by S. K. Grice
Riley sat in the chair next to me. “Detectives Baker and Larson want to interview you. But remember, they have nothing to charge you with. I told them you were feeling traumatized by all of this and would go to the station for an interview later.”
“What if they come knocking at my door?”
“Say nothing. They can’t arrest you. They have no charges against you. But they will expect you to cooperate in the investigation soon. In the meantime, you have nothing to say.”
My breaths came hard and fast, straining my chest. It was time to face my truth and confess my crime. Picking at my cuticles, I spotted a thumbtack on the table. My fingers twitched. The pin tip could pick out the dirt accumulating under my nails.
The nightmare over the past few days had had me so preoccupied, I’d completely forgotten to take my meds. The Anafranil helped control my obsessions. Now, persistent thoughts and sensations of greasy dirt were making my insides twitch and squirm.
The anonymous caller. The leaves. My stalker.
I picked up the tack, put both my hands under the table, and pressed the sharp tip under my thumbnail. I dug deeper and deeper to catch all the filth and scrape it away. A puncture tore my flesh with excruciating pain. I winced. Still, nothing matched the pain of my guilt and remorse. “I won’t talk with anyone. You have my word on that.”
“I did some research last night. Seems this Mike Morton guy was known to police as a violent criminal.”
“That’s true.” I squeezed the tack in my hand.
“Then finding you innocent of any wrongdoing in Mike’s death shouldn’t be hard to prove. But obstruction of justice during an ongoing investigation is more serious.”
My head dropped, and I saw my inflamed thumb where I’d scraped a layer of skin away. Felt nothing. “How much more?”
“That, I need to work out with Madeline, the county prosecutor. You have no criminal record, so it’ll be easier to make a deal.”
I pressed harder on the painful wound. “But I won’t spend time in jail, right?”
“Take a deep breath.” Riley looked at me with pity. “Has your doctor prescribed anything to calm your nerves?”
My eyes turned to the purple stain pooling under my thumbnail. Blood mixing with dirt. Impossible to clean. I gripped the tack tighter. The Anafranil didn’t always curb my anxiety. “There’s a bottle of Xanax on my nightstand upstairs. First room on the left.”
“I’ll run up and get it. You need to relax. I’ll talk to the prosecutor about this immediately.” Riley went upstairs.
I tossed the tack back on top of the table and wiped the blood on my jeans. The backdoor’s handle jiggled, and Melissa walked inside. I jumped up for a hug, but her frosty face put a freeze on my tracks. Our eyes locked for one awkward moment. What did she see: a friend or a double murderer?
Melissa closed the door. Her face was dead white. “I overheard the detectives saying the body under the tree is Mike Morton... that they found his wallet.”
My heart thudded against my eardrums, muffling Melissa’s words, but I clearly understood their meaning. I grabbed the hem of my T-shirt and twisted the fabric. Wallet. Bones. DNA. Wouldn’t take long to confirm his identity.
Melissa glared at me as she slid into a chair. “Tell me what’s going on, Jolene… because this is freaky.”
Slipping back into my chair, I pointed upstairs and spoke softly. “My attorney told me not to discuss this with anyone.”
“What do you need an attorney for?” Her head jerked back. Did you know Mike was buried there?”
My eyes shot toward the opening into the living room for signs of Riley. In seconds he’d come down the stairs. I wanted to tell her what I’d done, to tell someone other than Riley. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. But it would all be out in the open soon enough. “I…I can’t say anymore. Not now.”
Her eyes turned wide and wild. “Did Patsy know? Did she do this?”
“I’m going to talk to the police soon. Then, you’ll know everything”
Melissa sat back. Her hands shook as she stared into my face for a long second. “You’re scaring me, Jolene. Tell me what you know.”
Footsteps pounded down the staircase. My eyes shifted toward the kitchen opening where I could see Riley coming down the stairs. I turned to Melissa and her wide eyes scrutinizing my every move. She wouldn’t back off until she got an answer. I kept my voice low. “I’ll tell you later.”
