Over the Edge

by Brandilyn Collins

  "Yes. Good. Thank you."

  Jud rose. "Let me call Lauren back down for the prints. I should have done that a minute ago." He scratched his jaw. "Is Dr. McNeil coming home early tonight? You look like you could really use some help getting around."

  His offhand remark slapped me in the face. I looked away, shame curling through me. Brock wasn't heartless, yet he'd left me in this state. I must have caused him to want to leave. Somehow. Some way.

  But wait a minute—Jud already knew about this.

  "He's moved out. Just like he told you he was planning to do."

  Incredulity swept over Jud's face. "When did this happen?"

  "Last night. Why are you acting like you didn't know?"

  Jud made a sound in his throat. "Your husband told me he'd been planning on leaving. But the way he talked, I figured after you got sick he put it off."

  Wasn't his judgment of Brock just a little late? I turned my head to look up at him. "You knew about the affair for m-months, didn't you? Your wife knew. Nobody told me. Now he's gone."

  Jud's head drew back. "Actually we didn't, not for sure. Not until your husband came to see me on Saturday." His hand found his tie and smoothed it. "But Sarah suspected."

  My lips pressed. "And at the Christmas party neither of you said a thing."

  I knew I was being unfair. I didn't know Sarah and certainly not Jud well enough for either of them to voice a mere suspicion. But I didn't care. Right now I needed the detective to stand by me. "Just don't . . . abandon me now."

  Jud gazed at me for a moment, then gave a curt nod.

  He turned away to call Lauren.

  When she came down Jud took her fingerprints first. Lauren was fascinated but full of questions. "You're not doing this just because you think somebody at school gave me that bottle, are you?"

  Jud glanced at me. "No."

  "Then who do you think did it?"

  "Lauren." I shook my head at Jud. "We'll talk about it after the detective's gone."

  "But—"

  "Later."

  Lauren gave me a long, hurt look. "Well, fine. I need to put my stuff away." As Jud and I watched she busied herself replacing all the items in her backpack. Had I been able to supervise, I'd have nudged her to throw out the old notes, the half-eaten candy bar. But to a nine-year-old, every item was precious.

  When done she lugged the pack into the kitchen. I heard it land on the table. Wordlessly, she retreated upstairs.

  When Jud reached for my hand to take my prints, I flinched. My fingers were so tender.

  "That hurt?" He let go of my hand.

  "Yeah. The joints."

  He touched me again gently. Still the procedure hurt. He had to press on my fingers and move them side to side to make sure the prints were complete. I said nothing, but my jaw clenched, and a single tear rolled down my cheek. The pain in my body, the pain in my heart—together they were too much. I just wanted to hide. To sleep and not feel anything.

  Jud saw the tear but pretended he didn't. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, too tired to feel ashamed for crying.

  He packed up his things and prepared to leave. "I'll let you know if we find anything on the bottle."

  "Thanks."

  He shifted on his feet. "Mrs. McNeil, I'm really sorry all this has happened to you."

  I nodded. "Thanks for coming."

  He gave me a tight smile, then headed for the door. I listened to it open and close. A moment later a car started up outside. Drove away.

  Now what?

  I would have to talk to Lauren. Tell her we suspected an unknown man had left that bug in her backpack. She would want to know why. And I would say . . . ?

  Not now. Too much for me to face. I lay back down.

  "Mom!" Lauren's feet pounded down the stairs. She appeared at the back of the couch, holding out the phone receiver from my bedroom. "Dad wants to talk to you." She screwed up her face and whispered, "He sounds mad."

  Something deep within me clunked, like a metal door slamming shut. "You called him?"

  She pushed up her bottom lip. "I told him about the detective and the fingerprints, thinking maybe he'd explain. Since you wouldn't tell me what's going on."

  Oh, Lauren, no.

  She thrust the phone toward me.

  "Janessa!" Brock's voice spat from the receiver. He hadn't called me my full name in years. "Come to the phone right now!"

  Lauren's lips pulled wide in a yikes expression. Her eyes rounded.

