by Fields, MJ
“Juliana, please hush, please,” Garrett begs.
“Go on, Mrs. Falcon; the more information, the better case we can build,” the detective says.
“He pulled me off the ladder and kicked me over, and over, and over again.” I stop and close my eyes.
“He needs to fucking die. He needs to, and I’m gonna—”
“Shhh, Garrett,” I whisper.
“Go on,” the detective encourages.
“I stood up when he bent to get the albums and tried to run. He kicked me down the stairs.” I stop again when I feel tears sliding down my cheek. “I have no idea how, but I managed to get to the bathroom and lock the door. I couldn’t call...My phone, he had my phone. He read Garrett’s messages.”
“Fuck,” Garrett says. “So, I fucking did this? I fucking hurt you?”
“No, of course not.” I look at him and slowly shake my head, and then I look at the detective. “Then...Then Garrett was there.”
“And none too soon. You lost a lot of blood,” Gail tells me as she rubs his back.
“I’ll let you rest, Mrs. Falcon. When we get him, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, if you see him—”
“We’re at Shore General?” I feel my hands start to shake. He works here. The detective said they haven’t caught him. He’s going to finish what he started. He’s going to kill me.
“I’m here. I can promise you that motherfucker isn’t going to show his face.” Garrett’s eyes bore into mine.
“I don’t want to be here, Garrett. Please, I don’t—”
“Okay, baby, I’ll do whatever I can to get you the fuck out of here,” he promises.
“In the meantime, there will be officers posted at your door, and all entrances and exits to this floor.”
“Thank you, Detective DeAngelo,” Gail says as she walks him out.
“Garrett,” I cry. “Please get me out of here.”
“Where do you wanna go, beautiful?” He kisses my forehead lightly.
“I want to go to your cabin. I want to go there.” I close my eyes. “I want to go now.”
He kisses one eyelid, then the other. “As soon as your stable and can be moved without putting you in harm’s way, that’s exactly where you’ll go.”
“You want Brandon to see you like this?” Gail asks.
I gasp. “How bad am I?”
“You fell down two flights of stairs, Juliana; you’re pretty banged up.” Garrett gently smiles, rubbing his fingertips up and down the side of my face. “We’ll just tell Brand that he’s lucky he got his lack of clumsiness from me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Clean Up
(Three Days Later)
Garrett
“I don’t want to go in,” Juliana says quietly as we drive down her road.
I reach over and hold her hand nice and gently, not wanting to hurt her. It’s bruised to shit from the IV. “You don’t have to. Mom is meeting us. She can stay out here in the truck with you. Just tell me what to grab. I’ll be in and out.”
“Just the pictures.” She sighs and looks out the window. “The movies.”
“No clothes? No girlie knickknack things?”
“No.”
“Books?” I ask.
She looks over at me. “Brand’s room, there’s a bookshelf—all of them.” Her eyes fill with tears. “There’s a box in the attic. It has all his baby stuff.” She starts to sob. “I-I want them. But that’s too much to ask of—”
“You could ask me to take off the front door and I would.” I force myself to smile. “The roof?”
“No, no, just Brand’s things. Just the pictures.”
She looks out the window and wipes away the falling tears.
When we pull up to the house, Detective DeAngelo is there, talking to Mom on the front porch. I didn’t expect that, but I hope it makes Juliana feel better.
“See? You’re all set.” I throw the truck in park, lean over, and kiss the top of her head.
Mom and Nicholas walk over as I open the door.
“Mom, will you sit with her while I run in?”
She leans in and kisses my cheek. “Of course. I have a realtor coming to put up a sign. Detective DeAngelo needs to go in with you and catalog the things you take. Cleaners will be here in thirty minutes, and a dumpster is on its way.”
Fucking woman takes care of everything. Always has.
“Thank you,” I tell her, feeling a little choked up and a lot fucking unworthy.
