Ken paused before answering. “I believe you, honey, and that’s pretty scary, but why are you telling me this now?”
“Because he’s probably going to kill you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s possible that as a personal favor to me, he might agree not to kill you. But he’s a nut job, and I can’t guarantee your safety.”
“Janet, what’s going on? What are you talking about?”
“Donovan sent me a package today. A package filled with photographs and police documents describing in great detail all the violent things you did to your ex-wife, Kathleen.”
“Look, Janet, that’s bullshit. I can explain.”
“Can you?” Janet said. “That’s great, because I can’t wait to hear your explanation. After all, I’m looking at more than thirty pages of documented police evidence. It’s sitting in my lap right now, evidence spanning more than eight years of abuse.”
The line was silent for awhile. Then, in a very small voice, Chapman said, “I’m not denying it. But that was a long time ago. You’ve got to understand, I was bipolar. I had a chemical imbalance. I had to take medicine for years, but I’m over that now. I swear to God. Look, you can call my ex-wife. She’ll tell you.”
Janet thought, Can you believe this guy?
“Yeah, Kenny, old pal, I’m sure Kathleen will say whatever you tell her to say. Listen, I’ve got to run. The wedding’s off. I’ll put the ring in the mail. Do not call me. Do not come near me, or Kimberly, ever again. If you try to contact me in any way, for any reason, I’ll turn Donovan Creed loose on you. Believe me, you don’t want that. Again, if you don’t believe me, ask around.”
The third call Janet made was to her best friend, Amy. She got into it quickly. “Did you know about Ken?”
“Know what, sweetie?”
“Did you know?”
“Uh, you’re kind of weirding me out here, babe. Did I know what?”
“Did… you… know?”
Amy was silent a moment. “Oh, honey,” she sighed, “that was such a long time ago. And anyway, there are always two sides, you know?”
“I have a daughter! How could you not tell me?”
“Janet, I’m begging you, think it over before you rush to judgment. Please. Don’t screw this up.”
“Too late.”
“Let’s get together and talk about it.”
“Drop dead.”
It had been two days since Cincinnati, when I’d made the offer about beating her up and Lauren had asked, “Just for the sake of argument, how much would you have paid?” When I told her, she decided to at least hear me out. So I handed her Kathleen Chapman’s police fi le and watched as she reviewed it. She took her time, studied all the photos carefully, read a portion of each page of the police reports. When at last she finished, she’d looked into my eyes and said, “If you know all this about her, and understand her pain, why would you want to physically assault me?”
