The Wish Collector
Page 58
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What the hell was this?
Jonah stopped scrolling when he saw a face he recognized. Holy shit. Was that . . . he squinted, drawing the phone closer. It looked like . . . he couldn’t be sure, the photo was blurred and from a strange angle, but he swore it looked like Judge Rowland, the man who’d presided over the Murray Ridgley case. Jonah dragged his fingers through his hair, holding his scalp for a moment as his mind raced.
When he opened one of the individual shots, he saw that Amanda had titled it with his first initial and last name. Each photo was like that, even the ones of the men he didn’t recognize.
She had kept proof of each sexual interaction with these men, each picture titled with a name and a date. What was this? Had Amanda Kershaw been planning to blackmail them?
Completely confused, his gut churning with anxiety, Jonah scrolled through the last of the pictures, stopping immediately when he recognized another face. Shock hit Jonah. The acidic smell of his own sweat filled his nostrils. Holy shit.
It was Murray Ridgley, the man who had been accused of raping Amanda and attempting to murder her. But these pictures told another story. These pictures said in no uncertain terms that she’d been with him willingly . . . at least at some point. She had lied on the witness stand. Why?
Jonah opened the texts again, going back to the address at the beginning of the string with the unknown, K. He didn’t recognize the street name, nor know why the word Vortex was spelled out below it, but he brought his own phone out and typed the location into his GPS.
It looked to be in an industrial area of New Orleans and was only about twenty minutes from Jonah. It had been almost nine years since that text was sent, and chances were, going to that address would lead to nothing, especially if it was some empty warehouse where she’d met a drug dealer. But it was Thursday, so he knew where he was heading.
**********
The rumble of his motorcycle idled away to silence, Jonah taking a moment to look around before he slowly lifted his leg over the bike, removing his helmet and donning the mask.
The night was cold and still, a metallic smell hanging in the air. The massive building in front of him, once some sort of shipping warehouse, was dark and deserted, or so he thought until he saw a light move slowly past one of the windows as though it’d come from a hallway beyond, illumination of some sort slipping under the doorway for a brief moment.
He moved toward the building, looking around. There were no other cars in the parking lot, but if he strained his ears, he swore he could hear music coming from somewhere close by, the steady pulse of bass threading through him and matching his quickened heartbeat.
When he reached the entrance, he knocked on the heavy metal door, three loud raps that echoed in the emptiness. He didn’t really expect anyone to answer, so when the door was pulled open moments later, Jonah startled, stepping away as a large man with long black hair pulled into a low ponytail filled the doorway. He peered out at Jonah, nodding once as he took in his mask. “Password?”
Fuck. But then he remembered the random word that had been spelled out under the address. “Last I was here, it was vortex.”
The man raised a brow. “Man, that was years ago. No one even wore masks back then.” He nodded to Jonah’s covered face. “Who invited you?”
“Rowland.”
The man narrowed his eyes slightly but then nodded, opening the door wider so Jonah could enter. “Have fun.”
Something in the bouncer’s tone caused Jonah to pause, but then he nodded, moving into the dark interior of the building.
“And hey,” the guy called, looking out at the parking lot, “if that’s your bike, park it in the back next time.”
Jonah didn’t bother to answer, walking down the hallway lit only by weak lights along the baseboards.
The bass grew louder, music pumping steadily as lights pulsed from a room beyond. Jonah had the sense that he was entering a dream, or a nightmare perhaps, something dark and unknown that already felt disconnected from reality.
“The good stuff’s that way tonight,” a man said, startling Jonah as he walked past. He was wearing a mask, something black and white and distorted that Jonah didn’t get a good enough look at to identify before the man was moving away from him.
Jonah walked in the direction the man had pointed, pushing the door open to the room with the pulsing lights.
There were four different groups, naked or half-dressed women in the center of each, men performing various sexual acts on them, some, one at a time, and others, in tandem.
Jonah was briefly stunned, his eyes moving everywhere, taking in this scene. A masked orgy? Some type of exclusive sex club?
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting, he noticed that the girls looked very young, maybe not underage but very close to it. And they all looked mostly zonked out, not necessarily finding enjoyment in what was happening to them, but then, not protesting either.
Jonah felt sickened, confused. This place, the dim lighting, the bright red walls, it was the background of the photos on Amanda Kershaw’s phone. She had been one of these girls. She’d photographed it, obviously before the men began wearing masks as they did now. He could see how easy it would have been to slip a phone out of a robe pocket like the silky black one the redhead in the corner was wearing. To snap a shot, to record what happened.
“Join us,” a hand slinked around Jonah’s waist, dipping toward his groin and then pulling away as a blonde girl walked past him, her eyes foggy and half closed, three masked men in tow.
Jonah waited for them to pass by and then turned, exiting the room and heading in the opposite direction from where he’d entered.
