The Woman from Cheshire Avenue Read online

  The burgundy in her hair stood out brilliantly, complimenting her skin and heightening its golden-brown tint. The dull, dreary look from her deep brown eyes was gone; there seemed to be a light in her reflection which had been absent since back when she was going out with Cory, and his neediness had alienated her not just from all her friends, but from her very self. And now, finally, she was back.

  Lilith was beautiful. She was desirable. And while she was still young, she wanted to do something about it.

  She slept until about noon the next day, and the extra hours of sleep showed. Her skin was much clearer than usual, and glowing so much that she wouldn’t need makeup for tonight. Her waist had even slimmed a bit, but she was still going to wearing a pair of control top panties, just to make sure things stayed in place.

  Excited at the evening’s prospects, Lilith started up her coffee maker, popped a bagel into the toaster, and then opened her front door for the morning paper. Much to her delight, her family was on the front page (looking great, by the way; her old man had picked an excellent photo for them all), with the headlines congratulating her father. She briefly wondered whom he’d had to suck up to for this particular perk, but was grateful nonetheless.

  Lilith eagerly skimmed the paper for her name, reading, “…an elegant young thirty-something bachelorette who works as an archivist in Cherrywood Catholic’s main library….” The description brought a wry smile to her face; of course, this was her father’s doing. That he wanted to see her married off was no secret, and he never skipped an opportunity to push the agenda. For once, Lilith wasn’t annoyed.

  As she readied herself for a potentially magical evening, Lilith fondly thought about her father. Despite the pressure he heaped on his children, she was eternally grateful to him; he’d inspired her to follow her ambitions and had funded her entire academic career. He’d paid the down payment for her brand new silver Equinox, the first car she ever owned. He’d gotten her this rather opulent apartment at a discount, and she never loved a place more. Her high-rise towered above the city, giving her a diamond-studded view of it every night. The rooms were so big she never felt cramped, and if she ever married, her new husband could simply move in with her.

  The place was expensively furnished; the off-white walls, carpet, and suede furniture matched one another to perfection. Here and there, a dark burgundy vase stood out, hold fake white blossoms scented with vanilla.

  Oh yes, Lilith was grateful. Before her mother died, Angela Wells had often told her stories about what it was like to be raised in poverty and have an absent father. Of course, Kendra never stuck around to hear these stories.

  The irony, of course, was that Frederick obviously rewarded good behavior and attempts at being self-sufficient. If Kendra could see that, she’d have a much easier life.

  Then again, if her father would simply admit he might be gay, he too could find life to be suddenly easier.

  * * *

  Around four in the afternoon, Eric Quisling was woken from his bed by Shoelace once again.

  At first, Eric tried to ignore him. But Shoelace’s pounding on the door only got louder and louder until Eric found himself up and bounding across the room.

  He was about to cuss Shoelace out, but when he tore open the door, he didn’t see Shoelace’s face right away. Instead, he saw a newspaper in the doorway, with a large front page picture of the woman from Cheshire Avenue.

  “Her name is Lilith Anna Wells,” Shoelace said solemnly, when Eric snatched the paper from him and stared at it incredulously. “Thirty-something, gainfully employed, and single.”

  Eric moved away from him to sit on his broken down, raggedy recliner. He didn’t read the article; he just gawked at the picture instead.

  “Her sister,” Shoelace went on, “is Kendra Chava Wells. Twenty-something, and an undecided major at Cherrywood Catholic University, where their father is a Chancellor. He also sits on the city council. He’s known for his pricey, uppity charity events, like the one he’s throwing tonight.”

  “What for?” Eric murmured, unable to take his eyes off the woman from…Lilith. He couldn’t stop staring at Lilith. The photo was color, and it featured her in a stylish black dress and diamonds…like those of a noblewoman.

  “He scored some sort of deal worth $2.5 mil,” Shoelace replied, still sounding rather somber. “But the most interesting news is on page eighteen. ‘Young woman assaulted and left for dead at Cherrywood Hospital.’”

  “Yeah?” came the off-hand reply.

