“The ex-wife. What was her name?”
“Julia Prescott.”
“What did Julia tell Claire?”
Ethan shrugged. “No idea. The last time I spoke with Claire, she told me she’d followed Julia to a restaurant and planned to confront her.” He smiled sadly. “Nine hours later, I stopped by Claire’s apartment to see how things went and found her in the bathtub, her wrist sliced open.” His voice trembled, emotion overwhelming him.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing down all the anger and pain that had plagued me since I received that phone call. I still couldn’t believe it hadn’t even been a week. It felt like so much longer. Like a lifetime had passed since I walked into that cold room and confirmed the lifeless woman lying on the metal table was my sister.
Clearing my throat, I looked at Ethan. “So you’re telling me the last person who saw my sister alive was this bastard’s…was Nick’s ex-wife?”
“I’m not certain about that. All I do know is that Claire followed her and planned to talk to her about her suspicions. After that, I have no idea what she did or who she saw.”
“Do you have a file that contains information on this Julia Prescott?” I asked, nodding toward the neatly stacked folders still sitting in front of him. He seemed to have a file on everyone else connected to this.
He sifted through them, finally finding the one he was looking for toward the bottom. “Here it is. Julia Prescott.”
He opened it, flipping through dozens of pieces of paper. “Sent to foster care at the age of four, which was where Nick first became obsessed with her, since they were at the same foster home until she was adopted at the age of six.
“Through the years, Nick kept tabs on her. Even went so far as to enroll in the same college to get yet another master’s while she worked toward a bachelor’s, although she had no idea he was the same kid from the foster home. Drugged and raped her, which she had no knowledge of until about seven years ago when she found his stash of souvenirs and journals. He tried to prevent her from turning him in, but in a beautiful act of poetic justice…” A slow smile spread across his face, “she stabbed him in the balls.”
I winced, despite knowing the guy deserved it. “Fuck…”
“Pretty epic, huh? The whole story’s in here. Take a look for yourself.”
He tossed the file onto the coffee table. When the folder fell open, revealing what appeared to be a victim photo taken by the police to document abuse, I sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening.
It wasn’t the bloody lips that shocked me.
Or the bruises on her cheekbones.
Or the swollen eye.
It was who was in that photo.
Her hair may have been a different shade, her eyes vacant and lackluster, but there was no mistaking the truth glaring back at me from those familiar, green orbs. Ones I’d recognize anywhere.
Belle was Julia Prescott.
Julia Prescott was Belle.
What.
The.
Fuck.