Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  Except Todd wouldn’t want to live with blood on his hands for the rest of his life. He might be able to heal from Tracy’s death, but not if he kills someone. That changes a person at their very core. He’s not in bad shape, but I’m stronger than him. I push him off of me with my hands, forcefully throwing him to the floor. I hope I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was the only way to get him off me.

  I slump over, trying to catch my breath and process what just happened.

  Anna runs over to Todd. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  He nods, and she turns her attention to me.

  “You’ve hurt my husband! Maybe you are a killer. Look at me.”

  I don’t. I can’t.

  “Look at me, goddammit!”

  I look at her.

  “Did you kill her?” she asks firmly.

  “No,” I say, as tears run down my cheeks. “I did not kill Tracy.”

  Anna, satisfied with my answer, returns her attention to Todd. She sits on the floor next to him and hugs him. They are both crying. We are all a mess.

  “The significant other is always a suspect,” I say when I’ve caught my breath.

  “I understand that,” Todd says, chastened after our struggle, still gasping for air. “I believe you.” After a pause: “So who do you think did it?”

  “I have no idea,” I say.

  I can’t tell him what I really think. That would be insane. He and Anna just found out their daughter is dead and that I’m a suspect. Perhaps we can talk about it another day, perhaps not, but for now, my lips are sealed.

  Chapter 15

  Ryan

  “Can I come over?” I text Beth.

  She texts back a minute later. It feels longer, because I’m sitting in a cheap, crummy motel staring at the wall, wishing all of this would be over. I check the time stamp on our texts to be sure.

  “Where do you live? I want to come over,” her text reads.

  “I’m not at home.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Riverview Inn,” I type, hating myself for being here, along with just about everything else I’ve ever done or said.

  “Why?” she texts.

  “I’d rather tell you in person.”

  “Meet you at that wine bar on Sixth, in an hour.”

  “Okay,” I text back.

  I’m only five minutes from the wine bar she suggested, so that gives me fifty-five interminable minutes until I am saved from myself and this place.

  I couldn’t go back home. I couldn’t do it. Even when all the blood is cleaned up, which I will do soon, and not a trace of the crime exists, I’ll still see Tracy everywhere I look.

  I can’t ever call that place home again. I’ll have to find a new place, which is fine. I liked my house, but I didn’t expect to spend the rest of my life there. Right now just doesn’t seem like a good time to make any big moves. It could raise suspicion, because for some reason people assume you want to remember your loved ones at every turn. They think seeing their favorite chair and finding their hair on the bathroom counter is comforting. It’s not.

  Worse, I could be in jail in a few months, so I might as well suffer here. Why buy a nice, new place when I probably won’t even be able to enjoy it? Houses are meant for those who have a life to live in them. This is my punishment for mistakes I didn’t make, crimes I didn’t commit.

  I glance out the window and see my “neighbor” walk past. She looks like she’s strung out on something. Matted greasy hair hangs in her face. Her arms are gangly and covered in tattoos. Dark makeup makes her eyes seem even more sunken into her head than they probably are.

  She is indicative of the kind of people I now keep company with. I’m not okay with it. I want things to go back to normal, whatever that is.

  I look at my phone for the hundredth time and see that it is ten till. I get in my car and drive to the wine bar, go inside and wait by the window for Beth.

  When the waiter approaches, I order a glass of ice water. Alcohol isn’t a good idea. Since I’m under investigation, I could have my blood and urine screened at any moment, for any reason, and I will be clean. I’ve never been into drugs, never even smoked a cigarette. Sure, I’ve consumed more than my fair share of alcohol, but I’m not alone in that. In college, I went to parties with every other student I knew. After a hard day at work, we all go to the bar. It’s what people do. I’ve also driven drunk. That, too, is what people do. I won’t be doing that now, though. If I get arrested for even the smallest thing, I don’t think I’d ever be free again.

