by Karen Cimms
CNN was rerunning coverage, but he didn’t learn much more than he already knew. The worst of it was the footage of him and Kate trying to get into Digger’s cruiser. There was a tight shot of her face. She looked terrified. The report referred to her as “the estranged wife of bad-boy rocker Billy McDonald, who resurfaced to come to his ex-wife’s rescue.” Somebody was taking liberties, and it pissed him off. Kate was not his ex-wife, and he would hardly call a few weeks out of the public eye “resurfacing.”
He pushed aside the stupidity and tried to focus on what mattered: Six people were dead. Three were in critical condition. Several others, wounded. Jesus Christ.
He turned off the TV. Unable to sleep, he got up and checked on Kate. After he was certain she was asleep, he slipped downstairs and pulled out the bottle of whiskey he’d hidden in the back of the cabinet the last time he was home. The weight of the bottle was heavy in his hands, cumbersome. If he were smart, he’d pour it down the drain. He’d gone two weeks without it, without anything.
Because he hadn’t been able to get his hands on anything, that’s why.
He pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it halfway. He swirled the amber liquid, then set it down. Again he considered dumping it down the drain, but his hand was faster than his brain. It was gone in one long swallow. He wanted to take the bottle with him, but he knew if he did, it would be gone by morning. So instead, he stashed it back in its hiding place behind the tall boxes of cereal that only Devin ate, and headed upstairs.
He listened outside their bedroom. It was quiet, so he went back to the music room and tried to settle in for the night.
The mattress had to be stuffed with rocks. He shifted and turned, far too big for such a small bed. Lifting his head to flip his pillow, he saw Kate silhouetted in the doorway.
“What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer. She just stepped inside the room and began unbuttoning the shirt. He watched as it dropped to the floor. Then she slipped out of her panties.
He lifted the blanket for her to climb in beside him.
“What are you doing, babe?”
Her hands curled around him, but stopped when they reached the waistband of his briefs.
“Take them off.”
He wanted nothing more than to take them off, but this wasn’t the time. “Katie, I don’t think—”
“Please do this for me.” For the first time that night, she sounded as if she might cry. “I need to feel your skin on mine.”
“Okay.”
He did as she asked and when he lay back down, Kate unfolded into him like a flower. Petals soft as velvet pressed against his flesh; her arms and legs fragile tendrils, she twined herself around him like a vine. Her body returned to him just as it always had, fitting perfectly into the grooves and hollows of his own.
“Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked, breathing her in.
“For saving me.”
Chapter Forty
The lorazepam did the trick. Other than getting up to climb into bed with him, Kate slept through the night.
Billy, on the other hand, hadn’t sleep at all.
His body ached from the cramped futon, and his arms were numb from the weight of her body. It had occurred to him at some point during the night to carry her back to their king-sized bed, but he was afraid if she woke, she would change her mind about needing him. So he suffered through it, if you could call being exactly where he wanted suffering.
Now Charlie was tap dancing outside the door, so he needed to get up and let him out. Gently, he rolled Kate onto her side and climbed over her. She struggled to open her eyes. Groggy from the drug, she wasn’t awake enough for memories.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, stepping into his jeans. “I’m just gonna let Charlie out.”
She made a small noise as her eyes fluttered closed. He lingered a moment, wanting to lie back down beside her, but the frantic clicking of nails on the floor below warned him that he could either let the dog out now or clean up after him later. Besides, he needed coffee desperately.
Especially after he turned on the TV in the living room.
Seven dead, including the shooter. Footage from the scene replayed on all the morning news shows, including the video of him and Kate leaving the ambulance. A picture of Kate filled the screen and he almost put his fist through it when the anchor reported witnesses were saying Kate may have been Stevens’s target.
“Oh my God. It was my fault.”
Shit. He hadn’t heard her come in behind him. He hit the off button on the remote, but she snatched it from his hand and turned it back on. He stepped between her and the television, trying to block her view.
“That’s not true. Those idiots don’t know what they’re saying. The guy’s dead. No one knows what the hell he was thinking.”
Panic filled her eyes. “He was looking for me. He wanted to kill me!”
“You don’t know that.”
Her hand flew to her scalp and she wrapped her fingers in her hair and tugged. “Did you see what he did to my car? He knew my car. He killed all those people. Eileen.”
“He didn’t kill you!” He grabbed her shoulders, trying to settle her. “That’s all that matters. You’re safe.”
“That’s not all that matters! It should’ve been me. All those people, and it should have been me!”
“Don’t say that!”
He was yelling. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop. How the fuck could he calm her down when he was losing his shit right along with her?
“Listen to me. He was a crazy motherfucker who didn’t care about anyone. He was angry with all those people there. You’re not the one who threatened him or tried to take anything from him.”
“I stole his privacy, didn’t I? I stole his privacy with that stupid story. I even felt sorry for him.” She strained against him, trying to see the television.
Billy unwound her hand from her hair, then wrapped his arms around her. The more she struggled, the tighter he held on. When she finally stopped fighting him, he loosened his grip, not quite ready to let go. He rocked back and forth, swaying gently and making soft shushing noises.
