Prime Suspect: A Psychological Thriller With A Twist You Won’t See Coming

by Cole Baxter

  I got in the car and started the engine, heading toward the police office. I briefly thought about going to a different branch just so I didn't have to work out of the office I was familiar with, but I knew that would be more trouble than it was worth. While I knew some of the officers in other branches, I didn't have the logins I needed, and there would probably be an hour wasted just standing around.

  I thought back to that tall glass of whisky Shannon Whitman had poured me while I was at their house. I wish I had drunk it. No one would have noticed. I could hold my liquor.

  Don't drink and drive, you idiot, I heard Lola's voice in my head.

  I sighed. "I know I can't," I said aloud as I drove. "Because you aren't exactly here to rescue me, are you?"

  There was silence in my head, which I wasn't sure I preferred over her voice echoing through my mind.

  Somehow, I made it to the office, although I wasn't sure I actually remembered driving there. I found a free computer and sat down, wondering if someone would pop up and kick me out at any moment.

  I decided while I was searching the database that after this, I didn't really want to do any cases that had me work this closely with the police. It was too hard to be here, and the memories were too distracting. I could probably get this job done ten times faster if I weren't haunted by Lola's ghost at every turn.

  Mind you, I didn't actually want her ghost to go away because it was the last thing I had left of her. Maybe I would rather be haunted than not.

  I was glad no one asked me what I was thinking as I stared off into space because I would have an extremely hard time explaining it to them. I tried to shake my head clear and just focus on the computer.

  Ellis Whitman. Shannon Whitman.

  When I finally figured out how to plug their names into the right databases, records started coming up. I leaned forward, reading intently. This would be quite an interesting afternoon. These two were not as squeaky-clean and grief-stricken as I thought.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Laurie

  I used to think that being self-employed was easy. I used to think that it was as simple as working on your couch for a few days a week and picking whatever hours you wanted to work, in front of a movie or whatever you found relaxing.

  Being self-employed was nothing like that. It was about working in every spare moment and working for long periods. It was exhausting and so fulfilling, all at once. I was happy, I was exhausted, I was stressed, and I was relaxed, all at once. I could barely identify my emotions to myself, so I was surprised when my therapist could and I realized how much she could help.

  It had been a little while since I had moved out of Mario and Grace's house, and since then, it seemed like my life was unrecognizable.

  I had joined a gym, both to stay fit and to get stronger. I took classes in self-defense, and I was growing muscles and aching in places I didn't think it was possible to do so. I had started a website on sexual violence and surviving, and it was growing every day. Some of it was monetized, and I made just enough to afford my small apartment and gym membership, which was substituted as part of my health care. My therapist was free because of how little money I had, but she turned out to be the most amazing person I had ever met. She very much believed in my mission of running the site, and she did what she could to help me.

  In addition, I was working with a publisher on the book. Mario had put me in touch with them, and now that I was no longer dead, I didn't need him or Belinda to act as a proxy.

  I missed them very much and I talked to them when I could. However, I wanted to be careful because I didn't want anyone to guess that they were the ones who had helped me. They had reluctantly agreed to my plan, although I knew their hearts of gold were willing to take the rap for anything, which made me smile. They were such lovely people, really, but I couldn't let them do that. I had to be strong on my own, and I was truly becoming stronger every day.

  My therapist had suggested that I schedule my day in blocks so it would be organized and I wouldn't be overwhelmed by it. My plan today was to work on the site for a little while, then go to therapy, and then go to the gym, and then come home and work some more. She was adamant that I shouldn't work too hard, and I knew there were some days when I really didn't listen to that advice. However, there were some days where I knew she was right and I had to take it easy or I would go backward in my recovery.

  I knocked my cutting board off its holder on the way into the kitchen to make coffee and I nearly jumped ten feet in the air.

  I was still a little skittish at the best of times, and I didn't know if that would ever go away. After all, before Devon, I had been too afraid to watch scary movies, and none of that would change. I still wasn't going to watch a movie about ghosts alone in my house, no matter how brave and strong I got.

  I had nightmares, though, that I hadn't had before. My therapist, Joanna, said that they were normal, and I shouldn't let them plague my day, but some of them were so vivid that it was hard to ignore them. In my nightmares, I saw Devon coming toward me. Sometimes, in the dreams, he was clearly dead, burned up yet still moving like he was alive. The most terrifying set of nightmares was when he was all burned up yet forced me to have sex with him anyway. It was one that made me physically ill, and while I wanted to write about it in my book, I wondered if there were just some things the world didn't need to know.

  I managed to make the cup of coffee without too many major mishaps and then headed back to bed to answer my emails. My publisher was good at getting back to me quickly regarding edits, and I had sent a draft of a chapter last night. This morning, I had seen a bunch of comments on it, so I wanted to correct whatever was needed and then add a page to the blog on the website.

