Authors: Devon Scott

Obsessed (7 page)

BOOK: Obsessed

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Chapter 14

Later on that night, the three of them—Michael, Kennedy, and Zack—have just finished dinner and are cleaning up. Michael places the dishes in the dishwasher, Kennedy puts their leftovers away in Tupperware, while Zack washes off the table as best as a seven-year-old can. He quickly retires to the family room to sit cross-legged in front of the plasma. Michael goes to the den, where he finds a message waiting on the computer.

It’s from Makayla.

He scans it quickly and grins.

“Sweetie,” he yells, “we got an e-mail from Makayla.” Kennedy has her laptop on the coffee table booting up. Her head comes up, and she stops what she’s doing.

“Oh, really?” She glances at Zack, who is deep into the Disney Channel, and walks into the den to find her husband at the computer. She comes up behind him and reads over his shoulder.

K & L—Just a quick note to say just how much I enjoyed meeting the two of you this weekend. I must admit I thoroughly enjoyed our encounter and spent the rest of the weekend recalling one delicious detail after another. I hope our paths will cross soon, as you’ve whetted my appetite for more.

If you don’t mind, I’d love a copy of the photos we took. Thanks.

All the best,

Michael glances at his wife to read her reaction.

“That was nice of her. I had planned on e-mailing her later on this evening.”

“Do you want to respond?” he asks. Kennedy gestures for him to give up the chair. She sits, clicks Reply, and begins to type:

M—We, too, were delighted to meet you. We enjoyed ourselves immensely and are anxious to get together again. Perhaps Philly or B-More will work. Let’s check our schedules and figure something out!

Ciao,

She glances back at Michael, who has been reading over her shoulder. He nods his head in agreement. “Let me attach the pics.”

“Wait until I’m back in the family room so I can ensure our son isn’t going to pop in here.”

She kisses his forehead before exiting. Michael stares at the screen and smiles. His grin is erased as he recalls the message from last night.

FUCKERS. YOU AND THAT BITCH WILL REGRET FUCKING ME OVER.

For the tenth time, Michael ponders who could have sent the message to him, and why. A full day has gone by, and he’s heard nothing further from the sender. That brings him some level of comfort.

Michael turns his attention back to Makayla’s e-mails. The thought of the three of them getting together again stirs his loins.

You’ve whetted my appetite for more.

Us, too, Makayla. Us, too....

Michael attaches the photos to the e-mail.

He’s smiling as he clicks Send.

Chapter 15

Tuesday, midmorning.

Kennedy sits with her paralegal, Daniel, in the conference room at the National Association of Urban Development. Papers and law books are strewn across the expanse of table space as they confer, their legal pads filling with blue ink. Sunlight blazes in, warming the room. For a moment it’s just the back and forth between Kennedy and Daniel—relaxed and spirited. But then Kimberlyn, the association’s lone receptionist, scampers in breathlessly. There is a look of dread on her normally calm face. Without preamble she states, “Kennedy, come quick.” She tries to add some words but falters, so she closes her mouth. Kennedy’s entire body tenses, and her first thought is Zack, followed a millisecond later by Michael. Are they all right?

“What is it?” she asks, almost frantic, rising from the table and scooping up her BlackBerry. Kimberlyn’s eyes keep roving to Daniel, who has stopped writing and is sitting in stunned silence, waiting for further details.

“An e-mail. You need to see it.”

Kimberlyn holds the door open as Kennedy rushes out, telling Daniel to stay put. Out of earshot, she asks, “An e-mail? Concerning what?”

“You.” Kimberlyn’s eyes are downcast. Suddenly Kennedy is acutely aware of the stillness in the office. It’s as if work has ground to a halt. As she marches behind Kimberlyn to her office, she notices with a rising sense of dread that the staff is staring at her. Kennedy’s stomach knots around itself. Just what the hell is going on?

Kennedy’s office is in the corner of the building, a fifteen-second walk from the conference room. In that time Kimberlyn has maintained silence; the staff of about ten people is clocking her position the way an owl does its prey. She feels sick and has no idea why.

