by Willow Rose
Ryan’s grin freezes. The look in his eye changes. His gaze hardens, and his eyes get a gloomy look to them. I regret saying it; I want to take it back, but it’s too late. Ryan turns to look at our son, then speaks with a firm voice. It’s deeper than usual like it only gets when he is really angry, or very serious.
“Damian. Go to your room.”
“But…I’m not done?” the boy argues.
“Now,” his dad says, and the boy obeys.
I feel my pulse quickening. Why did I have to say that? Why now? Was it because I was mad about the things he said in the kitchen earlier? Was I trying to get back at him?
I can apologize, I think. If I tell him how sorry I am, maybe he’ll let it go?
Ryan turns to face me, and I know it’s too late. No apology will take back what I said. Saying sorry won’t save me.
“What in the…Laurie, what are you talking about? And in front of the boy?”
I stare at him, my heart pounding. I am not backing down now.
“Did you?”
He shakes his head, then slams his fist onto the table, causing the plates to jump. “No! That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Why would you say something like that?”
I can’t tell him I have been snooping around, reading his messages, so I clam up. Suddenly, he looks like he remembers something, or just figured it out.
“I know where this is coming from.”
Please, don’t say Vera; please, don’t.
“Vera. She’s the one who put these ideas into your mind, isn’t she? Well, isn’t she?”
I shake my head. “No. It has nothing to do with her.”
“Then, I don’t understand. Where is this coming from all of a sudden?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. I feel like a child. He makes me feel this way—like I am just a foolish kid, and it annoys me. I am not normally like this. I think about telling him how I know…that I know he met with her, that I read the messages, but I know he’ll get angry. I think about his hands around my throat the last time I went too far when I asked him what happened in Afghanistan. I don’t want to feel that again. It might be nothing. Maybe he didn’t have an affair with her after all.
“Dang it,” he says and drops his fork. He rises to his feet, pushing the chair backward across the floor. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
He leaves the house, slamming the door shut behind him. I don’t know where he is going; I worry he’s going to the bar with his friends. I fear he’ll come back drunk, or that he’ll not come back at all. I worry I have pushed him too far. If he leaves us again, the kids will never forgive me.
It’s like I can’t seem to do anything right anymore.
Chapter 15
Laurie pauses, then closes her eyes. Jonathan can tell she is getting tired. She keeps fighting those eyelids without much luck. As an experienced FBI agent, he knows there is a thin line between getting your witness to that vulnerable point where she tells all the details—even those that are painful—and then pressuring them to a point where they just tell you what you want to hear. Laurie has crossed that border now, and Jonathan exchanges a look with Detective Grande. She nods in agreement. There’s a small knock on the door, and a nurse peeks inside.
“The patient needs her rest now,” she says.
Jonathan nods. “We were about to wrap it up.”
Laurie opens her eyelids, even though one of them still droops in front of her eye. She looks at them, seeming almost desperate.
“I need to tell you the rest.”
Jonathan smiles, then nods. “Not yet. You need your rest. We’ll let you sleep for now, then be back in the morning.”
They get up and walk to the door when Jonathan hesitates. He turns to look at her, concerned.
“Who is taking care of your children while you’re here?”
Laurie sighs. “My sister. I just spoke to Damian earlier this morning.”
Jonathan pauses, his eyes scrutinizing her. “And Isabella?”
“Isabella…well…she…she…” she trails off, her eyes looking down at her hands. She shakes her head, and Jonathan knows not to ask anymore. At least not for now.
Jonathan sends Laurie a compassionate smile. He thinks for a minute about his own daughter, Eve, and reminds himself to call her later today. The last time they spoke, they had been in a fight. A stupid one, but aren’t all fights silly seen in retrospect? The fact is, he misses her. Ever since she left home, the house has felt empty, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Is that what retirement is going to be like for him? Loneliness? He doesn’t like the thought much. And he doesn’t like feeling sorry for himself either.
“You’ll be home before you know it,” he says.
He looks at Laurie, but she has already dozed off, and her breathing grown heavy. He signals Detective Grande that it is time for them to leave, and they do. He closes the door carefully behind him, even though he knows he could probably slam it shut, and Laurie Davis wouldn’t wake up at this point.
“Do you want to go grab a bite?” he asks his young colleague.
She smiles, then shakes her head. “I can’t.”
He nods. Of course not. She’s newly married and wants to go home to her husband. He wishes he would have done the same thing a lot more, said no, and just gone home instead of working till the late hours, never letting go of his cases until they were solved. Maybe he’d have someone waiting for him today if he had done that.
“Well, maybe you can tell me of a place that’s good to eat around here?” he asks, holding the door for her as they leave the hospital.
“Depends on what you like.”
“Just a good burger and maybe a piece of pie. That’ll do it for me.”
She smiles. “Then I know just the place.”
