Midnight Scent (Amour Toxique Book 1) (11 page)

My blood freezes as I think of the letters, the package on my doorstep, the cell phone he’s been using to contact me. Someone must be working for him.

I shut my eyes, forcing myself to banish Judson’s face from my mind. Somehow he has invaded every part of my life.

“Thanks for the warning, Jennifer.” I pause. “But I don’t need it.”

“I don’t know if you’re really in touch with him, Ivy, but if you are, you really should break it off. He’s a ticking time bomb. You don’t want to become his next obsession.”

“Where are you now, Jennifer?” I ask, ignoring her warning.

“I’d rather not say. Goodbye, Ivy. Please be careful. If you want to get a clearer picture of how dangerous an obsessed man can be, read the book
Amour Toxique
.”

“Amour what?” I rub my forearms. When I was thirteen, my mother tried to force me into French lessons, insisting that one day when my modeling career took me to Paris, I’d thank her. She hired a private tutor, but after three lessons, he threw in the towel, saying in his thick French accent, “Mrs. Hollifield, I’m sorry, but your daughter has no passion for the French language.” In my mind’s eye I can clearly picture him making a steeple of his fingers, his eyes flickering with disappointment as though I had personally let him down. “No passion, no French.”

“
Amour Toxique
by Adrien Moreau. It’s a popular French novel I once read. I’m sure you’ll be able to find an English version somewhere.”

As we say goodbye, I scribble the name of the book on an old napkin.

***

As soon as Jennifer hangs up, I text Judson, demanding the truth. I want to know if he’s really as innocent as he claims. I’m so torn between believing him and believing Jennifer. Deep down I know who I
should
believe, but still I resist.

I switch off my phone, because I don’t even know if I’m ready to hear the truth yet. I start my day with a hot shower and a glass of milk, and go to lectures. At two, I head to town for an interview at Millie’s Book Corner. I have some money saved up, but I don’t want to use it all on day-to-day living. I have to think of the future. The interview is a bright spot in my day. Millie likes me so much, she gives me a part-time bookseller job on the spot. I agree to work on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, and all day on Saturdays. During the holidays, I’ll be able to work full-time.

My good mood collapses when I return to my dorm and find three large boxes addressed to me. My stomach lurches as I haul them inside. I take a deep breath and open the first one.

I shake my head as I pull out belongings from home. Books, photos of me with my mother inside our house in Boston, photos of me and Dad, snapshots of my life. There are pieces of clothing, too, and a few other bits and pieces that are special to me, items that link me to my childhood, to my home. There’s a single note underneath them all.

Here are some of your things. I’m putting the rest in storage. I’m disowning you, Ivy. As of this moment, I no longer have a daughter. Have a nice life. Lenora

I call my mother’s phone, but the number has been disconnected.

Chapter Seventeen

As soon as Chelsea walks through the door, I jump on her, wanting to talk about my problems—the ones involving my mother.

After my long day, I’m desperately in need of a friend. But Chelsea’s face is flushed with rage. She has problems of her own—the usual, I suspect.

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.

She throws her handbag onto her bed, followed by herself. “No. Neil is such an idiot. He doesn’t see what’s in front of him. You know, I thought things would change after I took him back.”

Disappointed that I won’t be getting the attention I need, I nevertheless slump onto the couch and listen to my friend’s despair. Maybe afterward we can talk about me.

She tells me Neil started crying again after sex last night, that he proposed to her again, and she rejected him yet again.

“He’s such a fool.” Chelsea laughs bitterly. “He thinks getting engaged will diminish all this guilt. It’s the closest thing to being married, he says. I don’t believe that for a moment. Unless we get married—which I’m so not ready for—he’ll always feel guilty about sleeping with me. And I won’t get engaged or married before I’m ready.”

“Slow down, Chelsea. Take a breath.” I go to her bed and place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She covers her face with both her hands and takes several deep breaths. When she removes her hands, there are tears in her eyes. All I can do is be there for her, wait while she sorts things out for herself and makes a decision she’s happy with, no matter how long it takes for her to get to the place she wants to be.

For the next hour, I let her cry on my shoulder until she feels lighter. Then she wipes her eyes and blows her nose. She digs inside her bag for her phone, and disappears with it inside the bathroom. I know she’s talking to Neil, because I can hear her side of an argument through the thin walls.

She walks out ten minutes later with red, puffy eyes. She’s seriously hurting. I don’t have the heart to trouble her with my own problems right now.

Chelsea kisses me on the cheek and grabs her bag again before storming out of the room.

For dinner, I eat my takeout Chinese noodles and chicken alone. Then I finally switch on my phone.

There are six messages from Judson, all saying the same thing:

Where the hell are you? We need to talk.

He sounds desperate and worried at once.

I don’t respond, but I leave the phone on as I get ready for bed. The moment my head hits the pillow, the phone rings. It’s him.

“Who told you I’m guilty?” His voice is quivering with fury.

“News websites.” I grip the phone tightly. I don’t know what he will do if I tell him about Jennifer. I won’t throw her under the bus for being kind enough to warn me.

“Why are you reading up on me? I don’t like it.”

My own rage rises to the surface. “Judson, in case you’re not aware, everyone is talking about you, about what happened. I hear about you whether I want to or not.”

“So you think I did it, do you? You believe what everyone is saying? I thought you didn’t listen to what people say.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. You never exactly told me you didn’t do it. You only said ‘the jury will decide.’ Why don’t you tell me the truth, Judson. Tell me what I should believe. It’s a simple question. Did you kill Oliver Banes or not?”