  All thoughts I'd entertained of Brock listening to me, of him coming back, dropped through my stomach like a stone.

  "Janessa!"

  He wouldn't forgive me for this. For refusing to heed his threat. For scaring Lauren. No way. Whatever had happened to this point would pale beside the fury Brock would now unleash on me.

  With trembling fingers I took the phone and held it to my ear. "I'm here."

  Chapter 26

  WHEN I WAS TEN MY FATHER ACCUSED ME OF STEALING TWO dollars from his wallet. Never mind that I hadn't touched it, much less stolen the money. In his drunken mind two dollars were missing and I had to be the culprit. He threw my door open as I lay on my bed, reading. The smell of alcohol and sweat blew in with him. I jumped so hard my book slid onto the floor.

  "Where's my money?"

  His face was red and his hair stuck up. He planted his feet apart, leaning toward me. Now I could smell the whisky straight from his breath.

  "What money?"

  "You took it!"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Yes, you did!"

  A claw-like hand grabbed for me. I scooted out of his reach toward the headboard and cringed. "I didn't take anything, Daddy, I really didn't."

  Desperate prayers welled within me. Please God, please, please.

  "Two dollars!" Spittle flecked my father's lips. His voice turned hard and bitter. "I clothe you and feed you. Work hard to keep a roof over your head—and you steal from me."

  No denials would stop him. He had his own belief and it was right simply because he thought it so. He jumped onto my bed and sank his fingers into my arm. Yanked me to the floor. The breath knocked clean out of me.

  I don't know which hurt worse, the blows or accusations. One ripped my body; the other burned my soul. When my father finally staggered off, cussing, I crawled back onto my bed and curled into a ball, sobbing. "No, I didn't." My fist bounced against the covers again and again. "I didn't, I didn't."

  For an hour I lay there crying until I finally fell asleep. When I awoke, head pounding and muscles aching, the injustice and helplessness of it all descended upon me in a smothering cloud. I started to shake. At any time in the future my father could once again determine his own reality. At any time he could come back, accuse me of something I hadn't done, perhaps something far worse. And what would I do?

  How would I defend myself to a person whose ears wouldn't listen?

  Neither did Brock listen now as I stuttered my story of the bottle, and the tick, and the man who'd gotten so close to Lauren. I sank into the couch, arm barely able to hold the telephone, battered by his vehemence. This hurt far worse than my father. There may have been no physical blows, but Brock had been the man who'd picked me up and helped me heal from my abusive childhood. For him to turn into a version of my father, to berate me in such a way, to not believe me—

  I could not take it.

  Lauren hung back, wide-eyed, hearing her dad's tone if not his words. "Go," I mouthed at her, but she refused to leave. And I didn't have the energy to make her.

  "I told you not to bring Lauren into this!" Brock raged for the third time. "Checking her all over for a tick? Are you crazy? You scared her to death!"

  "I was s-scared too. That it was on her."

 
"And you called Jud Maxwell to come over!"

  What—Brock had exclusive rights to phone the police?

  "Janessa!"

  "Yes. I did."

  He blew frustration over the line. "When are you going to stop this charade?"

  "When are going to stop being so c-cruel?"

  Lauren edged around the sofa, arms crossed and shoulders bent. She sat on the edge of the armchair, pale-faced, watching me. Never before had she heard me and Brock fight.

  Brock huffed again. "I know revenge when I see it. And don't think it doesn't sadden me. I thought such things were beneath you. Particularly dragging Lauren into your scheme."

  "Why can't you b-believe I'm sick?"

  "Maybe you are! But it's not Lyme, tests have proved that. You're only pursuing that to get back at me."

  It hit me again, hard. The picture of me at ten, cowering and crying on my bed after my father had beaten me. And something within me cracked, a fissure small but deep. Out of it poured the bubbling lava of indignation. I did not deserve this. "Get back at you for what, Brock?" Despite the anger my voice caught. Or maybe because of it. "Since you're . . . such a great guy."

  Fat tears spilled from Lauren's eyes. "I'm sorry I called him."

  Something sounded on Brock's end. A door closing? A book dropped? "I'm coming to get her."