Kennedy reaches her office and stares at the computer screen. Kimberlyn closes the door and presses her back into the wood quietly. Her lips are mashed tightly together. Kennedy sits and calls up her e-mail, willing her hands to stop shaking. At the top of her in-box is a new message in red from a sender she does not recognize:

[email protected]. Subject:
Interesting.

Kennedy glances over at Kimberlyn, who in a whispery voice says, “Most of us at the association received it.” She pauses while Kennedy opens the e-mail and a gasp escapes from her lips. In the half second it takes for her eyes to lock on to the image that stops her heart cold, she knows she’s finished. Kennedy’s face goes white. She stabs at the mouse, shutting the offending window as she mouths to herself, “Oh my God!” Her hand is at her breasts as Kimberlyn clears her throat.

“I’m trying to track Reginald down. Perhaps he can delete it from the mail server, but . . . it may be too late.
Everyone’s
seen it.”

Kennedy is deteriorating; she witnesses it in her own reflection from the computer screen. The face staring back at her registers severe horror. An image is burned into her retinas: Kennedy’s nude form in the throes of heated lovemaking. The lover in the photo: another woman.

“I’m so sorry, Kennedy. I’ll do what I can to reach the IT guy.”

Kennedy doesn’t turn when Kimberlyn leaves, closing the door quickly behind her. She remains still in front of her computer, not breathing, as if catching the breath in her throat will somehow erase this obscene incident that has her doubled over in pain. A moment passes before she exhales. Then she calls up the offending e-mail.

There it is.

No text. Just three images, one atop another, all of her and the woman in vibrant color and crystal clear, completely nude and sexually explicit.

Nothing left to the imagination.

Old photos, close to four years ago, from an encounter she and Michael had with a woman in Belize. Kennedy hastily deletes the e-mail and turns to reach for her phone. A knock at the door breaks the cacophony inside her mind. She ignores the noise and instead speed-dials Michael. Her door opens and Jackson Blair, executive director of the association, walks in. His face is grave as he shuts the door behind him, taking a seat across from her.

He shakes his head morosely before speaking.

“This is bad.” Jackson lets the weight of his statement sink in before continuing. “As far as we can tell, the pictures have been mailed to a number of colleagues outside NAUD.”

“WHAT? HOW?” Kennedy is numb. Her entire body vibrates with fear.

“Unknown.” Jackson’s voice is steady. “We’re looking into that as we speak. The first order of business is damage control. Right now it’s got us shut down.”

“Oh God.” Her head is in her hands. Jackson stands.

“I’m sorry, Kennedy. Your personal business should be of no concern to us. But this”—he holds his hands wide and gestures toward the ceiling—“this . . . is
tricky
. As an attorney, you know better than most how these things can be misconstrued. So let us deal with it. Right now I need you to go home and wait to hear from me before doing anything rash. Okay?”

Kennedy is rising now, grabbing her purse, her BlackBerry, and her coat from the rack in the corner. She moves past Jackson, who pats her shoulder lightly, but the action does nothing to console her. He says nothing further. Words cannot comfort her now.

In an instant, Kennedy’s world has shattered.

She heads toward the stairs. It takes every ounce of strength she can muster to will her legs to move. All eyes are upon her.
It’s a dream,
Kennedy tells herself as she shuffles along the low gray carpet, eyes downcast, feeling the stares bore into her like deep puncture wounds.

It’s a nightmare, and the silence is deafening.

Chapter 16

The call goes immediately to voice mail. So Kennedy dials Michael’s work number instead. A receptionist picks up.

“Is he in?” Kennedy pants, seemingly out of breath.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Handley is in a meeting,” she says with a hint of attitude.

Kennedy is in no mood.

“This is his wife, and it’s an emergency. I need you to go get him out of the meeting. Now. I’ll hold.”

