So am I.
Susannah was calm. Surprisingly so. She looked out at the sea of faces and knew she’d made the right choice. She also knew the gossip had begun the moment she’d sat at the table. The media knew the victims were going to speak out. They’d had no idea she was one of the victims. They certainly knew now. Her face had been instantly recognized and the buzz had ripped through the room, viral and electric. Reporters had whipped out their BlackBerries and cell phones, each wanting to be the first to deliver this juicy morsel.
Marianne Woolf was standing off to the side, covering the event for her husband’s Dutton Review. Marianne’s pictures of Kate’s murder and Sheila’s funeral had been splashed across the Review’s front page that morning. Susannah imagined she’d be among tomorrow’s front-page stories.
Luke was also out there, standing near the back of the room, on edge, on guard. She and the other five victims had been brought in through a back door to avoid the crush, but everyone else in the room had passed through a metal detector. The GBI was taking no chances with their safety. Still she knew Luke measured each face, each demeanor. It was comforting, knowing he was watching over her.
Talia had come by with encouraging words for each of the women on the stage, pausing to ask Susannah one last time if she was sure. Susannah was very sure.
When Gretchen began speaking everyone went still. Gretchen had shared her prepared statement with the five of them beforehand, and her eloquent but passionate words had brought tears to the eyes of more than one of the women. But now their eyes were dry as they prepared for questions.
The first came from a woman reporter. “How did you find out about one another?”
Talia had provided Gretchen with a scripted response to this question. “In the course of a multiple murder investigation in another state, pictures of our assaults were recovered. Over the past week, the GBI determined our identities from those photos.”
Cameras flashed and Susannah heard whispers of Simon Vartanian and Philadelphia intermixed with her name and Daniel’s. Leaning on the skills she’d honed through years of living with Arthur Vartanian, she kept her chin up, her eyes impassive, completely aware most of the cameras were pointed at her face.
A man stood up. “How have your lives been impacted by the assault?”
The women looked at each other and on the other side of Gretchen, Carla Solomon pulled the microphone closer. “The impact has been felt differently by each one of us, but overall, it’s been consistent with the aftereffects suffered by most assault victims. We’ve had trouble establishing and maintaining relationships. A few of us have battled substance abuse. One of us committed suicide. It was a defining, devastating moment in our lives, one that has left permanent scars.”
Then a man in the third row stood and Susannah felt an instant prickle of unease. His eyes were on her and there was a… satisfaction in his expression that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
“Troy Tomlinson with the Journal,” he said. “This is for Susannah Vartanian.”
The microphone was passed down the table. From the corner of her eye Susannah searched for Luke, but he was no longer in the back of the room and her unease grew.
“You all were victims thirteen years ago,” Tomlinson began, “and I think I speak for us all in saying we have sympathy for what happened to you and understand why you failed to report your assaults then. You were all sixteen years old and far too young to deal with the enormity of your experience.” His voice oozed a false sincerity that set Susannah’s teeth on edge, and beside her, Gretchen stiffened. “But, Susannah, how can you, especially given your record of pushing rape victims up in New York City to come forward, how can you explain your failure to report a second assault, seven years later, one in which your friend was brutally murdered?” The buzz swelled and Tomlinson spoke louder. “And how do you respond to Garth Davis’s denial of your assault?”
Susannah’s heart began to pound. How did he know about Darcy? As the second question sank in, fury flared, tamping the fear. Garth Davis denies raping us? With all of those pictures as proof? Son of a fucking bitch.
No. Stay calm. Tell the truth.
“Mr. Tomlinson, your insinuation that any rape victim who does not report her assault is somehow negligent or immature is both egregiously insensitive and cruel.” She leaned forward, no smile on her face. “Rape is more than a physical assault, and victims, including myself, must deal with the resulting feelings of loss of personal safety, control, and confidence each in her own way. This is true whether they’re sixteen or sixty.
“When my friend was murdered six years ago, I cooperated with the authorities the best way I knew how. I made sure the facts were known even as I struggled to survive a second assault. My friend’s murderer was subsequently caught and is paying for his crime.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “I’m not finished, Mr. Tomlinson. You asked two questions. Mr. Davis cannot possibly deny our assaults occurred, nor his part in them. The evidence is irrefutable. Vile and disturbing. But irrefutable.”
Tomlinson smiled. “I interviewed Mayor Davis. He doesn’t deny all the assaults, Susannah. Just yours. He challenges you to show one photo of him raping you.”
You’re a son of a fucking bitch, too. But she kept her cool. “Mr. Davis must answer to God and to the people of the state of Georgia for his crimes. I know what happened to me. What Mr. Davis says is immaterial. As I said, the evidence is irrefutable. Now please sit down, Mr. Tomlinson. You’re finished.”
Bobby drew a steadying breath. Bitch. She’d sailed through that minefield like it was a field of fucking poppies. Damn her. Goddamn her. Susannah Vartanian had come out on top for the very last time. Now. It would be now.
Stop. Breathe. Follow the plan or you’ll leave here in handcuffs. Gretchen first. Susannah second. Bystander third.
Her hand was steady as she reached into her pocket, positioning her gun so she could fire from within the pocket. Her aim was sure as she pulled the trigger, the pop of the silencer covered up by the cries of reporters jockeying to ask the next question. Her smile was grim when her bullet hit Gretchen in the chest. Gretchen slumped forward as the next bullet hit Susannah right in the heart, sending her flying backward to the floor.
Her third bullet landed in the back of a man with a video camera resting on his shoulder. He dropped like a rock, his camera crashing to the floor.
Screams filled the air. It was priceless.
She moved through the surging crowd, feeling like a celebrity on the red carpet with cameras flashing all around her. But the lenses were pointed at the stage. The cop who’d been standing guard at the stage rushed forward to kneel by the cameraman.
Calmly Bobby walked past the stage on her way to the back entrance and her way out. Then stopped. Lying on her stomach under the table was Susannah Vartanian, her eyes wide open and alert, her small hands wrapped around a very large gun.
People were screaming. Behind her, Gretchen was moaning and she could hear Chase yelling for a medic. Susannah’s chest was burning. Shit. It hurt. Worse than the last time. She’d instinctively rolled under the table, her hand diving into her purse for the gun that had not been there before she’d sat next to Leo Papadopoulos at lunch.