  I couldn't believe how fast the website was growing. I had opened the site to be for sexual violence victims of any gender. Sometimes, I referred to them as survivors, but I wanted those hidden out there to know it wasn't just for people who needed healing. It was for those currently suffering who needed help getting out. Everything about the site was safe and secure, and I had done my best to make sure that the posts couldn't be traced to anyone's location. I encouraged people not to release personal details when they chatted on the forum and be extremely careful about who they trusted, even if we were all there to trust each other.

  It was a small community, but it was growing, and I wanted to be able to support whatever expansion was needed.

  When I got through the edits, I got myself another cup of coffee and then settled down to work on the draft for the blog post.

  Since my book was about the incidents with Devon, I made my blog posts in the present day. I liked to think it helped people to know what I was doing now, to see that there was a life after these kinds of things.

  Of course, not everyone's husband was burned to a crisp and then gone from their lives. Not everyone was that lucky.

  That wasn't something I could ever say out loud because I knew it would look suspicious. However, I really felt that way most days. Devon was gone, and the person who was rising from the ashes that he left was a lot stronger than she had been before.

  I was almost late for therapy by the time I finished the post, and I rushed in the door with an apology.

  "Sorry, sorry," I said with a smile as I made it to Joanna's couch with a minute to spare. "If you check the blog's time stamp, you'll see that I was working on it right until I left."

  "I saw that," she said with a smile. "It's all right. I don't have any other patients after you today, so we can take our time."

  "Whew," I said with a smile. I still tended to smile and pretend everything was okay, even in therapy. She recognized this by now and often started serious conversations.

  "You look tired," she said after a moment or two of observation. "Did you not sleep very well?"

  "No," I admitted. "I've been having nightmares again."

  "Oh," she said softly. "I'm sorry. We had such a good few weeks."

  "I know," I said. "I f
eel like they go in cycles, though. For a few weeks, everything is fine, and then for a few weeks, it's a disaster."

  "Well, maybe you'll notice the cycles getting further and further apart until they stop altogether," she said as she made notes in her book. Her notebook for me was almost full, and I wondered how many of those issues she thought we would ever resolve. "You're healing, Laurie. I know it doesn't feel like it, but things are getting better."

  "I know they are," I said. "Can we talk about positive things today?"

  "Like what?" she asked.

  I told her about my productive morning and the self-defense training I planned on working on this afternoon. She thought they were all wonderful things, and we even talked about the upcoming tasks needed for the website. However, when the end time of the session neared, she took a deep breath.

  "Laurie, it doesn't make you weak to discuss what happened in the past," she said. "It makes you stronger because you realize just how far you've come."

  "I know, I know," I said. "I just . . . I've spent so much time writing it in the book. There are some days where I just want to leave it in the book."

  "It is healthy to leave your past behind you," she said with a smile. "But if you have chosen to be a role model, which you're becoming, then you’ll have to talk about it."

  "I know," I said. "I was just hoping . . . that today would be a good day. Despite the nightmare, I woke up feeling . . . strong. Like I could get through anything."

  "You can get through anything," she said to me. "I know you can. Our time is up today, but I think next week, we need to talk about these nightmares again."

  "I promise," I said as I stood up. "Thanks again."

  "See you soon," she said and closed her book.

  I wondered if there would come a day when I wouldn't need therapy. I mean, so many people went to therapy for issues far smaller than mine. I didn't want to belittle it and I loved Joanna. I just saw it as still being sick, and I didn't want to be sick anymore, even if I sort of was. I still had trauma, I still jumped, and I still got dizzy when I stood up.

  Joanna had told me not to think of it as being sick. I had been wounded and I was healing, and those wounds didn't knit easily. I tried to think of it like I had broken a bone at the gym, and it would be a slow process to get it to knit together again. As I arrived at the gym and changed into my gym clothes, I tried to shake off the trauma of the nightmare. Today, I had booked some time with the boxing gloves and the ring. There was no one I was fighting against, but I wanted to practice punching someone in the jaw, just in case. When I was done with the ring, I intended to work with the punching bag for a while.

  I was just about to hit the gym floor when my phone rang. I carried it everywhere with me, even though I knew that I shouldn't, because I always wanted a way to call for help, even if people surrounded me. I was never going to put myself in a position where I was helpless again.

  "Hello?" I said when I picked up the phone. I didn't recognize the number, but that happened a lot when you were trying to be a motivational speaker. Different agencies and venues called you just to learn a little bit more about your story and hear how you spoke. "This is Laurie Whitman."

  "Laurie, my name is Detective Sam Mackendy," said a deep voice on the other end.

  I froze in the middle of the gym floor and felt my blood run cold. "Hello," I said. "Is there something I can do for you?"

  Why are the police calling me? Have I done something wrong?

  "Laurie, I'm working on the case of your husband's death with a colleague of mine in a different field. We were wondering whether you would be willing to come in and talk to us?"

  "About . . . what?" I felt my voice shaking.

  "Just about some of the circumstances surrounding it," he said. "When would you be available?"

  Be strong, I told myself and took a deep breath. I had nothing to fear from the police. I hadn't done anything wrong. If they wanted to talk to me, that was fine.

