M Sellars - The End Of Desire

“You’re still here.”

“The war isn’t over yet.”

“Yeah. Wunnerful… Okay… So, back to the land of normal people… Ya’ got any theories? Like what she might do next?”

“I have no idea.”

“Now I know you’re lyin’ on that one, ‘cause I got a theory myself. Since that hocus-pocus didn’t work, she’s gonna try ta’ kill ya’ the way regular fruitcakes do.”

I gave him a barely perceptible shrug. “Maybe.”

“Ain’t maybe, Row. It doesn’t take a trip inta’ la-la land ta’ figure it out. Why else would she come back here?”

I just shook my head in response.

“Ya’ think this is about what happened in New Orleans?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged again. “That was my first thought, but after mulling it over for a bit I think it’s probably more likely to be about what I did when I got home.”

“What? Ya’ mean the thing with the doll?”

I nodded.

“How the fuck could she know about that?”

“Miranda. If she’s really here to come after me, it has to be because of her. I don’t think Annalise would chance it on her own. She really doesn’t have a solid reason.”

“Nutcases don’t need reasons, Row. Do ya’ think she’s got a logical reason for what she’s been doin’ so far?”

“In her mind, yes. I think that in her view of reality, she sees what she is doing as perfectly logical.”

“‘Zactly. In her twisted-ass mind. So, what’s ta’ keep ‘er from havin’ some fucked up reasoning tellin’ ‘er ta’ come after you?”

“I don’t know. I mean… Yes, you could be right, but I really don’t get the feeling Annalise is particularly stupid. She knows it would be dangerous for her to come here looking for me, even if she does have a vendetta. Miranda has to be behind it. Controlling her. Making her do it.”

“Well, I dunno about that, but you’re right about one thing. She ain’t stupid.”

“Is that just an opinion, or do you know something I don’t?”

“Besides the fact she’s got a doctorate in psychology? Yeah, a little.”

“She has a doctorate?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, as he reached into his pocket and dug out his notebook then flipped it open. “Got some background on ‘er if ya’ wanna hear it. I’ve had it for a while, and I tried ta’ tell ya’ about it the other day but you said you didn’t wanna talk about the case anymore.”

“Mea culpa.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said as he flipped through the pages then settled on one. “So, anyway, here it is in a nutshell. Near as we can figure from what we’ve been able ta’ piece together, Devereaux started out life as Mary Kathleen O’Brien. But, about two months after birth those records suddenly stop. It’s like she never existed…”

“But, if the records stop…”

“Hang on, I’m not finished. Ya’ see, that’s just all part of the big soap opera. Apparently the birth mother had a friend try ta’ adopt ‘er. When they caught on to what was up, they changed ‘er name ta’ Cynthia Anne Smith and shipped ‘er outta state to a different orphanage in Mississippi.”

“How’d you figure that out?”

“I didn’t. The Feebs did.”

“Well, how did they manage to make the connection?”

“Dunno. Maybe they leaned on a nun or somethin’. So anyway, she bounced around foster homes for about six years, startin’ from when she was just a few months old until she eventually ended up in yet another orphanage.”

“That had to be rough on a kid. Any idea why she wasn’t adopted out as a baby?”

Ben shook his head. “No one’s sayin’. Rumor has it that as she got older she was in and outta trouble here and there though. At least, that’s what they managed to pick up from the files, such as they were. Anyhow, she finally got adopted by the Devereaux’s when she was around eight.” He flipped through the pages of the notebook. “Yeah, here it is, Scott and Andrea Devereaux. Older couple from Tupelo, Mississippi. Old enough to be more like grandparents, actually.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, a little. But, they wanted a kid and they had money. A lot of it… Big numbers followed by lotsa zeros if ya’ know what I mean. An’ apparently they donated quite a bit to the orphanage where she was livin’.”

“So, after they adopted her, they changed her first name as well as her last? That seems like a cruel thing to do to an eight-year-old kid. That’s had to screw with her sense of self identity.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Guess it’s no wonder she’s so fucked up.”

“So, have you been able to contact them?”

“Nope. Both deceased. Have been for quite a few years. And, there weren’t any other livin’ relatives, so they left the whole shootin’ match to guess who?”

“Annalise.”

“Bingo. Speakin’ of that, it seems the address she used for her driver’s license might’ve been kinda bogus. The place actually exists and all… Or, it did before the flood… And, she even owned it… But accordin’ to one of the neighbors NOLA PD managed ta’ track down, they don’t think she actually lived there. A lawn service came by and kept the place up, and the guy said he noticed a car there a couple of times late at night, but he never saw anyone actually livin’ there.”

“Do you think she was planning ahead for the eventuality of getting caught?” I asked.

“Possibly. That, or she was usin’ it in the middle of the night or somethin’. Who knows? Doesn’t really matter much ‘cause since the flood, it’s totaled. If there was any evidence there, it’s gone now.

“So, anyway, on the doctorate thing… She attended three separate colleges. Not sure why the moving around, but in the end she did her post-grad work at George Washington University in DC, which is where she got the doctorate. She didn’t really put it to use though. Not professionally anyway because after she got it, she worked as a VP for her dad’s company. But, that only lasted about a year.”

“What happened?”

“Dunno. Apparently she just up an’ quit. But, after the parents kicked, she sold off a lotta property as well as the family business. Been a lot of turnover there, so nobody really remembers much about ‘er. However, after that, even though she didn’t need the money, she spent some time working as a pro-dominatrix.”

“That really doesn’t come as a big surprise.”

“No, it doesn’t. She even owned one of those fetish clubs for a while ‘till it got shut down.” He flipped a page in the notebook and scanned down the page. “Yeah, here it is, Gwendolyn’s Keep.”

“Another pseudonym…”

“Yeah… Back then she was callin’ ‘erself, Mistress Gwen. Regular identity crisis with this one.”

“Any idea why she was shut down?”

“Yeah, actually. That took some diggin’, but it seems one of ‘er clients filed assault charges. Said she took the ‘game’ a bit too far. Accordin’ to the police report, she fucked ‘im up good. Lessee… Yeah… Whole lotta stitches, a broken hand, broken nose, and several bad cigarette burns.”

“I guess there’s no surprise there either.”

“Yeah, well her contention was expressed consent, which didn’t necessarily fly. So, the club got closed down and there was a big stink. Almost went ta’ trial, but she had the money ta’ make the whole situation go away. The nasty rumor is she not only paid off the client but a coupl’a local officials as well because they were lookin’ real hard at criminal charges. Anyway, after that she pretty much just dropped off the map. Not even a parkin’ ticket since. Pulled a Garbo. Total recluse. No friends or acquaintances ta’ speak of. She just pays ‘er taxes, donates to a coupl’a charities for the write-off, and that’s about it.”