One Day After Never (The Second Time's the Charm STANDALONE Series Book 1)

by Whitney Walker

  GO! I push myself off the wall with new strength. I’m going in there. I have to move.

  “Don’t you DARE hurt him!” From the ground, I hear Alexandra growl.

  She’s alive! Thank God she’s alive! Now I know there are others in the studio. Damn it!

  Another awful sound echoes off the walls of the studio. Another body hitting the floor. A man’s voice full of pain and fear. “NO!” The noise of something hitting the wooden floor then the rubber of a mat. Please, God, let it be the gun!

  I step into the doorway, observing the destruction left in Kyle’s wake. The circle of red around Alexandra has grown larger, and her body is draped protectively over another woman’s body in a rag-doll heap, on the floor next to Alexandra. Another woman is slumped against the wall writhing in pain, so she is alive. Oh God, no! No, no, no, no, no. It is Liz!

  “Kyle, I am right here. I’m not leaving you. Come with me. Let’s talk about this.” I don’t recognize the voice as my own.

  He is going for the gun but stops. I walk towards the back of the studio to distract him and allow the other man to get the gun. Kyle turns to the sound of my voice, swaggering towards me. He is so fucked up! He doesn’t look like the Kyle I know. His eyes are piercing, more menacing and dark than I’ve ever looked into. He reaches me then drops to his knees. On a yoga mat. In table pose just as I had been before he changed the world I know.

  Kyle melts into a sea of tears, in opposition to his strength and stature. One moment he was dauntingly huge, towering over us, wielding the power of a gun, and the next, a shell of that man, seemingly under my control.

  “Peyton, oh God, Pey. When I thought you left me in California… I can’t live without you. I won’t live without you.”

  I can barely make out the words through his tears and drug-induced state.

  I put my hands on his head and pull his face into my body. Now that he can’t see the room I mouth “Get Out!” and point feverishly toward the door.

  I’m on the floor and can’t breathe. What the hell’s just happened? Kyle is on top of me, so heavy. I can’t breathe. “Kyle!” I gasp with forced air. I try to push him off me, but he is limp. I realize he has passed out and pulled me under his nearly two-hundred pounds of dead weight, burying my small frame. Thankfully I have landed on a mat, but everything hurts from the impact of the fall. “Kyle!”

  He doesn’t move. I wiggle my body until my legs are out from under his, then push off the floor with my feet to roll out from underneath him. Is he breathing?

  I look around at the bodies sprawled before me, the enormity of the situation crashing down. There is blood on my hands. This is all my fault! I start to cry uncontrollably. I pull my knees into my chest and form a ball, body shaking and rocking. Sobs of pain, fear, relief, confusion, and anger play a haunting melody echoing off the walls, yet I can’t stop the explosion of tears. Too much emotion, not enough courage.

  I am vaguely aware of another woman in the room coming toward me. She is covered in blood. It’s the woman Alexandra has been protecting. She is alive and moving.

  “Freeze. Police!”

  Voices close enough to be just outside the door of the studio. Thank God! Thank God! The woman moving towards me puts her hands in the air signifying she isn’t the perpetrator. She yells, “Hurry! In here!” When they are inside the studio, she points to Kyle still in the same face-down position on the floor. The officer stands over him, gun drawn. His free hand reaches for his radio as he calls for paramedics through the crackle and static.

  Everything goes eerily silent. Until I scream. The woman bending down with outstretched arms to hug me has, like Kyle, fallen to the floor next to me. Damn it! Her head has missed the mat and bounced off the wood floor with a gut-wrenching thud. Another sound takes up residence to haunt me later.

  Sirens scream in the distance, then moments later the room is overtaken with police, fire, and paramedics. Stretchers pop up, commands are yelled and more chaos than in the gunfire seems to ensue. Someone is in my face, yelling at me, trying to pull me from my fog. I can’t focus. Everything is a hazy blur through tears.

  “Ma’am! Ma’am! Are you injured?”

  Is my body responding? Do I shake my head?

