I refuse to let this woman control my life. So I sniffle, wipe some tears away from my eyes, take a deep breath, and pull back onto the road. I am going home. I am going on with my life. And I sure as hell plan to lock up Margaret Moore so I don’t have to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.
It’s nearly dark by the time I get home. Looking at clocks hasn’t really been a part of my day, so I’m not entirely sure if I left late or spent far longer than I estimated sitting in the car, trying to steady my head.
I walk in and Emmitt is lying on the sofa, watching football.
“Hey, honey,” he says. “Did you get my texts?”
“Hi.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at it. “Sorry, I was distracted today. I did get your texts.” I scroll through them. “Let’s see: Chinese for dinner is a yes. Wine is a hell yes. And I’m late because I had a long day at work and I have a ton on my mind.”
I put my bag on the accent table in the corner, nearly knocking a photograph off. I can barely see straight. The only thing on my mind is the verdict in Margaret’s case. They can’t come back with a not guilty. For the sake of humankind, they just can’t.
Emmitt walks over to me and rubs my shoulders. “You okay?” he asks.
“No,” I say, closing my eyes, feeling just a little of the tension release with each knead of my knotted muscles. “It’s this case.”
“Tell me about it.”
I always rebuff his desire to know more about this case. I’ve told him about plenty of other cases. I talk to him all the time—coming home and spending time with Emmitt is the highlight of my day—but I’ve never told him about this case. He’s seen stories about it on the news and read about it in the newspaper, but he doesn’t know it’s my case. I just spent too much time in the car fretting over him getting embroiled in this, so I can’t very well tell him now, can I?
I’ve always been media-shy, so I don’t talk to the press. My name doesn’t belong in lights. The attention doesn’t appeal to me, but more than that is this deep-seated fear that if I am associated in public with any case, big or small, there may be retribution. Danger in the line of duty doesn’t scare me normally. I wear my bulletproof vest when I know I’m headed into dangerous situations. I try to be smart, and I work in a relatively safe city with low crime rates. An officer hasn’t been shot at a crime scene in over two decades. That officer was Ryan’s father, which serves as a reminder to me that no matter how safe I feel, there are no guarantees.
Even before Margaret, I’ve thought about a criminal coming after me. Now that I’m watching my worst professional nightmare happen right in front of me, to my former partner, my friend, a stand-up guy who doesn’t deserve this, I can barely control myself. If Margaret Moore doesn’t go to prison, I don’t know what I’ll do.
It’s more than I can bear to keep it all to myself anymore, so I start talking.
“Grab the wine and two forks, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
For the next two hours, I do just that. We empty a bottle of wine; I’d like another, but I don’t dare say that, lest he think his love is also becoming an alcoholic. We devour the Chinese Emmitt ordered, and we talk. He mostly listens, asking questions every once in a while. When I’ve told him everything, more than I thought I would, more than I know I should, I look at him, breathing deeply. I’m winded, my voice raspy from talking so long. I’m shaking from sharing all of this with him, with anyone. I want him to say something, anything. I want him to make it better, even though I know somewhere deep down inside of me that that isn’t possible.
“Why didn’t you tell me all of this before?”
“I didn’t want to put you in that kind of position.”
“I love you. We’re in this together.”
“I’m not sure we should be,” I say. “If she gets off, I don’t know what she’ll do, and I’m not okay with that. I think we should go our separate ways if that happens. Maybe one day we’ll end up back together.”
Those words are both the truth and a lie at the same time. I don’t want anyone else to die at Margaret’s hands, least of all the love of my life. If she managed to pin it on me like she did with Ryan, my God, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d kill myself, I guess, something I know Ryan wishes he had done before he ended up behind bars, awaiting trial, and what he feels certain is a guilty verdict even though he’s innocent.
Instead of Emmitt packing up his things and walking out the door, I want him to say no, and mean it. I want him to kiss me passionately and throw me on the kitchen counter and make love to me. I want him to be the man I know he is and tell me I’m crazy and that we’ll get through this together. To tell me over and over again until I believe it. It scares me perhaps even more than Margaret Moore that he won’t do those things.
“I’m not afraid of this woman. I’m afraid of losing you,” he says. “You’re making too much of this, but we’ll hire a guard, get a better alarm, whatever convinces you we are okay.”
I tip my wineglass back, trying to get any little bit left. My mission is unsuccessful, but when I turn back, Emmitt is down on one knee, holding a diamond ring in his hand. He wavers back and forth slightly because he’s just as tipsy as I am. The glass falls out of my hand and onto the floor. It shatters, but doesn’t throw him off one bit.
“Kate, I love you more than I thought it was possible to love another human being. We will get through whatever life throws at us, together, and be stronger for it. So, Kate, will you marry me?”
My mouth gapes open during his little speech. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Emmitt gets up and puts his hands on my shoulders.
“You okay, honey?” he asks.
“I . . . umm . . . yes.”
“Yes? Yes! I knew you’d say yes, but you scared me a bit there.”
