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

by Cole Baxter

  "Really?" I said. "That's great. Please call me if you think of anything else."

  "Of course," he said.

  Just before I got up, I paused. "Will anything I said be shared with anyone?" There were some things I was ready and comfortable to release to the world, and then there were some things that really should stay private. "Like . . . I don't want Shannon to know that I think something that may or may not be true about her marriage until I have more proof."

  "Of course," Blake replied. "Nothing you say will be released to the public or anything like that. It will be just be used in the investigation."

  “Okay," I said. "Thank you. Is there anything else I can do?"

  "No, we'll call you if we think of something. Just don't leave town."

  I laughed at that and gathered up my things.

  "Thank you," I said and headed out the door. Anna walked me to the front desk, where I handed in my visitor badge, and then shook my hand.

  "Thank you for coming in again," she said. "And good luck. I hope everything works out."

  "Thanks," I said. "It will. I just have to believe in myself. That's what my therapist said."

  "Sure," Anna said and then pressed the button to the elevator for me.

  Once it showed up, she headed back into the office and I got in the elevator.

  It was only once the doors were closed and I was alone in the elevator that I left out a loud sigh of relief.

  That had been a lot harder than I thought. I thought that they would just ask light questions or perhaps let me know a new piece of information. That had almost been an interrogation, although I was sure that they didn't suspect me.

  They wouldn't be asking me all these questions about other people if they suspected me, would they?

  I let out a long breath and stepped out of the elevator when it opened. I had already decided that I would go get a green smoothie for energy and to cleanse my body of the toxic feelings I had. I felt it was important that you cleanse yourself after having a negative experience like that.

  If my past self from even a year ago had seen me now, buying a green smoothie, she would have reacted in shock. I had always had a small figure, and I didn't need to do much to work out. Whenever I gained a pound on the scale, it was always gone if I did so much as ten sit-ups. Because of that, I had a crappy diet before. I used to just eat comfort food, which I supposed was because I was trying to comfort myself from the hours of Devon's abuse.

  Now, I knew that food made a difference in mood and energy. I ate as cleanly as possible, and I often had smoothies or protein shakes.

  I felt like I was an entirely different person.

  Once I was outside, I pulled out my phone to text Joanna an update of what had happened. I had told her that the police had called me, and she had given me a five-minute relaxation session over the phone, just reminding me to breathe and reminding me that I hadn't done anything wrong so I had nothing to fear.

  I knew I was completely dependent on her, but it wasn't as if I had anyone else. My friends from my old life didn't really want to talk to me, especially with all this drama going on, and I had never really had much family to begin with.

  All is well, I texted Joanna. But they did find something. Someone set that fire on purpose to kill him.

  Session booked for tomorrow morning, she said.

  I sighed in relief. She always knew how to support me. I decided to take the long way home and walk back to my little apartment. I was still reveling in the fact that I was free and I could walk as far as I wanted for as long as I wanted. It didn't matter what time I got home because there would be no one there waiting for me or demanding to know who I had been with.

  Devon used to accuse me of cheating when I went into the back yard to pick a flower for the kitchen table. It had been ridiculous.

  I shook the negative thoughts from my head as I continued to sip the smoothie. I shouldn't be thinking about those times outside of therapy, or I guess outside of the investigation. I was free now. Those times were behind me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Laurie

  The truth came to me in a dream. Usually, my dreams didn't mean anything. It shouldn't have been so clear to me when I woke up. Something woke me up. I didn't wake up naturally. But when I did, I realized exactly what had happened yesterday.

  They hadn't just been questioning me because they wanted to find who had killed Devon. They were questioning me because they thought that maybe I had been the one who’d killed Devon.

  In my dream, I had actually been standing on a witness stand. The police officers from the actual meeting had been standing there, but they weren't asking me actual questions. They just kept drilling questions at me.

  "Why did you kill him?"

  "How did you kill him?"

  "We know that you killed him."

  The questions went on and on until I broke down and screamed at them.

  “Okay, I killed him!" I cried out.

  That was when I had woken up. It was to the sound of a text message. I rolled over and looked at my phone and I saw that Joanna had texted me.

  Sorry, stomach bug. Have to cancel today. Will reschedule ASAP.

  "No, no, no, no," I said and immediately started texting her back. I would send her a text message and beg her to reconsider or ask if I could just come by her house and wear a mask or something.

  And then I realized how ridiculous that sounded and how selfish that made me. I couldn't do that. That was so rude, and Joanna needed time to heal.

  But if she knew that I was being questioned for a murder I didn't commit, would she be calling in sick? Or would she be asking me to come in earlier so she could hear the whole story?

  My heart was pounding in my chest. I felt like I would die, and I told myself to calm down, that it was just an anxiety attack.

  When I had first started getting them, they actually ran all sorts of investigations on my heart because I was convinced that I was dying. They put me through all sorts of tests that actually caused more trauma than they were worth, only to discover that there was nothing wrong with my heart at all. It was just anxiety, and I would be fine.

