Page 101 of To Have and to Hold

Three weeks later I sat alone on my couch in my apartment, a Redwell folder bursting with loose paper and strewn about my lap. My pen hovered over my legal pad, but it was blank, long abandoned to stare out the window and follow the trails of rain droplets instead. Tires streaming through wet tarmac could be heard through the porous glass planes, with staccato honks every time the light at the intersection turned red.

Attempts to get back into work mode had so far failed. Nicholas took first chair in the Torro trial. A temporary position had opened after Abrams’s death. Another attorney, Michael Sorghum, took the spot—a great guy and an even better attorney to shoulder the mess Abrams left behind. For all appearances, Abrams was organized and in charge. Cases were doled out, prosecutions won, and we’d gone three months with convictions and no losses. Until it was discovered Eugenie’s trust fund was all but depleted. A closer look revealed that prior to those months, certain convictions had been overturned, and there were several prosecutions brought forth with circumstantial evidence only. Dex Abrams was in the midst of concocting something dirty—bribery, a government office’s greatest nightmare if discovered. The Torro trial was now in question. If Abrams hadn’t revealed himself as a sadistic, revenge-seeking psycho, these nefarious cases would’ve gone unnoticed and Abrams was in line to make a lot of money out of it. Though he clearly thought that seeking out Jack Beauregard and destroying his family was way more appropriate than acquiring tainted cash. Abrams’s soul couldn’t let go—of Jack, of Jack’s happiness, and the fact that Jack could still make a name for himself through his successful daughter while owning a grocery store in Jackson, Wyoming. It was so infuriating to Abrams that it drove him to kidnapping, arson, murder, accolades of which I had difficulty coming to terms with. Abrams was a jovial man who crafted a grin for every occasion. In the years I’d known him, I never thought to look for the molting he underwent every time he strolled into the office and became the man everyone expected he was.

More evidence was stacking against Abrams. Disturbing, unbelievable facts. It seemed that once Chrissie Sailor was murdered, he’d acquired a taste. Never so obvious again, but just as brutal. There were clues leading to the idea that Abrams’s “mistresses” might not have been consensual. Or alive any longer. Over twenty prostitutes, street kids, drug addicts—all those forgotten in upper society and never looked for—might’ve been introduced to Abrams’s hand. And might’ve had that firm grip on their necks.

Abrams, a serial killer? Even after discovering his past with Jack and finding Emme locked in his basement and figuring out his manipulations of Ed Carver, it was utterly unfathomable. Yet, that woman at the precinct who’d been in front of me as I waited impatiently to talk to Knox, identified Dex Abrams as the man who attacked her. Her identification led to additional investigation of unsolved crimes against prostitutes, and there were links discovered that while I hadn’t been able to fully delve into, I planned to.

Even if they didn’t officially give me access.

What I did have available was as follows: Abrams’s plans went into so much detail that my initial hunch about Ed Carver was correct. Shortly after meeting Emme, Abrams acquired Emme’s college transcripts and any records of incident in her file. Within moments, he would’ve come across Carver’s name, and a simple search on him would reveal his troublesome personality and his penchant to obsess over women he couldn’t have. Perfect fall guy. After that, it was a matter of tracking him down, realizing he still lived in the city, and checking out his home life. Ed wasn’t doing so well. He lived deep in Washington Heights, renting a couch within someone’s apartment—a couch—and that was it. Investigators theorized that Abrams befriended him somehow, or more like wowed him, and lured Ed into the beginning of destruction by offering him an entire house to reside in, in a great part of Brooklyn. Step one.

The room constructed to hold Emme was already in existence. When Jack and Perry bought the place twenty-three years ago, it was old, run down. They put in thousands of dollars of renovations and investment, perfecting the home into what it now was. Jack swore he’d never seen that room before, that he and Perry never discovered it, never mind worked on it. The space wasn’t in the blueprints or the records of the property. It wasn’t too surprising, considering century-old brownstones tended to have their secrets. Somehow, by unknown means, Abrams figured out that hideaway room. He cleaned, paved, plastered and soundproofed the walls. He installed a locking mechanism meant for keeping animals in a cage. Then he camouflaged his sadistic motives by purchasing a workbench, throwing in tools, cleaning supplies, and basically painting the perfect, middle class basement. This would’ve occurred well before he moved Ed Carver in.

