SORRY CAN'T SAVE YOU: A Mystery Novel

by Willow Rose

  I shake my head again. “No. I would never say anything like that to them.”

  He stares at me, beer bottle clutched in his hand. I feel like he’s getting himself worked up, and I want to end it. I fear he’s gonna get in the truck and drive somewhere in his condition or that he’ll go out drinking all night with his buddies. I fear he’ll leave and not come back for days again.

  “I’m…I’ll go to bed now,” I say.

  “You do that,” he answers, pointing the beer bottle at me. “Go to bed and get your beauty sleep.”

  I turn around, closing my eyes briefly. I want to ask him if he’s coming. If he’ll be up later, but I don’t dare. He’s in that mood where he’s just looking for a chance to hurt me or get angry. I am not giving it to him.

  So, I leave without a word.

  I wake up to the sound of a truck roaring to life. I jump out of bed just in time to see him take off in his black truck. I feel awful. The man is plastered. He might hit someone.

  I have to stop him.

  I go to Isabella’s room and wake her up. I tell her I need to leave for a few minutes and to watch out for her brother.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  I give her a look, and she knows not to ask anymore. I rush out of there as I open the app on my phone and hope it’ll tell me where he’s heading. It does. It tells me he’s driving toward the north housing area, and I follow him in the minivan. He stops at an address, and a minute later, I drive up in front of the house. I stay out there for a few minutes, wondering what he’s doing, who he is visiting. It’s the same address where I saw him earlier in the day. He’s in there for at least fifteen minutes before he comes stumbling out and almost trips over his own feet in the grass before he takes off. I debate whether or not to follow him again, but then curiosity gets the better of me. I’ve been wondering about this all day, ever since I knew he was in there. Who lives in that house? Is it Ted? Or is it someone else?

  I get out, then sneak up to the front door and look for a name. It’s not hard to find. Kenopensky, it says, right by the doorbell. I breathe a sigh of great relief. It is Ted’s house. So, Ryan was actually just picking up his stuff earlier, and he was probably just asking Ted if he wanted to go out just now. I am so relieved I can feel it physically as I turn to walk back to the car. But as I do, out of the corner of my eye, I see something that makes me stop.

  I move closer to be certain I am not just imagining things and look in through the window. In there, in the middle of the living room, I see something that stops my heart.

  A pair of dangling legs.

  Chapter 21

  I can’t breathe; I struggle to stand still while waiting for the Security Forces to arrive. I’ve called them, but don’t know what to say once they get here. I am freaking out.

  What do I do?

  They arrive less than five minutes later. Two SP officers on night duty come up to me. I tell them what I’ve seen, that there’s a set of dangling legs in the living room, and they look inside for themselves. They grab the door handle and realize it’s open, then rush inside. I follow them, bracing myself for what I will find in there.

  As I lay eyes on Ted dangling from the ceiling, I break down and cry. Tears well up in my eyes as I stare at his face while they struggle to cut him down. His lifeless body slumps to the ground, rag-doll limp. One of the SP officers feels for a pulse but doesn’t find it. He shakes his head at his colleague, and they call for the ambulance.

  They take my statement. I’m not even sure what I’m saying anymore. I tell them I was out driving and saw there was a light on in the house, then spotted the legs. I’m lying through my teeth, or at least withholding vital information, and I don’t know why. Why don’t I tell them my husband was in there just a minute before I called? Why don’t I tell them I followed him here?

  Do I still believe in his innocence?

  They let me go, and I drive home, crying so hard I can barely see the road in front of me. I park in the garage, then sit there for a very long time, how long I don’t know. I just sit there, trying to calm my pounding heart.

  I’m pretty sure my husband just killed someone. I don’t know what to do. It’s the only explanation, right? It can’t be a coincidence that he was with both of them right before they died, allegedly killing themselves, right? I mean, I’m not just being paranoid anymore; I can’t be.

  Something like this doesn’t happen twice.

  Does it?

