Jane? I see him mouth in confusion. I let my smile widen to a grin. I let him see my pure, heartfelt joy. I hope he’ll remember this smile for the rest of his life. Then I wave and turn to walk away.
As I reach the door, I hear a dozen more phones buzz. My email dings. I head to my vehicle and start the engine.
Safe in the warmth of my big black SUV, I listen to the last audio file. Hepsworth Family Values Part Three is a real barn burner.
Is that Pastor Hepsworth, our Pastor Hepsworth, telling a woman to lie down on his desk? My God, is he praying for her as he takes her in his church office? Is she . . . ? Oh my God, is she calling him Daddy and begging for forgiveness for her sins?
I giggle over that. I’d really played that part up, and he’d loved it, groaning and growling with pleasure at my subservience, calling me his sweet girl as he pounded me. My performance sounds so sincere. I do my best work when I know there’s an audience. And what an audience it is.
A woman bolts from the church, sobbing. She’s the only one fleeing so far. Most of them will stick around for quite a while to watch this play out.
It’s not every day you get to see a man destroyed. It’s not every day you get to watch a whole family burn. This isn’t one isolated incident. This isn’t a simple transgression that can be forgiven.
I roll down my window. The music has stopped. Now the church rumbles as if boulders are tumbling through it. It’s the sound of a mob.
I sit in my car and watch for a long time. People begin to drift out, all of them upset and angry and betrayed. Even some of the men are crying.
I hear shouting through the glass. The children’s Bible study classes are led out to the grassy area beside the church as if a fire alarm has gone off. The teachers want to get them far away from the flames of scandal. They lead the kids in a round of “Jesus Loves Me,” but then one of the teachers breaks into sobs and runs back inside. The children grow quiet for a moment until they’re finally allowed to wander over to the church playground.
When a few more worshippers bolt through the vestibule doors into the parking lot, I decide to leave before the traffic gets too bad.
My work here is finally done.
CHAPTER 48
Steven is crying again. I pop a room service nacho into my mouth and put my feet up on the hotel desk to watch tiny Steven on my monitor as he paces around his kitchen island.
“I told you I don’t know!” he yells into his phone. “She’s just someone I met at work. I don’t know why she would do this! I went to her place, and I . . . I think it’s empty. I think maybe . . .”
Steven rubs his face, then shakes his head as the person on the other end of the line says something. “I know. I know. Just . . . will you please ask Dad to call me? He won’t answer my calls and I . . . I . . . I don’t know how he is. Ted, please! Please, I was drunk and I didn’t know what I was saying. Please!”
He slides down to the floor and curls up into a ball to sob. I guess Ted didn’t have anything helpful to contribute.
I turn off the sound and watch Steven lie in a heap for a few minutes before he pushes himself up and stumbles to the fridge for another beer. I pick through the last of my nachos with a sigh. It’s not that I’m not enjoying myself, but it’s been three days, and his weeping is getting a little boring.
All I’ve thought about for months is getting revenge, and now I have it.
On Monday, Steven’s company suggested he take a leave of absence. I’m not sure they have grounds to fire him, but there’s no doubt they won’t let him come back. No one wants to look a man in the face after they’ve listened to him get a blow job and brag about sleeping with his stepmom.
On Tuesday he kept leaving the house and then returning. Leaving and returning. It seems he was driving to his father’s house, but no one would answer the door. He apparently stopped by my apartment as well, but the lights aren’t on and no one is home. I like to imagine him banging on the door and furiously screaming my name. I hope the old barfly down the hall read him the riot act and told him to get lost.
It’s Wednesday now and I guess I’ve seen all I need to see. Amazingly he doesn’t seem to suspect that there might be cameras in his house. The audio files really fooled him. Any American can make a secret recording on a smartphone these days. Privacy is an illusion, and people have accepted that, though it hasn’t made them any more discreet. Please see recordings number one, two, and three.
What I’ve done is nothing close to murder, but I’ve still braced myself for some sort of danger. Minnesota is a one-party-consent state for recording, but I assume I could be charged with other minor crimes, like stalking or fraud. Invasion of privacy. Even revenge porn, if they’ve put that on the books yet. But if anyone has called the police, I haven’t heard about it. Maybe the Hepsworths don’t want more attention. If this went to trial, it would be a huge national hit.
So now I’m feeling a little . . . deflated. I’m not sure what to do with myself.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m satisfied. It’s not quite an eye for an eye, but it’s darn close.
On the monitor, Steven puts his phone to his ear. I turn the sound back on in time to hear him rasp my name. “Jane? You’d better call me back, you evil bitch. Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Why did you do this?” He hangs up and starts crying again.
I blow him a kiss. “That was all for Meg, sweetie. Love you bunches.” That was how Meg always signed off on emails. I guess Steven never noticed.
I want to tell him. I desperately want him to know that this was all for Meg. I would have if I’d stabbed him in the woods. I’d have whispered it in his ear over and over again. But I’ve let him live, and now I can’t offer him the relief of knowing.
Because it would be a relief. To know who I was and why I did it. Steven would be able to blame it all on Meg. Hang another sign on her corpse and tell himself that none of this was his fault. It was all that crazy bitch Meg and her crazy bitch friend.
No, this way is better. Let him wonder for the rest of his life. Let him look into every shadow and worry I’m waiting to hurt him again. Let him believe that any woman might destroy him at any time.
I’ll know I did it all for Meg and that will have to be enough.
Meg.
I still miss her. Revenge hasn’t eased that. I guess I hoped I might wake up Monday morning and feel better. But every morning I wake up and she is still gone and I am still hollow.
I haven’t eased the terrible loss. I haven’t made that better. Is there any way to do that? I know what other people do. Is that the secret? To pretend to grieve like a real person?
I close the laptop and grab my coat and keys. This is something I didn’t want to do, which means I should probably do it.
It only takes fifteen minutes to get to my destination. She’s been so close this whole time.
I park along the narrow, twisting road and walk between stones and trees until I come to her grave. The marker is tiny. I guess there wasn’t money for anything grand. I should have thought of that. I should have offered to pay for something pretty.
Megan Peterson, beloved daughter.
I wish it said more. I wish it sang her praises. That she was pretty, yes, but that her smile made her absolutely glow. That she was kind to everyone, even those of us who were broken. That she never tired of helping her friends, though she finally grew too tired to save herself.
“I miss you,” I say. Then I stand silent.
I don’t believe in prayer. I know she’s not listening. I have no idea why I’ve come. Still, I stand there for a long time. I think maybe I’ll cry, but I don’t. It’s just me, alone, empty as ever.
“Meg,” I finally whisper. “It’s not what you would have wanted, but I made him pay for hurting you. I made him hurt too. Because I love you, Meg. I know I love you. You’re all I ever had.”
Meg doesn’t answer, and I’m empty and dry.