Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  I can tell Kate everything. She’ll appreciate it. She’ll understand. She’ll respect me. Not as much as her murderous partner, but still, what do I have to lose?

  “You already know what happened.”

  “I know what I think happened, but I want to hear it from you.”

  She’s looking right at me, daring me to talk, or perhaps daring me not to. I can’t tell the difference, and I’m not so sure it matters to me.

  “Of course I killed her. I had to; she was going to leave me. All alone. How do parents just let their kids go? I did it in self-defense, really—before everything went wrong, you know? I did it to protect myself from life . . . from change.”

  She says nothing, so I keep talking.

  “But then it didn’t make things better; it made everything worse, because Dave hated me. We were never going to be the same, so I killed him too. But then I was left with no one. That’s not what I wanted at all. I wanted to be with my family, not permanently separated from them.”

  She clears her throat. I’m sure Kate knew this all along, but hearing it surprises her nonetheless.

  “What about Tracy?” she asks. “I know you had something to do with her death—I’m just not sure what.”

  I pause. “Darling, you can’t blame everything on me. I don’t know who killed your partner’s little lady.”

  Kate slams her hand on the table. “Just admit it. You fucking killed her. You disguised yourself or hired a hitman. Just fucking tell me.”

  “Those are great ideas, but it simply wasn’t me; sorry to disappoint you. Looks like your little boy toy is going to be stuck in jail for a long time.”

  She leans into the table and for some reason, instinct perhaps, I lean too. She looks at me, and I swear I see a faint smile, a flash of myself. It’s brief, but it’s there.

  “Confess to Tracy’s murder.”

  “I didn’t do it, so why would I do that?”

  She gets up and turns off the camera in the corner. Not sure if that’s good news or bad news for me yet. She paces the room a moment before leaning against the corner of the table, her leg swinging rapidly back and forth. She’s nervous about something and she can’t hide it. I just can’t imagine what would make her so nervous.

  She opens her folder and pulls out a piece of paper.

  “This statement says you killed Tracy and Ron.”

  “I told you, I didn’t kill Tracy. I suppose there’s not a whole lot of point in denying I killed Ron, as you seem to have put all the pieces of the puzzle together there.”

  “If you confess to killing Tracy, I’ll get a deal for you.”

  I lean back in my chair and try to get as comfortable as I can with my hands cuffed to the table. “What’s the deal?”

  “I’ll take the death penalty off the table.”

  I laugh. It’s funny. That statement is one of the funniest things I’ve heard in a long time.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that, Detective, I’m not getting the death penalty and we both know it.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “You want your partner out of the slammer, you’re going to have to do better than that,” I say calmly, knowing she will. She has to. It’s the only way she can save the man she finally realizes she truly loves, something I’ve seen all along. It’s the only way she can prove to everyone that he’s innocent. There’s a better offer coming.

  “Fine. Twenty years, no parole. You might just get out in time to enjoy some of your golden years.”

  “Plus conjugal visits if I make a few pen pals. I hear men have the hots for women in prison.”

  “Two conjugal visits a year.”

  “A month,” I correct her.

  “One a month.”

  “Deal,” I say.

  She scribbles on the paper and pushes it to my side of the table. I read it over. It seems pretty standard, and I feel like we both got what we wanted, so I sign it. I pause briefly before crossing the “t,” in my mind, the move that will make it binding.

  I am about to sign away the next twenty years of my life, but I suppose it’s what I deserve. Plus, Kate just signed away her entire life if she wants anything to do with that Ryan guy. Can’t she see it? Doesn’t she know he’ll ruin her eventually? Even if he doesn’t kill her, something I find to be unlikely, he’ll abuse her or get her fired or cheat on her. He will do something to make her life hell, which makes signing this paper all the more worth it.

  “Nice doing business with you. Enjoy prison,” she says.

  “You too,” I say as she walks out of the room.

  Chapter 27

  Kate

  When I bring Sarge the signed confession, he looks at me, surprised, without saying a word. This wasn’t quite the reaction I was expecting.

  “We have her,” I say.

  “What happened in there?” he asks.

  “What do you mean? We chatted, and I got her to confess to killing four people. We won.”

  “You turned the camera off and made a deal with her. That’s what I mean.”

  “Oh, come on—like you’ve never done anything like that before.”

  “I haven’t, Kate,” he says. “We don’t do things like that. We had her, and now you’ve given her a break, so that one day she’ll get out and God knows what she’ll do.”