  A moment passed before his words registered. "What?"

  "I'm coming to get Lauren. Pack up some clothes for her."

  I nearly laughed. Sure, I had the strength to do that. "And take her where?"

  A beat passed. "To where I'm staying."

  "And where would that be, Brock?"

  "You know."

  "Say it." I caught Lauren's eyes, but there was no stopping me now. This ugly truth could no longer be hidden, not if Brock showed up at our door. "Say where . . . you are."

  "I'll be there in an hour. Have her ready."

  "You're not t-taking Lauren from me."

  "I warned you."

  The thought of Lauren wrenched from me, taken to her house. What did Alicia know of mothering? What did she know of my daughter?

  "You're n-not. You c-can't just take a child from her . . ." The word lost itself in my head. I chased it, but it fell down my throat and into my chest. Rolled around and wailed. This could not be happening—Brock taking Lauren away. My mind would burst apart. "Please."

  "Then stop me."

  How could I stop him? I could barely move from the couch.

  "You can't take care of her, right, Janessa? Being so sick as you are. Lauren said you fell down. Can barely walk. You can hardly talk to me. How are you going to get her to school? Make her dinner? How do you plan to take care of her?"

  "I—"

  "And if she's in so much danger, some crazed man stalking her with infected ticks"—he snorted—"just how do you plan to protect her?"

  The question stabbed me. How could I? But I was her mother. My child could not be taken from her mother.

  "If you don't want me to take her, Jannie, get better. Now. Stop the dramatizing. Show me you're able to get up and get around."

  Tears slid down my temples. My charade traded in for keeping Lauren, was that it? "I can take care of her. I'll m-manage."

  Lauren gripped the edge of the armchair. Her face was pinched, her eyes searching mine for answers, for stability. "Where does he want me to go?"

  I pulled the receiver away from my ear. "He wants to take you to stay somewhere else."

  "Where?" Her expression held the memory of our separation while I was in the hospital. "I don't want to go anywhere."

  "Did you tell her, Janessa?" This from Brock on the phone. "Did you tell her why I left, like I asked you to?"

  Asked me to? He'd walked away like a coward and thrown the demand in my face. "That's your job. Since you created the . . . situation." I couldn't believe we were having this conversation, with Lauren hearing half of it. How had Brock and I come to this? How could he pull the very foundation out from under the child he so loved?

  He made a sound of disgust. "Forget an hour, I'm coming now."

  The line cut off.

  In a daze, I positioned the receiver in front of my face, one weak finger searching for the off button. Pieces of me floated up and away, my brain chanting a mantra—this isn't real, this isn't real. As far as Brock had fallen, I had to believe he'd fill Lauren's ears with lies about me. I couldn't stand that. Couldn't bear to lose anything more. Not my daughter. Anything but Lauren.

  Imagine if we'd had a second child. Brock would be taking that one, too. I'd so wanted another baby, but Brock wouldn't hear of it. One was enough. He was getting too old to start over.

  I could take care of Lauren. Somehow. I'd already gotten her rides to and from school. She and I could heat soup together, if nothing else. She could open the cans. And I had to watch over her. At least I knew to check for ticks when she came home from school. That may scare her, yes, but taking a chance was far more frightening. Brock wouldn't do that. He'd tell her it was all nonsense.

  "Mom." Lauren gripped her fingers and pushed them against her chin. "What's going on?"

  I looked at her, and my heart broke. Just fell into shattered pieces. Two choices here, both miserable. I could tell Lauren myself, now. Or let the truth come out when Brock arrived and we fought some more.

  "Your dad . . ." I pictured the two of them in their tea parties. And the time Brock took her to the daddy/daughter dance at school. He'd worn a pink tie to match her dress—a color he hated. He'd ordered her a pink rosebud corsage. "He doesn't w-want to live with me anymore." Me, just me. I couldn't let Lauren think it was her fault.

  Her face scrunched up. "What?"

  "He has . . . he l-likes someone else now. Some other person. He's not on a business trip. He's staying with her. And he m-misses you. He wants to take you there."