Everett Street Diner in the heart of Bryson City is everything Jonathan wants it to be. You get the coffee pure black, no hazelnuts, no lattes, no fancy mochaccino, or whatever it’s all called today. Just plain coffee served from a pot by a waitress named Joanne, who calls you hon and smiles at you in that way that makes you want to stay longer just to get another one. Jonathan likes the place so much that he returns the next morning for breakfast. In the middle of biscuits and hash browns, sausage, and eggs, Detective Grande enters. She looks tired, and her pretty brown eyes don’t have the same spark to them as the day before. She’s holding a folder under her arm as she comes up to Jonathan at the counter and sits down.
Joanne doesn’t even ask; she pours her coffee and slides it toward her with one of her smiles.
“Anything to eat, hon?”
Detective Grande shakes her head while Jonathan finishes his eggs and washes them down with coffee before Joanne refills his cup.
“Good morning,” he says. “Got out on the wrong side of the bed?”
She nods. “I was called out to the cabin early this morning.”
“Really?” he asks surprised. “Any news?”
“Yes,” she says as she sips her coffee. She reminds him of a small bird the way she delicately drinks. She seems so fragile, but he has a feeling she’s a lot stronger than she looks. He hopes she is, or she won’t last long in the job.
“And then I received a call from the lab. They’ve been going through Laurie Davis’s phone. This is what they found.”
Detective Grande opens the folder and pulls out a couple of photos. Jonathan wipes his fingers on a napkin, takes them, and flips through them one after another. It doesn’t take him long to figure out what she’s trying to tell him.
“You see why I’m a little off this morning?” she asks.
Jonathan nods.
“This does change things.”
She finishes her cup, and Jonathan pays for both of them. They walk outside into the gloomy day that has just begun. Beautiful mountains surround them, and as always, the tips are hiding behind a light cloud cover. A car with kayaks on the roof passes them on its way to the river. Jonathan is not much of a watersports man
himself, but his wife was. She’d always try to make him go with her, but he was very good at coming up with excuses. He always had work to do. Now, he wishes he could go with her again—just once. He’d do anything to be able to spend another day with her.
In the distance, he can hear the old steam train as it blows its horn to mark its departure. The city offers tourist train rides through the mountains, and it is supposed to be gorgeous. There’s also some old train museum that Joanne told him he ought to visit while he is in town.
He hasn’t told her why he is really here.
“I think we need to take a different approach to her,” Detective Grande says as they reach their cars in the parking lot outside the diner. There are a few puddles of snow left on the side of the road, but most of it has been washed away in the recent rainfall, as is the custom when spring makes its arrival. Grande is standing on the other side of her car, and he can barely see her as she opens the door. She pauses and looks up at him.
“Laurie Davis has been playing the victim’s act all along. I don’t think she’s as much of a victim as we have believed this far.”
Part II
Chapter 16
She is just done eating her breakfast when they knock on her door. The nurse takes her tray, and Laurie looks at their faces. Jonathan can tell she already knows just by looking at them. The nurse leaves, and he closes the door behind her.
Jonathan sits down. Detective Grande remains standing with the folder clutched tightly in her hand.
“Good morning,” Laurie says.
“Feeling better today?” Jonathan asks.
She nods. He can tell that she knows they’re not happy. She has tension in her shoulders, and her fingers are fiddling with the bandage holding her arm in place. The doctor had told them she was lucky. The bullet had only caused some muscle and tissue damage—nothing fractured and nothing vital damaged. Now, she just needs to keep it calm so she won’t rupture the sutures.
“Much better, thanks. Probably also due to the drugs,” she says with a light laugh.
Jonathan glances at Detective Grande, who obviously doesn’t have the patience he possesses. He chalks it up to her lack of experience. He once was as eager as she is. Now he knows it won’t get you very far in an interrogation situation. Patience is your friend. With patience, the story will be revealed; with patience, the witness opens up and tells it in her timeliness. Experience has taught him that you can’t pull a story out of someone. It has to be revealed, and for that to happen, you need time. You can’t be in a rush, or essential parts will be left out.
Grande opens the folder and places the pictures in front of Laurie.
“Care to explain these?”
Laurie stares at them. She doesn’t have to look long to know what this is about.
“These pictures were taken on the phone—your phone, just a few days ago. Who is the man in the pictures?” Grande asks.
Laurie looks at them again. It can’t be because she doesn’t know who he is, he concludes, but for some other reason. Maybe because she longs to go back to that moment when they were taken?
“The thing is, Mrs. Davis,” Grande adds. “You’ve been going on and on in here, telling us how you suspected your husband of having an affair, and this, to me, looks like you’re the unfaithful one. It doesn’t take a detective to conclude that from these pictures here—where you’re kissing one another. And if you look closer, it becomes pretty obvious that he was with you in the cabin. Our technicians also say they found a lock of hair in the bed, black hair, and as far as we were told, your husband is bald.”
Laurie Davis closes her eyes briefly and nods.
“Why have you been lying to us?” Grande asks.
She smiles. “I haven’t. I was getting to this part.”
“So, who is he?” Grande asks.
Laurie sighs and leans back on her pillow. “That is Frank.”
Jonathan lifts his head and looks at her. “As in Vera’s brother? The guy who works at the military forensic lab?”
