Page 65 of Dissection of a Murder
We met at a time when I wore a veil of shame, and I observed the world through it. I hatedhim, but I hated myself more. I’d internalized the neglect and abuse I had suffered as a child for so long, I believed I had no value. That I was defective, worthless, dirty, and certainly not deserving of love.
I felt I should be punished for being so damaged—so broken—so I constantly put myself in situations where I could be. I would binge drink until I blacked out, all the sex I had was unprotected, I’d study so hard I’d only get four hours’ sleep a night, I didn’t eat well. I cheated on good people who loved me because what better way is there to prove to yourself that everything you believe is true?
I was a disgusting, terrible, vile person, and I enjoyed collecting proof of this. Dad knew it. Declan knew it, Declan’s dad knew it. I knew it.
Self-destruction was the only way to distract myself from what he did to me, from the shame I couldn’t help but feel. It was all I knew. The irony was that the only thing that made me feel better was attaining the thing my father had conditioned me to crave: power. Finding these little pockets of control, over people and situations, was the one way to anchor the rage I felt for myself. Meeting someone who felt the same was blissful, because it made me less alone, less…singular.
But I took it too far.
I once heard someone say that you meet people for a reason, and when that reason is fulfilled, the friendship will naturally end.
That may be true in most cases, but I can categorically say we should never have met. Some partnerships are too dangerous to exist. I told her all of my nasty little secrets, and she told me hers. It was the first time either of us had felt safe enough to share those parts of ourselves with anyone else.
We never imagined it would end as horribly as it did.
On paper, she had it all: the perfect family, the incredible house, rich, successful parents. But things are never quite as they seem, are they? School was her escape. She hated going home to her narcissistic bully of a father and emotionally distant mother.
Perhaps that’s what drew us together. Trauma finds trauma. She had a complex, toxic relationship with her own father. Of course she did. That’s what makes it so much worse, what I did.
I know she’ll come for me one day, because I taught her the rules, and she isn’t going to let me forget them.
I created a monster in her, just as my dad did with me.
Look how that turned out.
32
Leila
26 days before trial
3:58 p.m.
“It obviously won’tbe admissible in court because we can’t prove it’s Quinn. The prosecution would never allow it as evidence, and I’m not sure a judge would, either,” Davina says the second we get back into the car after leaving Temptation. “Besides, what would our argument be? That Quinn murdered his own dad?”
We almost had something. I cannot believe Quinn isn’t identifiable in the video. A judge would have to be satisfied that an expert could positively identify him from it, and I’ve done enough of these cases to know that isn’t going to happen. As Davina points out, what would we even be saying? That Quinn killed his father? Without further evidence to support this, it could make our case even worse. We’d look desperate and unsympathetic in front of a jury. If you’re going to make a claim like that, you need to have solid, indisputable evidence.
We need to tread lightly with this. “The timeline adds up,” I say, rather unhelpfully.
“Why was Jack saying, ‘You’ll do it by the end of today’? Surely, it’s too much of a coincidence that Quinn’s dad was killed hours later. Why won’t Jack just tell us what happened? If Quinn is involvedsomehow, why not just say?” Davina fires these questions at me, and I barely have time to think.
“Because he fears he wouldn’t get a fair trial. People would be paid off, and others would be protected. Look at Quinn—privately educated, perfect student, studying at Cambridge. Of course Jack isn’t going to offer that information up before the trial. He’s learned the hard way that all it would do is give people time to hide what they’ve done.”
I continue to drive, thinking of a way through this. I need to allow the jury to see that Quinn is hiding something without revealing what I’ve just seen. Reaching over to my phone, which is connected to the Bluetooth system, I call Julian. After a few rings, he picks up.
“Yes?” he says, in a clipped tone.
“What do you intend to do with Quinn Smythe?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. I can almost hear him thinking.
“Anton’s son? What do you mean?”
“We have reason to believe he was one of the last people to have contact with Anton before he died. Do you have a statement from him? Because we would like to see it, if so.”
He pauses for an unnecessary amount of time. I know what he’s doing: he’s wondering what information I have about Quinn and whether Jack has said anything.
“I’ll get it over to you,” he says, hanging up abruptly.