  “Are you okay?” He retreats so I am sure I have nodded but my internal voice is relentless. I AM NOT OKAY. I try to assess the situation around the room. People. Blood. Liz. My fault. Too overwhelming.

  I put my ears between my knees and squeeze tightly as I learned in elementary school to take cover. I’m not safe. Not safe from the sounds ringing in my ears. Nor the images flashing movie scene-like on the screen of my tightly closed eyelids. I just want one moment of peace to try to compose myself.

  I find the strength to open my eyes, only to see three paramedics surrounding Kyle and the other woman’s lifeless body. Two men are on Kyle’s left side and a woman is on the right. The two male paramedics are twisting between Kyle and the other woman, pulling gear from the large bag situated on the floor next to them. The woman is shoving something down Kyle’s throat and one man is poised with a plastic apparatus, floating in mid-air waiting for a cue.

  The other male paramedic fits a collar around the lifeless woman’s neck.

  “I’m in. Bag him!” The man turns back to Kyle and covers his face with the plastic device and squeezes the bag. I know what this means. He is alive, but not breathing. I can’t look away. I’m helpless.

  A policeman squats in front of me, obstructing my view of the unfolding madness. “Ma’am,” he quietly tries to get my attention. My throat is clutching too tightly to respond with words. I try to reply with desperate eyes. Telepathically, I tell him to get me the hell out of here. Thank God he understands! He moves his arm around my back and positions himself by my side, then gently lifts me to standing. My legs ache and head throbs from crying. I am selfish for thinking these ailments matter considering the damage that surrounds me. Short of carrying me like a baby from the room, the officer bears all my physical weight as I’m unable to make my limbs comply with the motion of movement. If only he could bear my emotional pain as well.

  I stop short of the exit to survey the scene one final time. The river of blood where Alexandra lay minutes ago is smeared and darkening. It makes me queasy with the sight. Alexandra is on a stretcher with the other two paramedics moving swiftly around her body.

  Liz is braced upright against the wall, but I can’t tell if she is conscious. Her head is tilted sideways, eyes closed, hands affixed to her mid-section, hugging herself. The unresponsive eyes of the only other man in the room speak volumes. Though he is conscious, he is as damaged as the rest of us. He stares in the direction of the woman I didn’t know, playing the staring game I knew as a child with no blinking and unwavering focus. He wears a stoic expression of defeat and is covered in blood. I don’t even know whose. Kyle has already been taken from the studio. The bastard who has done all of this. I’m filled with rage.

  The police officer moves me swiftly to his car, opening the door and carefully guiding me into the back seat. He opens the door again and offers me a blanket he has procured from his trunk. I am barely dressed in cropped leggings and a tank top, and I shiver, both from the cold and the adrenaline.

  “What’s your name, miss?” he asks, voice kind.

  “Peyton. Peyton Jennings.”

  “Okay, Peyton, I’m Officer Fitzpatrick.”

  His lips keep moving but I don’t hear another word. Fitzpatrick makes me think of O’Reilly, which makes me think of J.T. I need him by my side.

  He closes the door leaving me all alone, each sob seeming to fill the car with despair. I stare out the window, a sickening feeling growing in my stomach, as the first, second, and finally, third stretcher emerges. Another officer is covering the window of the studio with yellow crime scene tape. I start to bang on the window. The car has suddenly become a coffin, unbearably hot, and suffocating. I am going to get sick.

  The officer opens the door and I spring fo
rward, barefoot, into the cold air, hot liquid rising in my throat. The contraction of my stomach sends me forward at the waist as vomit pours from my mouth. I watch as the snow turns dark against the pure white. It turns to blood in front of my eyes, as I remember the pool of red surrounding Alexandra’s body. I hold in a scream with the next gag. Crossing my arms around my body, I spit the remaining bile into the snow.

  The kind officer has turned his back to offer me privacy but approaches when I stand up. “Let’s get you back in the car. Do you want me to leave the door open or do you need to warm up?”

