I’m recording the podcast I’ve been putting off for the past week. I couldn’t talk about what happened in that park, so I immersed myself in the other parts of the story. I told listeners about the kidnapping and Laura’s death. The rest, though? I didn’t comment on that, and I turned off social media so I wouldn’t see people clamoring for the rest of the story.
Now I’ve given the tale its ending. How Oliver was arrested for assaulting me. How the officer guarding him at the hospital admitted to accepting a bribe to let him out of the hospital for an hour. How Oliver was then charged with Laura’s death when forensic evidence put him at the scene of the crime. It’s a manslaughter charge, not murder, and he has confessed to it and is in plea bargaining negotiations now with his new lawyer. Dinah has dropped him.
According to Oliver, he met with Laura and claimed he didn’t have the money—his accounts being frozen—but offered ten grand from his safe. She refused . . . and he’d followed her back to the farmhouse, where they’d fought and she’d fallen and hit her head.
The autopsy had already concluded that she’d died from striking her head on the stone fireplace, the stab wounds occurring postmortem. He’s not admitting to the stabbing, because it would admit he set up his own sister. It’s also, I think, a bit of revenge—let people think that I attacked Laura after Oliver freed me. Maybe even let them think she might not have been dead when I stabbed her. But I didn’t, and there’s no evidence I did. The Crown just doesn’t feel like adding “indignity to a dead body” to Oliver’s charges when they already have their manslaughter confession.
As for Fake-Beth, the police caught up with her, and she eventually gave her side of the story. She’d met Laura last year and claimed she only agreed to help kidnap me because Laura said that Oliver and I had tried to kill her in that boat. According to her, she began to suspect Laura had darker motives and left shortly after I’d been kidnapped. It’s true that she left—there’s proof she got on a plane while I was in captivity—but eventually, the real story came out. She’d collaborated with Laura purely for the money, as she’d said in the car, and then left after Laura gave her a downpayment on her fee.
I recite the facts of the case for the podcast. They’re as dry and dull as I can make them, as if . . . Well, I’d say that I relay them as if they happened to a stranger, except that I hope I treat strangers with more compassion than I do myself here. I get through it, and then I know it needs more, as much as I would love to leave it at that.
I stop the recording. Take a deep breath. Adjust my headset. And then I press Record again and begin.
“When I talk to survivors of partner abuse, they sometimes speak about grief. They say it feels as if they lost the loved one who abused them, and I’ve always struggled to understand that. I get it now. I grieve for the brother I knew. I would love to say my version of Oliver didn’t exist, but that’s not true. There is always good, and that’s what we grieve for. Grieve at our loss and rage against our loved one for not being so utterly vile that we can write them off entirely.
“Oliver was my big brother for eight years. He did pull me out of the pit after my mother’s murder. I’ll let the armchair psychologists speculate on why he did that. On whether he ever truly cared about me or whether I was just another dependent to make him feel important. I know that I loved him. I know I will miss having him in my life. And I know I’m going to need a lot of therapy.” I let myself give a strained chuckle at that.
“I didn’t see the monster. I’m not sure there is a monster. Oliver did what he thought was right and fair. For the past two weeks, I’ve been grappling with whether to shut down my podcast. I feel like an impostor. I talk about predators, and I missed the one front and center in my life. But that’s why I’m not stopping. Because if I can miss it, anyone can, and that was my purpose here, talking to survivors and digging into the cases, and that let me keep pushing for answers with Oliver when I really just wanted to tell myself I was overreacting. If I can do that for someone else, great. And even if I can’t, these are stories that need to be told, and so I’m going to keep telling them.”
I take another breath, not bothering to stop the recording. “This is Amy Gibson, signing off for a while as I take a break. But I’ll be back, and I hope you’ll still be here when I am. Thank you.”
I stop the recording. Then I sit there, head bowed as I breathe before I straighten and send a text.
I’ve gotten to know Martine better in the past week than I had in the six months she dated Oliver. She reached out after his arrest, and we discovered—to the shock of neither of us—that the reason we’d always circled at arm’s length was that Oliver hadn’t wanted us getting closer.
He’d done the same thing he did with me and Laura—dropped insinuations and hints that suggested the other person didn’t quite take to us. With Martine and I both being the quiet sort, it was easy to do. Just don’t encourage contact. Leave the impression that Martine liked me well enough but as Oliver’s little sister and nothing more. The truth is we have a lot in common besides our shared experiences at Oliver’s hands.
I send her the raw recording. Then I rise from the desk and look across the room. Castillo sits there, patiently waiting.
Yes, Oliver had lied about Castillo. I’d known that, but Castillo still insisted we get the actual report from Oliver’s investigator, which proved it. The history Castillo told me was the truth. The rest were just lies my brother wove as fast as he could, confident I’d believe his version. Because he was my big brother, just trying to protect me, and why would he lie?
I walk toward Castillo.
“Recording complete,” I say. “As you may have noticed.”
Castillo puts down the book he’d been pretending to read. “You did good, Gibson.”
I make a face. “I did adequately. Now I just need to be sure I post it.”
“I can’t help with that. I’m no good at being pushy and obnoxious, as you know.”
I smile. “I’ll take all the pushing you have. And thank you for being here while I recorded that. I appreciated it.”
He grunts something I don’t catch. Then he pushes to his feet and checks his watch. “Seems a reasonable hour for tacos and margaritas, if you’re feeling up to cashing that rain check.”
“An evening out with a friend?”
He grunts and shrugs. “Whatever you want.”
“Is there something else on offer?”
A mumble I don’t catch.
“What’s that?” I say, walking over. “Is there an option for more than an evening between friends?”
He shakes his head. “If you want to ask me out, Gibson, do it. All this beating around the bush isn’t my thing. I’ll probably say no, but go for it.”
I smile and step in front of him. “Would you like to go out for tacos and margaritas with me, Dean Castillo?”
“As your date?”
“Sure, as my date.”
“That means you’re paying, right?”
I loop my arm through his. “It absolutely means I’m paying. Now let’s go.”