Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(65)

“Why short?”

“I wish you’d tell me why this matters to anyone. It was nearly fifteen years ago.”

“I wonder why it’s difficult for you to talk about it, after almost fifteen years.”

Now Felicity sat, picked up her coffee for a long, slow sip as she studied Eve. “What has he done?”

“What makes you think he’s done anything?”

“I’m a psychologist.” Both her face and her voice sharpened. “You and I can play cryptic all day long.”

“I can only tell you he’s connected to an investigation, and my partner and I are conducting background checks. Your name came up.”

“Well, as I said, I haven’t seen or spoken to him in a very long time.”

“Bad breakup?”

“Not particularly.” Her gaze shifted away from Eve’s. “We simply didn’t suit.”

“Why are you afraid of him?”

“I’ve no reason to be afraid of him.”

“Now?”

She re-angled in her chair. Stalling, Eve noted, trying to pick the right words, the right attitude.

“I don’t know that I had any reason to be afraid of him then. You’re not here because you’re doing simple background, because he’s connected to an investigation. You’re investigating him. I think it’s reasonable for me to know what and why before I tell you anything.”

“Two people are dead. Is that enough?”

Felicity closed her eyes, lifted a hand. Without a word, Anna moved over to sit on the arm of the chair, take that hand in hers.

“Yes.” She opened her eyes again. They stayed direct and steady as they met Eve’s. “Do I have any reason to be afraid of him, for myself, for my family?”

“I don’t believe so, but it’s hard to say when I don’t have the background between you and Dudley. He was at a dinner party in Greenwich a few nights ago,” Eve added. “A few miles from here. He didn’t contact you?”

“No. He’d have no reason to. I’d like it to stay that way.”

“Then help us out, Doctor VanWitt.” Peabody kept her voice low and soothing. “And we’ll do everything we can to make sure it does stay that way.”

“I was very young,” Felicity began. “And he was very charming, very handsome. I was absolutely dazzled. Swept off my feet, cliché or not. He pursued me and courted me. Flowers, gifts, poetry, attention. It wasn’t love on my part, I realized that after it ended. It was . . . thrall. He was, literally, everything a young woman could have wanted or asked for.”

She paused a moment. Not stalling now, Eve noted, but looking back. Remembering. “He didn’t love me. I realized that sooner than I realized my own feelings, but I wanted him to. Desperately. So I tried, as young women often do, to be what he wanted. He and I and Patrice and Sly went everywhere together. It was exciting, and God, so much fun. Weekends at Newport or the Côte d’Azur, an impromptu dinner trip to Paris. Anything and everything.”

She took a deep breath. “He was my first lover. I was naive and nervous, and he was very considerate. The first time. He wanted other things, things that made me uncomfortable. But he didn’t push, not overtly. Still, the longer we were together, the more I felt something off. Something . . . as if I’d catch a shadow or movement out of the corner of my eye, then turn and it would be gone. But I knew I’d seen it.”

She drank, cleared her throat. “He enjoyed illegals. Many did, and it was recreational. Or it seemed so. Then again, recreation was what he did, what we did, so there was always a little boost of something. And he did pressure me to use, to have fun, not to be so closed in.

“When he and Sly were together, there was a kind of wildness. And it was appealing at first, exciting at first. But then it got to be too much. Too fast, too hard, too wild because, at the core I wasn’t what I was trying to be.”

She paused, breathed, and on the arm of the chair Anna continued to sit. A silent wall of support.

“He started hurting me. Just a little, little accidents—accidents that left bruises, and I started to realize he liked to see me frightened. He’d always soothe me after, but I could see on his face he enjoyed frightening me—accidentally locking me in a dark room, or driving too fast, or holding me under just a bit too long when we went to the beach. And the sex got rough, too rough. Mean.”

She stared into her iced coffee for a long moment—remembering again, Eve thought—but her hand stayed steady as she lifted the glass to drink.

“He was so charming otherwise, and so smooth. For a time I thought it was me, that I was too closed in, not open enough to the new or the exciting. But . . .”

“You didn’t want what he wanted,” Eve prompted. “Or to do what he pressured you to do.”

“No, I didn’t. It just wasn’t me. I started to realize, more to accept, I was pretending to be something I wasn’t to please him and I knew I couldn’t keep it up. I didn’t want to keep it up,” she corrected. “Once I overheard him and Sly talking about it, laughing at me. I knew I had to break it off, but didn’t know how. My family adored him. He was so charming, so sweet, so perfect. Except for those movements out of the corner of the eye, except for the accidents. So I picked a fight with him, in public, because I was afraid of him. And I maneuvered him into breaking it off. He was so angry, and he said horrible things to me, but every word was a relief because I knew he didn’t want me, and he wouldn’t bother about me. He’d walk away, and I’d be free. He never spoke to me again.”