  Beth walks in a few minutes late. I don’t notice until I look at my watch. The wine bar has provided lots of people-watching entertainment. Simply being out of that godforsaken room is more than enough for me.

  She waves at me as she walks in the door. Beth is beautiful, but tonight, in the light of the orange, pink, and purple sunset, she is stunning. I want to bang her right now on the table in the middle of the bar. She can’t kiss me; in fact, I don’t know why she wanted to meet me out in public, where the world can see, and judge, us.

  “Hey,” she says breathlessly, sitting down and flagging the waiter.

  “Shouldn’t we be careful? You know, in public?”

  “It’s fine. You’re not going to make out with me, are you?”

  I shake my head no. “I’m allowed to be friends with whomever I want.”

  The waiter arrives at the table. Before he says anything, Beth blurts out, “I’ll have a glass of pinot grigio please, and none of those skimpy pours like the last time. I know what a proper pour should look like.”

  The waiter walks away and she bounces right back into our conversation.

  “I mean, what are the odds of someone seeing us? Everyone I know is either out of town on vacation or at home with the kids.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “You don’t believe me?” she asks with an accusatory tone.

  “What about your sister?” I ask.

  “What about her?”

  Beth looks at me, confused. I thought she might know about my current situation, thanks to her sister. I’m sure Margaret wouldn’t be able to keep her mouth shut with gossip this intriguing.

  “I think she killed Tracy,” I say casually, as though I’m remarking on what a nice night it is outside, assuming Beth’s not as innocent and void of information as she’d like me to believe.

  Beth stares at me for a moment. I can tell she doesn’t know what to say or do or where to look. While she doesn’t walk out, or slap me or call me names, she also doesn’t immediately jump to her sister’s defense, either.

  “Tracy’s dead?” she asks.

  I nod. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation in public, but I don’t stop, I don’t shut up; I just keep talking.

  “I didn’t do it, in case you’re wondering.”

  “I wasn’t really, but I believe you.”

  “Why?” I ask. Sometimes I’m not even sure I believe myself. I keep wondering if I could have blacked out and killed Tracy. Or done it in my sleep.

  “Because you said you didn’t do it.”

  “It’s that simple for you?”

  “Nothing in life is that simple. I believe that you didn’t kill Tracy. Now why do you think Maggie did it?”

  “Well, I think she killed her daughter.”

  Beth almost chuckles. She slugs back her glass of wine and signals the waiter for another, saying, “I’m going to need to keep these coming.” We sit in awkward silence until the waiter refills her glass and asks if we would like anything to eat. I decline. Hungry isn’t really in my vocabulary right now. Food may never sound good to me again. Beth claims she hasn’t eaten all day and orders a hummus plate. I’d rather keep the waiter out of our business, but I can’t ask her not to order anything.

&nb
sp; “I’ll be the first to admit Maggie’s behavior has been rather odd since Lana’s death,” Beth says once the coast is clear, “but I don’t think she has it in her to kill another person. Anyway, I thought it was a suicide.”

  “It’s not, but now I’m out of the loop,” I say. “I’ve been suspended pending an investigation.”

  “I’m sorry about that. If you need money or anything . . .” She trails off. “Devin won’t notice. I do all the bills.”

  “It’s not the money,” I reply. “It’s that I’m practically being accused of murder.”

  “I imagine that would be difficult.”

  “No, you can’t imagine,” I snap.

  “Sor-ry,” she says, offended.

  That’s how people are going to treat me now. They’re going to be overly nice, patronizing, give me that sad look like I’m a lost puppy. Then they’ll probably go home and talk about me like a vicious dog to their husbands, wives, friends, family, neighbors, perfect strangers—because it’s only a matter of time until the media catches wind of this and I’m the topic of conversation across the country. On the other hand, there will be those who treat me like garbage right to my face. As though I could contaminate them with bad luck, as though being nice to me may reflect badly on them. Because ignoring me just isn’t a viable option, I’ll be given nasty looks, cursed at, maybe even spat upon. Someone might even kill me, though that will most likely wait until prison, where all the guys I’ve put away will be waiting like vultures for my arrival, shivs in hand.

