After Eleanor turned twenty, things got even more interesting. For some reason, instead of seeing a GP or an ob-gyn on a regular basis, Eleanor Schreiber went to a Dr. Jonas for all her all her medical issues. Dr. William Jonas, an internist at Central in Connecticut. And for a young woman who didn’t participate in organized sports, Eleanor seemed to acquire a shocking number of minor injuries—a sprained wrist, a bruised rib, even vaginal tearing. To Suzanne they seemed to be clear signs that Eleanor Schreiber had been in a physically abusive relationship in her twenties. And yet Dr. Jonas merely treated his patient, took the most perfunctory of notes and sent her on her way without ever calling the police or an abuse counselor. It seemed a shocking oversight on his part.
Suzanne turned another page in the file. Her hands shook as she read. To herself she whispered, “Nora Sutherlin…you bad Catholic…”
Age twenty-seven, Eleanor Schreiber had gotten pregnant. And Catholic or not, the pregnancy ended quickly with a prescription for RU-486. After that, the medical file ended. No more injuries, no more visits to Dr. Jonas. Nothing.
Nothing…which is what Suzanne had on Father Stearns.
Kingsley Edge said go visit the sister—the one she didn’t want to see. She knew Father Stearns had a sister in Denmark. He’d told her that night at the rectory. Surely Kingsley didn’t mean her—that would be one hell of a research trip. So that left Claire or Elizabeth.
She’d researched Claire last night. Lovely woman about Nora Sutherlin’s age—a rich Manhattan socialite, no husband, no kids, no scandals. As a war correspondent, Suzanne did really hate talking to socialites. Maybe that’s what Kingsley meant. But then she’d looked into Elizabeth. Her very first Google hit on Elizabeth Stearns revealed one vital and terrifying fact. Despite also being exceedingly well-off, Elizabeth Stearns had a real job. She worked as a therapist for victims of childhood sexual abuse.
The very phrase created aching knots in Suzanne’s stomach and a thousand memories of Adam came crashing to the forefront of her mind. After his suicide, the revelation of the abuse he’d suffered from their priest had tainted every memory of him. Every recollection of him from after the age of nine—Adam’s goofy grin in his graduation photo, the day he pushed her in the pool on her twentieth birthday, the pride in his voice when she’d come home from her first assignment in the Middle East, alive and triumphant—was blighted by the knowledge that every grin had been a fake, every laugh a mask. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the day with a woman who worked with victims of sex abuse.
Suzanne closed the file as she reached her stop. In ten minutes she had her rental car. In fifteen minutes she was on the road to New Hampshire.
In four hours, she was there.
* * *
After a huge dinner in the dining room on Griffin’s anal table, the three of them—Griffin, Nora and Michael—adjourned to the living room. Nora threw confetti everywhere in honor of Griffin’s six years clean and sober while Michael sat in near silence on the leather sofa and watched Griffin and Nora do some ridiculous dirty dancing on top of the coffee table. Michael wanted to join in the celebration, would have joined in, but Griffin’s threat from earlier that Michael too would be getting tattooed that night had put him into hardcore freak-out mode. His sexuality he could hide more or less. At least he could keep the submission and the attraction to guys a secret from his mom. But a tattoo? That’s not something one could keep in the bedroom.
A little after five, the doorbell rang and Griffin commanded Jamison to answer it, which he did only after calling Griffin a “well-arranged waste of molecules.”
Griffin’s butler returned with a leggy, purpled-haired woman at his side who had elaborate tattoos running up and down both her muscular arms. Dark green vine tattoos ran across her ample cle**age and climbed up her neck—the tip of the top vine ended in the hollow behind her multi-pierced ears.
“Griffin Fiske, you dirty whore. One more year again?” she asked in a Scottish accent.
“Spike…don’t pretend you didn’t miss me.”
“Don’t have to pretend.” She slapped Griffin hard on the biceps, hard enough Michael flinched in sympathy. But Griffin only grinned.
“Nora, Michael. This is Spike. She does my ink for me. Best in the business.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Nora said, shaking Spike’s hand. “You do gorgeous work.”
“And you have gorgeous skin,” Spike said, making a circuit around Nora. “Would look better with ink on it.”
Nora sat on the couch and picked up the edits on her books she’d been working on all day.
“I would love a tattoo. Big-ass Jabberwocky all over my back. But my priest doesn’t allow me to get anything weird done to my body.”
Griffin rolled his eyes while he stripped out of his shirt and sat two chairs side by side.