  “The article doesn’t say much,” Shoelace went on, and there was a note of irritation in his voice this time. “For example, it leaves out her name. And it neglects to mention she’s a nineteen-year-old stripper from Dalliance.”

  “Is that right?” Eric muttered, clearly distracted. He flipped through the paper, looking for more pictures of Lilith. Shoelace became so annoyed he raised his voice.

  “You know, Eric, fucking with the boss’s woman is suicide.”

  “I didn’t fuck with her.”

  “The last person I saw Goldie with was you.”

  “I didn’t touch her,” Eric repeated, flipping to another page. “She came here, we argued, I sent her away. I haven’t seen her since around four-thirty this morning.” He shut the newspaper, set it down, and looked directly into Shoelace grim green eyes. “Swear to God.”

  Shoelace’s next words were deeply ominous.

  “That’s weird,” he murmured. “The paper says she was checked in around seven.”

  The Tragic Tale of Goldilocks

  Four hours earlier

  Dr. Natalia Marquez looked over the rims of her black glasses at her newest referral. The hospital was always sending her women’s shelter an assortment of crazies and druggies, so it was strange to meet an actual victim for change. And a child, no less! The girl was slender to the point of fragility, with a blackened right eye and a split bottom lip. She shivered in her faded gray duster, and nervously clutched her cigarette.

  “So nobody knows I’m here?” she asked for the hundredth time.

  “Nobody,” Dr. Marquez repeated. She spoke with a strong accent, but her words came through clearly. “I am Natalia Marquez, the resident psychologist. You may call me Dr. Marquez.” She put down the file she’d been perusing and lightly tucked a lock of long black hair behind her ear. Her hair matched her silken blouse, which shimmered in the lamplight from her desk. “The nurses from the hospital tell me you endured a traumatic event this morning.”

  The girl nodded.

  “Your name is Goldie Candler, yes?”

  The girl nodded again.

  “The rules here are simple,” the psychologist told her. “You do not call the people who hurt you. You may call your family, but you cannot tell them where you are. We have the safety of the other women to think about.”

  The child’s words dripped with bitterness far beyond her years. “No problem there.”

  “Everyone has chores,” Dr. Marquez continued. “They are assigned by the staff on duty every evening. Unless you are getting undressed, the door to your bedroom must always be open.”

  “Fine.”

  “Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way,” Dr. Marquez said very seriously, “please tell me what happened.”

  What happened? Goldie wanted to scream. Oh, I’ll tell you what happened!

  After the incident at Eric’s, she’d headed straight over to where Aryan was hiding, because face it, that’s precisely what he was doing. Goldie was still in her high heels, which she usually found uncomfortable, but she was so angry and humiliated she barely noticed. She left the south end, trekked across the east end, and continued onward out of the city.

  The last time she’d seen Aryan, he’d set up in a warehouse where everyone was sleeping on dirty couches, going days without showers or clean clothes, and eating cheap takeout. The guys called it “roughin’ it in the wilderness.” Aryan always said it was necessary to lay low. But this time, when she came to
see him, there was a brand new conference table in the main room. All the guys who remained with Aryan had on new clothes, had clearly showered, and were sitting in very comfortable black chairs around the table. There were other pieces of new furniture—a couch, tables, lamps, a fridge—and it was such a step up that it unnerved her. Even the windows had been sealed off with plastic, keeping the brisk chill of spring at bay.

  The guys around the table were laughing loud, pouring one another drinks and telling jokes. Her presence didn’t bring about the awkward hush she feared it would. They just kept on drinking, talking, and laughing, as though there was nothing wrong with their world. As though the rest of their crew wasn’t unwashed and sometimes starving on the other side of town.

  She came to stand by her boyfriend and leaned to talk into his ear. Aryan, an already balding man who regularly shaved his head, sat at the head of his table, smoking a cigar and drinking scotch. His left arm was still in a sling, but other than that, he looked well. Like Eric, he had blistering cold blue eyes, and when they raked over her, Goldie tensed.

