by Freya Atwood
I could hear a growing commotion in the background. It certainly sounded like the sounds of a busy school. I was crossing the Red Bridge, sunlight strobing through the metal struts and across my face. The Brandt river sparkled like broken glass below me. I blew out a long breath, visualizing my tension leaving my body with the air from my lungs. When I replied, it was with a calmer voice.
“Sure. Can you do something for me though?”
“Yes, what?” Bryan asked impatiently.
“Don’t speak to her until you’ve spoken to me.”
“Why?”
My heart sank. I felt like I had been punched in the gut. He’s spoken to her! His grandmother has found him and she’s trying to speak to him behind my back! I wanted him there with me at that moment. No phones, no social media. Just me and him. Like it had been when I ran away from Los Angeles all those years ago, carrying Bryan in one arm and a suitcase with everything I owned in the other.
“You need to trust me, pal. I’ve got a lot to explain to you. Please, you know I wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t in your interests.”
A pause. “Yeah, I know that. I do trust you. I just don’t always…don’t always know why you say things.”
He sounded like he was being honest, pure and simple. “I know, champ.”
“I’m an adult. I think you still try and protect me like I’m a little boy.”
There were tears in my eyes. “I know. I do. That’s a mom thing. Not a me thing. I’ll talk to you after school. Adult to adult. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too. Gotta go. Bye Mom.”
The line cut off. I’d never felt further away from him.
I sat in the kitchen, my work laptop open in front of me and not switched on. I was at the breakfast bar on a stool. My shoes were kicked off under the stool. I had poured myself a glass of red wine and finished it too quickly. Now, my head felt too light. I ran a hand through my hair, shaking it the way I always did when I felt overwhelmed, like I was trying to shake my thoughts into a different, more logical order.
My phone sat on the keyboard of the laptop, staring at me and daring me to wake it and open my text messages. I had reached out twice and been unable to touch it each time. Has she messaged again? Or given the number to Tommy? No, not even Miriam DeLuca would do that. She has to know how toxic her son would be as a father. Wouldn’t she?
“Damn it!” I yelled suddenly, picking up the phone and swiping angrily to the messages. There was one. It was from Bryan.
“I kept my word but got this from the person who says she’s my grandmother. I haven’t replied.”
There followed a message Bryan had attached to his own. I could see it had been sent to him from the same cell number as the one I had received.
“Bryan, your mother will lie to you about me and my son, who is your father. Call me. We would both love to meet you.”
Anger flared in me, a white-hot supernova. The glass was the closest object to hand and with a scream I hurled it across the kitchen. Dark red liquid splashed across surfaces like blood from a slashed artery. The glass exploded against a cabinet into flying fragments. I launched myself from the stool and hurled it away from me. It clattered across the floor.
I slapped both hands down hard onto the counter. Once, twice, three times and pain lanced into my palm. A tiny piece of glass shrapnel now glittered amid oozing blood. I was breathing hard, teeth bared. I focused on the pain, pressing my wounded hand down hard to bring on more of it. Use it as a center. Let it become the whole of your being, let everything else go. My breathing began to slow.
The furious ache in my chest was still there. The phantom pain of unreleased rage, a tension that demanded release. But I couldn’t destroy my house every time I got angry. I threw back my head and screamed until my breath ran out and my throat was sore. I allowed my body to slump to the counter, resting my head on my arms. Get control. The anger is gone. It has flowed out of you. And you are back in control.
I picked up the phone and called up the message from Miriam DeLuca. Then I hit the call icon.
Chapter 10
I listened to several rings before it stopped. The voice I heard was deep and thickly accented, pure Bronx. Hearing it brought an icy fist to my heart.
“Miriam. It’s Laura Jones.” I said.
“Yes. Wondered how long it would take you to get back to me. What’s the matter, too busy scoring?”
“Working. I’m a lawyer now.”
“Ha! Think I liked you better when you were a two-bit hooker.”
It was a deliberate jibe. I had never fallen that low. I wondered if Tommy had ever told his mother of the time he had tried to force me into it. Probably not.
“What do you want Miriam?” I said flatly. My outburst had doused the anger that had flared when I realized this witch had been talking to my son behind my back. It smoldered still, like a forest fire just waiting for the next spark.
“From you? I wish there wasn’t anything I wanted.”
“So do I.”
“I want to see my grandson.”
“No way. Anything else?”
“I have rights, Laura. You can’t keep me from him. Or keep Bryan from his sister.”
“You lost your rights as a grandparent when your son tried to kill me, and you tried to get custody of Bryan for him.”
“Jesus Christ! Are you still talking about that? He’s my son and no matter what you say and no matter what the cops say I know he’s not that kind of man.”