  I crawl into Isabella’s bed and try to fall asleep. I sleep with her for the rest of the night, or at least until I hear the garage door open and the truck come back. My heart is hammering in my chest as I hear him downstairs. He tips something over, and it falls to the tiles, shattering. I’m guessing it’s a glass or maybe a beer bottle. I hear him open the fridge and rustle something, probably eating leftovers. The stairs creak, and then I hear the footsteps outside the door. They stop right on the other side. I stare at the door, praying it won’t open.

  It doesn’t. The footsteps disappear, and I hear the door to our bedroom click shut. I breathe and lie completely still, hoping Ryan is too drunk to realize I’m not in our bed.

  I close my eyes, telling myself that I’ll tell the investigators the truth tomorrow. I’ll tell them he was there, just like he was there right before Sandra killed herself. I need to tell them the truth. I can’t live with myself if I don’t.

  I finally doze off as the house grows silent, and I sleep for an hour or so before I wake up with a gasp. I open my eyes and realize the door to Isabella’s room is open. I turn to look and see Ryan sitting in the chair by the bed, hands folded, eyes glaring at us. He looks angry.

  “R-Ryan?” I say and sit up. “What are you doing here?”

  He reeks of alcohol even from where he is sitting. I think he’s still drunk.

  “Why are you not sleeping in our bed?” he asks. His speech is slurred. “I came home, and…you weren’t there?”

  “I…Isabella needed me. She had a nightmare,” I lie and try to keep my voice low. “Let’s talk in the morning, okay? I don’t want to wake her.”

  He gets up and walks closer, then sits at the foot of the bed. He grabs my hand in his, then caresses it. I hope he won’t notice how badly it is shaking. Can he hear my shuddering breath? Can he hear my galloping heart?

  “I’m sorry if I acted badly tonight,” he says, suddenly a lot calmer. “I think I had too much to drink.”

  I just want him to leave. I don’t know if I’m looking at a murderer or what the heck is going on. I need time to think this through. I need rest. I find it so hard to believe. I have known this man since I was twenty. He’s been my entire life. Everything I did was for him. Could my Ryan have murdered someone?

  I can’t wrap my mind around it.

  The only explanation for it is the war. He went away and came back changed. Maybe he really had lost it over there? Could it be his PTSD? Maybe he isn’t even aware of his actions? Maybe he doesn’t even remember killing them? Is it possible to have a blackout and then kill someone and not remember afterward? Is it possible to be that sick?

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, calming down. Yet, I still can’t help it. I begin to cry. I feel so hopeless and scared.

  “Hey, hey,” he whispers. “What’s going on with you?”

  “I’m just…I’m just so tired is all,” I say. “It’s been a long day, with my parents and all that. And the fact that I never know when you’re going to leave us again. It wears on me, Ryan. It really does. That and then the drinking and…” I am about to say more, but I stop. I can’t say what I saw. Not now. Not here. I need time to think it over; I need time to figure out how to handle this. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have a clue.

  He pulls me closer and starts to kiss me—first my forehead, then my lips. His kisses are soft yet insistent.

  “Come back to our bed,” he says between kisses. “It’s so empty without you. I don’t want to sleep without you. I miss you terribly
in there. We’ve been apart enough. I don’t want to sleep apart anymore.”

  I look into his eyes, not knowing what to do, what to think. It’s all so chaotic in my head. All the many thoughts rushing through it. It’s like it won’t stand still enough for me to think properly. It’s just all those images of Ted and Sandra, and then Ryan. My beloved Ryan. I have loved this man all of my adult life, as long as I can remember. He has to be in there somewhere, doesn’t he? I can’t just give up on him.

  I search my brain for any logical explanation but don’t find one. He was there, and then they both turned up dead. And I am the only one who knows.

  “Come,” he whispers, then pulls my hand. I let him and follow him back into our bed. I lie down, and we cuddle all night, me constantly trying to remain calm and not freak out. I finally fall asleep right before sunrise, and he lets me sleep in, then gets up and makes sure the kids aren’t late for the school bus.