She nods. “Yes, that’s him.”
At this point, I feel like an awful mother and an even worse wife. Ryan hasn’t been home for three days, not since I asked him if he had an affair with Sandra, and I am about to lose it. My kids are angry at me; they think I drove him away—that he is not coming back because of me, and I am beginning to think they’re right. My husband is a combat-wounded and highly-decorated war veteran, and yet I can’t seem to honor him with something as simple as trust.
I again fear he has killed himself. Do you know what it is like when they’re away? When they’re deployed? You’re constantly worried, terrified. You feel sick from morning till evening—when the phone rings—if someone comes to your door, you want to throw up. Your stomach crumbles. All the time, you wait for that message, you wonder how they’ll say it and imagine how their eyes will look. Will you even hear what they say? Will you be able to hear the words?
Then, finally, when they do come home, you think it’s all over. Everything will be fine now; the hard part is done. But no.
I am not a model wife. I know I’m not. And I never will be. I get angry. I get frustrated. I yell at the kids and then at him when he doesn’t help or when he doesn’t show up. To be honest, it was probably easier when he was away. We had our routines. I knew I was alone in handling everything. There was no question as to who did what; I had to do everything. Now that he was back, I expected him to help, to be there. And those expectations weren’t fulfilled. I was disappointed. Did I drive him to run away? Was it because of me and the pressure I put on him that he couldn’t bear staying under the same roof with his own family? That his children had to miss their dad and feel abandoned? Is it because of me that they will have to wonder if they weren’t enough for the rest of their lives? No matter how much I love him, it’s not enough. It’s never enough for him.
Now, I worry even more than before because I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. Is he in so much pain that he wants to end it all like Sandra? None of us knew what she went through because she hid it well.
So, yes, I call Frank. I don’t know where else to turn. Vera is in training to become a pilot, so she’s gone a lot of the time. My parents have taken a trip to Georgia to visit old friends. I am all alone at the base—just me and the kids, and I am in pain. I am so scared. I call Frank and ask him to meet me. I tell him I want to talk about his sister, about Clarice, that I might be doing a story on her since I kind of promised their parents I would. Damian is at home with a cold, and Frank tells me he’ll stop by. As I shower and put on makeup, I wonder why I am doing this. Am I trying to punish Ryan? Am I hoping he’ll hear about Frank’s visit and get jealous? Perhaps. Or maybe I just really want to tell Clarice’s story and help her poor parents. Either way, I am getting myself dressed up real nice. As I wait for him, I keep checking myself in the mirror.
Chapter 17
We sit in our kitchen. I have made a light lunch for us, a salad that I barely eat any of myself. I don’t want to get anything stuck in my teeth. I want him to find me attractive because I am angry with Ryan. Does that make any sense?
I’m not sure it does to me.
But I do have the feeling that I am heading for disaster.
He eats and smiles, then leans forward, placing his elbows on the table, getting closer to me. He’s eight years younger than me, and I don’t understand why he is interested in me at all.
“So, you don’t think Clarice committed suicide either?” I ask, pulling away and trying to stay on subject. I feel guilty already, even though I haven’t done anything wrong. I can’t stop thinking about Ryan and worrying that he’ll get hurt. I immediately regret having invited Frank over. Luckily, Damian is in his room, playing on his computer. There’s no chance he’ll be down unless we lose wi-fi for some reason.
Frank shakes his head. “I saw the autopsy. She was bruised.”
“Your parents said she had a broken nose?” I ask.
He nods
. “And a lot more.”
“What does that mean?”
Frank sighs. His expression grows serious. I can tell he’s heartbroken over losing his sister. Talking about it doesn’t come easy. I realize at this instant that I care for him more than I thought. Seeing him like this hurts me deeply, and I reach over and grab his hand in mine.
Our eyes meet.
“There were things I never told my parents,” he says, then pauses. “Because I don’t think they could have handled it. She was…in the autopsy…it showed there were signs that she…”
He pauses again to breathe. I get a feeling I know what is coming and prepare myself for it.
“She was…raped?” I ask.
He looks up, then nods. “There were teeth marks on her shoulder and mutilation of her…you know.”
“Mutilation?”
“Someone had poured acid on her private parts. It’s not unusual in rape cases, to remove any DNA. But the signs weren’t conclusive enough, the report said. The investigators decided it wasn’t important. There was also a trail of blood indicating her body had been dragged across the ground, but that too was deemed inconclusive and never considered in the conclusion. The Air Force keeps telling us it was suicide.”
I lean back in my chair, my heart quickening. You don’t have to be a former reporter to realize that there is a story there somewhere, a great one, an important one. But I don’t work anymore and have no outlet for it.
“There’s more,” he says.
I clear my throat, pushing back the dreadful feeling his information has left me with. How much does Ryan know about this, I wonder. How much does he know about what happened to Clarice? Does he know who raped her, and is he covering for this person? Are all of them? Is that what caused Sandra to kill herself? Because she knew and didn’t tell?
