Page 11 of Remember Me

“Shit. I’m late.”

Late?“Late for what?” All dolled up, is she going to some kind of cocktail party? Or awards event? My fantasy of a romantic dinner has just evaporated into thin air.

Nervously, she snaps open her small beaded purse and checks inside it. “I’m about to break a story.”

What story?The secret one she’s been working on? This is not the first time she’s gone out this week, looking like this. Wearing a sexy dress and a pair of skyscraper stilettos I’ve neverseen before. Same excuse. Breaking a story. In this outfit? My mind wanders. Maybe, she’s hiding something. Then, as she snaps her bag shut, I notice she’s not wearing her wedding band. A shudder rolls through me. Maybe she’s seeingsomeone.Had enough of me. I’ll be the first to admit that since Maddie was born our marriage has been strained, juggling our careers with parenthood and trying to make ends meet. Life in LA is expensive. And stressful.

“Can’t you tell me about it? Even a little?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry. I still can’t.” She quickly changes the subject. “I checked on Maddie. She’s fine. If she wakes up—and she probably won’t—there’s a bottle already made.”

“What time will you be back?” I ask, disappointment coursing through me. This is not the time to share my exciting news.

“I’m not sure. Don’t wait up for me.”

Suspicion again creeps into my veins. My turn to stab the word “fine” back at her, and then almost as an aside, I wish her a happy birthday. A half smile flits on her lips. Bending to give me a peck on my forehead, she slings the purse over her shoulder by its dainty chain, pivots on her heels and hurries toward the front door. My eyes stay riveted on her shapely ass. It better belong to me.

Only me.

CHAPTER 8

Skye

So many tears have been shed over the past few weeks since meeting with Nicole Farrell. While none of the women I’ve interviewed experienced anything as extreme as Nicole’s rape, their vivid accounts from Greenberg groping their breasts and genitals to masturbating in front of them have shaken me to the bone, forcing me to fight back my own tears. I know what they’ve been through. But Jim Hartley, the head of Conquest News, still won’t let me break the story, and before I left work today, he threatened me again. “Stay away, Skye, if you know what’s good for you. You have no proof. All you have are allegations.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. Greenberg paid off most of his victims and made them sign confidentiality agreements without giving them a copy. Moreover, not one of them has a videotape, recording, or witness to substantiate their horror stories.

This story is not just a story that needs to be told; it’s personal to me. These women spoke to my soul. As I began my journalism career after graduating with honors, I vowed to champion the rights of women. To be a voice of compassion and justice for victims like me. If Jim Hartley needs concrete evidence, then that’s what I’m going to give him. I’m not afraid of his threats. I’m not backing down. I’m determined to take Greenberg down. To expose him for the monster he really is. It’s been a long time coming. Way too long.

Earlier this week, I stalked Greenberg at the Chateau Marmont bar. Learning that it was his favorite hangout, I went there three times this past week wearing a sexy little blackdress, the highest of heels, and a blond wig because I knew from my research that he had a predilection for leggy blondes. And because I didn’t want him to recognize me. When he finally showed up last night at the hotel, he took the bait.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he began as he plunked down onto the vacant chair next to mine. Legs widespread.

With a seductive smile, I said “hello” in my sweetest voice. His calling me “sweetheart” made me cringe, but I kept my cool. His sickening cigar-breath warmed my cheek, and I felt his fetid heat as he slid his seat closer to mine.

He was clad in his usual sleazebag uniform. A navy blazer that screamed Brioni, a crisp open-collar dress shirt, expensive designer jeans, lots of flashy gold jewelry, and alligator loafers. The buttons of his shirt strained against the Egyptian cotton while his belted jeans fought with his unsightly paunch. His lustful eyes never strayed from my cleavage. I swear he was salivating.

“You new in town, doll? I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Yes. I just moved here from Marietta.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Ohio.”

His face lit up. “My dear mother used to love to sing that song.” Crooning off key the song’s why-oh-why first line, he made goo-goo eyes with me. Pretending I was enjoying his attention, I let him twirl a lock of my wig around one of his stubby, manicured fingers.

“Why did’ya move out here?”

“I’m looking to break into the entertainment business.”

“So, you’re an actress?”

I laughed lightly. “An aspiring one.”

He chortled. “You’re a cute one. You’ve come to the right place.”

I twitched a small, flirtatious smile.

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