I stiffened against the cushions. “Mum. Wow, hi.” I hadn’t heard from my parents in months. The last time was via email because phone data was expensive and international calling daylight robbery according to my father.
“We just heard the news. Are you okay? What on earth is going on?”
“I’m fine.”
What could I tell them? We’d never had a close relationship, and I’d never learned the art of assuring them I was happy and healthy while hiding things I didn’t want them to know.
“Did someone try to kill you?” my father bellowed. “Are you in protective services? I hope you’re taking this seriously and listening to authorities.”
I sat taller, scrambling for things I could admit while censoring so many others. “It’s all over. I’m safe. The murderer is dead and—”
“He’s not dead. He’s in hospital. He could get out at any moment and come and finish the job.” My mother lamented.
Dad jumped in. “We’ll send you a plane ticket. Come join us in Argentina. Get away from that place until he’s in a cell and some inmate with big arms and lots of tattoos rips him into pieces.”
The mental image of Gil being abused and killed in prison made me rub the sudden ache in my chest.
God, I hadn’t even thought about that.
What if he was killed behind bars?
What if he was found guilty and—
Gil can’t go to jail.
His personality wouldn’t survive. He’d either shut down and give up or he’d join the ranks of merciless criminals and never look back.
Or he’ll die.
I swallowed away my parent-induced panic. “I’m fine here, Dad. I don’t need to fly—”
“Are you traumatised?” Mum asked.
“No, I’m good.”
“You don’t sound good.”
“Well, I don’t know how I’m supposed to sound at two in the morning.”
“Why are you up so early?”
I held back my frustrated laugh. “You called me. Remember?”
“Humph.” Mum huffed. “Well, are you working? You’re not dancing, so where are you working?”
I gritted my teeth. They knew about my accident, but they hadn’t really understood, nor cared what the lack of dancing did to my soul. It was an open wound, and this phone call was not the time to tell them how callous such comments made me feel. “I got an admin job. It’s enough to get by.”
“Do you need more money?” Dad asked.
I balled my hands. I’d never taken money from them. Not once. Not even when I’d been in hospital with my surgery. They’d offered. Fairly regularly in fact. The guilt probably made them offer me at least something. They couldn’t provide love or companionship but they could provide cash.
“No, it’s fine. I can manage.”
“It’s not about managing, Olin; it’s about being honest if you need help,” Dad snipped. “I’ll send you something anyway. In case you’re not up for work with what happened. Shock can be delayed, you know. Don’t want you to end up homeless.”
I slouched into the couch, drained beyond belief. I was grateful for the money. Of course, I was. But I was also devalued and left with a sour taste in my mouth. “You don’t have to do that, Dad.”
“Already done.” He snorted down the line as if he’d fixed world peace. “Anything else we need to know?”
A two-minute conversation and they were ready to go back to their lives. They’d been good parents and checked on their offspring who hadn’t been murdered, they were free again.
I shook my head. “No, everything is fine.”
Fine.
Fine.
That word echoed around empty and meaningless.
“You guys all good?” I added, being the dutiful daughter.
Mum mumbled something in the background while Dad replied, “Brilliant, honey. Time of our lives.”
“I’m glad you’re having such a great adventure.”
“You too, honey,” Mum said as if completely forgetting the circumstances of why they’d called me in the first place. “Love you.”
“Love you guys, too.”
Kisses were blown down the line before they hung up, and I clutched dead air and a cell phone that judged me.
Throwing it away for the second time, I slid sideways onto the couch and closed my eyes.
Chapter Twelve
______________________________
Gil
SEVEN DAYS PASSED excruciatingly slowly.
I might not have been in prison yet, but I was trapped against my will. I wasn’t allowed to leave my room. I couldn’t care for my daughter. I had police watching my every move and listening to every doctor’s visit.
The only spots of happiness in my long, lonely days of healing were when O brought Olive to visit. Without fail, the woman who’d I’d treated so badly and done so many unforgivable things to, arrived at lunchtime with my daughter.
The first day, Olive looked tired and timid. She’d clung to O’s hand as if sleeping in a strange bed in a strange apartment had regressed her to living with Jeffrey. I’d held her close, kissed her glossy hair as she admitted that O had made her pancakes. I’d told her how jealous I was after sharing my gross hospital lunch with her, all while O made an excuse to go to the gift shop to buy me a book so boredom didn’t kill me.
I did my best to stay light-hearted and normal, asking Olive lots of questions to assess her mental health. Overall, she seemed resilient. The same adorable kid I’d been lucky enough to share my life with until a year ago.
She was older.
A little more cynical, a lot more distrusting, and wise beyond her young years, but she wasn’t too messed up from her year-long ordeal.
Thank God.
Despite her seemingly okay exterior, I did my best to pry what’d happened without asking directly, trying to determine if she truly was okay or if a psychiatrist was needed.
Olive was too like me. Too clever at hiding her real emotions behind fake ones.