He passed by room after room, sounds of music and sex coming from beyond, the sounds of both pleasure and what he thought to be pain. He heard noises he couldn’t identify, the slashing of a whip maybe, chain running over a concrete floor.
He moved faster through the dark labyrinth, finally spotting a double metal door and pushing through it, out into a back parking lot, his breath bursting from his lungs right before he sucked in another.
What the fuck was that? And what did Murray Ridgley have to do with it? Judge Rowland? His own brother maybe? His mind was spinning in a million different directions, and he wanted answers, answers he knew had to be on Amanda’s phone if he could figure out how the evidence fit together.
He walked around the side of the building, heading for his motorcycle as he pulled out the flip phone. He scrolled to the text identified only as K and dialed the number as he strode toward his ride.
A woman answered on the second ring. “Knowles residence, May I help you?”
Holy fuck.
Knowles.
He knew the name well, because once upon a time, that man had hired him, had welcomed him to his firm.
CHAPTER THIRTY
November, 1861
Angelina entered the parlor where she’d been summoned, a dishtowel still in her hands. The sweet, yeasty scent of baking bread followed her from the kitchen. “Yes, Mrs. Chamberlain?”
Mrs. Chamberlain rose from where she’d been sitting, a man standing along with her. He turned and Angelina blinked. He looked like John, only he was thinner, the bridge of his nose narrower, his eyes more deep-set . . . Still, the resemblance made her heart flip in her chest, and her grip tighten on the towel in her hands.
“Angelina, this is Mr. Lawrence Whitfield. He’s come bearing correspondence for you.”
“C-correspondence?” Angelina whispered, a tremor of hope and fear shimmering through her. Was it from John? And if so, why would he expose their relationship by writing to her directly? That wasn’t safe.
Mr. Whitfield gave her a thin smile, taking the few steps to where she stood as he removed a letter from his pocket. “My brother, John, asked that I give this to you. It came in a bundle of mail for our family.”
Angelina reached for the letter but Lawrence pulled it back. “John explained that you’re unable to read. He asked that I read it to you.”
Her eyes met his, her heart beating wildly. She didn’t know how to read this man’s expression, this stranger, and she felt so weak with anxiety, that for a moment all she could do was stare. “Al-all right. Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Whitfield unfolded the letter and Angelina felt a gasp of joy rise in her throat when she saw the handwriting. She swallowed it down with effort, watching as Mr. Whitfield donned a pair of spectacles.
Jonah stopped scrolling when he saw a face he recognized. Holy shit. Was that . . . he squinted, drawing the phone closer. It looked like . . . he couldn’t be sure, the photo was blurred and from a strange angle, but he swore it looked like Judge Rowland, the man who’d presided over the Murray Ridgley case. Jonah dragged his fingers through his hair, holding his scalp for a moment as his mind raced.
When he opened one of the individual shots, he saw that Amanda had titled it with his first initial and last name. Each photo was like that, even the ones of the men he didn’t recognize.
She had kept proof of each sexual interaction with these men, each picture titled with a name and a date. What was this? Had Amanda Kershaw been planning to blackmail them?
Completely confused, his gut churning with anxiety, Jonah scrolled through the last of the pictures, stopping immediately when he recognized another face. Shock hit Jonah. The acidic smell of his own sweat filled his nostrils. Holy shit.
It was Murray Ridgley, the man who had been accused of raping Amanda and attempting to murder her. But these pictures told another story. These pictures said in no uncertain terms that she’d been with him willingly . . . at least at some point. She had lied on the witness stand. Why?
Jonah opened the texts again, going back to the address at the beginning of the string with the unknown, K. He didn’t recognize the street name, nor know why the word Vortex was spelled out below it, but he brought his own phone out and typed the location into his GPS.
It looked to be in an industrial area of New Orleans and was only about twenty minutes from Jonah. It had been almost nine years since that text was sent, and chances were, going to that address would lead to nothing, especially if it was some empty warehouse where she’d met a drug dealer. But it was Thursday, so he knew where he was heading.
**********
The rumble of his motorcycle idled away to silence, Jonah taking a moment to look around before he slowly lifted his leg over the bike, removing his helmet and donning the mask.
The night was cold and still, a metallic smell hanging in the air. The massive building in front of him, once some sort of shipping warehouse, was dark and deserted, or so he thought until he saw a light move slowly past one of the windows as though it’d come from a hallway beyond, illumination of some sort slipping under the doorway for a brief moment.
He moved toward the building, looking around. There were no other cars in the parking lot, but if he strained his ears, he swore he could hear music coming from somewhere close by, the steady pulse of bass threading through him and matching his quickened heartbeat.