  I pretend to be sleeping, but instead, I write to Frank. I ask him about Ted and whether he can give me any insight into the body they found. And then I ask the question that I want answered most of all right now:

  What is the time of death?

  I close the lid of my laptop right as Ryan comes into the bedroom, carrying a tray with coffee and toast. He has even taken a flower from the yard and placed it in a small vase. He smiles gently and crawls under the covers with me. I shiver lightly when he brushes against me. After we have eaten, his hands crawl up under my dress, and his fingers play with my panties. He smiles and leans in over me, then pulls them off forcefully. I gasp lightly as he enters me with a groan. I pray he doesn’t realize my entire body is trembling in fear as he makes love to me. As I close my eyes, all I can see is Ted’s eyes as they cut him down and the small broken blood vessels around them. I had seen enough dead bodies in my line of work to know those were an indication of asphyxiation.

  As Ryan kisses my breasts, and later my lips again, I can’t stop wondering if he strangled him before he hung him up or if Ted died while hanging.

  Chapter 22

  Two days go by before I hear back from Frank. He texts me that he needs to talk to me. He comes over as soon as Ryan leaves for his doctor’s appointment. Ryan is almost back at one hundred percent, he says, and he hopes the doctor will give him the all-clear to get back to work. Not having to go every day is driving him nuts, he says. He needs to have a reason to get out of bed. I wish him luck, and as soon as he leaves, I text Frank that the coast is clear.

  He arrives a few minutes later, and I make him coffee. He smiles gently as we sit down at the dining table. I have a basket of laundry sitting on top of it, which I put on the floor first.

  “How are you doing?” he asks. “You look a little…flustered.”

  “I’m okay,” I lie. Because I am not. I am anything but okay. I am worried and scared out of my wits. I feel like my world has come crumbling down and that I am disappearing into a deep darkness that I can’t drag myself out of. I keep seeing Ryan as he kills Sandra or Ted. I keep imagining it and dreaming about their dead bodies. I can’t help it.

  “And is everything okay with Ryan? He looked a little…tense the last time I was here. I hated to leave you like that.”

  I am biting my lip anxiously. I think I hear a car on the road and check to make sure it isn’t Ryan coming back because he forgot something. But the car continues on and doesn’t stop, and I breathe, relieved again.

  “Did you have time to look at that thing I asked about?” I say, sipping my cup.

  “Ted Kenopensky,” he says, nodding. “Why are you asking about him?”

  “I need to know when he died. And how. It’s very important to me.”

  Frank looks at me, a frown shaping between his eyes. I can tell he’s wondering about my motive for this, but he doesn’t dare to ask. He doesn’t want to make me mad at him. I fiddle nervously with my cup as he pulls out some papers from his briefcase.

  “I was able to print out the autopsy without anyone seeing me,” he says and pulls out a stack of papers. “But I’ll have you know that what I am doing is illegal, so you can’t tell anyone who your source is.”

  “Of course not. It’s not for anyone else but me.”

  He spreads out the papers, and once again, I am looking at Ted’s dead eyes. “He was found hanging from his ceiling,” Frank says. “And that is the cause of death, according to the autopsy.”

  I look up, and our eyes meet. I like sitting here with him. Frank makes me feel safe. It’s the first time in days I feel remotely calm.

  “But…” I say and grab a photograph. “The tongue isn’t thrust out of his mouth. Isn’t it usually when people hang themselves?”

  Frank gives me a look. “That was the first thing that made me suspicious. You’re absolutely right. Usually, when people hang themselves, the tongue is thrust out of the mouth, and the jaws are clenched. Once, back when I was an EMT, I was called out to a suicide where the jaws were clenched so tightly that they had to be pried open forcefully, so we could pursue lifesaving measures. Three times I have worked scenes where a person hung themselves, and each of the victims had a thick foam around their mouths, and they had soiled themselves. Their hands were clenched into fists—what they call ‘posturing.’ This happens when the brain begins to die. Also, they all had claw marks around their necks from desperately trying to free themselves, thrashing about violently as the body instinctively tries to survive. None of these indicators were present in Ted’s body, at least not according to the autopsy.”