  Just when we’re about to continue our oh-so-enjoyable conversation, a camera flash startles both Beth and me. The waiter hustles to close the curtains on the nearby window, keeping our adoring public away for the time being, even though the moment we open the door we will be at the mercy of the photographers waiting outside. If we’re lucky, they’ll be selfish and keep this to themselves. I know we won’t be, so every media outlet within fifty miles will be standing there, just waiting to jump all over us.

  This is bad news for Beth. Her husband will realize she’s cheating on him, unless he’s half as obtuse as she says he is. She’ll be the talk of the town for sleeping with a murderer.

  The news is far, far worse for me. My fiancée was murdered and I am out with another woman. The reasons don’t matter. There’s no excuse, no explanation that makes any sense. I can’t talk my way out of this. I’ll be charged with murder. I’d even charge me if I could. In fact, in other scenarios I have charged people in the exact same situation. Well, maybe not exactly the same; that would be rather odd.

  “I have to go,” I say. “I can’t do this to you. I knew we shouldn’t have met here.”

  She doesn’t move. I look at her, urging her to leave, yet she isn’t moving.

  “You need to go.”

  Beth looks right at me. Right into my eyes. “I couldn’t let my sister go down,” she says, and then saunters away from the table.

  Oh shit.

  She walks out of the restaurant, cool, calm, and collected. Devin’s probably in on the whole thing. He won’t be mad she cheated on him. Maybe he knew about us from the beginning. Beth was only interested in me because I was interested in Margaret.

  I pull back the curtains to watch Beth walk away. She looks like a celebrity, totally unfazed by the flashes. She walks confidently, shoulders back, looking straight ahead, hair swaying in the breeze. I want to die, right then and there. I want this to end.

  But I don’t die. I sit there for a moment before I get up, feeling as though I have no other choice. I don’t want to go outside, so I’m just about to ask if there’s a back door before realizing I’d still have to walk around front to my car anyway. I bite the bullet and walk out of the bar, trying to take a lesson from Beth and pretend I’m confident, pretend everything is A-okay as cameras flash. I’m sure I look sneaky and suspicious. I’ll know in a matter of hours if that is the case, because my story and photos of me will be online in no time, on the news tonight, and in the newspaper tomorrow. Lucky me. Instead of being lauded as a hero cop like I’d always dreamed about, like my father had been more than once, I’ve sullied myself and the family name. I’m the reason why cops can’t be trusted. The problem with society these days. The scum of the earth.

  I keep my eyes on my car and nothing else during my walk. Once I arrive there safely, I get in and immediately lock the doors until I compose myself enough to carefully pull away.

  I drive with my hands gripped on the steering wheel as though my life depends on it. By the time I get home, after checking out of the Riverview, my phone has exploded. I have become a major news story, just waiting for the police to take me away. I check my messages; the first one is from Sarge.

  “Ryan. I hate to tell you this, but I think we’re going to have to arrest you, with all this news business. I don’t want to come to your house and drag you away in handcuffs. If you come in by midnight, you can surrender yourself. Do that. Okay?”

  Is he telling me to run instead of come in? Is he giving me a head’s up? How am I supposed to know the difference? Not that I would know where to go, or be able to cross any borders or walk through any airports without fingers pointing and the watchful eye of every security guard on me. Still, I can’t help but wonder if he’s nudging me ever so slightly in the direction of freedom in a non-extradition country.

  Unfortunately, that kind of life isn’t for me. I’m not made for being on the run, always looking over my shoulder, waiting to be caught. I’d rather prove I’m innocent—and I am innocent. It’s this evil Margaret Moore who’s not. No one could really believe it’s just a coincidence that her daughter killed herself, and then the detective on the case kills his girlfriend. It’s unbelievable. Granted, it was bad that I got involved with Beth. It was a heat-of-the-moment, grab-this-opportunity-before-it-slips-away kind of thing, and on that count, Beth is just as guilty as me. Yet no one, not even Beth, is going to see it like that.