The phone jangled. From over her shoulder, he could read the caller ID that popped up at the bottom of the TV screen: Evening Examiner.
“No fucking way.”
Kate twisted in his arms. “I don’t want to talk to them.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m going to get fired.”
“Good.”
Billy wrested the remote from her hand, turned off the set, and stormed into the kitchen. He practically tore the phone from its base.
“What?” he barked into the receiver. The person on the other end, probably the douchebag reporter from last night, asked for Kate. “No. She can’t come to the phone, and don’t fucking call here again.”
He slammed the phone down so hard he cracked the base.
Kate had followed him into the kitchen where she stood, looking lost, her arms tucked tightly around her waist as if she needed the help to remain upright. “What am I going to do?”
“Right now, you’re going to drink some coffee.” Why the hell hadn’t he made decaf? “Then you can take a shower and get dressed. The detective said the police will need to talk to you today. Are you okay with that?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“I can tell them not today.”
“It won’t be any easier tomorrow. Besides, I’m the lucky one, right?”
“You are. I know it doesn’t feel that way, but you are. We’re all lucky. You always tell me that God has a plan. Well, he must have a plan for you.”
“Yeah, right. He must have one hell of a plan for me.” She barked out a short laugh, so cold and hard, he almost shivered.
This wasn’t his Katie. She had been through a lifetime of hurt in such a short time. Joey’s death had damaged her, but she could have survived that. Then th
ere was what he’d done to her. And now this.
The light in her eyes flickered out. He reached out, tried to give her something to hold on to, but it was too late.
All he could see was darkness.
Chapter Forty-One
Billy had never felt as helpless as he did at that moment. He’d rescued her—or so she believed—the night before, but right now, as Kate sat next to him on the sofa, he could no longer reach her.
He listened as she recounted her story to the two state police detectives sitting across from them. He’d tried to hold her hand, but she pulled away, twisting the linen napkin in her lap until it looked like an old paper bag.
After he’d gotten her calmed down earlier, she’d convinced him to go to the store—a twenty-minute walk each way—to buy cookies because she “didn’t have time to bake.” A police interview wasn’t a damn social call, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to point that out.
By the time he returned, Kate had showered, dried her hair, and put on makeup. He blanched at the floral print dress, coordinating cardigan, and short strand of pearls. She’d even pulled out her grandmother’s china.
“Will you be joining us?” Her voice was strained and formal.
“Of course. I don’t want you dealing with this on your own.”
“Too late.” She reached for another cup and saucer from the cupboard.
“What?”
The corners of her mouth rose, but it was hardly a smile. “I said too late. It’s too late for you to keep me from dealing with this on my own. I already did. You can’t be there with me. Besides”—she shrugged—“if you’d been there, you’d be dead now.” She dipped her hand into a bowl on the counter. “Should I cut up a lemon?”
She held it up and waited for his response.
Stunned by her lack of emotion, he couldn’t answer. She had turned into one of those fucking Stepford Wives.
With a shrug, she tossed the lemon back in the bowl. She moved about the kitchen efficiently, setting the items onto a tray and arranging the cookies on a large glass plate.
When the detectives arrived and had settled in the living room, Kate proceeded to chat about the weather. She poured the tea and told them what was growing in her garden and how many batches of tomato sauce and dilly beans she’d canned.
It was a slow-motion, six-car pileup. You could prepare yourself for impact, but there wasn’t a damn thing you could do to stop it.
“I would have baked, but I didn’t have time. My husband was kind enough to go to the market. Cookie?” She served up a wooden smile along with the store-bought cookies.
Lt. Cimochowski looked at the plate as if he’d never seen a cookie before, then up at Kate. “Er, no thanks.”
Lt. Jones just shook her head and flipped open her notepad.
Kate lowered the plate to the coffee table. Smoothing the back of her dress, she sat beside Billy. She folded her hands together and studied them.
Billy glared at the officers. Take a fucking cookie.
“Mrs. Donaldson, could you begin by telling us—”
Kate jumped to her feet. “What was I thinking? Of course it’s too early for cookies.” She turned to Billy and frowned. “I should’ve told you to get muffins.” She faced the officers. “He can run to the store. It won’t take but a half hour or so if he hurries. Better yet, I’ll just run to SuperFresh real quick.” She wiped her palms over the front of her dress. “I’ll be right back.”
Billy was up before she could get far. He slipped an arm around her waist and lowered his face until he could force her to look at him. “Babe? It’s fine. I’m sure they don’t want any muffins.”
Kate gritted her teeth and hissed out the words. “Do you have to give me a hard time about everything?” She yanked away from him and dropped onto the couch where she went back to staring at her hands.
Lt. Cimochowski’s cleared his throat. “I love cookies. I’ve been watching my weight, but I have to tell you, these look pretty tempting.” He picked up a cookie and took a bite. “Delicious,” he said, his mouth full of Pepperidge Farm.
Lt. Jones followed his lead. “Me, too.” She transferred two cookies to the edge of her saucer. “I guess I can stand a few more minutes on the treadmill.”