“Last time I checked he was in San Quentin because he is that kind of man!”
“He was set up!” Miriam yelled.
I was on my feet and I was yelling too. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.
“Miriam. Do not contact me again. Do not contact Bryan again. I will obtain a restraining order…”
“You know as well as I do no judge will stop a father from seeing his son.” Miriam grated.
I resisted the urge to throw the phone through the window. It wasn’t Miriam I would be throwing. “Do not speak over…”
“I’ve told Bryan all about his baby sister Maria. And how much his dad misses him and how you screwed up his life.”
“Do not speak over…” I managed.
“Now, Bryan’s not a kid anymore. He can make up his own mind…”
“Will you fucking shut up! Don’t talk over me. Don’t ever talk over me!” I screamed.
This time I did throw the phone. It hit the wall and bounced, skittering away under the kitchen table. I buried my head in my hands, dropping to my knees. Why do I let her do it to me? Why do I let her get under my skin? That’s what she always did to me. Never let me speak. I felt like I had taken a step back covering years of work. My anger had ruled me and I had lashed out, hurting no one but myself.
An hour passed as I sat on my kitchen floor, knees to my chin, arms wrapped around them. I actually fell asleep, my automatic reaction to stressful situations once my anger had burnt itself out. Have to pull myself together for Bryan. Don’t know when he’ll be home but I can’t have him seeing me like this.
I stood, joints aching and began to clean up. My phone was a write-off. It wasn’t the first time. Thinking of my phone drew my attention to the wall mounted landline in a corner of the room. Obsolete now but still connected. I picked up the handset and after a moment’s thought dialed.
“You calling me from the nineties, honey?” Jenny answered.
“I dropped my phone.” I replied.
“Uh, huh. Dropped or threw?” Came the immediate reply.
“Threw.” I said, flatly. There was no point in lying to Jenny. It was like she could see right into my soul.
“Yeah. What happened? Bryan?”
“Not directly. I was contacted by Miriam DeLuca.”
There was a pause at the other end. “Wow! Your ex mother-in-law, Miriam DeLuca? Mother to the guy who attacked you with a knife?”
“The very s
ame. I don’t know how but she’s tracked us down. She’s been speaking to Bryan, wants to see him. And so does Tommy.”
“Well, Tommy is a federal prisoner. What he wants is neither here nor there. And Bryan is an adult. Have you told him what happened?”
“No.” I admitted. I had kept the truth of my relationship with Bryan’s father a close secret. “I told him his Dad left us. Which is true. That he was a bad man.”
“Also true.”
“And Bryan hasn’t asked. A few times in his teens. But he was always easily deflected.”
“Maybe he’s been looking on his own. He’s a bright kid.”
“It scares me. It terrifies me, Jenny. That’s why I got so angry. She was talking over me. Not letting me speak and it pushed a button.”
“And you know she was doing it deliberately, right?” Jenny replied.
“Yeah.” I said. “But it still got to me. It’s like they’ve decided to cut me out of the equation. Talk directly to Bryan and not have to care about what I think. I’m not sure Bryan does anyway.”
“Hey! That’s just self-pity talking and you know it. You’ve done a great job of bringing Bryan up alone. And the two of you are a damn sight closer than just about any parent and child I’ve ever known. But he is a man now. You need to make sure he knows the truth, before his father gives him the DeLuca spin on it.”
“I know. I just didn’t want Bryan knowing all that stuff.”
“Better coming from you than them.” Jenny told me. “Now, have you got any messages from them?”
“Text.” I said.
“Save it. You still recording your calls?”
“Yes.”
“Get a new handset and make sure all the calls from the previous phone are backed up to the cloud. Did you say anything you shouldn’t?”
“No. I yelled but…no.”
“Good. Our priority has to be building evidence for a restraining order. That way we can keep them away from you and Bryan physically.”
Jenny was practical, always. It was a strategy she had developed for herself to deal with crippling anxiety. Attack each problem no matter how small as a series of objectives. Break down the insurmountable obstacles into small chunks. And it was one that worked for me too. Listening to her was forcing my mind to think, not as someone with anger management and impulse control issues, but as a lawyer.
“Agreed. I’ll make sure Bryan keeps any messages he receives, he may be deleting them just to make sure I don’t see them.”
“Exactly, because until you level with him, he doesn’t know that they are the enemy. Show him what Tommy did to you.”
“Jenny!” I protested. “I can’t!”
“Yes, you can honey. There’s no way to understate how dangerous he is. Show him.”
The thought filled me with horror. My hand went involuntarily to my right shoulder, squeezing at the scar. She’s right. Miriam will be trying to fill his head with all kinds of bullshit. He deserves to know the truth. The truth that his father was a cold-blooded killer.
