“No problem,” I said, although there was a big problem, as far as I was concerned. “I’m at your disposal.” I held my hands out, and then folded them, trying to relax and not look as frustrated as I felt.
“Good. First thing, I want to say that we spoke with your wife yesterday and went over her statement once again, to clarify a few things. Very routine and nothing to be concerned about. The same applies in this case. We’re just making sure we have everything right.”
I nodded, impatient for him to start the real questions.
“First, I want to show you these," he said and flipped open a file. Inside was a stack of papers that looked like the printout of emails. "Can you identify the email address and contents?"
I glanced at the first three. They were from a Yahoo account. DMorganMD and were dated during the past two years. I read a few over. Intensely romantic and using a lot of terminology from the lifestyle – limits, submission, punishment, obedience. One demanded that she did certain things to prove her willingness to follow orders.
I want you on your knees, Lisa, blindfolded, waiting for me when I come to you. Naked. Wet. I’m going to push your boundaries tonight. Every single one. As soon as I can get away from her, I’ll be there and I want you ready for me. Every hole in your body open and ready for me. In every way…
These were all things a Dom might do as part of training a sub, but they were completely fabricated. I hated that they had shown the fake emails to Kate. That was the very last thing she needed, given her delicate mental state.
Then I found one email that contained texts from one of my letters written as guidelines for my new subs.
Your naked skin is sensitive now, exposed to the ambient temperature change. The silk of your pillow is cool against your calves as you sit waiting. A cool breeze wafts in from your open window, and your nipples pucker. You think of my mouth on them, my tongue wet and warm, and a stab of lust flows through you.
My key clicks in the lock, the door creaking open, my footsteps loud on the hardwood floor, the thunk thunk as I remove my boots.
I open the refrigerator and remove the bottle of vodka you keep just for me, pour the liquid in a shot glass, and then my lips smack in satisfaction. It's my favorite Russian vodka infused with anise, called Anisovaya. I have only one shot, for I must keep my mind clear so I am in total control of everything – you, the scene, and most of all, myself.
Then, the zhrrr of a zipper and the swish of fabric sounds so loud. Your body tenses for a moment as you anticipate my next move.
My pulse increased. She'd copied the letters and included them in emails from me. Like she wished I had written them for her.
Did she do this to incriminate me? Or did she write these emails and create this fake account because she wished it were true?
Either way, she was insane.
"These aren't my emails. I never wrote these," I said and threw the letters onto the table.
"They're from an account with your name, signed with your name. We found them at her apartment."
"I didn’t write them. I mean, I wrote some of this, but she copied it from material I posted on a private website. I’m sure if you do some forensic work, you'll see."
"We're doing it as we speak," St. James said, a note of gloating in his voice. "We'll know what IP address was used to send those, so if you sent them from work or from home, we'll know."
"I didn’t send them. You won't find anything."
St. James shrugged. "We want to ask you to go over your relationship with Ms. Monroe. When did you meet her, how did you meet, what was your relationship with her.”
I sighed and then re-told the same chronicle of events I told them in the hospital – that I met Lisa through her then-Dominant, who was a voyeur and liked to watch her with other men. I had two encounters with her on separate evenings over the course of six months. That was it until she showed up in my Fellowship course the previous year.
McDonald seemed satisfied with my account up till then.
“So, nothing transpired between the two of you between the time you last saw her at the mansion in Yonkers and when you saw her again at New York University for orientation to the Fellowship program, where she was one of the students?”
“Yes,” I said and nodded. “I never saw her socially between then.”
“But after, when you discovered she was a resident in the program, you did see her socially? Is that when you sent these letters?”
“I never sent her any letters. I only ever saw her as part of the course,” I said, trying to correct him. “We held group social events every week – drinks after work was finished. The occasional dinner at a local pub that many of the residents and faculty frequent. That was it.”
“What about at the hospital?”
“We had coffee on occasion in the break room, but that could be said of any number of residents and the other Fellow in the program.”
“So you didn’t seek her out or invite her to do anything social with you?”