Yet Roger also knew the side that only Miriam and Serena knew, when the gruffness and sharp edges disappeared. There was nothing Philip wouldn’t do for the two most important women in his life. Nothing. God Almighty couldn’t stand in his way if Philip caught a whiff of unhappiness. Roger knew that, yet had the audacity to side with his secretary and not Philip.
Philip meant every word said when he had grabbed Roger by his collar and shoved him up against the walls at his office yesterday. He smiled a tad at the memory of the fear in Roger’s eyes, for Roger knew all too well the ugly side of Philip. He’d growled in his face like a rabid dog, calling Roger everything but a white boy, and threatened to destroy his practice if Roger didn’t drop not only his whiny assistant, but the ridiculous notion of someone else having killed Serena.
Though he never mentioned it and never would, Philip could tell by the look on Roger’s face that he knew. He saw the look of clarity sink in when Philip threatened to castrate him and give his family jewels to his dog if the case was reopened. Roger had started to protest, trying to seek out and connect with the Philip’s paternal side. He had asked why Philip didn’t want to leave any stone unturned that pertained to Serena’s killer. Philip’s reply was a tighter grip around Roger’s throat and a slow, methodical movement of his head, indicating no.
After he left Roger’s office, he made a beeline for Captain Hogue’s office. He didn’t stop and speak to anyone when he walked in, wearing the mask of grieving father. A hushed conversation inside the captain’s office did the trick. The captain was well aware of the debts he owed Philip and offered a nod of his bald head. Philip walked out of his office, confident the case would remain closed.
The phone call to Thurman had been a bit different. By then, Philip was driving aimlessly around Little Rock, unwilling to go home until he knew his business was handled. He’d unleashed his rage on Thurman, the images of the photos flashing through his head, intensifying his anger.
Just like they were doing now.
Philip lit another cigar and poured a full glass of whiskey. He wasn’t going to let this get under his skin. He wouldn’t dwell on the fact that maybe Jack Dickinson hadn’t killed Serena, and that he’d orchestrated the death of an innocent man.
No. He would drown out the small voice whispering inside his head with booze. He’d covered all the bases. No further investigation would happen. The autopsy report was sealed tight. No holes. No worries.
Philip threw back a hefty swig of the booze. He wished he believed that.
The sheets were stuck to Bill Witham like a second skin. Even though he was born and raised in Arkansas, his bulky frame never could stand the heavy humidity. All three of the other seasons were fantastic, but the price he paid each summer for staying was buckets of sweat.
Bill reached up with shaking fingers and ran his hand through his damp hair. He muttered to himself, cursing his decision to stay in this hot hellhole. It was the third night in a row that the disturbing nightmares jerked him awake, leaving him lying in a bed soaked in his sweat. The urge to vomit made Bill lurch from under the covers and run to the bathroom, but he produced only dry heaves.
Bill leaned back against the wall, the cool tile in his small bathroom a welcome relief. He wondered when, if ever, the nightmare that had become his life would end. Not that he had walked into his decision blindly. He knew the risks, the questions that would be asked and the intense scrutiny. None of that bothered him. Bill had glided through the investigation like butter over a hot biscuit. No one saw or heard anything. No odd moments had been caught on camera. Nothing suspicious had been seen by anyone. Even Sergeant Collins had backed him up, stating he was the one who requested Bill take Dickinson to the infirmary to get fixed up. Not to be outdone, Bill held up his end of the badge and said he had no idea how Inmate Dickinson had received the wound to his eye.
The plan went off without a hitch, followed by the absurd ruling of the coroner’s office. That was an added bonus that Bill never saw coming. Bill had not mentioned anything during the internal investigation about the Oreos. His plan all along had been to admit that they must have fallen out of his pocket when he was helping Jack back into his cell—if it ever came up. Stupidity for leaving leftover dinner in his pocket and ashamed to admit he violated policy by having food on his person.
For three days Bill had waited, his nerves on edge and ready to snap, for the report to be concluded. To his surprise, the death was ruled accidental from an allergic reaction alright—but not to peanut oil. When Bill’s supervisor called and told him the good news, he’d almost fainted from shock. It wasn’t a stroke of luck or incompetence from the staff at the coroner’s office, that’s for sure.
Bill knew exactly where his saving grace came from. He may not be the brightest bulb in the room, but Bill knew that Philip Rowland had friends in high places. If he’d ever had any doubts about that, he didn’t after the false ruling was made. There was no other explanation; the man he wished he could call father had stepped in and saved Bill’s neck. To Bill, it seemed it was Philip’s way of thanking him for avenging Serena’s death.
What Bill didn’t understand was why Philip Rowland wouldn’t return any of his phone calls or why he couldn’t sleep for more than two hours without suffering horrible nightmares. He’d done what he set out to do, which was kill the bastard who strangled the life out of his lovely Serena. Bill had made sure that the grieving Rowlands wouldn’t have to go through a long, drawn out trial. Serena’s name would vanish from the tabloids and someday only be remembered by those who’d loved her.