The ownership of the home was so convoluted, the thought of Abrams being involved so farfetched, that Abrams would’ve been confident that if Emme—or any other victims—were ever discovered, Ed would be held responsible.

Like I’d said to Emme, this was a cancer that leaked into Abrams’s soft tissue a long time ago. Hate didn’t quite describe Abrams’s feelings. It was so much worse than that. We might never know the true depths of that rage, because Abrams’s wife wasn’t talking. She’d surrounded herself with lawyers the moment Knox and I left her residence and I hadn’t seen her since. I’d been ensconced in interrogations, statements, and media for the past twenty-one days, explaining the five minutes I’d spent in that horror room more times than I’d had birthdays. I didn’t flinch or feign or lie about what I’d done, but I did hire a lawyer. I wasn’t an idiot. A man died at my hands. There was no regret, but there was something to be said for being willing to kill. A savage desire had nested within me, awaiting its moment to break free. Shedding blood for protection.

I’d do it again.

If it meant Emme would get to live instead of him, I’d do it.

I wasn’t going to be charged. There were enough witnesses to state and forensics to prove that I was acting in self-defense. Abrams had a knife. He was going after Emme, and after bursting in and finding his hands across her throat, there were no doubts he was out for blood. Abrams was caught—his last act was to kill Jack’s most precious treasure. Against my wishes, and maybe for the better, I was ordered into therapy. The lady was nice, but she was no curer of intentional murder.

I’d learned later that Abrams had choked Emme multiple times. Stripped her, starved her, beat her, deprived her. Nothing Emme said gave me this information—her interviews with police were confidential and she wasn’t speaking to the media, but the press was a savvy creature, and they were able to get details close enough that it was probably true. Papers blasted with Emme’s name in bold, blogs blew up, her story went viral. The image of me carrying her out of that house was on every newsworthy channel.

Soon, the furor would ebb. There would be no trial, since there was no defendant to indict, and the multiple phone calls requesting interviews would stop. Eventually, another murder affecting another poor family would make the headlines, and Emme could return to a quiet life.

Against my better judgment, I picked up my phone (newly returned to me by Knox) and searched her name, to see if I could find out how she was doing or where she was. Was she all right? Would she move back to Wyoming with her parents? Quit her job? I convinced myself that I wasn’t looking to see if she was still going to marry her fiancé.

I hadn’t spoken to her since that night in the hospital. After witnessing Dave launch himself into her arms, I had a throat-punching call to daylight.

She was no longer mine. Emme had been kidnapped and that terror had unleashed the feral urge to find her. With that came our memories, the Emme of over two years ago and everything we’d shared. It was as if the ghost of her was standing next to me, coaxing, smiling, reminding of her beauty, will, presence. Before her abduction, I’d pretended to have forgotten what it was like to have her here. It took one second of realizing she could be gone forever to rediscover the college boy who wanted no one else but her. Who loved her.

But so did Dave. He had a year with an Emme I’d never known, and she’d grown out of our college days. That wasn’t my Emme that we’d found trapped in the basement; it was the grown Emme who’d found confidence and love and success, a woman who’d made her own choices and was happier for them. She was still the same in many ways, but in so many others I’d lost my chance. Emme was safe and could rebuild her life. The gift of her being found alive was a precious fate I’d gladly carry with me.

A knock on the door pulled my attention from my phone.

“Yeah?” I called. I was nothing but mannerly towards my callers.

“It’s…it’s Emme.”

I slowly took off my glasses.

“Spence?”

I slid the papers from my lap. My first thought was to open the door, cup her face, and feel the planes of her, make sure she was all right. But she wasn’t mine to touch.

With a quick unlatch and twist before any second guesses, I opened the door.

Emme stood in the hallway, her black trench coat gleaming with raindrops, her hair misted with the same, shimmering dew. Her wide blue eyes regarded me, bordered by black lashes that were so thick, her eyelids often languished seductively over the crystal.

Even now, she took my breath away.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey.” After a hesitant rise of her lips, she asked, “Can I come in?”

“Yes. Sure.” I stepped aside.

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