“Wonderful.” Kate clapped her hands together, whirling from catatonic to bubbly so fast it made Billy dizzy.
When she finally settled down enough to allow the investigators to ask their questions, it was as if she had stepped outside herself. She showed no emotion. She could have been giving directions from the house to the town square.
The same wasn’t true for Billy. Listening to Kate’s version of what had happened was difficult, and it was hard not to react. He lifted his teacup. It was so small and fragile, he feared he might break it. He swirled the amber liquid and thought about the half bottle of Jack Daniels hidden in the kitchen, then remembered there was pot tucked away in the basement freezer, beneath the chuck steaks.
Feeling guilty, he set the cup down with a clatter and mumbled an apology. Kate was reliving a tragedy, and he was wishing they’d all leave so he could take the edge off. How long was this supposed to take, anyway?
“Mr. Donaldson?”
“I’m sorry. What?”
Lt. Jones addressed him. “Were you aware of any threats to Mrs. Donaldson from Mr. Stevens?”
They were kidding, right? “If I’d known he’d threatened her, he’d have never made it to that meeting last night.”
Kate settled her hand on his knee.
“Understandable,” said Lt. Cimochowski.
“Mrs. Donaldson, can you fill us in on your history with Mr. Stevens?”
Kate glanced at Billy. “I don’t really have one. Not really.” She told them about Stevens coming to township meetings and his rants against the committee, and that her editor had insisted she try to get an interview.
“Did anyone at the newspaper think he might be unstable or even dangerous?” Lt. Jones asked.
Kate fidgeted and tugged at the hem of her dress. “My editor called him a ticking time bomb, but I felt sorry for him. They were threatening to take his land and all. He didn’t seem quite right, but my editor wanted a story, and if I didn’t do what I was told, I could’ve lost my job.”
“Jesus Christ!” Billy jumped from his seat. “I said you didn’t need that fucking job, but you wouldn’t listen.”
He wanted to hit something. Better yet, someone.
Kate grew stiff.
Lt. Cimochowski stood as well. “Mr. Donaldson, I know this is difficult, but we need to ask your wife these questions. If it would be easier for you to wait in the other room . . .”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then took a deep breath before turning back to Kate. “I’m sorry, babe.”
Her head down, she continued to stare at her hands.
“Can you go on, Mrs. Donaldson?” Lt. Jones coaxed.
She didn’t answer.
“Would you like to talk without your husband present?”
Billy shook his head. “Not happening.”
Kate sat up straighter. She raised her eyes slowly and nodded.
She couldn’t be serious! “I won’t open my mouth again. I promise.”
“I’m sorry.” Lt. Cimochowski looked as if he might escort Billy out of his own damn living room. “It might be easier for her. We’re almost done. We won’t make it any more difficult than it already is. I promise.”
“Katie.”
She met his eyes for a second, then looked away. Damn it.
“Fine. I’ll be in the kitchen. Call me if you need me.” He gave each of the detectives a warning look.
Good job, Donaldson. Threaten the police. That should work in your favor.
Billy paced between the kitchen and the dining room, catching snippets of conversation coming from the living room, but Kate’s voice was low. It was almost impossible to hear what she was saying without hovering in the doorway. He might as well find something to keep him busy,
because while he was trying to focus on Kate, he was also trying—and failing—to ignore the bottle taunting him from behind the corn flakes.
He emptied the dishwasher and then busied himself trying to figure out what to make for dinner. He stared into the open refrigerator, but he wasn’t thinking about the jar of spaghetti sauce or the leftover chicken. All he could think about was the bottle of JD calling to him, just inches from his face. And if he didn’t answer, he just might lose his shit.
Two minutes ago he’d been banging around in the cabinets putting dishes away, but now he moved quietly, opening the cabinet door and slipping out the bottle of whiskey. A bottle of vodka he’d somehow missed the night before was off to the side, next to the waffle maker. He took that, too.
He climbed the narrow stairs, avoiding the creaky second one, and ducked into the music room. He tucked the whiskey into the bottom cabinet where he kept his sheet music, then opened the vodka and took a long, hard pull.
Warmth spread through him, soothing him from the inside. He took another swallow. Feelings of comfort mixed with feelings of guilt. He wasn’t drunk. He wouldn’t get drunk. He just needed to cope, and this was the only way he knew how. A little hit now and then, just so he could remain calm. For Katie.
The detectives were getting ready to leave when he came back downstairs.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, thank you.” Lt. Jones smiled at Kate. “Mrs. Donaldson, we’ll be in touch.”
“At least you won’t have to testify,” Lt. Cimochowski said.
With Stevens dead, there would be no trial.
The moment the police left, Kate slumped as if a rod inserted in her spine for the interview had been whisked away, no longer necessary. She opened the refrigerator and stared inside.
“You hungry?” Billy asked. “I can make you some lunch.”
“No thanks.” She pulled a half-empty bottle of chardonnay off the door, grabbed a wine glass from the cabinet, and filled it near the brim.
