My
nails raked across his flesh. He grabbed both my wrists. Pinned
them above my head in one hand.

I was lost, completely under his control. I cried.
Shook my head against the bed. My eyes shut tight. His hand
grappled between my thighs. This was it. I knew what was coming.
Yet I was powerless to stop it. I sobbed even harder.

His chest rose up as he readied himself. “Open your
fucking eyes!” he yelled.

I obeyed. “Please, you can’t do this! You
can’t!”

“You have to pay for what you’ve done,” he roared,
his face twisted in hatred.

My mind raced, searching for a way out, hunting for
some way to connect with this man, to make him see me as human, to
show me some small mercy.
Think, think!

His wife. He was doing this for her, because she
had died. She was pregnant. He lost them both, his wife and his
baby! That was it. He had to see me as a mother,
just like
his wife!

“Please,” I begged, “I have a child, a son! This
will destroy him!” My body quaked with wracking sobs as I rocked my
head from side to side. He was but a moment away from destroying
me. “Please, please, he’s just a boy. He won’t survive this! It
will kill him! You can’t do this.” Staring into his rage-filled
eyes, I raised my head off the bed and screamed. “
I’m his
mother!
”

The man startled as if physically shocked. He grew
completely still. The rage blazing in his eyes melted away,
replaced by what looked like…like…horror. He loosened his grip
around my wrists then let go altogether, his hands snapping back to
his chest as if touching my flesh had scorched him.

I dropped my head to the mattress and stared up at
him through a thick film of tears. I pulled my hands in and wiped
at my eyes with trembling fingers.

The man remained kneeling above me, just staring
back, aghast, silent. His mouth was open, and his horrified eyes
swept over me. He sucked in a large breath of air and pushed away
with disgust tightening his brow.

“Oh God,” he gasped with both palms pressed flat
against the top of his head. “Oh my God! No, no…” He shook his
head, and although he closed his eyes tight, tears began to escape,
leaving glistening trails over the angular lines of his face.

I was struck dumb as
he
sobbed. Him. The
intruder.
What the hell!

“Oh God,” he choked again. He yanked up on his jeans
and pulled away. With the tall corner post at the foot of the bed
behind him, he leaned back with his eyes still closed. He pressed a
clenched fist against his mouth as if he were going to be sick.

“Oh God, Jillian,” he cried, both hands now covering
his face. “Please, forgive me.
Please...”

He pulled one leg up and wrapped an arm around it.
He laid his forehead down upon his knee, covered the top of his
head with his hand, and wept as he rocked back and forth, crying
and mumbling to himself. Then with a jolt that shook the bed, he
slammed himself twice in the head with his fist and swore, “Fuck!
Fuck!”

I backed away from him as far as I could, sliding
onto my side and rolling up into a ball. Though relieved he had
called off his attack, I feared the strange, erratic nature of the
man in front of me. I cried noiselessly as I studied him, unsure of
what to do.

My eyes swept back and forth between him and the
door. I crept closer to the edge of the bed, painstakingly slow, so
he wouldn’t feel me.
Am I strong enough to make a run for
it?
Every inch of me quivered in fear, exhausted from the
battle.
This might be my only chance. Should I try to escape? Or
will he fly into another rage? Try to hurt me? Rape me? Maybe even
kill me? Oh God, what should I do?
I slid another inch closer,
careful, cautious, then another, and another, my eyes pinned on the
door. Until I felt him move.

He raised his head and, with his bloodshot eyes,
looked over at me. He shook his head, his expression tortured with
what looked like remorse and unfathomable regret.

“I’m...sorry. I didn’t… I’m so sorry,” he sobbed
then let his head fall back onto his knee. He weaved his fingers
through his hair and pulled it tight into both fists.

I didn’t get it. I couldn’t understand him at all.
This angry man, filled with malice and violent intentions as he
intruded into my world, now shook with contrition and sorrow?
Are you kidding me?
It was unreal. I was stunned and
bewildered by his sudden transformation, and wondered the reason
behind it. If he was truly sorry, he wouldn’t hurt me again, would
he? I slowly pulled myself up into a sitting position with my knees
pulled in tight against my chest. I stared at him for a long moment
as I worked up the courage to speak. I was terrified of provoking
him, of having him lash out and continue where he had left off. But
I needed to know the truth, to know why he had chosen me, what
connection he thought we shared.

“Who…is…your wife?” I stammered.

His head snapped up, almost combatively, but though
I flinched, I didn’t back down. I was too angry.

“You answer me, godammit.
Who is your wife?”
I was surprised by the venom in my own voice. I screamed the words
at him, my rage somehow outmaneuvering my fear. Pretty stupid, but
then I never was very smart when I got angry.

He regarded me for a silent stretch of time, just as
I had done him, with his jaw clenched tight. Then he leaned
forward, his eyes narrowed in contempt. “Jillian Demetrio,” he
spat.

Confused, I shook my head. “I don’t know that name.
I’ve never heard it before. How could you do that to me? I don’t
know you. And I don’t know your wife!”

