Deadly Devotion Read online

  A MOTHER’S WORST NIGHTMARE

  “It’s okay,” Mary said, trying to reassure her. “Now you can get away from Marcus, too. You’ll be safe now.”

  But Elizabeth knew that no one would be safe, not with the whole group of them going toe-to-toe with Marcus.

  “What have you done?” Elizabeth said, dropping the cordless phone to the floor and frantically searching through her purse for her keys. “Oh my God, no!”

  In her own way, Elizabeth had spent most of her life trying to protect her children from her husband. Although she’d always accepted his claim that the beatings he regularly dealt out were necessary discipline, she tried to intervene when he went too far, begging him to stop before he killed them. Marcus wouldn’t hand the children over to their mothers without a fight. She was the only one who could reason with him. God only knew what he would do without her there.

  Pocket Star Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 2009 by Alysia Sofios

  Originally published as Where Hope Begins.

  All lyrics by permission of Marcus Wesson, the author.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Star Books paperback edition August 2011

  POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Cover image of house © Roger Hornback/ Getty Images

  Cover image of man © Getty Images

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-3151-0

  ISBN 978-1-4391-5769-5 (ebook)

  To Sebhrenah, Lise, Illabelle, Jonathan, Aviv, Ethan, Sedona, Marshey, and Jeva, who I never had a chance to meet, but who will live in my heart forever.

  To my parents, Chuck and Sandy, who have always provided me with unconditional love and support.

  And to little Alysia, for making us all realize the true meaning of hope.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Wesson Family Members

  (as of July 26, 2011)

  Marcus Wesson, 64—b. August 22, 1946

  Elizabeth Wesson, 51 (only legal wife)—b. July 31, 1959

  Dorian Wesson, 36 (son)—b. December 12, 1974

  Adrian Wesson, 35 (son)—b. November 6, 1975

  Kiani Wesson, 34 (daughter)—b. April 23, 1977

  Sebhrenah “Bhrenah” Wesson, 25 (daughter) VICTIM—b. April 5, 1978

  Stefan Wesson, stillborn (son)—b. May 11, 1979

  Almae Wesson, 31 (son)—b. May 23, 1980

  Donovan Wesson, died at six months (son)—b. October 11, 1981

  Marcus Wesson Jr., 28 (son)—b. December 2, 1982

  Gypsy Wesson, 27 (daughter)—b. December 28, 1983

  Serafino “Fino” Wesson, 26 (son)—b. February 12, 1985

  Elizabeth “Lise” Wesson, 17 (daughter) VICTIM—b. March 28, 1986

  Sofina “Sofia” Solorio, 35 (niece)—b. October 24, 1975

  Ruby Ortiz, 33 (niece)—b. November 7, 1977

  Brandy Sanchez, 31 (niece)—b. November 15, 1979

  Rosa “Rosie” Solorio, 29 (niece)—b. October 21, 1981

  Illabelle Wesson, 8 (daughter with Kiani/granddaughter) VICTIM—b. September 16, 1995

  Jonathan Wesson, 7 (son with niece Sofia) VICTIM—b. March 14, 1996

  Aviv Wesson, 7 (daughter with niece Ruby) VICTIM—b. June 16, 1996

  Ethan Wesson, 4 (son with niece Rosie) VICTIM—b. July 15, 1999

  Marshey Wesson, 19 months (son with Sebhrenah/grandson) VICTIM—b. August 8, 2002

  Sedona Wesson, 18 months (daughter with niece Rosie) VICTIM—b. September 9, 2002

  Jeva Wesson, 13 months (daughter with Kiani/granddaughter) VICTIM—b. February 22, 2003

  Prologue

  I’d really gone all out to make my first Christmas celebration with the Wessons perfect, but things weren’t going as planned. The angel in her purple dress kept toppling off the tree, and our names had dribbled down the five stockings because we’d hung them before the glitter glue was dry. On top of that, the four-foot artificial tree that was supposed to light up and change colors every ten seconds had gone completely dark on one side.

  And that wasn’t all. Every year since I’d become a TV reporter, I’d worked on Christmas Eve, and this one was no different. As usual, I couldn’t find a decent meal anywhere; this time my dinner had consisted of a convenience store hot dog that looked like it had been sitting under the warming lamp for weeks. Needless to say, I kept everyone in my apartment awake throwing up that night.

  My stomach trauma had subsided by seven o’clock on Christmas morning, so I snuck into the living room to lay out the gifts I’d carefully chosen for Elizabeth, her niece Rosie, and her daughters Kiani and Gypsy. My parents had sent some soft, fluffy blankets from Michigan, and I had bought a bunch of bath gel, candles, makeup, and other stocking stuffers. I couldn’t wait to surprise the girls on their first Christmas without the patriarch who had never allowed them to celebrate the holiday with presents, decorations, or Santa Claus.

  After I finished, I collapsed onto my couch, looking forward to watching their reactions when they came out of their bedroom.

