photos arrived in Guinevere's mail the following day.
She had decided to go back to the apartment before returning to the office after lunch, and her mail had already arrived. The lack of a return address in the upper left-hand corner made her curious about the plain manila envelope. She tore it open with an inexplicable sense of urgency. The message was as straightforward as the one Sally Evenson had received. It also appeared to have been typed on the same typewriter. Madame Zoltana had been busy.
Guinevere stood in the hall of her apartment building, reading and rereading the message.
IF YOU WOULD PREFER THAT MR. JUSTIS DID NOT SEE THESE PHOTOS YOU WILL STOP MAKING INQUIRIES ABOUT ME. I DO NOT APPRECIATE THE INTERFERENCE IN MY BUSINESS.
After having read the message through at least four times, Guinevere unwrapped the black-and-white photos with a sense of dread. She was not surprised when she saw the crude shots of herself lying naked in Rick Overstreet's arms. No, she was not surprised, but she was suddenly physically sick.
Stuffing the photos and the message back into the envelope, Guinevere ran up the two flights of stairs and stabbed her key into her lock. It took several tries before she could control her shaking hand long enough to get the door open. Her breath was coming in tight gasps and her stomach threatened to rebel. She was damp with perspiration. Blindly she groped her way down the hall to the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the tub, waiting to see if she was going to lose her lunch.
Crouched on the cold porcelain edge of the tub, she clutched the terrible envelope in both hands and thought, This was what it was like for poor Sally. I didn't understand. How could I have known how awful it really is. Blackmail.
The photos were fakes, of course. Someone had cleverly taken head shots of her and Rick and applied them to two anonymous nude bodies. But they looked perfectly real. Modern photography techniques could mask almost any kind of fakery.
She had never been to bed with Rick Overstreet, not two years ago, not this past week, not ever. But, oh God, the photos looked so real. What's more, they were definitely recent shots. She had not worn her hair that way two years ago. It was the way she wore it now. Zoltana had made certain these pictures appeared very current. Zac would have understood Guinevere's involvement in an affair with another man two years ago. He wouldn't appreciate having it thrown in his face—no man would—but he'd have understood.
But he would never tolerate being a cuckold. Zoltana had wanted her victim to see these shots, to know that if Zac saw them, he must certainly assume Guinevere was currently having an affair with Rick Overstreet. Any man who looked at these photos would believe the worst.
Guinevere sat waiting for the nausea to pass and tried desperately to think. For a few perilous moments it all seemed too much. She wanted to run and hide from Zac and the world. The only way she could steady herself was by thinking of Sally Evenson. That poor, poor woman. How easy it had been to give her bracing advice and tell her not to worry. How easy it had been to hand out the usual trite words about never paying off a blackmailer. Only now, finding herself in the same position, did she know the sense of awful doom and the utter helplessness. Guinevere opened her eyes and stared across the room. At this moment she understood completely how any blackmail victim might commit murder. But she didn't even have that option. Madame Zoltana had disappeared.
The phone rang in the kitchen. For a moment Guinevere blocked the intrusion out of her mind. She couldn't handle anything as normal as the phone right now. Besides, she wasn't even supposed to be home at this hour of the day. But it rang again and again, and at last Guinevere responded out of the habit of a lifetime. Ringing phones had to be answered. Like a zombie she walked into the kitchen. "Hello?"
"Gwen? What the hell are
She had decided to go back to the apartment before returning to the office after lunch, and her mail had already arrived. The lack of a return address in the upper left-hand corner made her curious about the plain manila envelope. She tore it open with an inexplicable sense of urgency. The message was as straightforward as the one Sally Evenson had received. It also appeared to have been typed on the same typewriter. Madame Zoltana had been busy.
Guinevere stood in the hall of her apartment building, reading and rereading the message.
IF YOU WOULD PREFER THAT MR. JUSTIS DID NOT SEE THESE PHOTOS YOU WILL STOP MAKING INQUIRIES ABOUT ME. I DO NOT APPRECIATE THE INTERFERENCE IN MY BUSINESS.
After having read the message through at least four times, Guinevere unwrapped the black-and-white photos with a sense of dread. She was not surprised when she saw the crude shots of herself lying naked in Rick Overstreet's arms. No, she was not surprised, but she was suddenly physically sick.
Stuffing the photos and the message back into the envelope, Guinevere ran up the two flights of stairs and stabbed her key into her lock. It took several tries before she could control her shaking hand long enough to get the door open. Her breath was coming in tight gasps and her stomach threatened to rebel. She was damp with perspiration. Blindly she groped her way down the hall to the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the tub, waiting to see if she was going to lose her lunch.
Crouched on the cold porcelain edge of the tub, she clutched the terrible envelope in both hands and thought, This was what it was like for poor Sally. I didn't understand. How could I have known how awful it really is. Blackmail.
The photos were fakes, of course. Someone had cleverly taken head shots of her and Rick and applied them to two anonymous nude bodies. But they looked perfectly real. Modern photography techniques could mask almost any kind of fakery.
She had never been to bed with Rick Overstreet, not two years ago, not this past week, not ever. But, oh God, the photos looked so real. What's more, they were definitely recent shots. She had not worn her hair that way two years ago. It was the way she wore it now. Zoltana had made certain these pictures appeared very current. Zac would have understood Guinevere's involvement in an affair with another man two years ago. He wouldn't appreciate having it thrown in his face—no man would—but he'd have understood.
But he would never tolerate being a cuckold. Zoltana had wanted her victim to see these shots, to know that if Zac saw them, he must certainly assume Guinevere was currently having an affair with Rick Overstreet. Any man who looked at these photos would believe the worst.
Guinevere sat waiting for the nausea to pass and tried desperately to think. For a few perilous moments it all seemed too much. She wanted to run and hide from Zac and the world. The only way she could steady herself was by thinking of Sally Evenson. That poor, poor woman. How easy it had been to give her bracing advice and tell her not to worry. How easy it had been to hand out the usual trite words about never paying off a blackmailer. Only now, finding herself in the same position, did she know the sense of awful doom and the utter helplessness. Guinevere opened her eyes and stared across the room. At this moment she understood completely how any blackmail victim might commit murder. But she didn't even have that option. Madame Zoltana had disappeared.
The phone rang in the kitchen. For a moment Guinevere blocked the intrusion out of her mind. She couldn't handle anything as normal as the phone right now. Besides, she wasn't even supposed to be home at this hour of the day. But it rang again and again, and at last Guinevere responded out of the habit of a lifetime. Ringing phones had to be answered. Like a zombie she walked into the kitchen. "Hello?"
"Gwen? What the hell are
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