“Peter is in custody,” DeAngelo says, making me feel like I am breathing for the first time in three fucking days.
“Luckily, when he”—he shakes his head—”was knocked out, they did some lab work and found alcohol in his system. He is going to lose his license to practice medicine, as well as do time.”
I lean into the truck. “You hear that, Juliana?”
She nods and more tears fall down her cheeks.
“Hey, beautiful.” I climb back in the truck and lean over closer to her. “I promise you that no one will ever put their fucking hands on you again.”
She nods.
A million things are racing in my mind as I kiss the side of her head, but the most important is: does she fucking want this? Me and her? Us? Would it fucking matter to my selfish ass? Could I ever let her walk away?
I get out of the truck and look at the house. I didn’t pay it any mind the first time I was here. I kicked in the fucking door.
I grab the two plastic totes from the back of the truck and walk toward the house.
The tan and white colonial house, with an attached garage, is what most dream to live in. The yard is perfectly landscaped, with flowers, shrubs, bushes, all bright and welcoming.
When I walk through the door, I set down the totes and look around. I see pictures all over the floor, scattered like yesterday’s trash from one end of the living room to the L-shaped stairway in the corner.
There are blood stains on the wall of the landing, and more on the hardwood floor at the bottom.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper.
“No idea how she survived,” DeAngelo says.
“Her will,” I say then point at the pictures. “Can I get those?”
“Everything has been photographed. I’ll just write down what you take.”
I pick up picture after picture of my son, a beautiful baby boy. Pictures of Juliana, a scared Juliana who I wasn’t strong enough to help.
I am now.
I fucking am, I remind myself.
I pick up the books, the pictures, the SD cards—about ten of them—putting them in the totes when my hands that are shaking in anger are full. Then I walk to the bathroom, where the door still leans against the wall from where I put it when I was trying to get to her.
Inside, I see dried blood, tons of fucking dried blood. My stomach lurches as I take in the scene.
One picture book, a small one, lays in blood, her fucking blood. I pick it up, and the crackling of the album that is stuck from her blood makes my guts churn.
“You okay?”
I look behind me and shake my head. “I want him to bleed out slowly. I want him terrified, in pain. I want him to die. And I...I want to be the fucking one to do it.”
DeAngelo nods. “We’ll get justice; I promise you that.”
I want to tell him, fuck justice, but he’s a fucking cop, so I shut it down.
In the attic, I find a box. Hell, there are five. I open up three that all scream Juliana, not fucking piece of shit sociopath, so I grab each one and walk down the ladder to the upstairs hallway, the one he fucking pulled her down.
I need a fucking smoke. Three days without one. Last one was when I was driving to her house. I’m done smoking. Well, after this one. No need any more for that escape. She’s my escape, Brand’s my escape.
Carrying three boxes stacked one on top of the other, I walk out the front door, avoiding looking at her. I can’t. I can’t let her see the fear, the anger, the rage. It won’t help her one
fucking bit.
I set the boxes in the back and pull my sunglasses down over my eyes. Then I tap on the window before opening the door, reaching over my mom and opening the console.
“Since when do you smoke?” Mom asks.
“Been a while now,” I tell her, grabbing them. I look at Juliana. “Anything else you want?”
Her lip quivers. “To get out of here.”
I nod, step back, and light a cigarette.
After all the boxes are loaded up, I grab a trash bag out of her bright as fuck kitchen. Windows, lots of natural light. Would be beautiful if the next room wasn’t a scene out of a B-rated horror flick.
I grab the bag, take the stairs two at a time, and walk into Brandon’s room. His name is spelled out in big block letters on the wall above a full-sized dark cherry wood bed. His bedding is a blue quilt. Blue, not red. It’s dark, not bright. It’s not Brand.
I throw all the bedding, pillows, and even empty the drawers, clothes still with tags on most of them.
I look at the picture on his dresser of the three of them. Brand is on her lap, on the opposite side of him. His smile doesn’t light up the room, doesn’t hit his eyes. But hers, hers are full of hope.