  “Open, please,” I tell him in a hoarse whisper. “Thank you.”

  The ambulances pull away with the haunting melody that tricks your ears into thinking they are farther away than they are. No such luck. They were right here, with my people, because of me. Apologies and prayer are all I have now.

  The officer finally slides into the front seat and speeds off, red and blue lights reflecting on the windows of the once-serene small-town street. The others are going to be treated, but I am going to relive this story because someone has to tell them what happened in that studio. That someone is me.

  The police car pulls into the same semicircle entrance as the four ambulances. The officer opens the door for me. What am I stepping out of this car into? Two other police cars pull in behind us.

  Four other officers, three male and one female, walk towards me in an imposing line. Their guns and billy clubs around their waists bump up and down, menacing-looking against the pristine white snow backdrop.

  I need some clothes. And shoes. My teeth are chattering like the old windup toy my dentist let me pick from the kids’ treasure chest in his office.

  The officers flank me, and we are in an elevator. It dings, indicating we have arrived at the fifth floor. Muffled voices accompany a whirlwind of activity taking place in an area that looks like one of the hospital movie sets I worked on once. Strangely, the makeshift triage is nestled amongst construction on the floor. It isn’t the standard emergency room.

  I count nine scrub-clad doctors and nurses, twisting between the equipment and spinning in between three beds. I can make out Alexandra’s gray hair, Liz’s dark, and I know the other is the woman I don’t know.

  The officer who has driven me here makes eye contact with an African American doctor, who from the looks of things is the doctor leading the show. The doctor nods as if they know each other. He motions for the officer to approach. Their conversation takes place in hushed tones, with the officer nodding in conclusion.

  He returns to me and I know my eyes are questioning.

  “Come with me. We’ll get you some scrubs.”

  I follow him into the elevator again. Once the door quietly closes, he informs me of what he has learned, “Three stable and don’t appear to have life-threatening injuries. That’s first glance, so no one is out of the woods.”

  Relief floods over me. For the first time since the studio, I take a real breath. “What about Kyle?”

  “He doesn’t know. We are headed there next.”

  The elevator doors slide open and a woman with an armful of scrubs is waiting. Arms outstretched, she says with a sympathetic smile, “Size small is on top. Here’s a bag for your clothes, with some booties. Sorry, I don’t have any shoes I can spare. There’s a bathroom around the corner to the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  When I emerge from the bathroom scrub-clad, the officer is leaning over the nurses’ station desk. She types quickly then relays a message to him. Anxiety creeps into my chest.

  The officer’s radio crackles. He walks down the hallway away from the patients’ rooms. I can only hear, “Copy that,” as he moves swiftly back toward us.

  “Thanks, Marcy.”

  He leads me back to the elevator. “Where are we going? What is happening?”

  “Keeping you out of the news, Miss Jennings.”

  J.T.! I think of J.T. again. The news. I wish I could contact him. He shouldn’t hear about this in the news.

  “There are reporters outside. We just need to buy some time for security to get things handled. We’ll keep you out of harm’s way, don’t you worry.”

  “Okay. Thank you. I need to know about Kyle. Did the nurse tell you anything?”

  “She didn’t have any details, but no codes were called the last hour in the hospital.”

  I don’t know if he was alive when he got here, but if he was, he still is. I can’t be responsible for his death! I just can’t!

  We stop on the first floor and are met by the other three officers. Officer Fitzpatrick offers introductions, “Peyton, this is Officer Braun, Officer Stosman, and Officer Klem. Peyton Jennings.”

  I force a smile because saying “it’s nice to meet you” just doesn’t work.

  Our group winds our way through corridor after corridor, clearly not the first time they have done this. We arrive at an Administration sign and enter what looks to be the business offices of the hospital.

  “Morning, Sarah.” Officer Fitzpatrick tips his hat.

  “Morning, Tim.”

  Tim. It reminds me of Officer Reilly. My gut clenches.

