After You, My Dear: I will always follow you

By PJ Ellis

The stunning Selena Mirrell, formerly a famed fashion model, marries young to the wealthy and charming Victor LaRoche. Her storybook romance becomes a living nightmare as Victor reveals his true, dark nature. When his behavior turns to violence, Selena fears the worst. She runs for her life but soon finds there is no place to hide.

Settling in the small, infamous town of Andersonville, Georgia, she is determined to make it her last refuge—or the site of her last stand. Selena builds a home and finds a new career, but old troubles plague her. When Victor remarries, Selena hopes she has escaped her past, but unsettling events are occurring around her. Amid murders, kidnappings, and mysterious strangers coming and going, it isn’t clear who is friend or foe.

A fascinating child enters her life, and Selena meets an enigmatic, widowed detective who wants to love and protect her—because Victor is determined to hunt Selena down and bring her back to him. She is about to find out to what lengths he will go.

Selena must summon her strength and courage when Victor’s unpredictable behavior escalates and threatens her most valuable possessions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9781663254528

PJ Ellis

P.J. ELLIS is a retired graphic designer. She lives in the suburbs of Atlanta with her kitty, who is her favorite person. Shopping is her favorite hobby, so please spread the word about her book. After You, My Dear is her first publication, and she plans a sequel about the further adventures of her heroine.

Book preview

PART I

RUN

Miss on her own

Miss almost grown

-Kelly Clarkson

CHAPTER 1

SELENA

As my plane climbed to the stratosphere, I leaned forward past my seatmate. Like a petulant child, I had taken an aisle seat to avoid seeing the mountain range. But as the first peaks appeared, I knew I had to say goodbye.

The summit materialized through the cloud cover, majestic in its beauty but leaving me discouraged and depressed. The sight stalked us for many minutes. I leaned back and closed my eyes, but the image was burned into my lids.

Stalking was a subject I knew something about. My ex-husband, Victor LaRoche, had pursued me for three years as though he had to consume me to survive. I ran for my life.

We were still together when he received the separation notice I had filed. He gunned his engine and roared into the driveway, crashing into the porch and demolishing three steps. Slamming the front door so hard the frame cracked, he stomped up the stairs and strode into the bedroom within an inch of me. I was terrified but managed to hold my head up.

He gripped my jaw with his left-hand prosthesis and slapped my face with the right hand that held the summons. The paper contacted with a loud crack.

You will not do this, Selena, he said softly but coldly. His voice rose, As long as you live, you will never try to do this again. He emphasized, and his voice roared, As long as you live!

He crumpled the paper in his right hand, then drew his left arm back, and I screamed and ducked. The prosthesis bored through the sheetrock, and the mechanism disengaged, embedding the multimillion bionic forearm in the bathroom wall like someone had severed it from his body with an axe. I wanted to laugh at him but did not want to hasten my demise.

Victor dropped the ball of pink paper at my feet and retrieved the prosthesis from the bathroom side of the wall. I watched it disappear from my side and slipped from the room.

Victor proceeded with his nightly routine—becoming sloshed. I drove most of the night, unwilling to drag my ugly drama to my parents’ home. Ultimately, I had nowhere else to go, so I moved in. In the morning, I filed a protective order against Victor.

It didn’t take a detective to figure out where I was. Mindful of the order, Victor honked his horn and roared down the street. He left nasty notes in the mailbox and sent packages from the dark side of Amazon. I moved out with my meager funds as soon as the divorce was final.

Dance and modeling summed up my barely marketable skill set. At thirty, it was getting late for me to reinvent myself. I didn’t want to become an ‘older model,’ a defunct expression still occasionally whispered.

Neither did I want to teach ballet to disheveled toddlers in diapers and pink tutus or to the girls who decided too late to become accomplished ballerinas and dropped out after a season.

My mother was CEO of a high-end lingerie design company and disapproved of my love of dance. She nevertheless kept me enrolled in pricey performing arts academies.

By way of compromise, I endured her efforts to make a fashion model of me, which included a nose job and Lasik surgery.

Obsessed with my waistline, she applied every known weight loss technique short of removing the refrigerator. She counted carbs, calories, and ketones. I was always ravenous, and my father sneaked food into the house.

When my clothes looked like they belonged to someone else, Mother pronounced me ready. I hugely resented the whole thing.