When he reached the entrance, he knocked on the heavy metal door, three loud raps that echoed in the emptiness. He didn’t really expect anyone to answer, so when the door was pulled open moments later, Jonah startled, stepping away as a large man with long black hair pulled into a low ponytail filled the doorway. He peered out at Jonah, nodding once as he took in his mask. “Password?”
Fuck. But then he remembered the random word that had been spelled out under the address. “Last I was here, it was vortex.”
The man raised a brow. “Man, that was years ago. No one even wore masks back then.” He nodded to Jonah’s covered face. “Who invited you?”
“Rowland.”
The man narrowed his eyes slightly but then nodded, opening the door wider so Jonah could enter. “Have fun.”
Something in the bouncer’s tone caused Jonah to pause, but then he nodded, moving into the dark interior of the building.
“And hey,” the guy called, looking out at the parking lot, “if that’s your bike, park it in the back next time.”
Jonah didn’t bother to answer, walking down the hallway lit only by weak lights along the baseboards.
The bass grew louder, music pumping steadily as lights pulsed from a room beyond. Jonah had the sense that he was entering a dream, or a nightmare perhaps, something dark and unknown that already felt disconnected from reality.
“The good stuff’s that way tonight,” a man said, startling Jonah as he walked past. He was wearing a mask, something black and white and distorted that Jonah didn’t get a good enough look at to identify before the man was moving away from him.
Jonah walked in the direction the man had pointed, pushing the door open to the room with the pulsing lights.
There were four different groups, naked or half-dressed women in the center of each, men performing various sexual acts on them, some, one at a time, and others, in tandem.
Jonah was briefly stunned, his eyes moving everywhere, taking in this scene. A masked orgy? Some type of exclusive sex club?
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting, he noticed that the girls looked very young, maybe not underage but very close to it. And they all looked mostly zonked out, not necessarily finding enjoyment in what was happening to them, but then, not protesting either.
Jonah felt sickened, confused. This place, the dim lighting, the bright red walls, it was the background of the photos on Amanda Kershaw’s phone. She had been one of these girls. She’d photographed it, obviously before the men began wearing masks as they did now. He could see how easy it would have been to slip a phone out of a robe pocket like the silky black one the redhead in the corner was wearing. To snap a shot, to record what happened.
“Join us,” a hand slinked around Jonah’s waist, dipping toward his groin and then pulling away as a blonde girl walked past him, her eyes foggy and half closed, three masked men in tow.
Jonah waited for them to pass by and then turned, exiting the room and heading in the opposite direction from where he’d entered.
He passed by room after room, sounds of music and sex coming from beyond, the sounds of both pleasure and what he thought to be pain. He heard noises he couldn’t identify, the slashing of a whip maybe, chain running over a concrete floor.
He moved faster through the dark labyrinth, finally spotting a double metal door and pushing through it, out into a back parking lot, his breath bursting from his lungs right before he sucked in another.
What the fuck was that? And what did Murray Ridgley have to do with it? Judge Rowland? His own brother maybe? His mind was spinning in a million different directions, and he wanted answers, answers he knew had to be on Amanda’s phone if he could figure out how the evidence fit together.
He walked around the side of the building, heading for his motorcycle as he pulled out the flip phone. He scrolled to the text identified only as K and dialed the number as he strode toward his ride.
A woman answered on the second ring. “Knowles residence, May I help you?”
Holy fuck.
Knowles.
He knew the name well, because once upon a time, that man had hired him, had welcomed him to his firm.
CHAPTER THIRTY
November, 1861
Angelina entered the parlor where she’d been summoned, a dishtowel still in her hands. The sweet, yeasty scent of baking bread followed her from the kitchen. “Yes, Mrs. Chamberlain?”
Mrs. Chamberlain rose from where she’d been sitting, a man standing along with her. He turned and Angelina blinked. He looked like John, only he was thinner, the bridge of his nose narrower, his eyes more deep-set . . . Still, the resemblance made her heart flip in her chest, and her grip tighten on the towel in her hands.
“Angelina, this is Mr. Lawrence Whitfield. He’s come bearing correspondence for you.”
“C-correspondence?” Angelina whispered, a tremor of hope and fear shimmering through her. Was it from John? And if so, why would he expose their relationship by writing to her directly? That wasn’t safe.
Mr. Whitfield gave her a thin smile, taking the few steps to where she stood as he removed a letter from his pocket. “My brother, John, asked that I give this to you. It came in a bundle of mail for our family.”
Angelina reached for the letter but Lawrence pulled it back. “John explained that you’re unable to read. He asked that I read it to you.”
Her eyes met his, her heart beating wildly. She didn’t know how to read this man’s expression, this stranger, and she felt so weak with anxiety, that for a moment all she could do was stare. “Al-all right. Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Whitfield unfolded the letter and Angelina felt a gasp of joy rise in her throat when she saw the handwriting. She swallowed it down with effort, watching as Mr. Whitfield donned a pair of spectacles.
