Strangers in the villa, p.25
Strangers in the Villa, page 25
Sydney had approached the system with patience, determination, and a pair of pliers. She’d painstakingly untangled the cords, snipped the wires that needed repair, and carefully reconnected them. Her first attempt had been unsuccessful, and she’d felt a swell of panic, of desperation. She knew her husband and her houseguests were hiding things from her, keeping dark secrets. The surveillance cameras felt like her only hope to learn what the hell was going on in her own home.
In the distance, she heard a car chugging up the steep hillside. Could it be Damian and Bianca returning from their rained-out beach day? Her heart pattered in her chest, and her fingers slipped on the wires as she heard the Citroën lurching up the driveway. Above her, the front door opened and closed. Curtis was going to meet the guests outside, away from Sydney’s prying eyes. She had mere moments to make these cameras operational, to capture their exchange.
The small screen flickered to life just as the car’s engine turned off. The image was nearly obfuscated by dust, but she rubbed it clean with the side of her fist. For a moment, she worried that the cameras outside would light up, would catch their attention, but luckily, the rain obscured them. And as Bianca and Damian huddled with Curtis, umbrellas sheltering them from the deluge, they were far too intent on their conversation to be distracted. Sydney turned up the volume, strained to listen over the driving rain. And what she heard made her cold. And ill. And desperate for answers.
Now, she presses rewind and plays the scene for her husband. His face has gone pale, a sickish hue of gray as he watches himself on-screen with Damian and Bianca. In the tiny room, his voice rings out loud and clear as he offers them five million dollars to make them go away. And as he accepts responsibility for what he did to Lyric. A child. Bianca’s sister.
Curtis turns to face his wife, and she sees the defeat in his eyes. The game, his narrative, is over. It’s time for him to tell the truth. Sydney will not accept anything less.
“What the fuck did you do to that girl, Curtis?”
56
Curtis is not the villain in this story. He was just a pawn, a man trapped, used, and manipulated. What he did wasn’t that bad. Not compared to the acts he witnessed, the vile things he saw others do. He felt sick about those for weeks, even months. Because he is decent and good, deserving of an amazing woman like Sydney. It is time now to be honest. To come clean. To make Syd understand that he never hurt Bianca’s sister.
He leads Sydney upstairs and pours her a bourbon. She sits on the sofa holding the glass, but she doesn’t drink. She looks pale, and ill, and furious. He knows her mind is going to dark and disturbing places, but he can explain everything. It will all be okay once she hears him out. Thankfully, Damian’s soundtrack of moans has ceased. He’s likely passed out, overcome with pain and dehydration. Curtis and Sydney are alone. And so, he begins…
It all started with a call from West Beatty’s head of property, a man named Michael Lucan. Curtis had been excited to hear from him. Beatty was one of the biggest players on the East Coast, well known for having a conglomerate of diverse businesses. Bringing him on board as a client would be a coup for Waters and Lowe. For Curtis himself.
“We’re looking for space for our expanding ventures,” Lucan told him over the phone. “West has heard good things about your firm.”
“I’ll handle your needs personally,” Curtis offered, though he rarely saw clients anymore. But this was an enormous opportunity, too big to be handled by an underling.
He’d toured Michael Lucan around for weeks, visiting properties across the boroughs. Lucan was a taciturn Brit, elegant in his bespoke suits and French cuffs. He wasn’t an easy man to be trapped in a car with for hours on end, but Curtis was a salesman. He knew how to charm even the most difficult clients. He knew when to fill the silences and when to let them be. Eventually, they found a new office tower in Long Island City ideal for Beatty’s biotech company. The significant commission was well worth Curtis’s time investment. And he knew he’d delivered. There should be more opportunities to come.
Curtis took the lease to Lucan’s FiDi office for signing. “We’re having a little kick-off party in the new space,” Lucan told him. “West would like you to come.”
Of course Curtis would attend. It was good for the relationship, a great networking opportunity. “Should I bring my wife?”