Riley walked into the kitchen and glared at Melissa with an expression as hard as his tone. “Jolene is under counsel not to discuss this matter with anyone.”
Melissa’s face shifted from pity to confusion. “Honestly, Jolene… this is too weird. I’m going to grab a few of my things from upstairs and stay with Nancy tonight.”
My chest cramped, twisting and squeezing until the tightness reached my throat and made it hard to breathe. How had it come to this? My plan to start my life afresh and reestablish old friendships had disappeared in a flash. I imagined the talk around the dinner table at the Miller house this evening. Nancy, Richard, and Melissa, all speculating about Jolene the Psycho Girl. I was an outsider again. “Do what you must.”
Melissa bolted out of the kitchen.
Riley looked at me in silence as Melissa’s feet tapped the staircase. “Do you have anyone who can come stay with you?”
I hugged myself. False bravado wouldn’t work with Riley. He knew my darkest secrets and was seeing firsthand their effects on my life. I had no one. I was losing everything, and I had no friends. Riley was my only ally, but his support could bleed me dry financially. I certainly didn’t expect his sympathy.
Riley shook out a Xanax and handed it to me. “Here, take this.”
I needed two. “Thanks.”
He set the medicine bottle on the kitchen table. “Make sure not to discuss the details of the case with anyone. Not the media, your neighbors, or your roommate.”
I twirled the pill between my fingers, wondering how I would explain this to Aaron. “I’ll need to tell my story to the police soon.”
Footsteps came down the stairs. I left the pill on the table and went into the living room, where Melissa stood at the bottom of the stairs with a duffle bag over her shoulder. I opened my mouth to ask when she planned on coming back, but then realized how pathetic that sounded. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Sure.” She gave me a that’s-not-likely smile and was out the door in two seconds.
Tears welled and I blotted the corners of my eyes with the back of my hand. I had no delusions of our friendship continuing. Who wanted to hang around a killer?
Riley wrapped an arm around my shoulder and led me to the couch. “Sit down and try to relax, Jolene.”
Taking a deep breath, I realized that what Melissa thought of me was the least of my worries. I sat in the armchair and pressed my palms on my thighs to stop the bouncing. “How can I relax when someone out there knows what I’ve done? What other crazy thing is the caller going to tell the police? I mean, the caller was right about Mike being under the tree, so that makes him credible to the police. Right?”
“I suppose.”
“What if he calls and tells the police I killed Jackson? Why wouldn’t they think that was also credible?”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions, Jolene. Let’s stick with the situation at hand.” He went to the front window and cracked open the shutters. “I hate to break this to you, but now there’s a news van outside talking to police.”
I shriveled like an ant on a hotplate. As if having my neighbors watch this day unfold wasn’t embarrassing and dreadful enough, tonight it would be all over the news. At least Aaron and the twins were still in London.
“There’s also a few gawkers lingering on the street.” He closed the shutters. “The good news is that the medical examiner is removing the body now. Once the police leave, everyone’ll disperse.”
A dull weight pulled me down as I sank deeper into the sofa, wishing it could swa
llow me up.
Riley sat next to me. “I need to get back to the office and talk to Madeline immediately. But you should know that even though I’ve advised the police that I have to be present for any interview with you, they may still knock on your door and want to ask you some questions.”
“I’m not saying a damn thing! I’ll give them your card, right?”
“Exactly.” Riley stood. “I’ll call you later today or tonight with how we can proceed. But in the meantime, you need to stay put at home. The cops will find any reason to haul a person to the station. You know, an unpaid parking ticket, expired registration.”
“I’m an expert at laying low.”
Riley’s lips quirked into a smile. “Before I head out, do you need anything from the grocery store? A pizza delivered?”
The growls in my stomach and loose jeans around my waist reminded me that I needed to eat. I had enough food in the refrigerator and pantry to source a few meals. “I don’t need anything.”