  "Sure," I said. "When do you want me to come in?"

  "Hmm," he said. "When works for you? Ideally, we'd like you to come in as soon as possible."

  "Well . . ." Be strong. "I'm at the gym right now. Can I finish up and come over there as soon as I'm done?"

  "Absolutely," he said. "Thank you. I'll just give you the address."

  As soon as he gave me the address, I realized where it was. It was the police station where I had turned myself in.

  "Yes, I know where that is," I said. "I'll be there in two hours or less."

  "That's perfect, thank you," he said, and we said our goodbyes.

  I hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. I was extremely nervous because I knew there were people who thought I killed Devon. I had read half a hundred conspiracy theories online in true crime groups about why I had done it or how I had done it. Joanna told me not to read them because I would just stress myself out, but I couldn't help it. I needed to know what people thought of me. I needed to know what questions people might ask or what emails I might get so I could steel myself for the pain that came with it all and prepare an answer. I felt like these days, I could survive if I was prepared. That was why I was taking self-defense training. If anyone ever tried to hurt me again, I wouldn’t let them. I was a survivor. If I survived Devon, surely, I could survive talking to the police about a crime that I was innocent of. What was the worst that could happen? I would cry, and that was it.

  I threw a punch in the air. I was strong and I would survive this. I had transitioned from victim to survivor, and I needed to pave the way for those who weren't ready to do so yet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Blake

  This was ridiculous. How in the world had a guy like Devon even attracted a woman like Laurie? She was so ridiculously pretty that I almost thought we had been duped. He couldn't possibly have been with someone like her for a long time.

  I knew that I had to play the game. If I wanted to get her to open up. really open up, then I would have to get close to her. Frankly, I hated that game. I didn't mind doing it if I was talking to a sixty-year-old, beer-drinking old man or if it was a granny who needed to bring me cookies. But when it was a pretty woman, I felt like I wanted to be a million miles away.

  Someone once asked me if I thought that meant I was never going to fall in love again. I was one hundred percent positive that meant I was never going to fall in love again. I was so determined for this to be a good experience, no matter what. I was determined for this to case to work out and to not let my stupid thoughts get in the way.

  Except I very easily knew they would get in the way. I knew that if I was close to this woman, I would probably end up drinking myself into a stupor. That was just what people did when they were grief-stricken adults who didn't know what else to do with themselves.

  At least, I told myself that was the case. I told myself that was normal.

  I could tell myself things until I was blue in the face, but that didn't necessarily make them true. I could tell myself that I would walk on the moon tomorrow, and maybe I'd believe it if I were drunk enough.

  When Laurie walked in the door, I immediately locked my thoughts away. Luckily, Sam seemed to anticipate the fact that I would avoid her and stepped up to the plate.

  "Mrs. Whitman," he said as he approached. "Thank you for coming in again."

  Again? Maybe Sam didn't think I had caught that, but I didn't know she had come in before. This would make the investigation a bit more difficult if someone had a proper relationship with her.

  I didn't know if she knew she was a suspect yet. She looked pretty nervous, but she was probably just a nervous person, given everything that was going on. We had to calm her down and make her feel like she could say anything to us. It was when you were close to a person that they tended to blurt out things that they otherwise wouldn't.

  "Have we met before?" Laurie asked.

  "I was one of the agents who originally talked to you," Sam said. "When you came in to turn yourse
lf in."

  "Oh." Laurie shook her head. "You'll have to forgive me. I was much sicker then, and things were much harder."

  "I know," Sam said with a smile. "It's all right if you don't remember. This is my partner, Detective Anna Norris, and my associate, Blake—"

  "Just Blake is fine," I said and reached out to shake her hand. I didn't want her to Google me because then she could find out things about me that I would rather keep secret. I didn't want her to know my sob story because then she could talk about it or maybe use it as a way to connect with me. I was sure that we could find other ways to connect.

  "Blake," she said and managed to smile. "You can call me Laurie."

  "Great," I said and pointed toward the conference room. "Let's get started, shall we?"

  We had chosen to use the conference room rather than an actual investigation room because we thought that Laurie would feel more at ease. And if she were at ease, she would talk.

  "Thank you," Laurie said as she sat down in the chair that I had pulled out for her.

  Sam and Anna joined us, and Sam brought Laurie a hot cup of coffee, which she took gratefully.

  "Well," I said since I was supposed to be leading the investigation, "First, I want to apologize that you have to come in at all. I know this could be a pretty traumatic experience for you, Mrs. Whitman, so . . ."

  "Sorry, could you just call me Laurie?" she asked. "I've had some pretty traumatic experiences attached to my last name and I just don't like being addressed by it."

  "Laurie," I said. "That makes sense. That's completely fine. So, as I was saying, Laurie, we know being here is hard, so if at any point you want to stop and take a break, please just let me know."

  "I appreciate that option," Laurie said. "And I will absolutely let you know, but I'm sure we will be fine."

  "Good," I said and then looked down at my case notes. "So, you are of course aware of what happened?"