  At least, I told myself that I would be fine. But every time they happened, at least this bad, I was convinced that I would die.

  Take a deep breath, I thought to myself. Deep breaths.

  I wasn't sure how long this attack lasted, but it felt like ages. I had lain back down because hyperventilating and sitting up made me feel like I would explode. I tried everything—playing soothing music, taking deep breaths, and visualizing, but nothing worked. I still felt like there was an elephant on my chest and my world would come crashing down.

  Deep breaths, I kept repeating to myself, even though I knew the attack would just end when it ended and the rest was up to God.

  God. I wasn't sure what I believed about God. When I was a child, I was sure that I believed in God. But these days, I felt abandoned by Him and often wondered how He could let something like this happen. Of course, I knew all about free will and I knew that God couldn't control the acts of men. They could only act to impress God. But at the same time, I wondered, if He was all powerful and almighty, why didn't He just control bad people?

  These thoughts swirled in my head as I lay on my bed. Eventually, after what felt like hours, my vision returned and I felt safe enough to sit up. I felt like I could breathe, and I took a sip of the cold tea that I had left on my desk from the night before.

  If Joanna had known that I would have an anxiety attack that bad, she surely wouldn't have called out sick.

  I was afraid to get out of bed in case it happened again. However, my full bladder was forcing me to, so eventually, I got up and headed toward the bathroom.

  Even the toilet flushing scared me. The noise from the shower made me jump and I wondered if I should just not take one at all. After all, I didn't have to go anywhere or see anyone today. I could just not take one.

  But if I didn't take one, I wou
ld feel disgusting and like I wasn't in control. And I needed to be in control.

  I turned on the shower and then ran for the hallway where I sat down and witnessed it through the half-open door. This was the only way I could convince myself that the noise wasn't that frightening.

  I moved closer once the sound didn't make me want to cover my ears. The fact that I had a system to deal with this made me feel pathetic. Who was afraid of their shower?

  Brain damage, I tried to remind myself. You have brain damage.

  Even though I knew that was the logical answer, I had to keep telling myself that it was okay to feel this way. It was okay to have a panic attack in your hallway. It was okay to lose your mind as long as you got it back and then got right back to doing what you were supposed to be doing.

  At least, that's what I kept telling myself. That's what Joanna told me. That's what I had to keep thinking.

  I took a deep breath, and then another and another, and eventually, I managed to get into the shower.

  Once the hot water was rushing over me, I started to feel a lot calmer. I thought I would be all right.

  I made a plan while I was in the shower. I would be all right. I kept telling myself to breathe, and I eventually found that I could smile while I was brushing my wet hair out.

  At least, I thought I would be all right. I had planned to call Mario or Belinda. It was Tuesday, and one of them was usually home on Tuesdays because they tried to alternate shifts for the lovely puppy they had just gotten. I couldn't wait until the public eye was off me and I could go and see the puppy for myself.

  I never wanted to bother them at work so I would call their house phone. If neither of them answered, I would send a quick text message and someone would call me back.

  I called the house number that I had basically memorized and waited while it rang. I imagined that one of them was home and actually playing with the adorable puppy, which was why they couldn't get to the phone.

  I called again, and I waited.

  And it rang. And rang.

  The second time their voicemail picked up, I started to get a little more anxious. Why wouldn't they pick up? Where the hell were they?

  I knew my plan was to send a text, but I was starting to second-guess myself. What if they didn't want to talk to me? What if they were tired of my constantly calling them for support and had finally decided to be done with me?

  I decided I would send a text, hoping that they had just stepped out. I told myself that I was just being paranoid, and paranoia was a part of having a brain injury.

  Neither of them answered my text after an hour and I really started to doubt myself then. Why didn't they answer?

  They hated me. They must hate me. They must have decided that I was scum and I wasn't worth it, that I was far too needy and taking far too long to heal. Frankly, if I were them, I would do the same. There was only so long you could be kind to someone before you realized that they wouldn’t help themselves. People had their own lives, and they were busy doctors. They probably wanted to get as far away from me as possible, especially since I could get them in legal trouble for faking my own death.

  I needed to never text them again. I needed to never call them again.

  I slipped back into the pajamas that I had just thrown off, that were sweat-soaked and gross from my nightmares. I didn't really care, though. There was no one who wanted to talk to me. There was no one who wanted to hear my story.

  I wandered into my kitchen. This morning, when I was taking a shower, I'd thought about making a nice omelet and starting the day well. But now, I didn't want to do any of that. It was too late for breakfast, anyway. It was already 11 a.m., and I should be thinking of lunch. Or I should be a good responsible person and skip breakfast and just work on the website. There were so many things I wanted to add.

  This was not the way my day was supposed to go.

  I decided not to eat at all, which I knew was bad for me. My brain would not shut off.