  “I did what I had to do, Sarge. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “Yeah,” he said, hanging his head, disappointed in me. Disappointed in the process, but mostly in me.

  “Are you telling me that nothing sketchy went on in there? You can tell me the truth, Kate. I’ll defend you and stand up for you through anything. You went through too much with this case.”

  “I just wanted Margaret to feel like we could talk honestly,” I say.

  “Okay,” he says, nodding his head, even though I know he doesn’t really believe me. “We’ll have to process all this paperwork, but then we’ll get Ryan out of prison.”

  “Thank God. I couldn’t live with him being in there forever. I know he didn’t kill Tracy.”

  “Yeah,” Sarge says again.

  Hearing him say it this way makes me question Ryan’s innocence for a split second, but then I remember that I know Ryan. We’re partners. He’s innocent. Margaret is the killer.

  That night I can’t sleep. I toss and turn. Though I try not to, I wake Emmitt with all my movement. I tell him I’ll go watch TV in the other room, but he says he’s fine just lying there with me. He wraps his arms around me, hoping that will make me more comfortable and allow me to fall asleep. But it won’t. Nothing will. I can’t stop thinking about Margaret. That she was in our house. That the hand of one of her victims was in our house.

  Our house. I am engaged to be married, no longer responsible for just myself, but for another person, as well. And I just skirted the rule of law to get another man out of prison.

  It’s not just Margaret; there must be something wrong with me, too. I focus on that until Ryan takes over my brain. Whether Ryan belongs in prison or on the streets. Whether Ryan and I can ever be partners again. Whether or not I love Ryan.

  I shake my head at that thought. I love Emmitt, not Ryan. Well, maybe I love Ryan like a brother, but nothing more. We’re friends, coworkers, nothing more.

  I snuggle closer to Emmitt and finally fall asleep, solidifying the fact that he is the love of my life.

  I’m waiting outside. I see Ryan approach. He stands just past the barbed-wire fence and looks to the sky. He inhales deeply a few times, his eyes closed, relishing the fresh air. Even though I haven’t been locked up for months, I do the same. It’s refreshing, revitalizing, life-affirming. I feel like I have been in a prison of my own, and just like Ryan, I too am free.

  “Want me to drive you home?” I ask, having driven to the prison in my own
car, expecting to take Ryan somewhere.

  “I don’t know where that is anymore. I can’t go back to my place. Maybe a hotel. Can you take me to a hotel?”

  “Sure. I’d offer to let you stay at my place, but . . .” I trail off.

  “Your fiancé wouldn’t appreciate that,” Ryan says with a chuckle.

  “I’m sure he’d be okay with it for my sake. I think it would just be a little weird. I’m afraid he’s gonna get tired of putting up with my shit.”

  “Having a serial killer sneak into your house will do that to a guy.”

  We laugh again. The things that make us laugh are strange sometimes, but I’ve learned that we live strange lives.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I ask, noticing Ryan’s summer attire, even though it’s chilly out.

  “Nah. These are the only clothes I have. I bet my house is in foreclosure by now. Bank probably took everything.”

  “Sarge has been paying your mortgage, car payments, even checked on your house, I think. Still wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to go back there, at least not right now.”

  I usher him toward my car. I don’t want to tell him it was really me who paid all his bills, working as much overtime as I could handle.

  “Wow. That was nice of him.”

  “They’ll give you back salary, too. You’ll be okay financially. How are things up there?” I point at my head.

  “I’m not so sure,” he says with a laugh, “how are they?”

  “Ha ha,” I deadpan, and then point at his head. “In there.”

  He gets in the passenger seat, and I get behind the wheel, start the car.

  “I’m not sure yet,” he says. “I’m still processing all of this. I don’t know if I ever really thought I’d be free again.”

  “Well, you are.”

  I start driving, even though I’m not really sure where I’m headed.

  “Can we go grab some dinner?” he asks. “Prison food isn’t so good.”

  “Of course,” I say. “What sounds good?”

  “A burger, fries, and an ice-cold beer.”

  “Done,” I reply, and drive toward my favorite bar. It’s a little off the beaten path, but has the best burgers I’ve ever had. It strikes me as odd that Ryan and I haven’t been there before, and I’m nervous to take him now. I go there with Emmitt all the time; the bartender knows us by name. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t take Ryan there, like I’m doing something wrong. I don’t know why I feel this way, but the feeling isn’t stopping me from driving closer and closer to the bar.