“Nora, you have your clit hood pierced,” Griffin reminded her.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But who do you think did that?” She put on her glasses, pulled her hair into a bun that she secured with a pen, instantly transforming herself into Writing Nora, the only version of Nora Michael found sexier than Dominatrix Nora.
“Father S did your piercing?” Michael’s mouth went suddenly dry.
Nora only shrugged as she turned a page in her notes.
“You celebrate Valentine’s Day in your way and we’ll celebrate it in ours. Carry on.”
Suzanne turned another page in the file. Her hands shook as she read. To herself she whispered, “Nora Sutherlin…you bad Catholic…”
Age twenty-seven, Eleanor Schreiber had gotten pregnant. And Catholic or not, the pregnancy ended quickly with a prescription for RU-486. After that, the medical file ended. No more injuries, no more visits to Dr. Jonas. Nothing.
Nothing…which is what Suzanne had on Father Stearns.
Kingsley Edge said go visit the sister—the one she didn’t want to see. She knew Father Stearns had a sister in Denmark. He’d told her that night at the rectory. Surely Kingsley didn’t mean her—that would be one hell of a research trip. So that left Claire or Elizabeth.
She’d researched Claire last night. Lovely woman about Nora Sutherlin’s age—a rich Manhattan socialite, no husband, no kids, no scandals. As a war correspondent, Suzanne did really hate talking to socialites. Maybe that’s what Kingsley meant. But then she’d looked into Elizabeth. Her very first Google hit on Elizabeth Stearns revealed one vital and terrifying fact. Despite also being exceedingly well-off, Elizabeth Stearns had a real job. She worked as a therapist for victims of childhood sexual abuse.
The very phrase created aching knots in Suzanne’s stomach and a thousand memories of Adam came crashing to the forefront of her mind. After his suicide, the revelation of the abuse he’d suffered from their priest had tainted every memory of him. Every recollection of him from after the age of nine—Adam’s goofy grin in his graduation photo, the day he pushed her in the pool on her twentieth birthday, the pride in his voice when she’d come home from her first assignment in the Middle East, alive and triumphant—was blighted by the knowledge that every grin had been a fake, every laugh a mask. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the day with a woman who worked with victims of sex abuse.
Suzanne closed the file as she reached her stop. In ten minutes she had her rental car. In fifteen minutes she was on the road to New Hampshire.
In four hours, she was there.
* * *
After a huge dinner in the dining room on Griffin’s anal table, the three of them—Griffin, Nora and Michael—adjourned to the living room. Nora threw confetti everywhere in honor of Griffin’s six years clean and sober while Michael sat in near silence on the leather sofa and watched Griffin and Nora do some ridiculous dirty dancing on top of the coffee table. Michael wanted to join in the celebration, would have joined in, but Griffin’s threat from earlier that Michael too would be getting tattooed that night had put him into hardcore freak-out mode. His sexuality he could hide more or less. At least he could keep the submission and the attraction to guys a secret from his mom. But a tattoo? That’s not something one could keep in the bedroom.
A little after five, the doorbell rang and Griffin commanded Jamison to answer it, which he did only after calling Griffin a “well-arranged waste of molecules.”
Griffin’s butler returned with a leggy, purpled-haired woman at his side who had elaborate tattoos running up and down both her muscular arms. Dark green vine tattoos ran across her ample cle**age and climbed up her neck—the tip of the top vine ended in the hollow behind her multi-pierced ears.
“Griffin Fiske, you dirty whore. One more year again?” she asked in a Scottish accent.
“Spike…don’t pretend you didn’t miss me.”
“Don’t have to pretend.” She slapped Griffin hard on the biceps, hard enough Michael flinched in sympathy. But Griffin only grinned.
“Nora, Michael. This is Spike. She does my ink for me. Best in the business.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Nora said, shaking Spike’s hand. “You do gorgeous work.”
“And you have gorgeous skin,” Spike said, making a circuit around Nora. “Would look better with ink on it.”
Nora sat on the couch and picked up the edits on her books she’d been working on all day.
“I would love a tattoo. Big-ass Jabberwocky all over my back. But my priest doesn’t allow me to get anything weird done to my body.”
Griffin rolled his eyes while he stripped out of his shirt and sat two chairs side by side.
“Nora, you have your clit hood pierced,” Griffin reminded her.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But who do you think did that?” She put on her glasses, pulled her hair into a bun that she secured with a pen, instantly transforming herself into Writing Nora, the only version of Nora Michael found sexier than Dominatrix Nora.
“Father S did your piercing?” Michael’s mouth went suddenly dry.
Nora only shrugged as she turned a page in her notes.
“You celebrate Valentine’s Day in your way and we’ll celebrate it in ours. Carry on.”
