Page 16 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

GWEN

Even though Madison is a complete stranger, her voice is instantly familiar from hearing her on the podcast. It’s disorienting enough that it takes a moment after she answers for me to find my own voice.

“Hello, Madison,” I say, trying to sound as calm and collected as possible. “It’s Gwen Proctor.”

I can tell she’s stunned and I enjoy the brief silence that follows, knowing I’ve caught her off guard. “Oh, hi. Hi ,” she says, flustered. “Um, I... I wasn’t expecting?—”

I cut off her stammering. “I assume now is a good time to talk?” I don’t give her an option. In fact, I’m somewhat hopeful I’m interrupting something important because I know there’s no way she’s not taking my call.

“No, of course not.” There’s rustling in the background and the sound of something falling over. “It’s just... is it okay if I record this?”

“No.” I practically bite the word out.

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed. There’s more scrambling—I assume as she hunts for a pen and some paper.

That she isn’t aware Tennessee is a one-party consent state, meaning she doesn’t need my permission to record the call, tells me she’s not much of a journalist. It confirms what I already guessed, given the caliber of reporting on the podcast so far.

She clears her throat, still a little breathless. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I wasn’t expecting to call,” I tell her truthfully.

“So, Mrs. Royal, what?—”

I stop her right there. “It’s Proctor,” I tell her, my voice edged with steel. “Gwen Proctor. And you know it. So you’re either being intentionally obtuse or intentionally rude.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” she immediately says, nearly stumbling over herself to get the apology out before I hang up on her.

“It’s just, with the podcast, I’m so used to using your former name and I wasn’t thinking.

I really do apologize.” She sounds sincere and also very, very young.

On the podcast, she comes across so polished, which is the benefit of writing a script and being able to do multiple takes with lots of editing.

She waits for me to accept her apology; when I don’t, she audibly inhales before saying, “Why are you calling?” I can practically hear her wince at her directness before she adds, “I mean, what can I do for you?”

“You can take down your podcast and issue an apology for defaming me and my family.”

There’s another long pause. “I can’t. I understand why what you’ve heard so far might have upset you, but?—”

“Upset me? Are you kidding me? I’m not upset; I’m incandescent with rage.

Do you have any idea what your lies do to me and my family?

Are you even aware that the reason I changed my name is because my ex-husband stalked me and my kids across the country for years?

That when he escaped from prison, he hunted me, intending to rape and torture me in front of a live audience? ”

I’m standing now, pacing around my office as my voice rises. I can’t stem my anger at the fact that this podcast has brought this all back to the surface. Especially after I’ve been working so hard to move past it. I’m so fucking tired of this shit, and I unleash it all on Madison.

“I did nothing to deserve any of this. I was a housewife, and I was naive and maybe I didn’t see the warning signs because I didn’t want to.

I ignored the fact that my husband liked to choke me to near unconsciousness during sex because.

.. what was I supposed to do with that information?

Who was I supposed to go to? How was I supposed to leave him? With what money? With what resources?”

I’ve kept so much bottled up for so long that I find myself unable to stop.

“I am not responsible for my ex-husband’s crimes.

Me staying with him may have made me na?ve, but I’m hardly the first woman who stayed in an abusive relationship because she either didn’t understand what abuse truly was or didn’t realize she deserved any different.

Why do you think I dedicate so much of my time as a private investigator to helping women? ”

I realize that by this point I’m shouting, and as much as I’d love to continue unloading on this woman, I’m afraid of waking Connor. I clamp my lips together, swallowing back the rest of my diatribe.

Madison says nothing, then lets out a breath. “Wow. That was so powerful and raw. Are you sure there’s no chance you’ll repeat that and let me record you?”

I roll my eyes, the fury still simmering under the surface bubbling to the top.

There’s no fucking way I’m going to help this woman peddle her damn podcast that vilifies me and my family.

“I’m not interested,” I spit. “I want The Royal Murders taken down. Now. And if you’re not interested in pulling the podcast, then we’re done here. ”

I pull the phone away, intending to hang up, when I hear her shout, “Wait. Please!”

Something about her desperation makes me hesitate .

“I’m on your side,” she says.