A New York agent booked me immediately at fifteen, which likely had more to do with my mother’s connections than any remarkable talent on my part.

Teen magazines hired me for covers and fashion spreads. I booked TV commercials for cosmetics and landed coveted acting roles in soap operas. A perfumery paid me six figures. Traveling to exotic locations became routine.

I had broken through the wall; I was one of the lucky ones. I forgave my mother.

Was it too much too soon? Absolutely. I was riding on the clouds in a glut of luxury.

Victor’s mother was heir to a design house fortune and appeared on various lists as the wealthiest woman in the world. She treated her son like a show dog—say, an Afghan hound, a blue-ribbon champion, elegant and stylish but not especially useful. All aesthetics, no utility.

At nineteen, I met Victor while walking the runway for the company’s winter resort wear at Fashion Week Toronto. Under the guise of helping with the lighting, Victor attended rehearsals, the better to ogle the latest models decorating the catwalk.

One afternoon, I felt a light double-tap on the shoulder.

Oh, miss.

Yes?

I spun around to a man so good-looking I faltered slightly, and he reached out a hand to steady me. A thick crop of black, wavy hair supplied a backdrop for deep, dark green eyes. His teeth, set like freshwater pearls in a wicked grin, were so shiny the runway lighting bounced off them like a toothpaste ad.

Sporting a light gray Armani suit with a soft sheen and a white shirt, he was deeply tanned and carefully groomed. He had a few days’ worth of five o’clock shadow, and the top two open buttons exposed just the right amount of soft chest hair. Holy moly.

Out of nowhere, he handed me one of the short purple kimonos the models wore between sets. I thought he was incredibly presumptuous, but I knew who he was, so I took the robe but draped it over my arm. I was wearing a minuscule bikini and blushed but added a smile.

It’s a bit chilly in here, he said. He smelled lightly of alcohol. A martini at lunch? He returned my smile.

People talked about him. What they said was not so great: lady-killer, cocaine user, and family freeloader. What can I do for you, Mr. LaRoche? I asked.

He feigned being impressed that I knew his identity by lifting one brow and turning his head slightly.

You dropped this, he said, pressing something into my hand.

No, I didn’t drop anything.

I looked down at my hand. A silver textured business card read, Victor A. LaRoche, Director of Operations. In the background was the design house logo, and on the flip side was a bold, handwritten phone number and the name ‘Vic.’

When I looked up, it was at his back. I laughed but wondered how many girls he had approached this way.

I did call, and he asked me to dinner. Victor swore he had never used the business card opener. I didn’t believe him, but he was charming and gorgeous. I was smitten.

We dated casually for two years. I rightly concluded that he was a spoiled rich kid used to having his way. But he was tender, amusing, and incredibly entertaining.

As a pilot, he would surprise me with outings like hot springs in Arizona and scuba diving in Baja. He took me on helicopter tours over the Boulder mountains, and we cruised up the river in New Orleans. Yachting into spectacular California sunsets, we made love on the deck.

We were living the life many people think will make them happy—and it made me happy for a time.

Victor worked for the family enterprise. Mostly, he just showed up, flirted with the models, often in front of me, and borrowed company vehicles and aircraft.

Out of boredom, I thought, he enlisted in the Army. When he returned from his first tour, I felt it had matured him, and he talked about going to business school. I accepted his marriage proposal. He never applied to school.

I overlooked signs that would have pointed to his character, glaring signs with flashing lights that I was too immature to recognize, much less know how to respond.

I caught him in nonsensical lies—he would tell me he had a beer when it was coffee or that he’d been to one store when the receipt said another. When I questioned him, he would become irate. This behavior mystified me more than hurt me.

He picked fights with me, smashed things of mine when he was angry, and then blamed me for upsetting him. The tactic worked; I vowed to work harder on our relationship.

His mood changed abruptly. At times, all emotion drained from his face, and he studied me like a bug under glass.

As his second tour of duty approached, tiny moments of relief spilled into my consciousness. That was when it hit me—what a horrible mistake I had made.

Oops, too late.

Five months into his second tour, I received a wee-hours phone call. An improvised explosive device had exploded under his vehicle in Kandahar. No one disclosed the nature of his injury. I was to take the next flight to Walter Reed Medical Center, and they gently told me to prepare to stay.