  The website. I need to just sit down and work on the website.

  I decided to work on the couch because that was the most comfortable. My brain was going a million miles a minute, and when I opened the website, I found that I couldn't focus on what I wanted to work on. I thought that I wanted to update the blog and then I thought I wanted to go to the forums and post a question. Then I thought I wanted to add some motivational quotes.

  Instead of doing any of those things, I started reading the forums.

  Reading the forums was hard, even in the best of times, because other people posted their stories. I mean, that was what it was meant for, so I supposed I should be proud that they did because it was serving its purpose.

  Some people's stories were horrific. At least Devon just choked me out during sex and then left me alone most of the time. Some people were actually beaten most of their married lives, or they were stabbed, or they were thrown into walls or locked into basements without food. I couldn't believe some of the stories people wrote about, and my heart went out to them.

  I don't know how long I sat on the couch reading those stories. I had tears in my eyes, and they did nothing to alleviate my panic attacks. I couldn't stop crying and hyperventilating while I read one that sounded just like mine, complete with wearing scarves to hide the handprints.

  Why were people so cruel? Why was there not enough support for people who had gone through these horrible things?

  I would respond to some of the posters, but I couldn't even get my fingers to type logical responses. They just kept typing gibberish on the keyboard over and over again.

  My head was pounding and I felt like I would pass out. I looked up and was surprised to find that the sun was setting. I hadn't eaten. All I had done was cry, and I certainly hadn't moved around. I needed to do something different or I was certain that I would die here on this couch.

  I was so frustrated that all these people had a public forum to write on and there was no one in my real life whom I could find to listen to my story. Was it because it was old news? Was it because I wasn't worthy of being listened to?

  I went into my kitchen and opened my cupboards. I didn't really know what I was looking for, but I knew it when I saw it. In the back was a bottle of vodka that I had hidden away for a special occasion or a special guest.

  I didn't know who I thought was coming over or what special occasion I would have.

  Today seemed like a good day.

  I got a shot glass and poured myself a shot so full that it nearly spilled over.

  The logical part of my brain said that this was a bad idea with the medication I was on. But the part of my brain that was damaged, both emotionally and physically, didn't care. That part of my brain was ready for whatever came down my throat.

  I poured the shot into my mouth and winced. It burned going down, but I knew right away that I needed another one.

  I couldn't believe that they thought I murdered Devon. How could they think that?

  Yes, I'd wanted to murder him. I wanted to do it on more than one occasion. But I wasn't a bad person. I would never stoop to that level. I wanted him gone from my life, but I would rather have offed myself than done that to him. I could never do that to another human being.

  Another shot. Another burn.

  I felt it go straight to my head, probably because I hadn't eaten anything.

  I would never hurt anyone, not like that, and not even if I thought they deserved it.

  The police needed to know that. The whole world needed to know that I was better than that.

  Another shot. It burned less now.

  I sat on the kitchen floor and pulled my phone out of my pocket. I would call Blake. That's what I would do. He needed to hear my side of the story anyway, and he would listen. After all, it was his job to listen, wasn't it?

  If he heard all the horrors I went through, he would not be asking me if I had done it. He would be apologizing to me.

  Handsome Blake, with his floppy hair and his smile. I b
et that he’d never experienced true pain. Not like the pain I had gone through. I bet his life was just easy and everyone loved him.

  I would tell him what happened when love went wrong. I would tell him what Devon had done to me. Then, maybe he would understand that a man like Devon deserved to die that way and just let it be. Whoever had killed Devon had done the right thing as far as I was concerned.

  It took me a second to dial the number because my fingers were clumsy. I put it to my ear and listened to it ring.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Blake

  It had already been a pretty hard day. I’d had nightmares through most of the night, so I was already working on no sleep. I had decided I knew what was best for me and I knew what would make me feel better, so I went to visit Lola's grave.

  What a mistake. What an idiot I was. I shouldn't have gone to visit Lola when I was already feeling down in the dumps. Usually, sitting by her grave made me feel calmer. It lessened the grief in my chest because I felt like I was closer to her. Not this day, however. This day, I felt like the wound was ripped open all over again. I felt like I had just put her in the ground, and I couldn't believe she was gone.

  If she had to die, I wished it were due to an illness or something. That way, at least I would have had time to say goodbye. At least I would have known what was coming.

  I remembered the day she had died like it was yesterday. We were investigating a case that was actually going quite well. We had let our guard down, thinking that everything was right. But then, the moment before we got into the car, a bunch of kids had gone by and they grabbed Lola's badge off her. I had no idea how they did it because it was on her front and pinned on. But they grabbed it and started to run.

  We were high off the success of our case, so we chased them.

  I didn't expect what happened next. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw more people approach and realized that we were chasing the children of gang members, but I wasn't afraid. I just realized that we were outnumbered and had made an incredibly stupid decision. So I called out to Lola to tell her to give up, it didn't matter, and we could get a new badge.