If I hadn’t killed Jeffrey, I would kill him all over again for what he’d done.
Each day, I was grateful to O for bringing my child and the time alone she gave us, but I hated that, once again, I was adding more stress on her.
I wanted to talk to her.
To tell her she should leave and forget about me.
That I didn’t deserve her help.
And it fucking tore me up that she was still helping me.
After everything I’d done.
I was draining her, breaking her, taking things I wasn’t allowed to take.
It didn’t matter that I loved her.
That now I had Olive safe, my heart no longer felt guilty for wanting her. All I could think about was the closeness we’d once shared, the ease between us, and the intensity of connection.
I’d always loved her.
I would continue to love her.
And that was why she had to get as far away from me as she could because I couldn’t offer her what she deserved. Olive and I were just another accident that O had to heal from and move onto better things.
By the end of the week and seven visits of O and Olive, my body had healed enough that the painkillers had been reduced. My stitched together side no longer stabbed me each time I took a breath, and my desire to escape the hospital became undeniable.
I still hadn’t been able to talk to O alone. Olive was always by my side, listening to every word O and I said to one another. My desire to set O free dwindled with every hour we spent together because how was I supposed to say goodbye to her? How was I supposed to face what I was about to face without her?
But how could I keep her after everything that I’d done?
My heart waged war against itself, wanting to be selfish all while knowing it had to do the right thing.
O had kindly brought a sketchpad and watercolours two days ago, along with magazines and a fully stocked e-reader. However, the distractions weren’t enough to stop
me from watching the news and seeing how many people wanted my head on a spike for the girls my uncle had killed.
My future was undetermined.
My freedom no longer guaranteed.
And it all came to an end at eleven a.m. on the eighth day in hospital.
I looked up as the door opened, a smile already on my face in anticipation of my favourite visitors popping by. My heart pounded harder just at the thought of seeing O. My arms empty to hug both of them, even though O never came in touching distance.
But my smile fell as the kind doctor came in, her professional nod and gentle eyes familiar now. “How you feeling today?”
Sitting in the chair by the window, I sat taller. I didn’t hiss in pain anymore. Considering they’d stitched a big chunk of my side back together again, my body was miraculous with fast healing. The black threads holding my flesh together no longer looked morbid. My skin no longer swollen or infected. “Better.”
“That’s good.”
She read something on her iPad, skimming my notes and updates. “Your blood work looks fine and you’re healing better than I expected.” She looked up and smiled. “The good news is you’ll be fine. No long-term complications. Just listen to your body as you continue healing, and you should have no issues.”
“Okay, will do.”
Her face fell as she looked at the door then back to me. “Unfortunately, I do have some bad news.”
My pulse quickened. “They’re sick of waiting?”
She clutched the iPad to her chest. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Today. Now.”
My heart rate exploded. “Shit.”
I still accepted the consequences of my actions. I would be honest and take whatever punishment they deemed fit. But it didn’t stop the rush of panic or cold sweat at the thought of never having a private conversation with O again. Of never kissing my daughter or tucking her into bed.
Of never being free.
I wasn’t under any illusion that I was a saint. My chances of having a light sentence were slim...especially with the hate threats online and screams for justice on the news.
The doctor came closer. “If you tell me you’re not feeling well, I can ask to keep you here for another few days.”
I half-smiled. “I’m grateful, and believe me, I’m extremely tempted. I don’t want to go to jail, but I also can’t sit in limbo. I might as well get it over with.”
“Fine, but we’ll need to see you for check-ups every other day for the next week, so they’ll have to bring you back. And if you go home, please take it easy. Don’t ruin your progress by overdoing it.”
I thought of Olive and O. I thought about my warehouse that I’d sold to pay yet another ransom. I thought about paying rent on something I used to own and the mess I’d left my paint supplies in.
I thought about all of it in a terror-coloured blur.
Would I be released to sort out my life before I was jailed?
Or was this it?
Maybe I should feign sickness to stay a little longer.
My thoughts blackened as she backed toward the door. “I guess there’s nothing left to do apart from say you’re ready.”
Bracing myself on the armchair, I stood.
My body stayed upright. My pain stayed low.
I’d lived through worse.
I’d survived worse.
I’ll survive this.
“Thanks for fixing me,” I said, smiling gratefully as she reached the door.
She stared into me, stern and worried. “Good luck, Mr. Clark. For the record, I believe you’re a good person and not what they’re painting you out to be online.” Turning the handle, she gave me one last look before slipping into the corridor just as two uniformed officers barged in.
Their legs spread, their arms crossed, their pleasure in finally arresting me glowed bright. “Mr. Clark. Please come with us.”
“Give me two minutes.” Grabbing the bag that Justin had brought me from my warehouse with a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and boxer-briefs, I stepped into the bathroom. Slipping from the god-awful hospital gown, I dressed slowly, favouring my right side. I cleaned my teeth and stared into the mirror, trying to come to terms with no longer being a free man.
When I returned to the room, the police looked me up and down, then moved aside to the now open door. “After you.”