He leaned forward, bent onto his knee, and grabbed
me by my arms, his nose mere inches from mine and his eyes flitting
back and forth. “That’s bullshit! You knew her, Erin, all too well.
You stole her identity, for God’s sake! You took her life.
You
killed my child!”

He pushed me away in disgust and returned to the
foot of the bed, his finger pointing at me in both accusation and
warning:
Stay away, or else
…he seemed to say. His teeth
gnashed together and his body trembled, barely under control.

My eyes widened as I fell back against the
headboard. I gasped at the mention of that name, when it registered
in my head.

Erin, he had said.
Oh my God. Erin.

“What?” I squealed. “Did…did you just…call me…Erin?”
I shook my head. “No. No, I’m... I’m not Erin. No, uh-uh.” Though
his lips pursed in an angry grimace, I pressed on. “Why? Why would
you call me that? Erin who? You tell me her last name! Erin who?
You tell me!
Tell me!”
I sprang at him, my hands clawing at
his face and raking across his bare shoulders.

He grabbed my wrists and shook me. “You sick,
twisted bitch!” He pushed me back hard into the headboard and
pointed at me again. “We both know exactly
who
and
what
you are,
Ms.
Anderson. A filthy leech. A lying
murderer!” He swung his fist wide and smashed it against the corner
bedpost.

I pinned my hands to my ears, closed my eyes, and
shook my head. “No, no, no! This is not happening. It’s not
happening.” I looked back at the man. “Why? Why would you think
that? I’m not Erin Anderson.” I pressed my palm to my chest. “My
name is Hannah. Hannah Maguire.” Then I motioned toward the door.”
That…that…
whore
…is my husband’s mistress!”

At first he looked at me in shock, as if I had
sprouted a second head, but it quickly turned to anger. He leaned
forward with that finger poking near my face. “Don’t give me that
shit!”

I stupidly batted his hand away. “No,
you
listen to
me
! I am
not
Erin Anderson. My name is
Hannah Maguire. Hannah Maguire! That miserable whore, she’s… She’s
having an affair with my husband.”

“You lying bitch! You’d say anything to save your
pathetic neck. But you did it. You killed my wife. You’re
responsible for that accident. If you hadn’t provoked her, she
never would have pursued you. She’s dead because of you, and you
know it! Godammit!” For a brief moment, his rage-filled face
crumpled into despair. “She was pregnant. Did you know that? Do you
even care? You killed my child.
You killed them both!”
His
face glowed a purplish red, and his whole body shook in
outrage.

I leaned back with my mouth open. This man was
completely mad.

“What are you talking about? You’re insane! I told
you. My name is Hannah Maguire. But I know her. I know who that
woman is. She’s having an affair with my husband. I had them
followed. By a private investigator. And I have photographs to
prove it.”

He stilled himself and stared at me, contemplating
my words, wondering about the possibility of his error. He grew
worried. I saw it in his eyes, clear as day, the way his brow
knitted together, deep chevrons that scored above the bridge of his
nose. Then a V bulged down the center of his forehead, its apex
terminating in the furrow. He lunged forward and tried to seize me
again, but I scrambled across the blood-stained bed and fell to the
floor.

“You’re a lying bitch,” he swore, maneuvering after
me.

I crouched on the floor, cornered between the bed,
the wall, and the man as he stood above me. I pushed away as far as
possible and kicked out at him when he knelt down in front of
me.

“No! Get away from me! Don’t you ever touch me
again!”

He rocked back and ran his fingers through his hair
over and over, considering me with both apprehension and utter
disbelief. At that moment, he appeared nearly as intimidated by me
as I was by him.

“
I’m
not
lying,” I said, “I
swear. You’ve mistaken me for someone else. You’ve got the wrong
woman.” I met his intense stare with one of my own.

His mouth hung slack. He knelt silently, his hands
balling into fists atop his thighs.

“I…I don’t understand. I…I saw you there. At that
spa. You were having an argument with that prick, Maguire. And then
I saw you again later in the parking lot with that waitress. You
showed her a picture or something. I followed you all the way to
Oakland. To the airport. I saw you
both
there. You
and
Maguire.” He pointed his finger at me again and seethed
through clenched teeth. “I
saw
you there! I
know
it
was you!”

And then it dawned on me as I recalled that day, two
weeks before, when I visited the spa down in Napa. He must have
been watching me. He must have been watching us both—me and
Erin—and thought we were one and the same.
Oh God!

I shook my head. “No! I mean… Yes. That
was
me in the parking lot
and
at the airport, but you saw Erin
at the restaurant. She had the fight with Beck. Not me. We look
very similar, I know, but… That was Erin you saw in the restaurant.
Not me. You’ve made a stupid, foolish mistake.” Tears rolled down
my cheeks again. “You were stalking the wrong woman, you goddamn
bastard!”

He sprang back up onto his feet, and looked down at
me, his eyes wild and panicked.

“Oh fuck, no!” He shook his head. “No, no, no, no,
no. That…that can’t be right.”