  I throw my napkin on my empty plate and lean back in my chair.

  Ryan looks guiltily at me. “I’d like another.”

  “Beer?” I ask. “Sure, I’ll get the bartender.”

  “No, a burger.”

  I laugh the hardest I’ve laughed in a long time. “Were you on Survivor or in prison?”

  “I’m not really sure there’s a difference,” Ryan answers.

  I flag the waitress over. “My friend here would like another burger.”

  She smiles. “It’ll be right up,” she says.

  “I’m glad you’re back. We’ll catch some bad guys, share our secrets.”

  He chuckles.

  “What?” I ask.

  “No secrets between partners, huh?” he says coyly.

  “Of course not,” I say, knowing we’ve always been open with each other, and tried not to judge, even if sometimes that was hard. Like when he told me about Beth.

  “Good,” he says, “no secrets.”

  But I know he has one. He’s hiding something from me.

  “Did something happen in prison?” I ask, thinking about the time he got in a fight.

  “No, I was fine in there.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s that I want a third burger.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say, my smile vanishing. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  He leans in close to me. I can smell his onion breath. Our breathing is synchronized.

  “I did it,” he says. “Tracy. I had to. But you understand, right?”

  I can’t breathe. I want to run away. I want to pull out my gun and point it at him. I freeze and just stare at him. I realize my mouth is gaping open and shut it. I put my hand around my beer just to feel the chill of it, the only thing I see that can calm me in any way.

  Ryan just looks at me with a slight smile on his face. It slowly fades.

  “It’s no big deal, right, Kate? You know I’d never hurt you.”

  I know no such thing. He is hurting me right now by telling me this, by embroiling me in his twisted little web. I look around for someone to save me, but no one is there. It’s just me, Ryan, and a bunch of strangers who don’t give a damn about either of us. I have to remain calm.

  “Yeah. No big deal,” I say. “She was trouble.”

  “I’m glad you get it.”

  I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all. I let a murderer out of prison. I did this. This is on me as much as it is on Ryan. I convinced Margaret to say she did it, to say it could never have been Ryan. I am just as guilty as he is. What have I done?

  “Now that she’s out of the picture, do you think we could be more than friends?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe, but you’ve always been with Tracy, so I guess it didn’t really cross my mind.”

  “And now you’re with Emmitt.”

  “Yeah, Emmitt.” I don’t like that he’s even mentioned Emmitt. The way he says it, like he’ll push Emmitt out of the way if necessary.

  “Don’t sound so excited.”

  “No, he’s great. I just . . . this is a lot to take in.”

  Ryan leans over the table. “It’s hard to understand any other person completely. The best and worst thing about life.”

  He kisses me.

  I want to hate it. I want to hate him, but I realize immediately that it’s something I’ve wanted to do for years but denied myself for some reason. It’s slow, calm, and clean, but filled with passion. So much passion that I imagine he’s been waiting for this moment, too.

  We pull away and look at each other, smiling.

  We say nothing.

  There is nothing to say.

  Acknowledgments

  I literally could not have done this without my parents’ support. They allowed me to pursue this crazy dream and not give up on it even after more rejections than any of us could count. They read and read again and read some more, offering invaluable feedback and using up too many red pens. I share the pain of the process and the thrill of success with them, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Thank you to Debbie, my aunt, and Linda, my friend, for reading this book in a day. It was then I knew I could never let this book sit on my computer. I had to find a way to share it with others.

  Thank you to the team at Woodhall Press for believing in this novel right along with me. They helped me improve it and grow as a writer.

  Pitch Wars and Pitch Madness helped me as a writer to think outside the box and continue to not just my craft but how I go about getting it into the world. I would not be in this position today without this wonderful collection of writers and the opportunities they provide.

  To all the friends, acquaintances, and contacts who read this and offered advice, criticism, constructive and otherwise, and caught those few lingering typos, you made me a better writer, even if it was hard to see in that moment. You helped me take notes and turn them into productivity. In the end, that’s what writing is all about.

  About the Author

  Laura Dembowski is a writer and blogger born in Southeast Michigan. She spends her days at the computer writing novels and screenplays and in the kitchen testing new recipes for her blog.

  Her family is a huge p
art of her life, and family dynamics inspire most of her writing.

  For more information, visit Laura on her blog at: https://piesandplots.net and on Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter, and Instagram: @piesandplots