James Conway - In Cold Blonde

Abigail concentrated then revelation lit up her face. “Something happened a year or so before I met Colin, which would make it like three years ago — he was accused of date rape. He wasn’t arrested or anything, but I know there was an investigation, and she threatened to sue him, but Colin’s dad ending up paying her off and the whole thing went away.”

“Do you think Colin was capable of date rape?” Syd asked.

“Date rape all depends on your definition of no, doesn’t it? There are a few times in my life when I’d say no, but the guy didn’t listen, kept kissing, rubbing, begging and I’d eventually give in; well, in my head that’s still date rape.” She looked at Syd. “That ever happen to you?”

Syd thought of her stepfather. “More than a few times.”

“So,” Abigail said. “Sure, I can see Colin crossing someone else’s line. It’s all perception, after all, isn’t it?”

“Do you know this woman’s name?” Ryan asked.

“No, sorry, I only know the story because Colin got drunk one night and told me. Not one of his proudest moments. But I’m sure his dad knows the name, he wrote her a check, right?”

“We’ll ask him,” Ryan said.

“Look,” Abigail said, glancing into the restaurant. “Is there anything else, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

“You’re an actress, right?” Ryan asked.

“Yes.”

“And I bet you keep some headshots here, just in case you meet a producer or director.”

“And you’d like one to show that bartender or whoever to see if I was the one that killed Colin. Sure, no problem, I’ll be right back.”

Abigail hurried off.

“The date rape sounds promising,” Syd said.

“Speaking of which, did you mean what you told her. About being date raped?”

“Of course not,” Syd said. “I was just trying to earn her confidence.”

“Good,” he said, taking her hand. “I hate thinking anything terrible ever happened to you.”

Anything terrible, indeed, Syd thought.

Syd grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, daughter of Todd Curtis, an eighth grade science teacher and Amanda Curtis, a registered nurse. The first nine years of young Syd’s life were blissfully normal until her father fell in love with the school principal, another man, and they ran off together.

Feelings of abandonment rocked young Syd. Not to mention confusion; her daddy left home for another man?

Her mother didn’t fare any better. Humiliated, she started self medicating from the hospital’s pharmacy. And drinking. And ignoring her daughter.

Then a white knight showed up, Doctor Jay Stevens, an ER doctor Syd’s mother met at work. He had a drug problem, too. Speed. And he drank more than a bit. So they had a lot in common. When Syd was twelve, they got married.

Syd never liked Doctor Jay. He had this way of looking at her that made her skin crawl. She learned the perfect word for him when she was older. Smarmy.

Doctor Jay was, of course, lusting after the sweet, redheaded darling. And on her fourteenth birthday, when Syd was asleep in her bed, and her mother was passed out on the couch, a drunk Doctor Jay stumbled into the birthday girl’s room, took off his clothes and climbed into bed next to her. She awoke with a start; Doctor Jay clasped his hand over her mouth, told her to do what he said or he’d kill her mother.

And so it went for three years. A thoroughly confused and conflicted Syd, afraid for her mother’s life, afraid to lose another father figure, submitted her body to repeated abuse. Once she tried to tell her mother, but as soon as Mom realized where the conversation was going, she shut her daughter up. She didn’t want to hear what she suspected. She didn’t want to lose another husband, no matter how high a price her daughter had to pay.

Always a loner with few friends, the shame and guilt of her stepfather’s abuse isolated Syd even more. She felt trapped and truly alone.

Then, late one cold February night, Syd heard Doctor Jay pull into the garage. On nights when Doctor Jay worked this late, he usually came upstairs to Syd’s bedroom and stinking of bourbon, would slip into her bed. But tonight, she didn’t hear the dreaded sound of the car being shut off, the garage door closing, the kitchen door opening and his feet on the staircase. Tonight she just heard the sound of the car, idling in the garage.

She realized he’d probably fallen asleep after pulling into the garage. It had happened before. Too bad he didn’t close the garage door, she thought. Then the car’s exhaust would’ve filled the garage and he’d die of carbon monoxide poisoning.

Epiphany. Just because he didn’t close the door didn’t mean someone else couldn’t. She tiptoed into the hallway and peaked in her mother’s room — she was out, snoring. Syd snuck down the stairs and silently opened the door to the garage. Yep, there he was, asleep behind the wheel of his BMW.

Syd put her finger on the garage door button and hesitated. She knew pushing it meant going through a one-way door. She’d be a murderer. If caught, she could go to jail. If God was more than a psychological crutch, she could go to hell. But if Doctor Jay was dead, she’d be free.

She pushed the button.

His asphyxiation was ruled an accidental death. Syd had gotten away with murder.

But if Syd thought getting rid of Doctor Jay would fix her life, she was wrong. Her mother plummeted into alcohol-drenched mourning. She took her grief out on Syd, snapping at her, hitting her. Then her Mom had the audacity to throw Doctor Jay’s molestations at Syd, accusing her daughter of trying to seduce her husband, trying to steal him away. That did it. After committing cold-blooded murder, the decision to run away seemed easy.

Where to go? Why Hollywood, of course. Syd had always daydreamed about being a famous actress. That’s where her mind would flee when Doctor Jay would paw her.

Syd had some money saved, almost two thousand dollars, enough to get to L.A. The rest; finding a place to live, getting a car, finding an agent, Syd figured, would take care of themselves. The next morning, instead of going to school, Syd boarded a Greyhound bus.

Three days later, a stiff and bleary-eyed Syd finally pulled into Hollywood. It was midnight when she stepped into a practically deserted bus station. She looked at a wall full of hotel advertisements, found a cheap motel about three blocks away and started walking down Cahuenga Boulevard.

The adrenaline that had fueled Syd’s escape had drained by now, leaving her bedraggled, inside and out. She had a purse, a backpack and a suitcase which she rolled behind her.

A van suddenly screeched to a stop next to her, the side door slid open and three men leapt out. They grabbed Syd, shoved her into an alley. One guy snatched the suitcase, another used a knife to cut the straps of the backpack and the third ripped the purse out of her hands.

They were Hispanic, wired on something, twitchy. Two of the men tossed the goods in the van as the third man pressed Syd against the alley wall, shoved his hand under her blouse and said, “Don’t scream, don’t fight and you might live.” His pupils were the size of golf balls. He pressed himself against her as the other two returned, lust in their eyes. Syd realized she was going to be gang-raped.

Then a shot rang out. All heads spun to see a man standing in the mouth of the alley, backlit by a street light, a huge automatic in his hand, pointed at Syd’s attackers. He pistol whipped the man closest to him, shoved the barrel of the gun against the forehead of another and hissed at them in Spanish. Clearly terrified, the men scrambled back into their van and with a screech of rubber, fled.

“You all right?” the man asked his voice now gentle, concerned.