Page 139 of Dissection of a Murder
Nobody questioned it. Everyone knew Dad smoked like a chimney.
From that day on, I stuck to the rules as best I could. They were, after all, what had allowed me to get away from that place. I knew they made me the same as him, but for some time after his death, I had nothing but the rules to guide me in the world. I did not have my shit together, even though I pretended I did at that posh school. But who could blame me? I’d just murdered my dad.
The grief knocked me out. I expected to feel relieved, free, but I didn’t. It was messy, complicated and multilayered. I hated him, but I also felt angry with myself for loving him. Why did I love someone who abused me? Why was I sad he was dead? He’d be so mad at me for killing him.
He was the only person in the world who loved me, and I murdered him. I carried that shame and guilt for years, unable to see I was still under his spell.
How do you begin to unpack all that childhood trauma? At the time, I couldn’t. I pushed it away, made very bad choices, formed toxic relationships. Elise was a part of that. I stuck to the rules, too afraid to have nothing.
Then I met Jack.
And everything changed.I changed.I finally felt brave enough to cast aside Dad’s legacy. I discovered my own capacity to love and be loved, something I’d never imagined would be possible. I wanted to be a better person around him. No longer was I interested in obtaining power or influence; I wanted to be a decent person with integrity. No longer did I want to seek external validation to feel complete; I wanted to create that myself.
While my father taught me things that gave me the illusion of control, living by his teachings, his rules, kept me under his thumb, unable to think freely and be who I could have been without his influence. Becoming Leila—deliberately exorcising my past and embodying the characteristics of someone good and caring andhonorable—is what finally set me free, giving me therealpower I needed to let go, to start again.
So when I say I’m not having anyone threaten what I’ve worked for, what I’ve endured, I mean it.
Don’t talk to me about real justice. I’ve seen it all. Sometimes, justice isn’t served in a courtroom. It’s served at 1:46 a.m. in a living room with a box of matches.
69
Leila
Friday, July 19, 2024
Two months before the murder
I both love andhate summer nights.
On the one hand, I adore the hazy, hot, sticky vibe that comes with them. On the other, they create more risk.
By the time I leave Audrey’s house on Fridays, I usually arrive at the club between 7:30 p.m. and 8 p.m. In the winter months, I could hide under my winter coat without being seen. But now, it’s still light at that time, which makes me nervous; anyone could see me. I worry it’s only a matter of time before I’m found out.
I barely recognize myself lately. Fantasizing about doing things with Jack—merely existing outside his apartment, especially now it’s so bright out—is my new hobby. I catch myself in court, sometimes, daydreaming about us walking on the beach hand in hand, drinking cocktails at sunset, even just walking down the street together. Things we’ll never be able to do in real life. I’m aware our relationship can never escape the four walls it’s been consigned to. We’re trapped.
It was never supposed to be more than a one-night thing. A few hours of filth, lust, passion, whatever you want to call it—and itwasall of those things, ramped up to the hilt. But those things areaddictive, aren’t they? So we did it again. And again. The weird thing was, not once did it feel like we shouldn’t be doing it. I never felt a sense of taboo, that we were abusing the barrister–client power dynamic, because we’re both so similar it doesn’t matter.
We are equals.
That’s why it didn’t take long for things to shift. We never spoke about it but we both felt it. The sex became slower, more intimate. His eyes would latch on to mine and I’d want them never to leave. I started staying afterward, my naked body pressed tightly to his beneath the covers, and right there, in that tiny bedroom, with his arms wrapped around me, I felt more protected and loved than I had in my entire life. Sometimes we’d talk; other times, we’d lie there in silence. But his touch never left mine. He made my body feel it was my own again. It no longer belonged to Dad or to any of the other men who had used it. Jack is the only man I’ve ever felt comfortable enough with to tell what happened to me. The relief when he didn’t turn away was overwhelming.
Our meeting became the highlight of our week. We had two—maybe three—hours together, at the absolute most.
I didn’t like talking about Julian; his moods, his ego, the fact I suspected he was having an affair. I couldn’t have cared less, and it would make my life easier if he was. At least, then, I’d have something to use against him, especially if I could prove it.
I was tired of pretending I had the perfect life.
It’s one of the hottest days of the year, according to the forecast, and it’s always boiling hot in Jack’s apartment. The film of sweat that covers our bare bodies acts like glue. Even with the covers thrown off, we melt in the heat. The Velux window is wide open, but there’s still not enough oxygen.
“My life is better because of you,” Jack says to me now, as my headnestles in the crease of his shoulder. A fissure of fear runs through me when he says this; Elise said something similar to me years ago.
“How can you say that, Jack?” I whisper. My body radiates with guilt when I think about it. “I got you sent to prison.”
“I don’t blame you for that. You know I don’t.”
“I’ll always blame myself. I should have trusted my gut.”
“No,” he says, giving me a squeeze. “Everything happens for a reason. It all ended up OK. I’m happy where I am now. More than happy.”