  She stands, leading us down a hallway where she stops in the doorway of a conference room. “All yours. You know I’ve got your back. I’ll be back with coffee and water.”

  A chorus of thank yous send her on her way.

  We enter single-file and take seats around the table. I do not enjoy being surrounded by four police officers. Officer Fitzpatrick wastes no time. “I know this isn’t an easy time, Miss Jennings, but we need to get more information on what took place in the studio today. We are just going to ask you some questions.”

  Horrific scenes flash through my mind. The sound of the studio door smacking open. Kyle’s ominous presence. The screams of fear of the other people running out of the studio. Gunfire. Liz’s screaming in pain. The thud of the woman’s body crumpling to the floor. The image of Alexandra lying in a pool of her own blood. Liz slumped against the wall. The weight of Kyle’s lifeless body suffocating me. Sirens. Bag him! Bile rises again against the back of my teeth.

  Mercifully, the door opens to interrupt. Sarah sets a carafe of coffee on the edge of the table. A cup holds little cream and sugar packets. “Be right back with the water.”

  Officer Braun produces a bag I hadn’t noticed and removes papers from it onto the table. He holds a pen poised to begin. “Do you know the perpetrator, Miss Jennings?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Kyle Nixon.”

  “And your affiliation?”

  “He was my boyfriend.”

  “For what duration?”

  “Just about a year.”

  “Does he have a history of drug use?”

  “Yes.”

  “Violence?”

  “Some.”

  “Mental illness?”

  “I’ve just recently learned that to be the case, yes.”

  “Do you know any reason why he would have committed this crime today?”

  Me. It’s my fault. If he dies it will be my fault. If he lives and goes to jail it will be my fault too. How did I end up here?

  What seems like hundreds of questions later, I am drained and exhausted. I need J.T. or Jack. I need someone who can tell me that somehow this will all be okay. I wish I had my phone and wallet. Are they still at the studio, evidence in a crime? How long will I be in this room safely out of the way of news-stalking reporters?

  The female officer with the nametag reading Klem seems to read my mind. “Peyton, do you need to call anyone?”

  Yes. Yes, I do.

  “That would be great, thank you.”

  “Come with me.”

  “Thanks, Officer Klem.”

  “You can call me Desi.”

  She opens the door and just outside is the man from the yoga studio. He too is scrub-clad, free of the blood covering him earlier. Looking at his face, I know from where the blood
had spilled. “I’m so sorry about today,” I gush with sincerity.

  “You should be.”

  I’m stunned. Tears well, then spill. Desi grabs both of my shoulders, turns my body away from him and escorts me across the hall into a small office. She hands me a tissue from a box on the desk. “Ignore him. It’s okay. Everyone responds to trauma a little differently. This isn’t your fault, Peyton. It’s the perpetrator’s. He committed the crime, not you. I’m going to give you some privacy. Make your phone calls.”

  I slump into the desk chair, tears still streaming. I sniff and dial Jack’s number. No answer. I can’t very well leave the details on voicemail and have no number for him to call me back. I try J.T. but it goes straight to voicemail.

  Through the office window, I can see the man in the conference room across the hall being put through the same faux trial. I am the reason. He was right to say I should be sorry!

  A fresh set of tears spills forth. I crumple forward, head in my hands, feeling so alone.

  I don’t know how long I am in that little office by myself with just my tears before there is a knock on the door. I grab another tissue and open the door.

  “We have an update that Alexandra will be out of surgery soon. Want to go wait in the lobby to be there when there are more details?”

  Gratitude washes over me, for Alexandra and for anywhere else to be. “Yes, thank you. Thank you, Desi.”

  As we are leaving the office, another officer appears in the lobby. He is carrying a large box. “This has been cleared,” he says, offering it to Desi.

  “Great, thanks.” She sets the box down on the seat of the black leather lobby chair. It’s our things from the studio! I nearly dive into the box as Desi steps aside.

  I procure my wallet and phone from the box of many. If only they had my clothes and shoes, I could have felt a bit of return to my former self, but I’m still grateful.