by Karen Cimms
“Katie?”
The cream in her coffee floated like pond scum. She didn’t move.
“Babe.” He dragged one of the dining room chairs closer and sat beside her. He rubbed her fingers between his own. “What’s wrong?”
“She wasn’t even seventeen,” Kate said finally.
“Who? Who wasn’t seventeen?”
“Morgan.”
“Sweetheart, who’s Morgan?”
The look she gave him suggested he was deliberately being thick-headed. “Morgan Wilson. She died last night.”
“I’m sorry.” He had no idea who Morgan Wilson was, but didn’t dare ask.
She went from withdrawn to frantic so quickly it should have given her whiplash. “Her birthday was next week. She was trying to get a jump on things. Mr. Scott makes the seniors in his civics class get a firsthand look at local government.” The chair scraped across the floor as she stood, her voice rising with her. “She was just trying to get it out of the way! Now she’s dead.”
He tried to piece together what she was saying. Morgan must have been at the meeting. Of course he didn’t know her. Kate probably didn’t either—not that it mattered.
She sank back into the chair and dropped her head into her hands. “It’s my fault.”
Oh shit. “Katie, it’s not your fault. You can’t keep thinking that.”
“You can say that all you want,” she sobbed, “but it won’t change one damn thing.”
He wrapped his arms around her, drawing his hand up and down her back, murmuring softly until her sobs slowed to quiet hiccups. With each passing moment, his anxiety grew. This wasn’t his Kate. She was sensitive but smart, logical. None of her behavior made sense now. One minute she was hovering on the brink, and the next she was tumbling over the edge.
Billy remained at home, but other than that one night, Kate didn’t welcome him back to their bed. Instead, she slept behind a locked door with Charlie to protect her. When he got up during the night, there was always a sliver of light spilling out from beneath her door.
While she claimed she was fine, she was anything but. She’d stare out the window for hours, a book unopened in her lap. She jumped at the smallest sound and wouldn’t leave the house unless absolutely necessary. She had even refused to attend Eileen’s funeral, insisting the whole family hated her.
Sleeping on the futon was taking its toll, so with Devin away at school, Billy moved into his room, and for the first night in more than a week, he slept. So well, in fact, he hadn’t heard Kate get up, but he could hear her now. And he could hear the man she was speaking with.
He hurried downstairs to find Tom in his kitchen, unloading groceries.
“What’re you doing here?” he demanded.
Tom looked up from the cloth sack he was emptying.
“Billy!” Kate sounded mortified. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” His eyes never left Tom’s face.
Tom finished unloading the sack.
“I should go,” he said quietly. “I have to get to the office anyway.”
Kate lifted her cheek for him to kiss, leveling an evil look at Billy as she did. Tom gave her a quick peck, then made a hasty exit.
“I’ll call you later,” Tom said.
“Yeah,” Billy answered, “you do that.”
Kate turned on him before the screen door banged shut. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing. What’s his problem? He’s got his own wife and kid. He should stay the fuck away from mine.”
Her look was pure disappointment, but other than a frown and a shake of her head, she didn’t comment.
But her words taunted him. Words she’d said before. They slid into the crevices of his brain, mocked him: his lips pressed against my throat . . .
Damn it. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to erase the memory, and then snatched a cup from the cabinet and filled it with coffee.
“I would have gone to the store with you,” he said when he could speak calmly. “You should have woken me up.” He surveyed the counter filled with groceries. “I’m glad to see you’ve got your appetite back at least.”
She shook her head. “Not really. But when I was talking to Tom last night, I mentioned that I was out of just about everything, and he offered to take me.” She shrugged as if it were just that simple.
The edges of his vision turned black.
“What’s the deal with this guy, huh? Is there something you need to tell me?”
“Tom?” She chuckled softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
It wasn’t an answer, but it was all he was getting.
He tried putting the groceries away, but when he had to keep asking where things went, he gave up, poured himself a bowl of cereal, and got out of her way. When she pulled out a quart of fresh strawberries, her face turned pink as she stashed them in the refrigerator. He smiled.
“Come here,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”
“Not now. I have all of this food to put away.”
“We need to talk. That can wait a few minutes.” He led her to a chair in the dining room, then pulled a chair across from her and sat so that their knees were almost touching.
“We haven’t talked about what happened the night of the funeral.”
She tried to stand. “No!”
“Katie, please. We need to talk about it.”
“I don’t want to.” She tried to pull away, but he held tighter.
“We can’t just forget about it and make believe it never happened.”
Her body went rigid and her voice turned cold. “Is that what you think I’m doing?” “Forgetting about it? Because trust me, Billy, I haven’t forgotten. I’ll never forget.”
This time when she tried to stand, he let her go.
They were living in some kind of holding pattern, waiting for something to happen. What that something might be, Billy had no idea. He felt like a caged animal. He hadn’t gone this long between gigs since high school, and it was making him more than a little crazy.
Problem was, there was already plenty of crazy in the house.
