by Nesly Clerge
CHAPTER 152
Chelsea placed her purse with the Beretta inside it on the seat next to her, started the engine, drove to the end of the driveway then turned left. It was a few minutes after eight. Penelope, unemployed and a late sleeper, would still be in bed.
If she didn’t stop her, the woman would keep chiseling away at their lives until there was nothing left but dust. Kimberlie’s rejection was the last straw. It was one thing for Penelope to go after her, another to adversely and repeatedly impact her daughter. If she had to go to prison or die in order to save Kimberlie from anymore pain caused by Penelope, so be it.
Kimberlie had made it plain—had stated it as a fact—that she hated her. Garrett’s family hated her. It wouldn’t be long until nearly everyone she knew felt the same way. She had news for all of them: she hated herself even more.
Penelope had danced. Now it was time to pay.
The car wasn’t in the driveway. Still, Chelsea rang the doorbell and beat on the door. She turned and scanned the cars parked along the street. Penelope’s wasn’t there.
She got back in the Bentley and drove slowly around the blocks nearest the small rented house. The familiar car was nowhere to be seen. It was probably parked in some hotel or motel parking lot, while its owner slept off a raunchy night.
It was eight thirty-eight. Her appointment with Dr. Moore was at nine. If she wasn’t going to be arrested for murder, she might as well keep her appointment.
CHAPTER 153
Chelsea plodded into Dr. Moore’s private office. Her purse thunked when it landed on the floor as she dropped into her usual place on the sofa.
“How are you, Chelsea?”
“Not good.” She recounted the interview with Detective Maddox. “And there was Kimmie, having heard it all, or at least enough. I tried to protect her from the truth about Garrett’s suicide. Of course she blames me. She’s right to do so.”
“We discussed how you’re not at fault. Just a few days ago.”
“It didn’t take. How can it when my daughter wants nothing to do with me?”
“I think you should bring Kimberlie with you to your next appointment.”
“She’s in school. Decided to return today and didn’t tell me.”
“We can schedule it for late afternoon. It’s important for Kimberlie to get the help she needs, and imperative we heal your relationship. You’re the only parent she has now. I know it isn’t easy, but you need to be strong for her. She needs to talk to me or to another therapist.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Chelsea turned her tear-filled eyes toward Dr. Moore. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me. She’s staying at a friend’s house, starting this afternoon.”
“All the more reason to get her in here.”
“She may not talk with me in the room.”
“Let’s see how it goes. Then we’ll schedule appointments for you both, individually.” Dr. Moore extended her hand. “Now, why don’t you let me have what’s in your purse.”
Chelsea’s eyes widened, she leaned back. “What do you mean?”
“Hand it over very carefully, Chelsea. Guns make me nervous.”
“How do you—”
“You’re not the first patient to have one. Now, please.”
Chelsea retrieved the gun from her bag and handed it to Dr. Moore, who deposited it in her middle desk drawer, which she locked. She returned to the sofa. “Why did you have it with you?”
“To put Penelope out of our misery.”
“Was it your intention to scare her or to—?”
“Kill her. It seemed like the only way to get her to stop.”
“What stopped you?”
“She wasn’t home and I didn’t know where to find her.”
“After all Kimberlie’s lost, you were going to cause her to lose you as well?”
“Maybe she’d be better off. She has my parents or Garrett’s she could live with.”
“It may not seem like it now, while the wounds are fresh, but she’ll come around. She just needs help to deal with all she’s feeling. But she’ll need you again, and she’ll want you there when she’s ready.”
“Do you really believe that? Because I don’t.”
“We three have a lot of work ahead of us. I’m not going to tell you it’ll be easy, just worth it.”
“What am I supposed to do about Penelope?”
“Nothing, and especially nothing violent. You and Kimberlie have been exposed to too much of that already. Avoid Penelope at all costs. If you think about it, there isn’t much more she can do.”
“I hope you’re right. But I don’t feel as confident about that as you seem to.”
CHAPTER 154
Chelsea finished her session with Dr. Moore and decided to follow the therapist’s advice regarding closure; though, she doubted the effectiveness of what had been prescribed.
A quick stop was made at a florist shop before heading to the cemetery. She parked in front of the office and went inside. With great humiliation, she asked where Garrett Hall’s grave was located. Map in hand, she got back into the car and drove to the proper section.
Wind whipped her hair across her face. Despite the blistering cold, she left her coat unbuttoned. What right did she have to concern herself with her own comfort?
She found the grave and stood at the foot of it. Read the headstone’s engraved words—Beloved son, brother, and father. Not husband. Her presence in his life had been removed. His family’s rejection of her forever etched in stone.
The full reality that Garrett was gone crashed down on her. The full reality that Garrett was buried in the family plot, where there was no room for her, registered. Chelsea crumpled to the ground, crushing some of the flowers in the lavish bouquet.
She had believed there were no tears left in her, but it seemed to take forever for the weeping to cease. She picked up the flowers and placed them at the headstone, and sat so that she could rest her face against it.