Lucan’s eye had twitched slightly. He was too sophisticated to wink. “You’ll probably have more fun on your own.”
So Curtis had gone alone, expecting something naughty like strippers or topless waitresses, but the party was sophisticated. It was held on the top floor of the tower, in an empty space with sweeping views of the New York City skyline. The suite had been furnished with white leather sectional sofas, white acrylic bars, and an elevated DJ booth. The music was loud and bassy, the lighting low and strategic. Curtis got a martini and wandered through the crowd, awed by the high-profile attendees: athletes, rock stars, politicians. He’d heard West Beatty threw elite parties, but this was next level.
Soon, Michael Lucan found him. “West would like to meet you.”
Curtis was led to a secluded sofa where West was engaged in an intimate conversation with an A-list actor. Curtis couldn’t help but feel intimidated, but West stood and shook his hand. He was shorter than Curtis, with a soft physique and pasty complexion, but he had a regal air about him. He was a unicorn, and he knew it.
“Lucan has told me good things about you,” West said in his unique accent.
“I’m glad I could find you this space.”
“It’s perfect. And we’ll be needing more properties going forward.”
“I’m your guy.”
West introduced Curtis to the actor (as if an introduction was necessary) and invited him to join them. The A-lister was considering opening a restaurant, and Curtis blabbered on about a few of his listings. He tried to be professional and knowledgeable, but he was starstruck, out of his element. Until West pulled a small gold box from his pocket and flipped open the enamel lid. He dropped a tiny pill into Curtis’s palm.
At first, Curtis just stared at it. He didn’t do recreational drugs. Even in college, he’d steered clear of chemicals. But he watched West swallow the pill, and the movie star took one, too. It would have been rude not to join in. Highly uncool. So he placed it on his tongue with practiced nonchalance and washed it down with gin.
They talked for a while, and when the drugs kicked in, it made him comfortable and confident. It didn’t matter that West was a billionaire, that the movie star was a household name. Curtis felt on their level, deserving of their attention. He, too, was successful, exceptional, and interesting. He was also extremely thirsty.
Curtis excused himself and headed for the nearest bar. He got a glass bottle of water, drank heartily, bathing his parched throat. With the bottle in hand, he wandered through the crowd. It was late now, and the space had filled up. Everyone there was so attractive they were practically luminous. He’d never felt so warmly toward complete strangers. In retrospect, he knew it was the serotonin flooding his brain from the pill West had provided. But in the moment, it all felt magical. Curtis perched on another white sofa, drank his water, and savored the ambience.
At some point, several young women emerged from the elevator, strolling past him in slinky dresses, short skirts, and heavy makeup. He watched them wobbling on their heels, whispering and giggling to each other. They ordered drinks, were rewarded with pink concoctions that seemed to thrill them. They stayed as a gaggle, a tight little clutch of bare skin, long hair, snatches of fabric.
A burly man in a suit approached them, said a few words, and they dispersed. As one of the women tottered past him, Curtis realized she wasn’t a woman at all. She was a girl, barely old enough to drive. He watched as the teen stumbled, spilled her drink on the shiny floor, but kept moving forward obediently. There was something trancelike in her propulsion. He watched her with detached concern until she disappeared, enveloped into a group of men in their fifties.
A frisson of wrong ran through him, despite his altered state. He swiveled in his seat to view the other partygoers, but no one else seemed disturbed by the presence of these children. In fact, the girls were mingling with the adults like it was completely natural. Normal. Not sick. Not criminal or even immoral. Curtis watched a reality star give one of the kids a line of powder. A female singer was kissing a girl while a couple of tech bros watched. All around him, these teenagers were being touched and fondled and fed alcohol and drugs. And no one blinked an eye.
One of the girls sat down next to him. She was fucked-up, her eyes glassy and unfocused. “Hi,” she said in a small voice, intentionally subservient. “I’m Lyric.”