Chapter 11
I was calm and in control. Jenny had been my mentor as a lawyer, a partner at the first firm I worked for after passing the Washington State bar. And she had seen something in me, a reflection of herself perhaps. She had guided me through the anger that in those days simmered close to the surface, always threatening to break out and destroy everything I worked for. Guided me and helped me to master it.
I picked up my phone, surprised when it came to life. The screen was cracked, with a spider web of crushed glass in one corner. But it worked. Count that as a win. I checked for messages from Bryan, he would be finishing classes soon but whether he came directly home was another matter. There had been days when he hadn’t returned until late evening.
I texted him anyway. He’s an adult. He has to be free to learn and make his own mistakes. It was hard though, letting go like that.
“Hi honey, hope classes were good today. I just spoke to Miriam DeLuca. Your father’s mother. I need to tell you about that part of my life so you can understand what these people are like. We can talk about it over dinner. Pick up whatever you’d like.”
I hoped the frankness and the promise of being upfront and honest with him would be sufficient to draw him back home and allow him to open up. I put the phone down, not wanting to sit there waiting on a reply. I got to work on the mess I had made. Angry Laura makes a lot of work for me.
I relocated to the den to work while I waited for Bryan to come home. It let me focus, eliminating distractions which would otherwise have me checking my phone every few minutes. The den was a small utility room off the kitchen. A previous owner had connected it to the living room as well. Bryan had put a door on to separate it from the kitchen and we had painted the little room.
The wall which my desk stood against was decorated with pictures of Bryan. His life was up there, from infancy to manhood. Sitting at the desk I reached out to one of the baby pictures and brushed my fingers against it.
“Time to get to work, kid.”
It was a routine designed to shed one mindset for another, like my drive to work. It helped keep me centered and present in the moment, not worrying about the future or agonizing about the past. The laptop screen flashed into life in front of me with a password request. I pulled my eyes from those of my beautiful baby son, focusing instead on the cold artificial light of the computer.
I considered my priorities. Nic was building a personal profile of the victim, starting with the information gathered by the prosecution, all of which had to be shared with the defense if it was to be used in court. Nic would be going further though, through his social media, his colleagues, family and friends. She would burrow into as much of the man’s life as she could, looking for anyone who might have a motive to kill him.
For myself, I would focus on the circumstances of the murder, looking for the loose thread which would unravel the prosecution’s case. I knew I would find it.
After an hour I picked up the phone again and called Nic.
“You still in the office?” I asked by way of a greeting.
“Yeah, boss. I’m still here, trawling Khan’s social media and looking for whatever he wanted to keep hidden from his wife.”
“I’ve just been reviewing the prosecution’s evidence. I wanted to talk through what we have so far before the end of the day.”
“What end?” Nic’s tone was dry as sandpaper.
“So, what do we know about our heroic doctor?”
“Highly qualified. Spent some time working for Medicine sans Frontiere overseas. Got himself a residency at Everwood General Hospital as Head of the Emergency Room. Has written three peer-reviewed papers on drug addiction. A string of honors from various medical bodies including the American Medical Association. So, professionally he’s a golden boy.”
“So, he’s dedicated. Anyone working for MSF goes to some dangerous parts of the world. He sets up a drug clinic in a dangerous part of a dangerous town. Thrill-seeker maybe? What did he do in his spare time?” I asked.
“Very astute, Counselor. He mountain-biked. Hey, who in this state doesn’t, right? I got pictures on his Facebook of sky-diving last year and swimming with sharks three months ago in the Caribbean. So, yeah, I’d say he was an adrenaline junkie.”
“I wonder if that translated to his sex life.” I wondered aloud.
“Extra-marital?” Nic questioned.
“Someone like that might get bored being married and need something riskier.” I speculated.
“Well, needless to say it’s not obvious from his social media footprint. But I’m trying to find out where he might have been walking the virtual world with an alter ego. Putting some feelers out there.”
My eyes roved over the picture wall, seeing but not registering the happy pictures of Bryan and I. My mind roved far beyond.
“Nothing I could see in the prosecution evidence that suggested an affair.” I said.
“Nor me.”
&
nbsp; “I need to speak to some of his friends and family. Starting with his wife.” I said. “Gauge if she had any inkling that her husband might be cheating on her.”
“She’s not likely to give that away; it would make her a suspect.” Nic opined.
“Yes, and there’s nothing in the evidence or the statements taken by the police to suggest they considered any possibility other than the one right in front of them. Mrs. Khan told them the last time she had seen her husband, that she had never visited the North Denny clinic or met Hunter. They didn’t ask her anything about Dr Khan’s personal life. Or at least it wasn’t recorded anywhere if they did. There’s something there Nic, I can feel it.”