  I say good-bye to the house I’m emotionally detached from as it is. I try to mentally prepare myself to never be able to come back to it, since realistically, I don’t expect to come back here, even though I’m innocent. I gather some things that are important to me. Things I’d like to see again if the charges against me are dropped and Margaret is named as the real killer. Once I’m gone, the house could be broken into, vandalized, eventually repossessed by the bank and sold to some other schlub looking to make his way in the world, my things sold at auction, perhaps to become souvenirs on eBay.

  Two haphazardly packed boxes sit by the front door waiting to be placed in my car. Some of it’s dumb stuff. A trophy from when my high school football team won the state championship. The first love note Tracy wrote to me many moons ago. A foul ball I caught at a game I went to with my dad. And then there’s the practical stuff. Birth certificate. Passport. Anything of value. A few clothes. Some photos. Things I’d need to rebuild my life, in case I get the chance.

  I put the boxes in my car and then lock up the house and put the keys in one of the boxes. I’d rather trust them with Casey than the prison.

  That’s where I’m taking these things before I turn myself in. To Casey’s house. He’s my best friend. Well, he was. We haven’t been in touch much lately. He’s married, has kids, is living the white-picket-fence American dream we all pretend we want. He says he’s happy, but I don’t really believe him. With all of this going on, he doesn’t have time for me, only for his friends who also have kids, so he can have guy time under the guise of a playdate. Veronica, his wife, will probably just about die when she sees me standing at their front door, but I won’t stay or cause a scene. I just don’t have anyone else to trust with my things. I can’t turn to my parents, and it would be wrong to ask Kate or Sarge to do anything for me, other than try to clear my name, so Casey’s my only choice.

  Even though it’s hot outside, I roll down all the windows on the way to Casey’s place
. I want to feel the breeze and inhale the fresh air. Everything is different now that I’m about to be locked up.

  Shit, I didn’t get an attorney. I don’t exactly have a fund earmarked for potential legal fees, but I’ll find someone. Just as long as it’s not one of those court-appointed lawyers. They’re all nice people and they do the best they can, but I’ve seen their caseload, and the quality of their work. I’m even more doomed if one of them represents me.

  Too late to worry about that now.

  I pull into Casey’s driveway. He’s outside playing with his kids, looks like he just got home from work, still in his dress shirt, the tie around his neck loosened. Veronica’s thankfully nowhere in sight.

  He recognizes my car and smiles my way. He must not know what’s going on.

  I open the door and get out, leaving the boxes behind for now.

  “Hey, Ryan,” he greets me from afar, not missing a beat of playing with his daughter, in her cute little sundress, and his son, in his baseball hat, polo shirt, and shorts. I’m suddenly panicked at the thought that I’ll never have this. No kids of my own to raise and play with, to teach the lessons of life, big and small. No son to follow in my footsteps or daughter to worry about when she goes on her first date.

  “Hi, Casey.” I try to sound just as friendly, but I can’t fake it very well. My voice cracks and my hands—my whole body, in fact—shakes.

  I walk over to him but keep my distance. I feel uncomfortable, like I shouldn’t be here. Like I’ve made a terrible mistake. A series of them, actually.

  “It’s been too long,” he says. “How’ve you been?”

  “Pretty good,” I say. I want to say more, but I don’t know where to start.

  “We should get a beer, catch up.”

  “Sure,” I say, because the alternative—‘We probably won’t be able to since I’m about to turn myself in for murder’—isn’t a good thing to say right now, in front of his kids, in the middle of his idyllic neighborhood. I’d actually prefer to avoid saying it, ever. Admitting to being the main suspect in a murder is something most people don’t aspire to.