“Yes to ‘Am I okay,’ ” I say, even though I know I shouldn’t. “Are you sure this is the right time to get engaged? We just talked about all this drama with my case, and I’m a mess, and we’re both drunk. I didn’t picture my engagement going like this.”
“We’re not that drunk. I bought the ring. It was in my pocket. I wanted to give it to you. And I just told you to stop worrying about that case. And, honey”—he pauses, brushes the hair away from my face with his soft hand, caresses my cheek—“you look beautiful. You always look beautiful. Let’s do this,” he says. “You just have to say yes.”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I fall into his arms. A weight has been lifted off my shoulders, and I feel safer than I have since the day Margaret Moore came into my life.
I call in sick. I’m sick, but not sick, all at the same time. Would a doctor deem me medically unable to go into the office? Probably not. However, I’m sick of having to deal with all this drama. I’m sick of constantly working twelve hours a day and coming home and working more. I’m sick of not being able to turn my brain off, to prevent it from thinking about all the cases I’m working on. I’m sick of watching my personal, vacation, and sick days accumulate, staring at me, taunting me, waiting to be used.
So since I have something to celebrate, I’m taking a day just for me. Well, for us, since Emmitt called in sick as well. We’re lying in bed, awake. We’ve been awake most of the night, but it was the best sleepless night I can imagine.
It wasn’t full of tossing and turning, staring at the clock, waiting to fall asleep. Watching the seconds, minutes, and hours pass without being able to fall asleep, no matter how hard I tried. It was full of nuzzling my head into Emmitt’s chest. Feeling his muscular arms wrapped around me, enveloped by his masculine cologne that smells like the forest. I hated it when we first met, but right now I’m as in love with it as I am with him.
We made love more than once. We discovered each other’s bodies in a new and complete way. I feel like I know Emmitt as we
ll as I know myself. I am sick in love, and I never want to get better.
My phone rings. Not a single cell in my body wants to roll over and grab it, look at it, have my sexy night turned into a day ruined. We were going to make pancakes and feed them to each other. He may have mentioned something about drizzling syrup on my chest and licking it off, which has me nervous and excited at the same time. I know the moment I pick up that phone, our plans are ruined, our day is over. Yes, there will be more days, hopefully lots of them, but right now, this one feels special, and it takes me a moment to decide if I’m okay with having it end.
I’m not. I let it go to voice mail.
My phone rings again only seconds after it stopped.
“Just get it; it’s okay,” Emmitt says. He means it. I want him to tell me to stay. Ignore it.
I pick up.
“Hello,” my raspy voice says.
“Prosecutor couldn’t get ahold of you. Moore’s verdict is in. They’re reading it at noon. You well enough to go?” Sarge asks.
I’m relieved it’s Sarge and not someone else. He probably knows I’m lying about the sick day, but he won’t call me on it. He knows I’ve earned it.
“Yeah, I’ll make it.”
“Some kind of two-hour bug going around?” he retorts.
“Must be. Hey,” I say, wanting to share my big news with someone, anyone, “I got engaged last night.”
“Congratulations, Kate,” he says.
“Thanks. I’ll get to the courthouse.”
“You coming in after?”
“Might depend on what the verdict is. If it’s not guilty, I’m going to need a drink.”
“And if it’s guilty, you’ll deserve one.”
I chuckle and hang up the phone. I don’t have long to make myself presentable, even if it’s not really possible at the moment, no matter how much time I may or may not have.
“You have to go to work?” Emmitt asks as I get up. He looks my naked body up and down and grabs my hand, not asking me to stay, but comforting me for one moment more.
“Court. That case I was telling you about; the jury must have decided first thing this morning.”
“Want me to come with you?”
I shake my head urgently.
“No, absolutely not. That woman, she can’t know we’re together. She can’t know anyone important to me. She’s evil, Emmitt.”
“Be careful,” he says, with warmth and protection in his voice.
“I will,” I say, before heading into the bathroom and shutting the door.
I look in the mirror. I look like I haven’t slept, since I haven’t. There are bags under my eyes and my hair is a mess. I smear a little makeup on my face and spritz my hair with dry shampoo, knowing brushing it will only increase the frizz.
I reappear and notice Emmitt looking intently at the door, waiting for my return. He only sees me for a second as I head for the closet and pull out the first things I can find that are clean and matching. I contort my body, trying to get my arms in the proper places in a white blouse. Finally successful, I follow with a black pencil skirt and grab my bag.
“Call me when it’s over,” Emmitt says. I smile and kiss him once more, wishing that I could just lounge in his arms all day.
Suddenly I’m at the courthouse. I know I drove myself there, but I don’t remember a single moment of the ride. It’s a beautiful day. One just begging for a press conference as soon as the verdict is announced. Either way, there will be one, and the press is ready and waiting. The news has gotten out and media outlets from three counties away have swarmed the streets, this being the biggest story they’ve covered in quite some time. National media is here as well. The nation is fascinated by this story. I don’t blame them; it’s something straight out of a movie. I knew I’d see weird things as a detective, but I couldn’t have imagined this if I’d tried.