“Can I call my daughter? She’s only eight. I can’t just—”
“That will be sorted later.”
“I can’t be locked up without figuring out her safety.” My voice vibrated with anger. “She’s my responsibility—”
“Should’ve thought of that before you committed a crime.”
My hands balled. “I killed Jeffrey Clark because he’d kidnapped her. I did what I could to save her.”
“And your excuse for killing those other girls?” The older one glowered.
“I didn’t kill them.”
He chuckled. “How about you hold off on your unbelievable explanations until you have a lawyer present.”
“But my daughter—”
“Can wait,” the younger clean-shaven one said. “Now, do you need a wheelchair?”
Temper raged through me, but I managed to stay controlled. Just. “No. I’m fine.”
“Good.”
The older one narrowed his eyes. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
I stiffened.
He chewed his cheek, eyeballing me. “Do I need to handcuff you?”
“No.” I held his stare. “I won’t run. And even if I did, I wouldn’t get far. All I care about is ensuring my daughter has someone to—”
“Fine. Don’t have time for this.” He pursed his lips. “Let’s go. All that nonsense can be taken care of at the station.”
My anger flared hotter. “You’re calling my daughter nonsense?”
“I’m calling you thinking you have any special privileges nonsense.” The older one rubbed his nose and cocked his head toward the exit. “No cuffs is your one and only privilege. Now, no more delays. Out.”
The younger officer moved first, expecting me to follow.
Swallowing back my rage, I fell into line and did my best not to shiver as the older one positioned himself behind me.
A sandwich of law and criminal.
I wished I’d been able to call O and tell her.
I didn’t want her to come here with Olive and find me missing.
I couldn’t expect her to figure out Olive’s living arrangements.
She was only supposed to look after my daughter until I was released from hospital.
But now my custody included police instead of doctors.
This whole fucking mess was on me.
No one spoke as I did the walk of shame through the hospital, down the elevator, and out into the bright sunshine. England looked practically cheerful even though my freedom was ending.
The older officer stayed with me, his hand resting on my elbow while his partner went to collect the patrol car.
No lights, no sirens, just a smooth glide to the curb and a door opening wide to welcome me.
I winced, holding my side as pain flashed. Ducking to climb inside wasn’t as easy as I hoped. The internal pain of healing organs and stitched together muscle grumbled at the movement.
The second I was inside, the door locked me in, and the older officer joined his colleague in the front. They drove me away from the hospital just as I spotted O walking from the visitor’s car park, holding Olive’s hand.
Her gaze caught mine.
A brief, violent moment.
Our connection snapped tight.
My heart crashed hard.
I twisted to keep both girls in my sights as the car turned the corner and she vanished.
* * * * *
“Mr. Clark. You’ve been arrested for the murder of Jeffrey Clark by use of succinylcholine.” The judge read the file on her desk, her half-moon glasses sliding down her nose. “You’ve also been charged wi
th accessory before the fact and second-degree manslaughter for the four women who lost their lives while covered in the same pigment found in your paint supplies.”
She pinned me to the spot, her brown stare severe and unyielding. “How do you plead?”
“Guilty for the murder of Jeffrey Clark. Not guilty for the women, your honour.” My voice stayed stable, but my heart was a fucking mess.
“You don’t have a lawyer present. Are you sure you’d like to submit those pleas?”
I nodded.
The sooner this was over, the better.
The past few hours had been mayhem.
Thanks to the eight days I’d already technically served being arrested in my hospital room, the moment I’d arrived at the station, they booked me, fingerprinted me, asked for any personal items, which I did not have, and placed me in a holding cell with a few other men who looked as shell-shocked as I did.
I didn’t know how the justice system worked and figured the cell I was in was the cell I’d be living and sleeping in for the next unknown while. However, a few hours later, an officer appeared, called my name, and hurried me down a concrete corridor and into a room with heavy wood panelling.
The judge eyed me up and down. “Murder charges are serious, Mr. Clark. Ordinarily, I would hold you without bail until your trial.” Her gaze went to my pale blue t-shirt and the small bloodstain that’d appeared from my stitches. I’d twisted too far in the squad car, trying to see Olive and O. I’d ruptured something.
“As you’ve come here directly from hospital and still have at least a month of recovery, I will permit you to post bail with the strictest instructions not to leave Birmingham or even the street where you live. You will wear an ankle bracelet at all times. Do you understand?”
I nodded again. “Yes, your honour.”
Bail sounded great. I could go home. I could be a father. I could cram in as much normalcy as humanly possible before I couldn’t anymore.
But I had zero equity. I had no cash. No assets to use as collateral.
It didn’t matter if bail was ten pounds or a million, I couldn’t afford it.
My shoulders rounded, my pain level magnifying as she muttered, “Bail is set at two hundred thousand pounds, and your hearing date will be advised.” Her gavel smashed down with finality, and the next unlucky schmuck was shuffled forward.
The Living Canvas Page 13