“Any apology I give you now is wasted breath. I feel beyond forgiveness, Garrett. Let’s face it: You were a bastard for cheating on me the way you did, and with whom you did. And, the other matters, which I prefer not to mention, since I’m supposed to be making peace with our past. But my mistake—mistakes—were worse. Because of what they led to.
“Before, it was just the bed that was empty. Now it’s everything. You might think it’s silly, but I sleep with your pillow wrapped in my arms. I sprinkled some of your aftershave on it so it smells like you. Remember how we slept that way when we were first married? What happened to us, Garrett?
“Why is it that it’s only after we lose someone that we grasp how much they meant to us? How can we be so unthinking and unfeeling toward one another, instead of choosing love? Why do we cause those we’re closest to so much pain? Why do we choose pain over what we could have, if we just chose to do better? To be better?
“Kimmie wants nothing to do with me. She can hardly stand to look at me. I can’t blame her. And if you didn’t like my appearance before, you’d be appalled now. I don’t remember the last time I showered or brushed my hair or put on makeup. What’s the point?
“I never told you how many nights I got out of bed to watch you swim nude. Pride and fury got the best of me. If I could turn time back, I’d join you, naked, in the pool. That would have surprised the heck out of you, wouldn’t it? I should have done that every night, no matter what you’d been doing before you came home. Until you started coming home after work to be with me. Instead, I gave you every reason to stay away.
“Now you’re here, where I can only pretend that you can hear me, hear how sorry I am. How much I loved you and still do. How much I appreciate and thank you for all you did for us. To thank you for Kimmie. She’s all I have left of you that matters. She’s all I have left, period. But I’m afraid I’m losing her, as well.
“I’m going to go now, Garrett, but I’ll be back.” She stroked his name engraved in the marble.
&nbs
p; Her gloveless hands were too numb from cold to hold the steering wheel. The temperature was dropping. Snowflakes drifted onto the windshield, staying where they fell. She turned the heater on high and warmed her hands in front of the vents. She’d go home, run a bath in the Jacuzzi, and soak until she warmed up. She’d wash and style her hair, put makeup on, be presentable when she went to Susan’s house later in the afternoon to tell Kimmie about the counseling sessions. No reason to cause her daughter anymore shame by looking as bad as she had been.
It was eleven twenty-seven when she arrived home. She picked up the newspaper from the driveway, went inside and ordered twenty dollars’ worth of Chinese soup.
It took less than fifteen minutes for the food to arrive. Chelsea ladled soup into a bowl, grabbed a spoon and went to the table. She unfolded the newspaper. The headline on the front page blared in large bold letters:
LOCAL AUTHOR, LUKE THOMPSON, ARRESTED. CONFESSED TO MURDER OF PROMINENT DOCTOR, GARRETT HALL.
By the time her screams ceased, Chelsea lay unmoving on the floor where she’d collapsed, as a new keening of grief uncoiled within her.
CHAPTER 155
Detective Maddox had said everything would become clear. But she’d never expected this. Chelsea read the brief article several times, still not wanting to believe the facts in print. Yet, there they were, for her and everyone who knew her to see.
According to the article, during the interrogation, Maddox had revealed irrefutable proof of Luke’s guilt. Luke had then confessed.
Nothing about Garrett’s death had been deliberate on his part or an accident. Yes, he was being reckless that night, but he might very well have come to his senses, slowed down, perhaps pulled over and slept it off.
She called Angela. “Did you see today’s paper?”
“God, Chelsea. It’s horrible.”
“It’s worse than that. This is going to destroy Kimberlie.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Let her stay with you a while. Maybe a week, maybe two. I’ll gather everything I think she’ll need and get it to you before she gets in from school.”
“Should I keep the news from Kimberlie?”
“Everyone else will know. It’s possible that some classmate or teacher mentioned it already. My poor baby.”
“There’s one redeeming thing about this.”
“Please tell me, because I can’t see it.”
“Kimberlie will know Garrett didn’t kill himself.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying. Not that knowing her father was murdered will be any easier, but I want her to believe he didn’t even try to kill himself. It’ll save her. But I don’t think it will save us.”
“Chelsea, I’m sure—”
“I need to make a call. Then I’ll get Kimmie’s things to you.”
Dr. Moore was with a patient, the receptionist told her. Chelsea left a message that she’d resume her sessions the following week, at the earliest, and would figure something out later about Kimberlie’s appointments.
“Mrs. Hall, what reason should I give Dr. Moore for this change of schedule?”
“Tell her to look at today’s paper. She’ll understand.”
She, however, never would.
CHAPTER 156
Local news the prior night had been excruciating to watch, and contributed to another sleepless night. Still, Chelsea had to know if anything else had been reported about Luke’s arrest and Garrett’s death, no matter how painful or humiliating.
Her biggest concern was Kimberlie. It was imperative to know anything reported about the case that her daughter might be made aware of. Not that there was much she could refute about anything factual that might be revealed. Besides, Kimmie had already overheard most of the truth from her own lips.
She started her morning coffee brewing then stepped outside to get the newspaper. Cameras clicked and flashed. Several reporters, some with assistants aiming video cameras at her, shouted questions from both ends of the circular driveway and along the front hedge that bordered the sidewalk.