“Then, I suggest you take your medication and relax until you hear from me. I promise, Jolene, this will soon be over.”
Squeezing my sore thumb, I appreciated Riley looking out for my best interest, but he couldn’t understand. My nightmare was long from over.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Seconds after Riley left the house, I went into the kitchen for the Xanax I’d left on the table. I snatched up the orange bottle, grabbed a second pill, and swallowed both with one gulp of water. Soon, my heart rate would slow to a pace where I could breathe, relax, and disappear into a deep sleep that was far away from this nightmare.
But, right now, my body popped with adrenaline. Sparks of fear burned under my skin. I splashed cold water on my face to cool the heat.
Wiping my face with the dishtowel, I dared a peek out the kitchen window. A lump grew in my chest, squeezing my lungs. Patsy’s beautiful family tree. Gone. Decapitated and ripped out limb from limb. No amount of professional restorative garden work would repair this damage.
My breaths quickened. I had to see what was left of the tree. I whipped out the back door. Twigs snapped beneath my feet as I circled the tree’s remains. The smell of yeast mixed with upturned soil slammed into my face, but I couldn’t let that stop me from looking at the damage.
Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the hole where Mike had been dug out. The arborist had removed the trunk and large branches from the property. Only the torn-out stump remained, dangling on its side next to tangled roots.
A breeze rustled through dry autumn leaves. A flock of black crows crossed the sky, landing on the barest branches in the forest. The late October sun dipped low along the treetops, casting a golden glow in the sky. I shivered underneath my long-sleeved T-shirt. Patsy would have made a celebration of the cool autumn day—she’d have thrown an impromptu oyster roast and invited friends to drink wine and share laughter outside near the tree.
Drawn by the colored rings on the stump, I dropped to my knees for a closer look. I’d studied dendrochronology, the science of tree-ring dating, in college. Each of my past seventeen years were mapped out in the varying colors of the wide and narrow cellular rings.
Resting on my heels, I put my hand on the dark and rough outer bark—the skin of the tree, a collection of the dead cells of the tree’s growth. The next few rings were the inner bark which provided support to the skin and carried sugars from the leaves down to the roots. The newer, water-carrying sapwood rings followed; they were a tawny color, like the delicate skin of a baby. Moving deeper toward the center was a wide band of brownish heartwood rings, and finally the chocolate pith in the center.
My fingertips traced over the years from the outer bark to the pith and then back again. Segments of my past unfolded in my mind like a time-lapsed video.
College graduation.
The drought.
The flood.
My wedding.
Annette’s death.
I pressed my sore thumb on the spongy pith—the oldest part, which had formed when the tree had first been born. The part which had carried life-giving nutrients from the ground.
Squeee. My heart rate jumped, and I pulled back my hand. The high-pitched sound had come from the stump like an anguished last breath.
The taproot went straight through his torso.
Chills scrambled up my spine and shot to every follicle on my head. Rusty red sap oozed and bubbled from a dark sapwood ring. It dripped over the rings like thick and sticky blood. Mike. This tree held more than a record of seasons. It held the DNA of a human.
Trees communicated with other trees. What a story this oak could tell.
It would tell of its birth in a faraway forest. How it had been dug up as a tender sapling and nursed in a pot of organic soil. How it had made its way to the garden center and been bought by two college girls. How it had been planted close to the edge of a forest over a man’s dead body. How the trees in the forest had befriended the oak so it wouldn’t feel alone. How the oak had helped support the whole network of trees yearning to edge closer to the manicured lawn. The tree had been part of this land. It had had a story. A life. Now, it lay slaughtered on the lawn.
My battered and bruised heart ached, but I had no tears left behind my puffy eyes.
I’d grown to love this tree, this ground, this place where the blood of my secret ran deep into the soil, spreading like tentacles through the cracks in the earth to the groundwater, only to evaporate into the atmosphere, into every breath I took.