  "No! I don't want to go!" Her eyebrows slanted upward. "What do you mean he likes someone else?"

  I swallowed. "He doesn't want to l-live here, Lauren."

  Her mouth dropped open, and her cheeks blanched. "Are you getting a divorce?"

  Divorce. What a horrible word. A word for other families, for couples who didn't know how to love each other. Not us. My throat nearly closed. "I don't know, honey."

  She jumped to her feet. "You can't! I won't let you!"

  "I don't want to, Lauren. Believe me."

  "But Dad does?"

  "I don't know."

  Lauren's face crumpled. She leaned forward like a tree uprooted in the wind, then stumbled to the couch. She collapsed on her knees, arms crossed over her forehead, and fell on my chest, sobbing. Pain from the physical hit ripped through me. I gasped, shaking. Bit back my cry. Her weight upon me felt like an avalanche, but for the world I wouldn't move her. I brought both my hands to her head, stroked her hair.

  "I'm not going with him." Her voice muffled into my shirt. "I'm staying here with you!"

  At that moment I didn't know who I hated worse—the man who'd made me so sick, or my husband. At least Stalking Man didn't know me. Had never loved me.

  Lauren cried and cried. Heat from her face and arms radiated into my chest, every tremor throbbing me with pain. Finally she raised up, hair sticking to her cheeks and skin red. Defiance burned in her eyes. "Who is she?"

  I blinked at her, startled. The question sounded so grown up, something the wife would demand to know. Was it in the female genes, this righteous indignation against betrayal?

  "Someone he works with."

  "What's her name?"

  "Alicia."

  Lauren's features twisted as if she'd bitten into the sourest candy. "I hate that name."

  I heard the faint sound of the garage door opening.

  Brock.


  Chapter 27

  JUD STOOD IN CHIEF KRAMINSKY'S OFFICE, BITING HIS TONGUE as he listened to the man's harangue. Kraminsky sat in the chair behind his desk, his typically ruddy face even redder than usual. The day—and lack of leads on the burglaries—had not gone well for him.

  "So you have this vial—surely covered in Janessa McNeil's own fingerprints, as well as her daughter's—so who knows what else you'll be able to pull off of it." The chief shook his head. "But no tick. Once again no evidence of any kind. Just her story."

  "Just her story. And the fact that she's mighty sick."

  "Which also has yet to be proven."

  Jud sighed. "You been talking to Brock McNeil?" As soon as the words blurted from his mouth, he wished they hadn't.

  Kraminsky rose to his full 5'10" height. He leaned toward Jud, planting both palms on his desk. "I've got a string of unsolved burglaries here with plenty of evidence they really happened! And I got the media all over my back. I don't need some civilian doctor telling me not to pursue this crazy case of yours. With what little you've got, I can figure that out on my own. Bring me something on your case, Maxwell! Then we'll talk."

  Jud wasn't about to back down now. "You can't be telling me to not even test the vial for prints."

  The chief waved a hand. "Sure, sure, test it. And if you find something, great. But what if you don't?" Kraminsky raised his bushy eyebrows.

  What if he didn't?

  The guy could have worn gloves.

  Or Janessa McNeil could be lying. If she was lying, she deserved an Oscar. The woman looked so sick.

  "If I don't . . ." Jud left the words hanging in the air. He spread his hands in a gesture of futility and turned to leave the chief's office.

  Back behind his own desk, Jud stared at his stacks of files, still stewing. He tapped a fingernail against his teeth. Not since yesterday had he talked to Brock McNeil—just before the doctor took his wife home from the hospital. Apparently, as far as McNeil was concerned, the case was closed. Just because he wanted it to be. What kind of arrogance was that?

  Jud glared at the phone, an impulsive thought kicking around in his head. Maybe he ought to check in with McNeil. Not quite sure what information the doctor could give him that would help. But it was better than just sitting here all riled up. Besides a call would likely rattle McNeil's cage, and right now Jud figured the man deserved it. Jud couldn't forget the look on Janessa McNeil's face when she told him her husband had moved out.