  “And not in real life either,” I say, thinking back to the night when he was taken down. I had seen no tongue thrust, no clenched jaws, and definitely no foam. “But there are broken blood vessels,” I say. “Around his eyes. That means that the cause of death was asphyxiation, right?”

  Frank nods. “His neck is unbroken, but his hyoid bone is broken, which indicates he was strangled.”

  I look up at him, holding the picture between my hands. It is shaking violently, and I try to make it stop, but I can’t. “So, what you’re saying is, you don’t believe he hung himself, is that it?”

  Frank swallows, he sips his cup again, then sighs. “It doesn’t look much like a hanging to me, no.”

  “And the marks around the throat? Are they from a rope?”

  He shrugs. “Could be a rope or hands. It’s hard to tell when I’m just looking at pictures. I’d have to examine the body myself in order to determine this, and even then, it might be difficult to tell the difference.”

  I exhale and drink more coffee while my hands shake nervously. I know coffee probably isn’t what I need right now, but I can’t help myself. I haven’t slept properly for several nights, and this is what keeps me from passing out.

  “And the time of death?”

  He looks down at his papers. “They determined it to be between midnight and five after two a.m. when the SPs arrived.”

  I stare at him, barely blinking.

  Ryan was there at two a.m. Or ten minutes to, to be exact. I still remember the time because I looked at the clock in the car right when he left Ted’s house.

  “And they can’t be mistaken?” I ask. I can hear how bad my voice is shuddering, but I can’t make it stop.

  “It is an approximate time, but the body was examined pretty soon after death occurred, so it can’t be off by much. They can be pretty certain, due to body temperature, degree of decomposition, blood pooling, rigor mortis, and so on.”

  “So, he did definitely die at night and not earlier in the day?”

  Frank nods. He pauses and drinks more coffee. I finish mine and look out the window, worried, wondering when Ryan will be back. None of what Frank has told me has made me calmer. Nothing is giving my husband the benefit of the doubt, only confirming my suspicions.

  Frank exhales. His eyes are scrutinizing me. It makes me nervous, the way he is looking at me.

  “What’s going on here, Laurie?” he asks. “First, you ask about Clarice, and now thi
s? I’m concerned about you; you seem a little out of sorts. Could you please let me in on what you’re working on? Is it for a news story? Because if you are working on a story, then I have to tell you, it makes me slightly nervous. I’m risking everything by giving you this information. The least you can do is let me in on what is happening.”

  It takes me a while to get to the conclusion that I need a friend in this. I walk to the kitchen and pour us both some more coffee, then grab a couple of Oreos and eat them while I’m out there. Frank comes out to me, brushing up against me while the coffee machine is brewing, the smell of fresh coffee filling my nostrils. I have always loved that smell; it reminds me of my grandmother’s house. I miss her and am suddenly overwhelmed with deep sadness. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I try to hide it from Frank, turning away from him, but of course, he notices. He grabs me by the shoulders and tries to turn me back around.

  “Hey, what’s going on, Laurie?”

  I lower my head and hide my face in my hands, then cry. “I…I fear that Ryan is in trouble,” I say.

  “What do you mean, trouble?”

  I look up at him, and our eyes meet. I feel warm inside and hopeless at the same time. I feel so stuck in this house like I can’t get out, but I know it’s not the house. It’s my life and my marriage I’m thinking about. I feel stuck in a situation I can’t resolve, and I’m afraid it’s gonna end in disaster.

  “I mean that I…he was there, Frank. Right before Ted died, he was in the house. I saw him leave.”

  “So, what? You think he…no, Laurie, come on.”

  “Then, why didn’t he call the security force? If he didn’t kill him, he must have seen him hanging there. And now you tell me that you don’t believe he was…that he killed himself, that maybe he was already dead when he was hung up.”

  Frank sighs. “I know what I said, but going from that to…to think that Ryan has…”