Kate rarely went anywhere. Seeing Eileen’s empty house at the end of their driveway with the FOR SALE sign out front was too difficult. She agreed to see a counselor—not a legitimate psychiatrist, but a religious counselor who kept hours at the Methodist church on Tuesdays. Billy didn’t know what they talked about or if the woman was even qualified to handle traumatic stress, but Kate swore she was feeling better. He was certain the only reason she agreed to that counselor was because she could cut through the neighbor’s yard and walk to the church, and thereby avoid passing Eileen’s house.
He wanted to believe her, even more so when he got a call from his agent about a two-week stint with Dax Fleetwood, whose lead guitarist’s appendix had just ruptured. He had minutes to make a decision and call C.J. back.
“Will you be okay if I go?” he asked Kate. “It’s only two weeks.”
She sat at the dining room table with a cup of tea, rolling and unrolling the string from the bag around her spoon. “Isn’t Dax Fleetwood a country artist?”
“Yeah, but I need to play. I wouldn’t care right now if someone wanted me to back up Wayne Newton in Branson.”
For a second, he thought she might smile.
“Okay, maybe I wouldn’t go that far, but we could use the money.”
She dropped the spoon into the cup and stood.
“Of course you should go.” She patted his arm politely on her way to the kitchen. “You didn’t need to stay this long.”
“Jesus Christ, Kate.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stormed after her. “Don’t start.”
He yanked the refrigerator door open and stared inside. It made him nuts when she acted like she was some kind of burden he needn’t concern himself with.
She stood at the kitchen sink, her back stiff. “When are you leaving?”
“If I can go, C.J. will send a car to take me to the airpor
t in about an hour.” He closed the refrigerator and rested his hands on his hips.
“If you can go? What am I, your mother?” She loaded her mug into the dishwasher. “I guess you better get moving then.”
He needed to go. He needed a break. But he also wanted her to beg him to stay or even offer to go with him.
“What about your trial? Can you leave the state?”
“Tom worked that out at my preliminary. I’m not a flight risk.” Just saying Tom’s name made him scowl.
Kate, on the other hand, laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You. You’re not a flight risk, yet you’re headed to the airport.” She shrugged. “Never mind.”
He packed in record time. He’d done it so many times, he could do it in his sleep. The guilt settled in just as he pulled his toothbrush from the holder next to hers. He headed back downstairs.
“Come with me.”
Kate was curled up in the bay window. The book in her lap was the same one he’d seen her with for the past two weeks. She used to finish a novel in two days. Three tops. “C’mon. I’ll help you pack. You’ll be ready in no time.”
She shook her head. “No. This is for the best. I need to man up, so to speak.”
“Katie—”
“You need to get back to work and on with your life, and so do I. It’ll be fine.”
Gravel crunched in the driveway. There was no time to argue. If he could split himself down the middle, he would.
“If you change your mind, just let me know. I’ll fly you out, okay?”
She tucked the bookmark between the pages of her book. “Where are you going, anyway?”
Shit. Had he been in such a hurry to leave that he hadn’t asked? “I don’t even know.”
A queer look passed over her face, and he hoped she wasn’t thinking the same thing.
He put his arms around her. “I’ll call you as soon as I land, wherever the hell that is.”
For a moment, she seemed about to panic, but it passed.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Fine. Go.”
“Not yet.” He tilted her chin and touched his lips to hers. Her fingers gripped his shirt. “I love you, Katie.”
“I love you, too.” She turned away, but not before he’d seen the glimmer of a fresh tear in the corner of her eye.
Crazy as it seemed, he considered it a gift; a sign he might finally be getting through to her.
Chapter Forty-Four
Twenty-nine pills. That’s how many were left in the bottle of sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed over a month ago. Kate had taken one. There was no need to renew the prescription, but she’d done so anyway.
The pill worked. That wasn’t the problem. Sleep frightened her. It was like walking into a haunted house knowing what horrors awaited her. Each night, and sometimes during the day even, she would pass out from exhaustion, sleep for an hour or two, then wake in a cold sweat, her voice trapped in her throat, unable to scream.
It was her new normal.
She slipped the two bottles into her nightstand and covered them with a small pillow filled with dried lavender buds Rhiannon had made for her in Girl Scouts. On top of that, she placed a book of inspirational quotes that had belonged to Eileen. Stan’s wife had dropped it off along with her recipe for bread and butter pickles. As if it mattered anymore. Kate had refused to open the door when Lora knocked, and she’d eventually left, leaving the book and the recipe on the porch along with a note and the keys to Eileen’s car in case she needed it.
Why were they acting so nice? They should hate her. All of the families should. They should trample her flower beds and throw rocks through her windows. The guilt was unbearable. And their kindness made it even worse.
Kate slammed the drawer closed and went downstairs. She made a sandwich she wouldn’t eat and pulled out her laptop. She checked her email. It was full, but she didn’t respond to any of the messages from friends or former coworkers. She found a recipe for pecan pie on Pinterest and saved it, although when she’d ever feel like making a pie again, she had no idea.
