Even if I wanted to tell Arturo who I really was now, long after the fact, I wouldn’t be able to. He died three years ago from pancreatic cancer. It was a bad way to go, and startling how quickly the disease ravaged his body. The doctors gave him six months; he died after three weeks, the poor bastard. I ended up quite liking him by the time he went.

I attended the funeral. I went in part because I did want to pay my respects to Arturo, but also because I knew that Aidan would be there. And in a church where well over five hundred people had gathered, Aidan Callahan stood and gave a eulogy. The whole time he was talking, I hid in the back of the church and thought about how I was going to bring him down.

My friend Julia thinks my hatred is misplaced. “He didn’t do it, Essie.” She’s said this more than once. “It doesn’t make sense that you bear all of this anger toward him. He wasn’t the one driving. And even if he had been, it was an accident.”

But how will she ever understand? She, who grew up with two parents, a roof over her head, never worrying about where her next meal was coming from, or who was going to protect her. The most traumatizing thing that’s ever happened to Julia was when she got passed over for a promotion. She thinks holding onto this is not good for my mental state of being, that I need to let it go, that I’m not honoring Vaughn.

“You need to forgive, Ess. That’s the only way you’re going to be able to move on.”

That’s what she doesn’t understand, though. What most people who know me, who know what happened to my brother, don’t understand. I don’t want to move on. Moving on suggests that you’ve accepted what is, and even though I know I can’t change the fact that Vaughn is no longer alive, I don’t have to accept it. I simply refuse.

Today, my inbox is piled with legal briefs that need preparing. At this point, I’m probably so familiar with most of the legal terminology that I wouldn’t be that bad a lawyer anyways. The whole legal system infuriates me, though. I know exactly how much the lawyers here charge each client, and while it might not be a big deal for a huge multi-billion dollar corporation like Callahan, for regular folks who need legal representation, their fee is completely out of the question. People mortgage their houses and go bankrupt just to be able to afford a lawyer. It’s maddening.

None of the lawyers here seem to mind how crippling their fees are, of course. Just like the funeral director who wouldn’t give me a break when Vaughn died.

 I work here in this office, hoping that one day Aidan Callahan will simply step out of the elevator and appear like a ghost. Since Arturo’s no longer able to handle the Callahan accounts, Aidan occasionally attends for meetings with Mr. Goldstein, though those meetings are few and far between. The Callahan Corporation pays a hefty fifty thousand dollar a month retainer at the firm; that means more often than not, Mr. Goldstein, much as it pains him, has to step out of his sanctuary and trek across the city to make personal visits.

Just because Aidan doesn’t come here as often as I’d like—seeing his perfect fucking face and his perfect fucking hair and his perfect fucking smile spurs me on—doesn’t mean I ever forget why I’m here.

No. I never forget. And it pays to be patient. When you work at a place as large as this, a place that deals with so many clients, both individuals and corporations, it’s easy for things to get lost in the chaos. Easy for a few file folders to slip into your stack that have nothing to do with the subpoena you’re meant to be drafting or the legal research you’ve been asked to conduct. Some people would’ve given up at this point. Would have decided there were better ways to get revenge, or maybe just given up on the revenge part altogether, but not me. All I needed was patience.

And after all these years, biding my time, waiting it out with the patience of a goddamn saint, today was the day. Today was the day when everything finally clicked into place. I’ve spent countless hours poring over documents, records and financial statements. I’ve taken stuff home with me, even though it would have been an automatic jail sentence if anyone had found it. Mendel, Goldstein & Hofstadter’s Callahan Corp files have been my nightly reading material for years. I’ve flipped through documents while I drink my coffee in the morning, and then I’ve taken them back to work and replaced them before anyone could notice. All of that’s over now, though. I’ve finally found what I’ve been after, what I knew would eventually show up. See, a corporation as big as Callahan’s is never perfect. They always trip up somewhere. There’s always something that someone is trying to hide. And I found it.

It’s not common practice for big corporations to keep their financial records on file with their lawyers. I wouldn’t have even bothered looking through them at all, but after I’d exhausted every other avenue open to me—there were no law suits, no litigations, no toxic waste dumping off the coast of Florida, no sexual harassment. Nothing—I’d run out of options. I learned how to read a profit and loss sheet very quickly. Everything was squeaky clean after Aidan took over the company. Everything added up. I was beginning to lose hope. But then I came across some of the P & L sheets from before Aidan took over the company. That’s when I hit pay dirt. The profits were consistently so much lower than when Aidan took over. It made no sense. So I dug, and I dug and I dug.

Turns out Alex Callahan was siphoning money from the company, stealing from the share holders. Highly illegal stuff. Not technically Aidan’s fault, but it will do. It’ll be enough to bring his world crashing down around his ears.

So.

Time to put the plan into action.

I sit down at my computer and begin to compose an email.

NINE

AIDAN

I need to get my dick wet.

When I first moved back to Chicago, I hated it. Hated the cold. Hated the memories of an unhappy childhood that seemed to be lurking around every single corner, ready to fuck me up without warning.

But as time slipped by, I actually began to appreciate the beauty of the city. I never thought I’d say I looked forward to winter here, but eventually I began to relish wrapping up warm, the smoke steaming on my breath as I hurried through the streets. I began to love the food. Lincoln Park Zoo. The Adler Conservatory. Grant Park. But, most importantly, I began to love the people.

The line between rich and poor is stark in this town, and yet the people without money tend to be some of the happiest. The ones who really appreciate life. I’ve found joy in donning a t-shirt and jeans and doing community work in some of the rougher neighborhoods. The life stories people will tell you are insane, and yet they’ll laugh them off afterward and say they’re better because of their experiences.

And I love the women.

I’ve always had a sexual appetite. In Hawaii, the girls I fucked were usually tourists—women who were around for a week or two, who could never really ask too much of me. Not that I’m relationship shy. I’m just particular. Sex, for me, is a practice in trust. I know what I like, and what I like can be intimidating to some people.

Not all women are comfortable with being tied up.

Not all women are comfortable with being spanked.

Not all women are okay with being gagged and bound.

Not all women are cool with being teased and manipulated and brought to the edge of orgasm over and over again for hours at a time.

But, then again, there are women who are okay with all of those things, and somehow they always seem to gravitate towards me. It’s been months since I’ve fucked anyone, though. I’ve had a few regular contacts I’ve kept close ties with since I moved back here, however I haven’t wanted them of late. I’ve been dreaming. Seriously fucking weird that some dreams have kept my dick in my pants, but it’s true. These have been the most intense dreams I’ve ever experienced, highly sexual in nature, and they’ve all featured one woman. The one woman I can’t have.