A shadow moved across my vision and the hair on my neck rose. I turned my head; a dark figure appeared in the corner of my eye. I jumped to my feet. My breaths grew sharper, quicker.
I twirled around, surveying the backyard.
The forest.
The lawn.
The gazebo.
Vacant. Quiet. Only me. A gust of cool air swept across my face. The rustle of dry leaves falling from the trees in the forest filled the long silence.
Neighbors and reporters had been here earlier. Was someone still lurking on the property? I looked around again. No one.
I ran into the house, bolted the doors shut, and set the alarm. Pacing the living room floor, I tried to steady my nerves.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
It had been nothing, I rationalized. The shadow of a hawk overhead. A nosy neighbor or reporter spying on me. Nothing threatening.
My heartrate slowed, and using ERPT therapy, I envisioned my muscles turning as supple as a warm candle. I fell back into the armchair, closed my eyes, and focused on my breathing. Slow and steady, I calmed with each intake of air.
Lulled by the quiet of the house, my mind cleared of thoughts, and my body floated weightlessly as I drifted into a soothing sleep.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
Adrenaline bolted through my limbs, and I jumped up, blurry-eyed.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
The landline in the kitchen. My head was cloudy, fuzzy, and I didn’t want to pick up the call. The only phone calls which ever came through were from the creepy heavy breather and moaner.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
Panic rolled up my spine and I clomped into the kitchen with the thought to yank the line from the wall, then smash the phone to smithereens.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
A fiery rage burned in my throat. I grabbed the handset and lashed out at the caller. “Who is this?”
“Jolene?”
Aaron. My heart jumped to my throat and I smoothed my hair, as if he could see I was a shipwreck. “Aaron, I-I—how are the kids?”
“We’re fine. You don’t sound too good though. I’ve been calling your cell phone for almost two days. Haven’t you seen my messages?”
My cell phone. Shit. It had gone flat while I’d been dealing with this disaster. And now I couldn’t construct a coherent sentence. The heavy dose of Xanax I’d taken thirty minutes ago had slowed my responses, and the fog wasn’t leaving my head fast enough.
“Jo
lene?”
“Sure, I-I’m fine.” I cleared my throat. “I had a killer migraine… it kind of knocked me out. I must’ve forgotten to plug my phone into the charger.”
“I got concerned when I didn’t hear back from you.”
I pressed my lips together and looked out the kitchen window, to the empty space where the family tree once stood. Should I tell him now? He’d hear it soon enough, and wasn’t it best if he heard it from me first? Joyous laughter and screeches from the twins broke that thought. “There’s been a lot going on over here,” I said, making sure to sound perky, “but it’ll wait until later. Everything okay with the twins?”
“They’re doing great. We took them all over London today and texted you some pictures. The kids have been chomping at the bit to tell you about it.”
Tears came to my eyes, and I tried to push them back, but that only made my throat constrict. I realized this was the last time I would have a light-hearted talk with my children. Once they learned about what I had done, would they still see me as worthy mother? It was unlikely they’d move into the house with me anytime soon. I ripped a paper towel off the roller on the counter and blotted my eyes. “I’m here now,” I said. “Put them on.”
“Sure,” Aaron said. “Here’s Eric.”
“Hey, Mom!” Eric squealed. “It’s been so cool. We saw where they chopped off people’s heads.”
Clutching my chest, I fought back the ache straining my throat, threatening my ability to speak in a normal voice. “That sounds like the Tower of London.”
“Yeah, that’s it… wait a minute.” A muffled swishing sound. “Mom, Jennifer wants to talk to you.”
“We went inside a big castle,” Jennifer belted out, breathless. “And we saw all these beautiful clothes that belonged to the kings and queens.”
I kept my sadness clamped. “Oh, tell me about that.” I sat at the kitchen table and listened as Jennifer gushed about the great time they were all having. How India’s family was soooo nice to them and had bought them English lollies and fish n’ chips.