Kennedy drops her BlackBerry onto the passenger seat as she steers around a taxicab. It’s double-parked, most likely to pick up a fare. Amazingly, the taxi driver honks his horn, but Kennedy isn’t focused on that. She’s tapping her left hand on the steering wheel, counting the seconds until her husband comes on.

He gets on about three minutes later.

“Kennedy? What’s wrong?”

Michael hears his wife crying. “Baby? Talk to me!”

Kennedy blurts out, “My job received an e-mail with nude photos of me and that woman from Belize. Oh, Michael!”

“WHAT?” he yells in amazement. “An e-mail? From whom?” Michael closes the door to his office and takes a seat, calling up his work e-mail.

“I don’t know from whom. All I know is that it went to the entire fucking association!”

Michael’s e-mail is clean, as far as he can tell. No new messages. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“The pictures are of you and which girl?” he asks.

“The woman we met in Belize four years ago.”

“Jesus.” Michael’s mind is racing. He’s wondering who sent the photos. They’ve had zero contact with the woman. At least, he hasn’t had any contact with her.

“And you haven’t contacted her or her you?” he asks, immediately regretting the question.

“NO, Michael. I would have told you if there had been contact.
You
know that.”

“Okay. Let me think.”

He can’t even recall
her
name. Why would anyone send nude pictures to his wife’s job? Suddenly Michael remembers the e-mail that was waiting for him when they returned Sunday night. He feels his veins go ice cold.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Heading home. Jackson told me to leave. . . .”

“Oh fuck.”

Kennedy is suddenly racked with sobs. Her wailing comes through the phone loud and clear.

“Baby, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. We’ll figure this out.”

“Figure this out?” Kennedy retorts, wiping her face with the back of her hand, her makeup cascading down in rivers. It’s the least of her worries right now. “My fucking
career
is over, you get that?”

Michael swallows hard and shakes his head. Before he can respond, his wife’s voice is loud and cold. “I need you to meet me at home.” A second later she adds, “Now, Michael.”

Michael knows this is not a request.

He powers off his computer and heads for the door.

When Michael walks in the front door, Kennedy is waiting for him in the kitchen. She’s appears regal, standing in her pinstripe brown suit with her back to the island, a mug of hot tea in her hand, its wispy curling steam wafting upward. Michael kisses her perfunctorily, observes her unfocused, blank stare.

“We’re going to figure this out,” he says, rubbing her shoulder.

For a few seconds she is silent, as if she hasn’t heard him. Then her gaze rises to his as she asks, “Have you checked your e-mail?”

“Yeah. Nothing in mine. I was going to check AOL now.” Michael swallows hard and downshifts his gaze. The action does not go unnoticed.

“But?” Kennedy is staring at him.

“Nothing.”

“Michael. What?”

Should he have said something on Sunday about the hateful e-mail?

In retrospect, yes. But at the time, not saying anything seemed like the prudent thing to do.

He raises his stare to meet her own.

“I got an e-mail on Sunday from someone I don’t know. Something about ‘You and that bitch fucked me over.’ I deleted it.”

Kennedy takes a moment to process what has been said.

“It said what?”

“I don’t recall the exact words. Here—let’s see if it’s still in the trash.”

Michael walks into the den, followed closely by Kennedy. He sits, logs in to the desktop and clicks on the AOL icon. Moments later he’s staring at his in-box. No new messages other than spam. Michael opens the trash folder and finds the offending message.

No subject header. Sender: [email protected].

FUCKERS. YOU AND THAT BITCH WILL REGRET FUCKING ME OVER.

Kennedy leans toward the screen for a moment before straightening up.

“And you didn’t feel the need to share this with me . . . why?”

She is seething.

“Ken, I didn’t see the need to worry you. I thought it was a mistake. Meant for someone else.”

“And now? You still think it’s a mistake?”

Michael purses his lips, contemplating the question.

“Now I don’t know. We need to figure out who sent those pics.”

“You should have told me about the message, Michael.”

“Okay, Kennedy.”

“Where are our photos?” Her arms are folded tightly across her chest.