He hadn’t remembered the name until Bianca said it. He’d assumed it was fake. Lyric. But he remembered the girl. Her long hair, her thin frame, her gentle eyes. “I’m Todd,” he said.
“Do you mind if I sit here, Todd?” The flirtatious tone was forced, almost comical. She’d probably never had a boyfriend, and now she was meant to come on to men three times her age. His instinct was to tell her no, to send her away, but he knew what would happen to her if he did. He felt protective of her.
He kept that girl beside him for the rest of the night so that no one would hurt her. Around him, things were happening to the other young women, things that weren’t right. He wasn’t going to take advantage of a child who was clearly drunk and high. He wasn’t going to do anything she didn’t want. He had wrapped an arm around her, sheltered her, and kept her safe. The girl opened up to him, told him her hopes and dreams. She was sweet, funny, and vulnerable. Eventually, a woman in her mid-forties collected Lyric, shepherded her away. The party was over. He felt like he’d done his job.
About a week later, Michael Lucan scheduled a meeting. They met at an expensive French restaurant, sat at a secluded table near the kitchen. Curtis was upbeat, hopeful for another big contract. But Lucan had something else in mind.
“Did you enjoy yourself the other night?”
“Sure,” Curtis replied, eyes on his steak frites. His skin felt hot and prickly. He wanted to forget the party, forget what he’d seen there.
“These events need to be kept secret. For obvious reasons.”
“Of course. I won’t say anything.”
Lucan smiled, revealing his small uniform teeth. “We like to change venues regularly. A moving target is harder to hit.”
Something was coming. Curtis could sense it. But what?
“You’ve got so many listings. Office buildings and warehouses that are sitting empty. We’d like to hold our parties there.”
Curtis audibly swallowed a chunk of steak. “My clients would never stand for it. Not to mention my business partner.”
Lucan’s smile was cool, unreadable. “They’d never have to know. We’re very discreet.”
“I’d like to help you out, I really would, but there are huge liability issues.” Curtis set his fork on his plate with a soft clink. “I can’t have my company involved in something like this.”
“But you’re already involved, Curtis.” Lucan reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out his phone. He tapped at it for a moment, and then he passed it across the table.
The video that played out on-screen starred Curtis Lowe and the girl who’d told him her name was Lyric. He watched himself sitting next to her on the white sofa. Even in such a tiny image, she was so clearly a child. Why was he sitting so close to her? The kid was practically on his lap. He’d wrapped his arm around her for protection, but on film it looked lascivious, disgusting. How had his hand gotten on her knee? He watched himself lean in, whisper in her ear, his lips brushing her neck, her mouth. Soon, he was kissing her, and it turned his stomach; he feared he might vomit at the table. He watched as he took the girl’s hand and led her out of frame.
“I—I never…” But the words stuck in his dry throat. He reached for his wine and drank, coughing and sputtering.
“You did,” Lucan said. “Would you like to see the next video of you two together?”
“No!” Curtis barked, because he couldn’t stomach it. He’d pushed the memory so far down, buried it under a barrage of denials and excuses. He’d created a narrative that he was a good guy, a savior even, and he’d locked it in as fact. But the truth of what he’d done, who he was, snaked its way into his psyche now. It was too much to bear.
His voice was an outraged whisper. “You set me up. You drugged me, and you filmed me without my consent.”
“You willingly took a recreational drug you were offered.” Lucan tucked the phone back in his jacket pocket. “And we have security cameras for the safety of our attendees.” His face contorted in feigned sympathy. “You slept with a child, Curtis. I can see how this would be hard for your wife to forgive. And your friends. And your colleagues…”
Curtis had no choice but to play ball. He arranged for West Beatty to use vacant spaces, provided him keys or access cards. But Curtis never attended another party. Not because he wasn’t welcome or because he didn’t trust himself. But because he knew what was happening there was illegal and wrong. Curtis was a decent guy who made one mistake, an error that got him wrapped up in something debauched and disgusting. He’d had no power to stop it. But it ate him up inside. He couldn’t sleep. He lost weight. And when Sydney finally confronted him, asked him what was going on, he made up the affair.