  Elizabeth emerged first, and for a moment her face was all lit up with the enthusiastic response I’d hoped for. But her gleeful expression soon faded. I knew she was thinking about the nine other children who would never be able to join the rest of the family on this or any other holiday.

  I’d really wanted to get the girls’ minds off the terrible loss they’d lived through earlier that year, even if it was just for a few hours; Elizabeth had assured me that this would be a happy day for all of us.

  I should’ve known this was a promise she couldn’t keep. I didn’t think it was possible, but she looked even more down than usual.

  “The kids would have loved this,” she said, her voice cracking as she looked mournfully at the five stockings.

  It wasn’t just the kids, though. Elizabeth missed her husband, Marcus, and although they’d never admit it to me, I was sure Rosie and Kiani missed him, too. I knew them well enough by now to know.

  “No crying,” I said sympathetically, but firmly, to Elizabeth. “You promised.”

  “I know, Alysia, I’m sorry.”

  Rosie and Kiani wandered in next, their eyes practically popp
ing out of their heads when they saw the presents stacked under the tree.

  “These are for us?” Kiani asked in disbelief.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling. “Santa Claus came last night. We have to wait for Gypsy to get here before we can open them, though. Where is she, anyway?”

  Like me, Gypsy liked to sleep in, so she was running late that morning. As Elizabeth called her daughter to hurry her along, I went into their bedroom to get Cosmo, my pet ferret. Although I used to think it was cruel to dress animals in costumes, I could have sworn Cosmo liked it when I bought him a new outfit. I dressed him in his tiny Santa suit and hat, then let the little critter run out to greet the Wessons.

  Just then, Gypsy walked in.

  “What in the world?” she asked, laughing at Cosmo’s festive costume.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said, trying to hug her around the armful of gifts and the book of baby names she was carrying.

  “I heard you were sick,” Gypsy said.

  “Let’s not talk about it,” I said, hoping to avoid another trip to the bathroom. “Let’s start opening!”

  I doled out the presents and watched as they cautiously peeled away the wrapping paper.

  “Don’t worry about ripping it, you guys,” I said. “Tearing them open is half the fun.”

  Half an hour later, we had filled two garbage bags with shredded paper and scrunched boxes. Still glowing from receiving the gifts that surrounded them, the girls slipped off their usual high heels and replaced them with their new fuzzy slippers. I could tell how much Elizabeth loved the vanilla-scented perfume I got her because she kept spraying her arm and sniffing it. Marcus had never given her frivolous luxury items like that, nor had he allowed the kids to have any toys. The few times Elizabeth’s family had given them toys at Christmas, Marcus had thrown them away.

  Kiani, Rosie, and Gypsy went into the kitchen to start cooking the Christmas meal, while I stayed slumped on the couch. As much as I loved ham, mashed potatoes, and green beans, my stomach was in no condition to accept anything resembling food. Gypsy slathered the ham with honey glaze and stuck it in the oven with the rolls; Rosie strained the pot of potatoes she’d boiled.

  As a single, twenty-eight-year-old workaholic, I wasn’t very domestic and lacked many of the utensils necessary to cook a big feast—including a potato masher—so Rosie tried to use a fork to mash the potatoes. Realizing she hadn’t cooked them long enough, she decided to finish the job in the blender.

  “That’s not going to work,”

  Gypsy said, shaking her head. Gypsy was right. When Rosie hit the button, the blender made a horrible noise, like a garbage disposal with a metal spoon stuck in it.

  I chuckled to myself as I watched the drama unfold.

  Growing up, Rosie and her family had been taught to make broken things work and to prepare meals with whatever food items they could afford, so she tried to fix the blender. But it was no use. I watched a cloud of smoke drift into the living room, bringing the odor of burned rubber along with it.

  “I told you,” Gypsy said, shaking her head again.

  “I’m sorry,” Rosie called out to me, turning red with embarrassment. I wasn’t mad at her. I knew she’d been punished enough in her life already, and besides, I was more amused at the situation.

  “It’s okay. Open the window, please, before I get sick again,” I replied.

  Elizabeth jumped up and opened the front door, while an unattended Cosmo jumped into the trash bags and dragged out the boxes until they were all over the floor again.

  In the midst of the commotion, the smoke alarm went off. This time it was the rolls that had burned. With each excruciatingly annoying beep, my headache got worse.

  “This is more like it,” I yelled, covering my ears and smiling at the stunned group. “Now you know what Christmas is like in most people’s homes.”

  When dinner was finally served, the girls sat around the circular table, talking between bites of the salvaged meal; I contributed to the conversation from the couch. I could tell they were all happy to be together, but I could see on Rosie’s and Kiani’s faces that they couldn’t shake the guilt over eating a holiday meal while Marcus was behind bars.

  Gypsy didn’t say much either, but I figured she was still feeling guilty about leaving her sister Lise and her other siblings behind when she ran away from home a year and a half earlier. She was also most likely reveling in the fact that their father was where he belonged. And Elizabeth, well, she was doing what she always did: trying unsuccessfully to hide her grief.