When I have emptied his room, leaving the picture of the three of them on the dresser, I walk out and down the hall, knowing I’m heading to her room, their room. I don’t want to see where she laid with him, where she gave herself to a man who tried to kill her, left her for dead. I will die—kill myself—to keep her safe, fed, warm.
I open the door and find this room is dark, too. Dark wood, dark colors, just...dark. Nonetheless, it is fucking perfect. The bed is made, froufrou pillows all in perfect position. Could be in a picture of one of those home magazines.
I see pictures of the two of them on the dresser. He looks at her like he adores her. She smiles an empty smile, but in her eyes again, I see hope.
I can’t look at it, just fucking can’t, and not because I see her and him, and the situation surrounding this fucking nightmare. It’s because there is no doubt in my head that she has loved me as hard and painfully in the past six years as I have her.
I drop the bag on the floor, walk out of the room, grab Brand’s bag, and head down the stairs.
“I’m done here,” I tell DeAngelo. “Thank you.” I reach my hand out to shake his.
He shakes it. “I’ll be in touch.”
I walk outside and throw the bag in the back as Mom steps out of the truck.
“I’m going to drive the SUV up to Lake Hopatcong.” She holds up the keys.
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m going to drive the SUV up to Lake Hopatcong,” she repeats.
“Mom, Gage is—”
“A stubborn ass, I know. I raised him. I’m going to your place. Yours and Grayson’s.”
“We need to talk about the cabin, Mom.” I look down, hating like hell to ask her for anything.
“It’s yours,” she says from over her shoulder as she walks toward the SUV.
As I slide into the truck, Juliana watches me.
“You ready to head home?”
I see her small smile, the hope in her eyes visible, as she nods.
Once on the highway, I reach over, turn on the radio, then take her hand. I look out of the corner of my eye at her as she turns and looks at me.
Dierks Bentleys “Come A Little Closer” starts.
I pull her hand up and kiss it softly. “I like this song.”
She nods. “Me, too.”
Two hours later, we are following Mom down the road to the cabin.
“Gonna get bumpy, Juliana,” I whisper, not wanting to wake her, but needing her to know.
“Hmm?” she says, opening her eyes.
“We’re home. Road’s bumpy.”
She nods, placing both hands on her knee to hold the cast in place.
When we get to the bottom of the road, I see Grayson talking to Mom.
“Is Brandon here?” she asks, worry evident in her voice.
“No, I messaged Gray; asked him to keep everyone away till we got you settled in. They’re busy getting things ready for the campers coming in tomorrow.” I take a deep breath. “And Gage fucking hates Mom right now, so her being here would piss him off.”
I park the truck then walk around the front really quickly to open her door and reach in to pick her up.
“I can use the crutches,” she argues.
“I’m sure you can.” I pick her up, anyway, carrying her into the cabin, where I am blown away by the fact that the place is spotless.
I’m pretty fucking happy that the furniture I ordered is here. And hell, for the most part, it’s where I imagined it to be.
The new overstuffed brown, leather-looking sofa has a chaise lounge on each side, and yeah, I saw her eyeing it in one of her magazines while we spent three days in that hospital. The matching recliner is to the left, and the oversized burgundy chair is a rocking chair, but you wouldn’t know it.
“Wow,” Juliana says as I sit her down on the couch. “Your taste is—”
“Yours,” I tell her. “Saw you looking in that Country Living catalog and thought it looked good.” I shrug.
“I was?” she asks as she rubs the material.
I nod.
“This looks like leather, but it’s soft,” she whispers.
“It’s beautiful,” Mom says as she sits next to her.
“Kitchen cupboards are stocked up with the list you sent. Hung the shelves, new mattress on the bed, and the lumber delivery truck will be here in the morning.” Gray smiles.
I nod. “Thanks, man, I appreciate it.”