I was aghast at the extent of the damage to his arm and fearful of the years ahead. There would be amputation, more surgeries, and rehab. I knew he would need time to heal emotionally from the war and the horrendous wound.

We came home from the hospital after six months. I prepared to devote myself to Victor. With my support, I thought he would eventually learn to take his injury in stride. I was sure this experience would bring us closer, and he would change back into the old, playful Victor I had first met.

Everything did change. It’s too benign to say Victor was childish, self-centered, and hostile. He tried to dominate and control me—in bed and out. Daily sex was nonnegotiable.

He ordered me around and made absurd demands, such as fixing him martinis every afternoon at 3:45 like he was some movie star, and ridiculous demands, like lining up his shoes so they weren’t touching.

He begged off most events and outings, complaining of pain. It was just as well; when I spoke to any man for any reason, he drilled me with questions and stared at me from across the room.

As though we were royalty, we had to dress for dinner and sit silently in the massive dining room. I tried to converse but received only a stone-faced stare.

One night, after too much wine on my part, the scenario struck me as comical, and I started laughing and couldn’t stop. Victor walked the table length and poured the remainder of the bottle into my lap.

I caught him coming out of his closet with his physical therapist, an attractive woman who came to the house for sessions. He looked flushed, and she was smoothing her clothes.

Later, I discovered a small bag of white powder stashed in a shaving kit. I knew it was cocaine or heroin. Whatever it was, I dumped it and hoped he would think he had lost or used it.

But hope, as they say, is not a good plan. He knew where he had left it, and I paid for it with a sore jaw. I’ve thought about that night many times. Maybe if he had hit me a little harder, I would have gone to the ER and gotten some help. Would I have accepted it? I didn’t know.

However, the drugs explained some of his antics and moodiness. I decided that his negative behaviors resulted from the traumatic injury and the many months of painful therapy. I still had feelings for him, but in retrospect, it was more sympathy than love, more longing than desire.

He was proud of his injury and happily detached the arm for display whenever the opportunity arose. I thought he had a right to be proud of serving his country, and I figured he was compensating for his emotional pain, but it became disturbing. He ordered a glossy black version of the prosthesis and taunted me with it.

After much persuading and bargaining, he agreed to attend couples’ counseling so that I, not we, would be happier. The therapist, a man past retirement age, saw us together and then asked to see us individually, which I expected. Victor refused and left the room, which I also expected.

The doctor chatted me up for a bit and then did something odd. He stood, turned his back to me, and stared out the window as he tapped the casement with a pencil. Turning back around, he spread his fingertips on the desk and leaned forward, peering at me intently over his glasses.

Listen to me, he said.

He had my full attention.

You need to understand. Your husband is a dangerous man. Do you understand?

I nodded numbly; I understood. I don’t remember leaving the office. On the drive home, Victor ran three red lights to scare me.

The doctor’s synopsis was indeed prophetic. Shortly afterward, the punching began. I learned to stay away from him in the morning when he was hungover, but I began to fear for my life.

I no longer thought his behavior resulted from the injury; it sprang from somewhere deeper. The catalyst was the injury. The injury was the excuse.

Despite his conduct, or maybe because of it, I began to try to conceive. I thought a baby would bring us closer, speed his recovery, and give him a new purpose.

After six months of trying, which had become a dreaded chore, I consulted a specialist. Victor was so confident in his fertility that he refused to undergo testing. He was so adamant that I wondered whether he had fathered a child or if this was another manifestation of his arrogance.

I underwent fertility treatments with no results. Victor put forth the theory that I caused my inability to conceive through my years of dance.

Around this time, Victor surprised me with a colossal home purchased without my knowledge.

One morning, he demanded we go for a drive—he was no longer asking. We arrived at night after a long, soundless ride. He stopped in the courtyard of an ancient, twenty-thousand-square-foot castle, lights blazing in the house and around the massive grounds that mimicked the mall in Washington, DC.

A remote opened the pointed iron gates, triggering a crushing sense of foreboding in me. The feeling intensified when he turned to me and spread his hands like God over his creation, announcing, Chateau de LaRoche.

I said something like, It’s nice, Vic.

I disliked the daunting house but tried to cover my feelings. I thought he had bought it to fill the void in our childless relationship.

My brain snapped an image of that frame in time, and I can still recall every detail.