  “Baby,” she started meekly, “we need to talk. Can we go to another room?”

  Aryan stopped talking to Derek Hirsh long enough to snap at her, “Do I look like I should be getting up and going from room to room?”

  His mood startled Goldie. He never spoke to her like that before. Clearly, these newfound luxuries were changing him. He probably even thought he could get himself a new girlfriend now.

  Well, to hell with that. He owed her. He owed her for all those promises he made her and never fulfilled. Pay day wasn’t for him alone; she wanted hers, and she wanted it now.

  “Eric raped me!” she screamed suddenly, without thinking. Her whole body and voice were shaking, and the strength which had carried all this way from Eric’s apartment suddenly starting draining from her. “Can we go talk about this now?”

  Aryan paused, casually swiveling in his chair to look at her. As he looked her over with a level gaze, she realized she had absolutely no idea what he was thinking.

  “When did this happen?” he asked softly, his eyes searching her face.

  “Just now,” she replied, her voice still quavering. “In his apartment.”

  “Where in his apartment?”

  “On his bed. Could we please go now?”

  “Hang on,” Aryan said smoothly. “I’m trying piece this all together. ‘Cause, you know, this doesn’t sound like my boy. Eric’s actually the honorable type.”

  “Well, maybe you don’t know him all that well,” Goldie snapped. “We met at the club. I asked how you were doing. We talked for a bit. And then he asked me to his place.”

  “Where he raped you.”

  “Yes.”

  “On his bed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Goldilocks—”

  “I’ve told you not to call me that!”

  “Fine, Goldie. Just answer me one thing.”

  “What?” she barked.

  “What the fuck were you doing going home with Eric and getting on his bed in the first place?”

  Goldie felt her blood freeze in her veins; the rest drained from her face. She tried talking; she opened her mouth unsure of what she was even about to say.

  “Baby—”

  “Hear tell, girlie,” he interrupted, “the ghetto trash who come to that club have been paying top dollar to see you shake your ass, and you don’t even think to say no.”

  “But, baby—”

  “So I’m not entirely surprised to hear you went home with my boy. What did he do, offer you a cookie?” The hall echoed with derisive laughter, chilling her to the bone.

  “Baby,” Goldie shook her heard fervently, “you know I-I’d never—”

  “You know, girlie, you really are Goldilocks,” Aryan chuckled lightly. “‘This one’s too big, that one’s too blond’—you’re probably looking for the one that’s just right.”

  Goldie was frozen in terror, not even able to speak.

  “Well, I’ll help you find that right one, baby. I’ll help you right now.” He turned back to his scotch. “Strip.”

  She took one step back instead, and that made all of Aryan’s humor disappear.

  “Listen, Goldilocks,” he said curtly. “You can make this easy. You can strip, or you can just forget about leaving this place alive.” He turned to flash a razor sharp smile. “Just think of it as being back at work. We’ve got the smoke, the booze—and plenty of poles to go around.” Another ripple of cruel laughter swept through the warehouse. “Now we just need the naked girl. So, Goldie, strip.”

  After a painful pause which seemed to last an eternity, she shakily complied as hot tears slid down her face and dripped from her chin.

  “When you were screaming for Eric to stop, what position did he have you in?”

  Goldie’s reply came out in a tortured sob. “A-All f-fours.”

  “Get on that couch over there,” he ordered. He turned to his right. “Derek, you’re up first.”

  “How many were there total?” Dr. Marquez asked her gently. “Can you remember?”

  “Seven,” Goldie sniffed, as new tears streams down her face and stung bruises. “Maybe eight. I started to black out at one point. I tried to fight one off. Aryan let him beat my face. Whenever one was doing me, Aryan just kept the conversation flowing, like there wasn’t a woman crying in the background. He talked about music, movies, fucking characters from goddamn comic books. And whenever one finished, Aryan told another to take his place.” She looked squarely into Dr. Marquez’s dark eyes. “Are you sure nobody can find me here?”

  Dr. Marquez was only more than happy to indulge her once more.