Bill’s chest tightened. Memories of the best years of his life, his time with Serena, flew by, intertwining with his glory days from high school. All the hard work he’d put in to pulling himself out of the drug haze he’d been in, cleaning up his life and making something of himself, and all the efforts to win back the one woman that had made his heart twitch, had been done for nothing. Serena was gone. Her beautiful smile would never look his way again. Her sweet voice would never speak his name. He would never get the chance to tell her how sorry he was, how he’d changed. Never get to feel her warm skin, kiss her sweet lips.
Bill pulled his legs to his chest and lowered his head. The sadness inside his mind made it heavy, unstable. He didn’t understand why the killing of Jack Dickinson hadn’t made his load a bit lighter, why his pain of losing Serena wasn’t soothed. How come he didn’t feel a sense of satisfaction?
And why, every time he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, did strange images of his blood-covered hands haunt him?
Bill Witham didn’t know. All he knew for sure was that the best years of his life were over, and the one person who’d kept him going was buried in a pink casket less than twenty minutes from his apartment. In the darkness of his cramped bathroom, Bill fought the urge to join her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - TUESDAY MORNING
“How did Roger take it when you called in?” Regina asked me as she puttered around the kitchen. She was concocting some delicious looking casserole for dinner with swift, practiced moves.
“Relieved and a tad smug. I think he’s just been waiting for me to admit I am not ready to come back to work. Guess he was right all along. I should have listened.” I watched with mild awe while she wielded the sleek, long silver blade and chopped vegetables. If I were to attempt what she was doing, I would be missing a few fingers.
When I woke up earlier, my head pounding and throat hoarse from a long night of tears, Kendal was nowhere in sight. I tried to remember when he left, but couldn’t. I must have really sunk into a heavy sleep after my tears spilled out. I’d stumbled into the kitchen to make some coffee and been surprised to see Regina. Not only had I missed Kendal leaving, but never heard her arrival. Good thing neither of them are killers or I’d be dead.
Once I’d fixed coffee and begun the process of getting around for the day, I knew there was no way I’d make it to work. It was already well past eight and I couldn�
��t form a cohesive thought, so working would have been a waste of time. My heart was heavy, my mind stuck wandering the gray sadness that permeated every inch of me. My body felt like I’d slept on a pile of rocks. Every inch of me hurt. Today, I felt every bit over forty.
“So, what happened? Did Kendal talk some sense into you last night? That was my hope, at least. You weren’t listening to the rest of us, including your mother,” Regina reprimanded, popping her dish into the oven.
“Regina…”
“Don’t ‘Regina’ me. You have been pushing yourself way too hard. I can’t say I understand everything you are going through, because that would be a lie. I can say, however, that the human mind and body can only withstand abuse for so long without shutting down. Judging by the dark circles around your eyes,” she said, grabbing her tea and sitting down next to me, “you are very close to the off switch getting flipped. What time did you go to bed? Did Kendal make you eat?”
“I don’t remember and yes.”
Regina’s eyes locked with mine, searching for a lie. I tried my best to keep my face neutral but knew it was a losing battle. The bags under my eyes and the deep lines of worry I saw when I had put in my contacts earlier told the truth. My inability to hide my emotions on my face was a running joke in my small circle of family and friends. My mother liked to say that my forehead was one of those blinking signs set out in front of businesses, constantly blaring for the world to see what was on my mind. Roger had mentioned several times that although I had the mind for it, I would flop as a lawyer because I couldn’t hide my thoughts from my face.
“Honey, I’m worried about you. We all are. Maybe it’s time you go see a doctor. I don’t recommend medication, especially after what Xanax did to me after my divorce. Put me right smack dab in the middle of la-la land, but maybe it wouldn’t affect you that way. Or maybe the doctor could recommend a top notch therapist to work with you while you sort all this mess out. Who knows? Maybe there is a new, homeopathic version of Xanax out there that works but isn’t habit forming. Those are things you should discuss with your doctor. You need to give your body and mind a chance to cope with all of this. Leave the sleuthing and searching to others. At least until you get some of your strength back.”
“No, I am already drinking too much. Adding drugs would just make things worse because I might never stop. My mind would enjoy being numbed too much.”
“I wouldn’t let you become a pill head or an alcoholic. There’s only room for one friend with those problems,” she said, her smile warm and tender. The reference to Kendal’s battle with the bottle and her bout with prescription meds left a sour taste in my mouth. “But, I do have some news that might perk you up without the aid of chemicals. Wanna hear it?”
Oh yes, anything to get my mind off of last night.
“Sure thing. Hit me.”
“Last night after I finished cleaning, I uploaded a few pics of my new paintings on my blog and then cruised through the virtual highways of social media. I had an invitation to an event by some kid I didn’t know and almost deleted it, until I saw the event name.”
I tried not to smirk or roll my eyes. I hated social media. With a passion. Jack and I both did—or had. Neither of us ever succumbed to the constant pleadings of our friends and family to join. Why bother? If we wanted to talk, we called. If we wanted to share a gift, family photo or note, we mailed it or delivered it in person. It seemed silly and frivolous to us both. Too cold and impersonal, virtual reality left no room for true human interaction anymore. Since I wasn’t a member I had no idea what Regina was talking about.
“Event? Invitation? Speak English for those of us who are still old school.”