I scoff at her obvious pandering. “Fuck off. My husband lost his job because of you and your bullshit. You are very definitely not on my side.”

“I’m sorry!”

My finger hovers over the end call icon, and her voice comes out tinny and distant through the speaker.

“I’m sorry, I really am. This isn’t what I wanted to happen. I didn’t want you to get hurt. Please, just give me a chance to explain what happened.”

I press my lips together, telling myself to hang up. Something stops me. There’s a shift in her voice, a loss of bravado that reminds me of Lanny and the tone she takes when she’s arguing about something important to her. Maybe that’s why I stay on the line.

Madison senses the opening and talks quickly.

“I was a student at Wichita State when the whole Melvin Royal thing went down. You couldn’t go anywhere without hearing about it.

It was like a city-wide obsession. He was all anyone ever talked about.

I was a senior when you went to trial and a journalism major.

I decided to write about your trial for my honors thesis.

I was in the courtroom for the whole thing. ”

I blink, stunned by the revelation. I have absolutely no recollection of her being there. Which isn’t all that surprising. I spent my entire trial numb and in shock, barely aware of my surroundings.

My stomach roils as old memories from that time filter into my consciousness. I remember the smell of the holding cells in the courthouse basement: body odor, urine, cheap makeup, and desperation.

I’m not sure how to feel about this woman having such a direct connection to my past. To the very thing I’ve been trying so desperately to bury.

“I admired your fortitude, Gwen. Melvin Royal tried to take you down, but he couldn’t. The state couldn’t either. ”

Her words don’t remotely match the crap she’s been spewing on the podcast. “You have a funny way of showing your admiration.”

“I’m just as upset about The Royal Murders as you are.”

I snort. “Doubtful.”

“I’m serious. The podcast wasn’t supposed to vilify you like that.

When I heard the Lost Angels were looking for someone to help create a podcast about Melvin Royal, I applied for the job.

I did all the legwork—the interviews, the scripts, the production and editing.

I gave them a finished product—an entire season of recorded episodes—and figured that was that.

“I was just as surprised as you were when the first episode dropped. They re-edited what I gave them. Rowan Applegate was only ever the project manager for The Royal Murders ; she was never supposed to be a co-host. That episode about Sam? I included all the evidence exonerating him in my version. Rowan cut it.”

“That’s a pretty convenient story.”

“I have proof. I was supposed to hand everything over to them when I was done, but I kept copies. I have the original episodes. I can give them to you. You can listen for yourself.”

As earnest as she sounds, I’m still not sure I believe her. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“They had me sign an NDA when I took the job. Even if they didn’t come after me legally, I was worried about them badmouthing me in the industry. Podcasting is a small world. I’m just starting out in my career. This was supposed to be my big break, and I didn’t want to ruin it.

“Plus, ultimately, they own the podcast. They funded it all. They own the recordings, everything. If they want to change things, they have a right to. That’s also why I can’t take it down. It’s not mine.”

I close my eyes and press my fingers against my temples. What she’s saying makes sense, but it’s still frustrating. I’m so tired of the Lost Angels’ relentless pursuit of me and my family.

“Well, I guess now you know not to trust the Lost Angels. Sorry you had to learn the hard way. Hopefully, they won’t try to ruin your life like they have mine. Best of luck, Madison.”

I start to hang up again when she blurts, “Wait! I want to help you.”

“I think you’ve helped enough.”

“Let me at least give you everything I compiled for the podcast. Like I said, I have copies of every interview and all the records I pulled. I also have the emails and texts between me and the Lost Angels. Plus, I copied other internal communications from their system before I left. You can have it all.”

That last bit gives me pause. Having a trove of internal documents would make bringing a defamation case against the Lost Angels much easier. Still, I’m suspicious. “Why?”

“Because they screwed me over, and karma’s a bitch.”

I appreciate her honesty. It makes me a little more inclined to take her up on the offer. “Okay. I can give you an address to mail it to.”

She hesitates. “It’s too much to send in the mail. I’d rather meet.”

I laugh. “No, thanks.” Even though she claims to have left the Lost Angels, she was still associated with them for long enough that I don’t trust her.