“I am innocent. Is that what you want to hear? Does my answer satisfy you?”

I don’t respond. I’m so conflicted. Even though everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I have to admit that the only person who really knows the truth about what happened is Oliver Banes. Judson’s fingerprints were found at the crime scene—a lecture hall—but so were many other people’s.

“I didn’t do it, Ivy. But most people don’t believe me. I can only hope the jury does.” His voice is gentler now, sad. “Do you believe me?”

“For now.” What I want to say is
I don’t know
. I still feel as confused as I did before he called.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I sigh. “It means that right this minute, I believe what you’re saying. But in the next couple of days, I don’t know. I might read or hear something and change my mind.”

“Fair enough. Just don’t turn your back on me. It’s dark in this place, and the only thing keeping me sane is knowing someone cares—that you care.”

Tears fill my eyes as I glance at the boxes my mother sent. “I’m sorry. I have to go to bed. Let’s talk another time.”

“Are you okay?” Concern taints his voice. “You sound sad. What’s going on? Is it because of me?”

“No.”
Not just you.

He continues pressing me to tell him what’s wrong. So I do. He listens to me talk tearfully about my mother without interrupting.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he says when I’m done. “Listen, I’m here. I swear to you I’m innocent. One day I’ll get out of this place, and we’ll be together for real. You don’t need your mother. I’ll take care of you. Do you hear me? Do you need money? I can arrange for some to be wired to you.”

Jennifer’s words return to me.
Don’t let the prison walls fool you.

As much as his concern touches me, I shake my head vigorously. Money would give him too much power over me. “No, no. I have enough to live on. Thanks for caring.”

“I always will. Now, don’t ever doubt my innocence, you hear? I love you.”

“I’ll try.”

Instead of going back to bed, I turn on my laptop and purchase an electronic copy of
Toxic Love
, the English version of
Amour Toxique.

It’s a short book that completely draws me in from the first word. The main character is Delmar Petit, the son of an alcoholic prostitute in Paris, who grew up without a father. The only constant in his poverty-stricken life was his mother’s mental and physical abuse. At thirteen, his mother tried to poison him, but failed. That night he ran away. The streets of Paris became his new home, and there, at fifteen, he met Chantal, a stunning dancer. It was love at first sight for both of them, but after a whirlwind romance, his love overtook hers. When she withdrew from him, his love turned fatal. He refused to live even a second without her. He warned her that if she tried to leave, he’d send her to the grave. She eventually managed to escape him, and fell in love with someone else. On her wedding day, Delmar showed up and stabbed her to death in front of all the guests. Two days after his arrest, he hanged himself.

By the time I finish the book, my eyes are blurry with tears and exhaustion from staring at the screen for hours. It’s three in the morning, but my aching chest will never let me sleep. Jennifer had meant for the book to put me off Judson. But the story is pure fiction. Delmar and Chantal aren’t real, I tell myself.

With every ounce of me, I decide to believe what Judson has told me. Instead of fear, the feeling that spreads through my heart as I climb under my sheets and wrap my arms around my body is the hot desire to get to know Judson better, to peel back his layers and see beneath them.

As my eyes grow heavy, I finally manage to wipe
Amour Toxique
from my mind and fall asleep, replaying everything Judson said to me over the phone, listening to the concern in his voice, his need to step in and be my knight in shining armor.

I didn’t tell him I loved him back, but I think I do.

Chapter Eighteen

The Wednesday after Thanksgiving break, I visit Judson again. He looks even more tired this time, and less self-assured, but still drop-dead gorgeous. I want to ask whether his lawyer is making progress in the search for evidence, but he avoids talking about the trial.

“Let’s talk about you… us.” He moves the phone to his other ear and smiles. His teeth are so white and straight. “You know we barely see each other. This time is too precious to waste.”

“Don’t you get tired of hearing about me?”

“Never. You’re refreshing. Besides, I don’t know everything about you yet. All I know is that you decided to pursue a university education, that your mother was against it, and that it caused a rift between the two of you. Tell me why you quit modeling in the first place.”

“I never liked it,” I say. “I grew up being dragged from one pageant show to the next. I died a little inside every time I had to smile in front of the camera.”

“Funny, it never showed.” His eyes are lenses, photographing every inch of my face. “You made some gorgeous photos.”

“You’d be amazed at the things pictures can hide.” I run a finger along the phone receiver.

“So why didn’t you stop earlier if you were unhappy?”

“My mother wouldn’t have it. She had invested too much... So had I. And I didn’t know how to do anything other than modeling. I believed her when she warned me I’d be throwing my life away if I quit.”

“Until you reached the breaking point?”

“When my father died from cancer, I promised him I’d quit modeling. He made me swear to get out from under my mother’s control and live my own dreams. He saw how unhappy I was.” I shrug. “I guess I wanted to keep the promise I made to him.”

Judson tips his head to the side. “I’m glad you did. Your decision brought you to me.” He places the palm of his hand on the glass, and I instinctively do the same from my side. I wish our palms could touch for real. Does his skin feel the same as in my dreams? “Fate brought us here. I hope it also keeps us together.”

I drop my hand to my lap. “You never said much about yourself in the letters. I’m curious to know more about
you
.” From the corner of my eye, I see the bushy-eyed inmate on Judson’s right side say goodbye to his visitor with a kiss on the glass, and rise from his chair. We’ve been talking for much longer than he has, and I wonder why the guard on duty is not making an attempt to cut our conversation short. “Do we still have time?”