Chelsea rushed back inside and pressed her back against the bolted door. Her landline phone rang, and kept ringing. Anyone important in her life would call on her cell phone. She put the newspaper on the kitchen table then went around the house unplugging phones from their jacks.
There had to be a way to get rid of the reporters. She took her coffee and phone to the table, looked up the phone number for the local precinct and keyed it in.
“Detective Maddox, please. This is Mrs. Garrett Hall.” It took only seconds to be connected.
“Mrs. Hall. My apologies. The story leaked before I had a chance to tell you.”
“There are a number of vultures with cameras at the end of my property. Is there anything you can do to get rid of them? I have my daughter to think about. At least do something to protect her.”
“No guarantees, but maybe I can make a statement that’ll get them off your back.”
“What kind of statement?”
“For one, that you’re innocent. That you had no knowledge of Thompson’s plan and, therefore, no collusion.”
“That’s why you questioned me. Isn’t it?”
“He said you didn’t know anything about it. I had to be sure.”
“And talking with me did that?”
“That and talking with others.”
“What others?”
“Family. Friends. Your therapist.”
“How did you know—?”
“I followed you. Just long enough to confirm what I needed to.”
“I want to feel affronted by this intrusion into my privacy, but I gave up that right months ago.”
“People slip, Mrs. Hall. The good ones learn from their mistakes, get back up, and keep going. I’m a pretty good judge of character, so feel confident you fit into that group.”
Chelsea began to cry.
“Mrs. Hall? What’s going on?”
“That was a considerate thing to say, Detective Maddox. That’s all. I know you’re busy. Anything you can do to get the reporters to leave me and my daughter alone will be appreciated.”
“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Throughout the day, Chelsea peeked through the curtains, watched the number of reporters diminish until the last one left at almost three o’clock. Nothing about her was on the news at six or at ten. Kimberlie wouldn’t have to be humiliated yet again by seeing the image of her disheveled mother in her robe looking stunned then terrified outside their home.
No reporters were outside the house the next morning. And there was only one small paragraph in the newspaper about Luke waiting in the county jail, without bail, for his arraignment.
The matter of Luke moved at speed, completed within a few weeks. Because of overwhelming evidence of his guilt that satisfied the grand jury. Because he’d confessed. Because Luke entered a plea of guilty at his arraignment. Because of this, no trial was needed, according to the reporters. Because of Luke, she wouldn’t have to degrade herself further by giving her testimony on the witness stand.
At his arraignment, Luke was sentenced to life imprisonment at Sands Correctional Facility. In local news videos, he turned his face away from the cameras. His wife did the same, as did his son. His ex-wife posed and blathered at every opportunity about how he’d cheated on her, as well. There was one fleeting glimpse of Penelope, hiding her face with an over-large purse while rushing from her car to her house, to avoid reporters who shouted questions at her. One or more reporters had to have dug deep to learn about Penelope’s involvement, or was the result of another leak, as her name had not previously been mentioned on TV or in the newspaper.
How long would Luke last in prison, Chelsea wondered, especially once Frederick Starks learned he was there. She shoved the thought to a deep recess in her mind, where facts too overwhelming to deal with get hidden in the shadows. Denial sometimes had to be used as a safet
y valve. She had issues closer to home to concern herself with.
CHAPTER 157
The temperature at 8:46 a.m. was thirty-four degrees—Luke had asked. Sleet made the roads slick during the couple-hour ride that slowed to nearly four hours because of conditions. Despite protestations from other prisoners in the van taking them to Sands Correctional Facility, no heat came on in their secured section of the vehicle. Adding to the unpleasantness was the fact someone had left the roof vent open. He was certain it was a deliberate oversight.
The long underwear under the orange jumpsuit, both provided by the county jail, did nothing to block the cold. It was the same with the socks they’d given him, hardly thick enough to prevent the chill of the metal shackles around his ankles from seeping past the fabric. Or the steel cuffs chafing his wrists.
Once inside Sands, still shivering from the near-freezing ride amplified by fear, Luke stripped, took a supervised cold shower with harsh soap and a harsher brush, and then faced the humiliation of a body cavity search. Thankfully, at least one of the items the correctional officer loaded into his arms was a coat, too thin against frigid temperatures and wind, if he decided to go outside, whenever that was permitted, but better than nothing.
Dressed in one of three yellow scrub sets the guard handed to him, his arms loaded, he followed the CO through multiple floor-to-ceiling gray halls, closed off with electronic doors—so many doors. Other guards they passed memorized his face. Inmates studied him. He could feel their assessments, see their estimations of him forming in their eyes.
“Best not to stare at any of these guys,” the guard said. “Some of them take that as a confrontation. Or an invitation.”
“You could have mentioned that sooner.”
The CO shrugged and kept walking, pointing out where the chow hall was located, the library, giving minimal information about prison routines like mealtimes and protocol in the chow hall. “That way takes you to the infirmary,” the guard said.
“Thankfully, I’m healthy.”