“Outdoor shower?” He chuckles.
“Got plans for an indoor one, too.” I force myself to laugh because it’s all been fucking overwhelming. “We’ll be fine. Better than fine.”
“Coolers are iced and stocked. Mags and Brand made sure you have plenty of food, so...” He shrugs.
“Appreciate everything,” I tell him, feeling a lump rise in my throat. I clear my throat and look at Juliana. “Need anything?”
“Sleep,” she says quietly. “Brandon?”
“He talked Gage into building a play yard for the ‘campers’.” Gray air quotes. “They’re all playing on it now. He’ll be busy for a while.”
I look at Juliana. “You want to nap here or in the bed?”
“Here’s good,” she answers.
I nod. “Need a drink? Some pain pills? Food?”
“I’m good,” she says, looking down.
I see Mom watching our interaction, her brown eyes expressive for once, and almost sad, but pride fills them.
“Gail?” Juliana looks at her, tears welling in her eyes. “Thank you.”
Mom shakes her head as she places her hand on her chest.
“Yes,” Juliana tells her. “Without you...” She stops and wipes away falling tears. “You’ve done so much.” She stops again. “I owe you so much. Taken so much from you. I am so sorry. So, so sorry.”
“You love my son,” she says.
“I do.”
“No, it wasn’t a question, Juliana. You love my son. You gave us Brandon. You, my dear, made our family bigger, and I am so happy that my son came back for you, for him. I owe you.”
“But Gage...” she whispers.
“Gage will be fine. I owe him an apology. But I know that, if he were ever in the position”— she pauses and shakes her head—”he may not do the same thing, but he would consider it. When he has more than one person to worry about, he’ll think about it even harder. There is nothing more challenging, more heartbreaking, yet so rewarding than being a mother.” Mom pats her knee then stands, “Your struggles to do what’s best for yours started early, as did mine.”
Mom then looks at me. “And Garrett, as much as I’d like to strangle you for making me worry for all those years, I understand you did it out of what you thought was best for all involved. I hope you realize now that you are far stronger th
an you ever gave yourself credit for. Now, I’m going to see if my youngest will give me a ride back to the Shore. Have dinner with me, and pray that someday soon, Gage comes around.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Popping Pills
Juliana
“Juliana, one isn’t gonna kill you.”
Garrett’s been pacing back and forth for an hour, watching me, waiting for me to give in or pass out, while I am trying not to take a pain pill.
“You don’t understand. You wouldn’t.” I can’t even tell him what it felt like to feel so alone, so alone and scared that first night Gage had taken Brandon at only three years old for the weekend and left me alone to face myself. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Feels so much better if you talk about it, Juliana.”
I look at him like he’s crazy.
He walks over and kneels by the couch, takes my hand, and holds it against his face. “When you weren’t answering the calls or messages, Gage was being a dick, and Mags walked in on us having an argument. I was so fucking wounded, hurt, pissed, that I let everything out. Made a damn joke about it.”
“About what?” I ask, not understanding.
He closes his eyes and smirks, but it’s not a kind of ha, ha smirk. It’s...different.
He opens his eyes and looks at me. “I took my mother’s pills when I was a kid to knock me the fuck out because”—he sighs—”because I had nightmares. Horrible fucking nightmares. I was ten when I was molested, then raped by a man who worked for my family’s company.”
I have always expected something horrible, but hearing him say that makes me want to throw up. I pull my hand away and cover my mouth, fearing I will in fact throw up.
His eyes go wide. He looks terrified, embarrassed, ashamed.
“No,” I tell him. “No, it’s not what you think.”
He stands up and turns his back to me.
“Garrett, it’s—”
“Two years,” he says, looking down, his shoulders slouched.
“Please come back here. Please,” I beg
He turns around. “Easy to joke about this shit with them. You? I don’t want you to think I’m fucking weak. I’m not. I’m fucking strong, Juliana. Stronger now than ever before.”