In the low light of the car, emotions crossed his face that I couldn’t name—some combination of hurt, disgust, and bewilderment. Despite my growing hatred of him, I felt terrible.

However, as we toured the estate in the morning light, I realized he had remodeled it entirely for himself. Nothing suited my personality, design preferences, or even colors I liked.

Everything was grand on a pretentious scale, and the décor was opulent and exaggerated—twenty-two-karat gold dressed the crown molding. I felt like I was in Disneyland.

The master bedroom was red-and-black and a mockery of good taste. It felt like he was creating a bordello; I couldn’t imagine what designer would stake their reputation on it. It occurred to me he might have purchased the estate for a mistress.

There were ropes of assorted sizes in an open chest. Something made me look upward, and I saw a large hook protruding from the ceiling. I jumped slightly and shuddered, knowing that Victor had entertainment in mind in which I was unwilling to participate.

Victor was behind me and noted my reaction. He laughed softly. After you, my dear.

Victor considered me his possession, and like the child he was, he would surely rage at losing his favorite toy. I wasn’t sure whether he would kill me or make me wish I were dead. I didn’t know if it was safer for me to stay or leave, but with my parents’ refuge, I pushed through to the divorce.

To my attorney’s bewilderment, I didn’t ask for alimony in the settlement, though the modest sum from my trust fund would quickly disappear. Substantial earnings from my modeling career remained but were under Victor’s thumb.

Selena, my attorney Ron implored, You should at least hit him up for six or eight grand a month—that’s peanuts to him. You know he will tie up your money for as long as he can. What will you live on? Ron intoned. He tossed the settlement on the desk and put his hands on his hips. Ron was expressive.

Well, there’s my trust fund ..., I began.

Ron snorted.

I can find a job. Maybe learn something new, I don’t know.

Ha! Ron rolled his eyes and threw back his head.

The memory of Victor’s unmasked hatred in divorce court never left me. His narrow, hazel eyes mirrored the hue of his custom Versace suit and were like twin jets of wrath that bored into mine.

He had flipped up his silver collar; it looked like armor around his neck. Unlike the other men milling about, he wore no tie, which I knew was his way of denigrating the court.

The muscles of his striking, tanned face quivered. His jaw was slightly off-kilter, and his mouth pinched into a flat, hostile line. He gripped the railing in front of him with white knuckles on his good hand. I thought the top of his head would explode. I tried not to look at him.

I waited until he had stomped off from the courtroom to speak with Ron. Together, we stared at the massive, soft closed doors that Victor had somehow managed to slam. People were glancing at us.

Selena, is there anywhere you can lay low for a while?

Nowhere he won’t find me.

Have you thought of going underground? I could ask around to see if someone could help.

I’ve thought about it a lot, but I’m not going to look over my shoulder the rest of my life.

"Well, we have the protective order. I know there’s no guarantee, but it might make him think twice. If he violates it, we can lock him up.

I wish there were something more I could do for you, Selena. Would you like security to walk you out? I have another case."

No, he should be gone by now.

Well, please call if he is in contempt of the order.

We shared a glance that conveyed his pity and my fear, both of us thinking of disastrous consequences far beyond disobeying the order. I thanked Ron and left.

I had reached the courthouse steps when a vice gripped my upper arm and yanked me behind a column. I cried out in pain as he whirled me around with the prosthesis to face him.

Not spoke so fast, my pretty.

I forced words through clenched teeth. Let. Go. Of. My. Arm.

If you scream, I’ll push you down these steps.

I nodded. He let go.

This isn’t over, Selena. I told you that you wouldn’t leave. Do you think all of this means anything to me?

You have such a way with women, Victor. You really make me want to stay. I rubbed my arm.

A female voice called, Ma’am, is everything okay?

I tried to compose myself but was trembling with rage. I nodded to the security guard, who had been notably absent when I needed her. Victor laughed and took the steps by twos to the street.

After using my GPS to ensure he wasn’t there, I went to the house to get some paperwork and stumbled on a document torn off at the bottom. The top read Department of the Army, Memorandum of Reprimand: Victor Adrian LaRoche. It was from his first deployment. I had no idea what he had done.

Entering my new condominium, I realized the door was open. Someone had broken in with no sign of force. I shouldn’t have entered alone, but I did.

That’s where Victor had been. I crossed the threshold, and my mouth dropped open. I fumbled for my cell and called the police.