She wasn’t interested in Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter. She didn’t want to read the latest news. There was only one thing she was curious about.
She pulled up Google.
“Dosage, side effects, warnings: An overdose may cause excessive sedation, pinpoint pupils, or depressed respiratory function, which may progress to coma and possibly death.”
Adding alcohol or other opiates would make it more likely to be a fatal overdose, but she would still need hundreds of pills, which would take months. And even then, it was more than likely she’d be found semiconscious in a pool of her own vomit.
Not a very dignified way to die. Not that she was planning anything. Not really. She was just . . . curious.
Kate pressed her fingers against her temples. She couldn’t think anymore today.
She deleted the history on her laptop and closed it.
Billy called later that afternoon. Kate debated letting the call go to voicemail, but if she did, he’d just keep calling, as if he knew she was trying to ignore him.
“I’ll be home sometime tomorrow afternoon,” he said after they’d exchanged the usual greetings.
“So you ended up in Branson after all?”
“Yeah, go figure,” he chuckled. He sounded good—happy, relaxed.
It made what she was about to do easier.
“About tomorrow. I think it best if you have the driver take you to Rhiannon’s.”
There was silence at the other end.
“Billy?”
“I’m here.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you.” He spoke in clipped, even tones. “Is that what you want?”
She exhaled heavily. “I think so. I still love you, please believe me, but there’s a big elephant in the room that we’ve been ignoring. I can’t keep doing that.”
“Katie—”
“Please. I’m not saying it’s over—I’m not—but we haven’t fixed anything. And so much is broken, especially me—”
“You’re not broken, baby.” His voice was a soft hug. “You’ve been through a lot. How can we fix anything if I’m not there to work on it? And when I am, you won’t talk about it.”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s for the best.”
She pictured him on the other end gripping the phone, his jaw tight, trying not to lose his temper.
“You sure this is what you want?”
“I am.” She wasn’t. What she really wanted was to melt into him, seep through his pores, and live inside him where she could feel safe again. But that wasn’t possible.
“Okay, then,” he said, the hurt apparent in his voice.
She didn’t want to be the cause of any more pain, but he’d hurt her badly. She still hadn’t figured out how to deal with it or even if she could deal with it.
“I’ll call you when I land.”
“Tell Wayne I said hi.”
“Wayne?”
“Newton.”
“Oh, yeah. Funny.”
Chapter Forty-Five
It was almost three o’clock when Rhiannon heard the garage door rumble open. Doug and her father had been gone most of the day. The formal arraignment and pretrial conference had been set for nine thirty in the district attorney’s office. She had asked Doug to call when it was over, but he hadn’t.
To keep her mind off the possibility that her father could be heading to jail, she’d tried to stick to her normal routine. She dropped the boys off at the sitter’s, popped into Starbucks, and then spent a couple of hours at the gym. But by lunchtime, she’d been such a nervous wreck she ended up canceling lunch with her two best friends.
That Doug hadn’t called had been gnawing at her for the past two hours. She was about to let him know just how annoyed she was when he walked in, but after the look he gave her, she almost wished they’d stayed away a little longer. Her father foll
owed, looking tired and tense. He’d worn the same look that morning.
“Well?” She glanced from one to the other.
Doug glared at his father-in-law. “The DA wants to know to what charges he’ll plead guilty. She’s willing to give him a deal on a reduced charge, but he’s got to decide quickly because she’s not going to hold it open forever.”
“And?”
“He wants to plead not guilty.” Doug yanked his tie loose and unbuttoned his top button. He grabbed a tumbler from the cabinet near the sink and filled it with ice. Then he stalked into the pantry and returned with a nearly full bottle of Scotch.
They had hidden their alcohol for a reason. Now she’d have to find another spot.
“Doug.” Her voice carried a smile, but she was shooting him daggers. “Don’t drink in front of Daddy.”
“It’s fine.” Her father opened the Sub-Zero refrigerator and helped himself to a bottle of water. His tie was already off, the tail hanging from the side pocket of his suit jacket. He opened the water and straddled the wood-and-leather stool near the island, waiting for Doug to finish telling her what had transpired.
Doug turned to him instead. “You’re going to jail, Billy. Like it or not, you’re going to jail.”
Doug took a mouthful of Scotch. His eyes watered. He swirled the glass so hard several drops of the golden liquid dribbled over his hand.
She wanted to choke him. “You don’t know that!”
She knew the charges against her father, coupled with the fact that it wasn’t his first drug offense, meant he wouldn’t be getting off with a slap on the wrist. But isn’t that why people paid good money for attorneys? So they wouldn’t go to jail?
“He doesn’t want to make a deal, so he has to go to trial.” Doug crunched down on an ice cube. “You were drunk. You had drugs on you. And you put a guy through a plate glass window and nearly killed him. Tell me how you’re not guilty.”
Her father didn’t answer. He just let his gaze settle on Doug as he lifted the bottle of water to his mouth.