“Okay. A few of Jack’s current and former college students have banded together and started a ‘Justice for Jack’ campaign online. They invited me to view their blog and to help spread the word. Right now, over five thousand people have joined and the blog is growing fast. And not just here in Arkansas. I noticed some of the bloggers were from other states. These kids not only are touting Jack’s innocence but also asking everyone to sign an online petition to convince the police department to reopen the case. They are planning a rally on the steps of the capitol on Friday morning. They even have all the pictures up, showing the differences in the evidence that you noted. There, how’s that?”
“Are…are you serious?”
“Sweetie, we aren’t the only ones who not only loved Jack, but believe he didn’t kill that tramp. Mrs. Preston’s affidavit is even on there. There were over four hundred comments on the blog last time I checked. The majority of them were in full agreement that Jack was railroaded.”
“All of the pictures and the affidavit? How in the world…?”
“My guess would be LaFont, or at least someone from his firm. I noticed one blogger was particularly eloquent in the comments they made, so I checked the IP address. Guess where it came from?”
“If I knew what that meant, I would venture a guess.”
“Internet Protocol. Every computer has an address, sort of like a VIN number on a vehicle. It identifies them. Anyway, the post was made by someone with the same address as LaFont’s law firm. So, it seems that he’s on the ball, or one of his staff, starting a grassroots campaign. And, it’s working.”
Stunned by this newest revelation, I leaned back in the chair and stared out the window. I couldn’t fathom, couldn’t process, what this meant. Tears welled up in my throat at the thought of complete strangers, at least to me, supporting Jack. Taking time from their busy schedules to rally together in hopes of clearing my husband’s name.
And all I’m doing is reopening old wounds and sulking.
I didn’t want to cry, for Heaven knows I shed enough tears. Unleashing my deepest, darkest secret and watching Kendal’s face last night when the truth came out had broken what was left of my spirit. My reserves were depleted, dried up. The pressure valve of guilt may have been opened and the full well of guilt drained, yet I still felt empty.
“Oh, God…I don’t know what to say. It’s kind of them all, but…”
Unable to finish, the sobs broke free. In the comfort of the walls inside my home, the place I was entombed to walk alone as a widow, I wept. Regina crouched down next to me, her embrace gentle. I buried my face in her shoulder and sobbed.
The next two hours we spent on the couch as I retold her between crying spurts the conversation that had transpired between me and Kendal. She never asked a question or interrupted while I rambled on, sometimes choking out my words. At last the tears stopped and I sat scrunched up against the end of the couch, spent. If I kept crying like this, I would shrivel away to nothing. Regina waited with the patience of a saint and made sure I was finished blubbering before she spoke.
“Are you finished?”
I nodded.
“Good. Now, you listen up, girl. I may not be a rocket scientist or a psychologist or even a pastor, but that doesn’t change what I’m about to say. You all made some bad choices, true. Everyone does. There isn’t a soul that’s ever walked this earth that hasn’t. And maybe, just for the sake of covering all bases, those decisions influenced the way things turned out in all of your lives. But only to a degree because decisions made by others are involved as well.
“Some are strangers, some are not. Yes, Kendal shouldn’t have meddled in your relationship with Jack. No, you shouldn’t have slept with Kendal to spite Jack or ease your pain, even if you were deceived into doing so. Yes, you should have told them both about the babies. No, Jack shouldn’t have cheated on you and yes, you should have come clean about the past a long time ago.
“All of that doesn’t change the fact that Jack didn’t deserve to die in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. You know that. I know that. A lot of people know that. So please, please Mel, stop beating yourself up over things you can’t change and start focusing on the ones you can. Because the Melody I know is a tough chick. One who doesn’t crack under press
ure. In fact, the hotter the oven the better the cookies, so to speak. The Melody I have always looked up to, the one I counted on for moral and spiritual support who had such strong faith you could practically see it oozing out of her—where did she go? You can save your guilt trips for when you are old and in a home. By then, you will have dementia and won’t remember any of this anyway.”
I tried to raise a smile but couldn’t seem to make my facial muscles respond. “Everyone has a breaking point, Regina. I reached mine. Simple as that. We tried to get the case reopened and failed. Miserably. And I thought coming clean about my past would help, but it only made things worse. And I can’t shake the images of the baby. A baby fathered by Jack who wasn’t ours. God, it’s tearing me apart. Truth is supposed to set you free, but I still feel trapped. No, I feel—broken.”
“Who wouldn’t feel that way? You have lost a lot, plus you’ve been holding this ton of guilt, this painful secret, back for so long. You just need to remember broken things can be repaired. That’s what I’m here for—what we’re all here for. Consider your family and friends your superglue.”
“If only it were that easy. I have to live with the fact that my actions and inactions led Jack down his final path on this earth. And I don’t know how to do that. I don’t. And I think my broken heart is way past glue.”
“Forgive the cliché, but you tackle each day and don’t fret over tomorrow. Get through the now. Besides, God provides the spiritual glue, or did you forget that too? What was it you told me when I was wallowing in my pity-pond? ‘God won’t put on us more than we can carry?’ Right?”
Empty Shell Page 22