It had killed him to hurt her that way, but Sydney was too smart, she knew him so well. If he didn’t admit to something huge, life-altering, she’d know he was lying. So he’d concocted the fling with the fictional Collette Jasper. It was bad, but it was forgivable… he hoped. He’d agreed to go to counseling, but the sessions were torturous. The therapist’s questions were so probing, he felt like she could see right through him. He was suffocating under the weight of his lies. And then, he found a way out.
Their new life in Spain was the reprieve he’d been longing for. Sydney still had to heal from the pain he’d caused her, but Curtis felt lighter, happier, than he had in years. He had a few loose ends to tie up back in New York—notably Simon. But his friend would provide the party spaces; he’d honor the agreement. Curtis had passed on an invitation that Simon had been all too happy to accept.
Curtis had no idea that the girl he’d met at the party, the one he’d tried to protect, had died. He still didn’t know how—he assumed suicide, maybe a drug overdose. But he knew Bianca and Damian had gotten it all wrong. Her death was not his fault. What happened between them was undeniably wrong, but it hadn’t been violent or ugly. It had been gentle, tender even. She hadn’t cried or complained; she’d never asked him to stop. When Curtis apologized to Bianca for what he’d done to Lyric, it wasn’t an admission of guilt. It was just a way to make them go away. Surely, Sydney could see that.
She had to.
Sydney Cleary and Curtis Lowe, Couples’ Counseling Session
Ellen Dwyer, Psychologist, PsyD
July 29
THERAPY PROGRESS NOTES—SESSION 6.
Counseling terminated via email from Curtis Lowe. He advised that the couple is moving to Spain for a fresh start. I suggested they continue therapy via telehealth or find an English-speaking couples’ therapist near their new residence. There has been no response.
Account paid in full.
57
The glass in Sydney’s hand is empty now, but she has no memory of drinking the hard liquor. She can feel it burning in her chest, though, warming her belly. The alcohol seeps through her nervous system, tries to numb her to the horror and disgust she’s feeling. But it’s no match for the vile tale she’s just heard. She sets the tumbler on the coffee table. Only then does she meet her husband’s eyes, shining with desperation, a glimmer of something more positive… It’s hope.
When Sydney speaks, she sounds like the attorney that she is. But she barely recognizes the faraway, professional voice coming out of her. “You’re a child rapist.”
“It wasn’t like that, Syd. I never hurt her. I—I was gentle.”
Her stomach churns, but she maintains her cool. “You were involved in human trafficking. And child abuse. And sexual slavery.”
“I wasn’t involved. I was forced to provide the venues. That’s all.”
“That’s being involved. That’s being an accessory.”
“The things I saw, Syd.” His voice trembles. “The things they were doing to those girls. What I did was nothing by comparison.”
“Stop minimizing what you did!” Her throat is filled with acid. “You had sex with a drugged teenager! You’re disgusting!”
She gets up, moves away from him. The fact that she had ever loved him, that she had ever let him touch her, that she had moved across the fucking ocean with him, makes her want to puke. What happened to the man she’d married? The guy who’d made her coffee and ensured she ate properly? Who’d made her feel safe and cared for and chosen? When had he been replaced by this sick bastard making excuses for his role in a sex-trafficking ring?
“I—I’m not the villain here, Sydney. I protected Bianca’s sister. I took care of her.”
“But the video of you protecting her was used to blackmail you,” she spits. “You had sex with her. She was a child!”
He clutches at his head like her words cause him pain. “They gave me a pill. I was so fucked-up. I—I wasn’t myself. But Lyric felt safe with me. I didn’t do anything she wasn’t okay with.”
“She was an abused and exploited girl! She couldn’t give her consent!”
