Chapter 8 - The Woman He Planned to Blame
Victoria’s cooperation produced another revelation.
Julian had never planned to protect her.
He had planned to use her.
She turned over messages where he coached her about the jet ski.
Push her confidence. Make her agree in front of everyone.
Another:
If she gets hysterical, even better.
And finally:
If something goes wrong out there, you were driving. I’ll say I told you to slow down.
Victoria reportedly stared at that last message for several minutes when prosecutors showed it to her.
“He told me we were doing this together,” she whispered.
No.
Julian had arranged three layers of protection.
First, make me look reckless.
Second, make Victoria the person physically operating the towing jet ski.
Third, remain onshore surrounded by witnesses.
If I died, he could grieve.
If police became suspicious, Victoria became the obvious defendant.
If investigators looked deeper, Julian would claim he had tried to stop her.
He had designed the day so every woman around him carried his risk.
His wife.
His mistress.
His unborn daughter.
I almost admired the consistency.
Almost.
Victoria eventually agreed to plead guilty to serious charges related to assault, unlawful restraint, and conspiracy in exchange for cooperation against Julian.
She was not innocent.
She had laughed while I begged.
She had accelerated.
She had watched blood enter the water and kept driving.
But she was also not the architect.
That distinction mattered.
Justice is less satisfying than revenge because it insists on measuring different kinds of guilt separately.
My attorney told me not to read comments online.
I did anyway.
Some people called Victoria a monster.
Some blamed me for staying with Julian.
Some wanted to know why a wealthy woman had hidden her family background from her husband for ten years.
That question bothered me more than I expected.
Had I created part of the secrecy in our marriage?
Yes.
Did secrecy justify attempted murder?
No.
Both statements could be true.
In therapy, I admitted something ugly.
“I wanted to be loved without my name.”
The psychologist asked, “And what did hiding your name cost you?”
I looked through the nursery window where Eleanor was sleeping.
“The chance to know sooner what he really valued.”
That was painful.
But it was mine.
May you like
Accountability without adopting Julian’s crime as my own.
I could live with that.