Though I’ve kept out of the public eye as much as possible, I’m afraid someone in the press swarm will spot me, recognize me from behind the scenes of some past press conference. Once one of them walks over to me, they’ll all come, not wanting to risk missing out on action of any kind. Dealing with the media at this moment may throw me over the edge, so I’m relieved when I make it into the courthouse without raising so much as an eyebrow.
I’m tense. My muscles ache. My shoulders are practically touching my ears, and they refuse to release. I keep trying to stretch my back but it doesn’t help. My fingers knead my legs like a masseuse, though it does little more than occupy my mind for a few moments as I sit in the crowded gallery of the courtroom, anticipating the arrival of Margaret, the jury, and the judge, just like everyone else sitting with me.
Margaret walks in, right past me. She turns back and smiles her evil smile at me. I almost get up and punch her in the face, right in front of everyone. But that’s what she wants me to do. So I don’t. I sit and sneer, secretly saying a little prayer that she’ll be convicted. Praying isn’t really my thing, but every little bit could help in this situation. After all, God, Ryan, and I are the only people who know the truth.
Soon, the jury files in and then we all stand to welcome the judge into her courtroom. Once seated again, I can’t sit still. I squirm in my seat like a kid waiting for the doctor. I’m in physical distress, my breathing labored, my whole body shaking; I’m sweating even though it’s freezing in the courtroom, the air blasting to accommodate the large crowd.
“Good afternoon,” the judge’s commanding voice booms through the room. Even Margaret Moore wouldn’t mess with her, she has such a powerful presence about her. “Let’s get right to it. Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”
The jury foreman, an elderly man—nicely dressed, looking like a smart professional who did well for himself, but at the same time, like he may fall over at any moment—speaks.
“Yes, Your Honor.” His voice is calm, steady.
“On the count of murder in the first degree, what say you?” the judge asks.
We collectively inhale and hold our breath. We lean forward as though we may be unable to hear even with the sound system being utilized in this, the largest courtroom in the building.
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
My head sinks. I gasp for breath, drowning in my own fear and anger at the fact that we failed. We, as a police department and prosecutor’s office, have failed. There are other charges, not that they matter very much, but Margaret is found not guilty on all counts, save for one: obstruction of justice. Apparently the jury couldn’t deny that she lied, but didn’t think those lies added up to murder.
I look up, my hair flipping back, and see Margaret watching me. This time she doesn’t smile at me. She has an evil stare, like she has me right where she wants me. But she is wrong. Right? She has to be wrong.
Chapter 23
Margaret
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
I don’t smile. After all, my husband and daughter are both dead, so yes, while the jurors have declared that I am “not guilty,” acting like this is anything close to a happy moment for me would not be a good idea; I don’t even need Stanley to tell me that one. Rest assured, I have become very good at hiding my emotions, and my smile is wide on the inside.
The rest of the charges have much the same fate. They got me on obstruction, but I’ll just get probation for that, so big fucking deal. I did my job, Stanley did his, and now I’m a free woman, until Dave’s case goes to trial.
“Jury members,” the judge says, “thank you for your service. We’ll meet first thing next Wednesday to talk about sentencing, unless you can work something out before then. Ms. Moore, you are free to go for now. Court adjourned.”
I look at Stanley. Obviously I understand I can go, I am free, but part of me can’t quite believe it. Even I barely bought the story I sold this jury. Can I really just walk out of here? Can I?
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“So,” I start to say to Stanley.
“Come with me,” he says.
“Where?”
“We have to talk to the media,” he says, shuffling his mess of papers and stuffing them into his briefcase.
“Oh, no,” I say, “I did my job. I can’t talk to those vultures. They’ll eat me alive. I may have been acquitted in here, but out there, I’m guilty as hell.”
“You don’t have a choice. I’ll do all the talking,” he says, ushering me out of the courtroom along with his colleagues. “You just stand next to me and look relieved yet sad.”
“It doesn’t matter how I look, everyone hates me.”
“Yes, they do, and with good reason,” he says, turning to look at me. His tone is sharp and piercing. He has successfully defended an innocent housewife and yet doesn’t seem very pleased about it right now. “You have to do this, and then you have to go into hiding.”
“Hiding?” I say.
“Hiding,” he says, grabbing my arm a little more roughly than I would have liked and leading me out into the hallway and through the courthouse. Everyone knows him. “Hey, Stan,” they all say. He waves and says nothing more than “hi” back. He is on a mission to keep me out of trouble.
“That’s your only option,” he continues. “You think you’re going to be able to go to the grocery store and restaurants and pretend like everything’s okay. You think you’re going to make friends or fall in love. You’re not. Once we deal with Dave’s trial, you move to some other, faraway place; maybe then you’ll be able to live somewhat normally.”
Cause of Death Page 21