  The girls had a long-standing coping mechanism of focusing on the brighter side of their lives, even when it seemed like there was little brightness to see.

  Twenty-three-year-old Rosie bragged to the other girls that she had recently gotten her driver’s license, although she admitted she was still scared to drive on the freeway.

  “I’m so jealous,” said Kiani, who was four years older and still couldn’t drive.

  Gypsy, who would turn twenty-one in three days, was jealous, too. She gazed at me with an unspoken plea.

  “Don’t look at me,” I said, laughing. “Teaching Rosie to drive was scary enough for a lifetime.”

  Rosie sighed melodramatically, so I assured her I was only kidding.

  “You should learn how to drive before the baby is born, though,” I said to Gypsy, who was six months pregnant.

  Gypsy’s goals for the new year were to get a license, to earn a high school diploma, and to come up with a name for her baby girl, who was due in March. She opened up the book she’d brought and thumbed through it silently until Kiani took over and threw out a few suggestions.

  Rosie was the only one who liked the name Emma.

  “Taylor is good,” Kiani said, looking around at us. When no one responded, she went on. “Okay, you don’t like it. What about Arianna?”

  “That’s so cute,” Gypsy said, smiling, and everyone agreed.

  Whatever her name turned out to be, I knew this was going to be a very special little girl. She would be the first child in the Wesson family not to be named by Marcus. The first child who would grow up free from his abuse. And, more important, the first child not to be fathered by him.

  One

  Elizabeth knew something was wrong that Friday afternoon. There was tension in the air.

  Yvette kept shooting her furtive glances while whispering into the cordless phone at Ruby’s apartment. Elizabeth didn’t know who her nephew’s girlfriend was talking to, but it felt like she was the topic of conversation. She wanted to go home.

  “I need to leave now,” she said, walking toward Yvette on her way to the front door.

  “Wait,” Yvette called out. “Here, talk to her,” she said, shoving the phone at Elizabeth.

  “Hello?” she said in her soft, childlike voice.

  “Aunt Lise, it’s Mary.”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said cautiously. “What’s wrong?”

  Mary, the girlfriend of a different nephew, sounded anxious and jumpy, immediately confirming Elizabeth’s suspicion that something was going on. Nonetheless, she wasn’t prepared for Mary’s answer.

  “We’re all at your house,” Mary said. “The girls came back to get their kids.”

  Mary was referring to Elizabeth’s nieces Ruby and Sofia, who had lived with the Wesson family but had left their two children behind several years ago, when Ruby ran away and Marcus kicked Sofia out of the house. A dozen nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends had gathered at Ruby’s just an hour ago. What were they doing at Elizabeth’s?

  “They are talking to Marcus right now and—”

  “What?” Elizabeth interrupted.

  Sofia and Ruby had said they were going to the store to buy food for a barbecue, but it was clear now that they’d left Yvette behind to keep watch over Elizabeth while they snuck off to try to take their seven-year-olds, Jonathan and Aviv, away from Marcus.

  “It’s okay,” Mary said, trying to reassure her. “Now you can get away
from Marcus, too. You’ll be safe now.”

  But Elizabeth knew that no one would be safe, not with the whole group of them going toe-to-toe with Marcus.

  “What have you done?” Elizabeth said, dropping the cordless phone to the floor and frantically searching through her purse for her keys. “Oh my God, no!”

  In her own way, Elizabeth had spent most of her life trying to protect her children from her husband. Although she’d always accepted his claim that the beatings he regularly dealt out were necessary discipline, she tried to intervene when he went too far, begging him to stop before he killed them. Marcus wouldn’t hand the children over to their mothers without a fight. She was the only one who could reason with him. God only knew what he would do without her there.

  Elizabeth ran out of the apartment. Her ears were ringing, and she could hear her blood pulsing as her heart pounded. In the parking lot, she finally got ahold of her keys and yanked them out of her purse, scattering tubes of lipstick and loose receipts onto the asphalt. Her hands were so shaky and slippery with sweat, she could barely get the key into her car door.

  How could Ruby and Sofia do this? Please, God, let me get home in time.

  Marcus hadn’t allowed Elizabeth to get her license until she was thirty-one and he was in jail for welfare fraud, so she’d gotten into the driver’s seat later than most. She had never speeded before; in fact, she habitually drove so slowly that motorists glared at her as they passed by.

  But this was different. This was about saving the babies.

  Never even glancing at the speedometer, she flew home on surface streets, blowing through several red lights. Ruby’s place was only a few miles away, but the trip seemed to take forever.

  She made a sharp left turn onto Hammond Avenue, where she could already see about twenty people gathered in front of her house on the corner. She gasped when she saw two patrol cars parked across the street. It was even worse than she’d thought.

  The tires of her Toyota Echo squealed as she made another sharp turn into the driveway, pulling in next to the yellow school bus Marcus had retrofitted to drive their enormous family around.