  “Nobody, Goldie,” she said solemnly. “Nobody can find you here.”

  “I thought he loved me,” Goldie wept. “That’s why I felt guilty with Eric. That’s why I told him to stop. Because I thought Aryan loved me. He promised me anything I wanted, once he got the money. He said I was the kind of woman who deserved it. We used to be so intimate so many times, and I made him happy every time—how could he do this?”

  “Love is not measured in things, Goldie,” Dr. Marquez tried to explain. “And true intimacy goes beyond lovemaking. It is difficult at times to tell the difference, especially when someone we care for tells us everything we want to hear.”

  She leaned in, and her jasmine perfume reached across the dark wooden desk, seductively lulling. Goldie looked at her, suddenly in awe.

  “Here at the shelter,” Dr. Marquez assured her, “you will learn in group, and individual therapy, how to tell the difference. But only if you are willing. I understand you have a job. I will understand if you want to get back to your life.”

  You mean the one where I take my clothes off for anyone with a buck?

  “I want to stay,” Goldie replied immediately. “I want a new life.”

  The Ice Princess

  Around an hour after Shoelace dropped his bomb and left, Eric Quisling decided to go to the Wells’ ball.

  According to the papers, the meet and greet started at seven-thirty in some “rarely used” place called the Roman Room at the university library. They probably wouldn’t start breaking out the good stuff until eight or eight-thirty. Eric estimated the polite drinking and getting-to-know-you would go on for another half-hour. As long as he was back at his place waiting for Derek by ten, he was good to go.

  The more he thought about going, the more he convinced himself it was a good idea. Eric planned to have more girls at his apartment. He planned to get at least six hours of solid rest a day. He planned to go on with his life for as long as possible, and he didn’t need visions of “Lilith” poisoning it. What he needed was to confront her.

  He showered, spiked his hair, put on ripped black jeans and a clean gray hoodie he almost never wore because it was so plain. He stripped off his swastika necklace and made sure no other Nazi insignia was showing. He didn’t want to get the cops called on him before he got a chance to talk to he
r.

  Eric didn’t tell the guys where he was going; it simply would not bode for well for him if he did. Explaining wouldn’t help either, because none of them would understand what he was going through.

  It was strange to walk around town in daylight alone. His crew was all he’d known for years now, and they usually moved around town at night. They always had their symbols blazing, warning anyone away from messing with them. But now, he was alone, and instead of standing out, he just blended right back into the population.

  He smelled the daytime world; he smelled women’s perfumes and heard the sounds of children laughing in the streets. People, all kinds of people, gave him polite nods of greeting as they passed him by, and to his dismay, he found himself instinctively nodding back.

  He reached the Annabelle Jean Justice Library shortly after sunset, and looked into its large clear windows. He’d never paid much attention to Cherrywood Catholic University. It was a rich kids’ school, and even back when he’d been a bookworm he never deluded himself into thinking he would ever so much as see the inside of this library.

  And that’s exactly what his confrontation was going to be about. He didn’t care about the woman from Cheshire Avenue. He didn’t care if her name was Lilith. He wasn’t interested in who she was or what she thought of him. He didn’t want any part of her world and he was going to let her know this tonight.

  At least, that was the plan. Because once he found a window which peeked into the Roman Room, Eric stopped.

  There was a grand golden staircase to the farthest side of the room; its stairs were draped in a long, wide red carpet. Golden and crystal chandeliers hung high above it.

  The Roman Room was an opulent chamber with red carpets and matching drapes of heavy velvet. There were marble statues, busts, vases, and paintings depicting people he only vaguely remembered reading about when he was a kid. In the center of the room, caterers were setting up a pyramid of glasses. Further back, an orchestra—a friggin’ orchestra—was setting up. Guests flowed in from a nearby door, and Eric noticed every man wore a tux and every woman an evening gown. He quickly recognized Lilith’s younger sister from her newspaper picture; she wore a classy strapless dress of pastel green and golden embroidery. He watched her walk over to hug her father. The two spoke for a moment, before the dad stopped the conversation and pointed.