by Willow Rose
“I think I’m going insane,” I say. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Maybe if she went to the police outside of the base?” Vera says, taking a bite of her chicken sandwich.
“They’ll tell her to go to the OSI,” Frank says. “It’s their jurisdiction. Plus, there are no open investigations into those two deaths, so it’s gonna be hard to make anyone look into it.”
“So, that’s it?” Vera says. “She’s on her own? No police will help her?”
“If they don’t believe there has been a crime…” Frank says and trails off. He sips his iced tea. “They’re not easy to dance around with. We know. I tried so hard to get them to reopen Clarice’s case, based on what I saw in the autopsy report, but they refused. It was deemed suicide, and that was the end of it. They won’t listen.”
I look at him with a sigh. I genuinely fear that one day, my parents will be trying to get the military officials to reopen the case of my suicide because they desperately want to know what really happened. Because they believe Ryan killed me, but they’re the only ones. The thought saddens me, and a wave of fresh fear rushes through my body. I have been weighing my options the past few days, wondering what I can possibly do.
“You said you had some news?” I ask Frank.
He nods, wipes his fingers clean on a napkin, then pulls out a folder that he places so that both Vera and I can see it if we skootch closer on each side of him.
“I took another look at Sandra Mulcahey’s autopsy report; actually, I went through the entire death report, and this is what I found. Look.”
He pulls out a sheet, and we both look at it but don’t really understand what it is. Frank knows this, so he translates.
“The cuts on her wrists. They were deeper on her right side than on her left side. That would usually indicate that she was left-handed.”
“But she wasn’t,” I say, my eyes growing wide. “I know because I more than once talked to her about Joe, Jr., her son. When she realized he was left-handed, she worried it would make things difficult for him.”
“In her files, it doesn’t say anything about being a lefty either,” he says. “That’s why it had me wondering.”
“So, she didn’t cut her own wrists?” Vera asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“That could be the explanation,” Frank says. “It would have been the other way around if she did. The cuts would have been deeper on the left side instead. But it’s not exactly evidence. Not enough to reopen her case.” Frank pauses and finishes his sandwich, then wipes his fingers again.
“There’s more.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” I said, still wondering about the two coffee cups on the kitchen counter in Sandra’s kitchen. I should have told the investigator about them on the day she was found. Then it would have been in the report; then, they would have looked for that person, at least to know if Sandra mentioned anything about wanting to end her life. But I didn’t think it was important then, and now, it’s too late.
“Her toxicology report states her blood had an exceedingly high concentration of fentanyl. She had sixty-nine micrograms per liter. This drug has been proven deadly at much lower rates than that. They found huge amounts in her liver and her stomach as well.”
“So, she overdosed on painkillers?” I ask. “Before her wrists were cut?”
Frank nods. “Looks like it.”
“Still sounds like suicide,” I say.
“Of course,” Frank says. “And that’s what they’ll tell us if we point it out. But what I found odd was that the exact same thing was found in Ted Kenopensky’s blood. The same drug and almost the same amount.”
“Which can also still be argued as being a way to commit suicide,” I say.
“Definitely. But it could also be used to make a victim unresponsive or unable to fight back before you kill them,” Frank adds.
“Makes it a whole lot easier to put them in a tub or hang them from the ceiling,” Vera says.
I sigh. I don’t like where this is going. “Are you both seriously suggesting that these two were drugged and then murdered?”
I think about the coffee cups on the counter again. Of course, I do. Is it possible to dissolve painkillers into coffee without anyone tasting it?
It’s not Ryan. He’s your husband!
I finish my iced tea, trying to calm myself.
“I don’t like that you’re here in the house with him. Not till we know more. You should leave,” Frank says to me. “Get off base. Take the kids and leave. Maybe go to your parents’ place.”
I shake my head. “I have thought this over a million times. He’ll come for me. He’ll know where I am and will come for me. He’ll take the kids, have me declared mentally unstable, and take the kids away from me. Me showing up at the OSI, blabbering on about a murder that hasn’t been committed and accusing my husband probably didn’t help my case. All his war buddies will willingly say how I’ve lost it, and their wives will chime in too. Look at how they’ve turned their backs on Vera because she questioned her sister’s death. They all think she’s crazy; that’s what Ryan told me. You were right about them. It’s like a cult. Either you’re with them or you’re against them. They’ll have me locked up somewhere and take the kids.”
Or he’ll kill you and make it look like suicide.
I touch my throat, remembering that day he almost did. I am conflicted, so darn torn inside between loving him, hoping I am wrong, and wanting him to go to jail for the rest of his life, so I never have to see him again.
Frank shakes his head slowly while looking at me. “I don’t like it. I’d prefer to have you out of here, as far away as possible.”
I place my hand on his arm and exhale. I force myself to sound as convincing and reassuring as possible and not let my deep anxiety shine through.
“I’ve got this. Trust me.”
Chapter 26
The next day, I get the kids ready for the bus and send them off. I kiss Isabella and wave at Damian, who doesn’t want me to kiss him in front of his friends anymore. As the bus hisses, satisfied, and leaves, I walk back into the house and find Ryan in uniform, drinking his coffee and eating toast, standing by the counter. He’s looking at his phone, scrolling.
“Good morning,” I say.
He stops scrolling, then leans down and kisses me.
“You smell good this morning,” he says, taking a deep breath. He smiles and touches my hair, looking at me intently. My stomach is in knots. I feel like he can see straight through me. I’m scared he can somehow read my mind and see that all I’m thinking about are the things Frank told me the day before. I keep pondering the details, like how did he get the Fentanyl into his victims? Did they pass out right away, or did he chat with them till they slowly dozed off?
“So, what are you up to today?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing much. I’ll clean out the bunnies’ cage and maybe do some yoga. Isabella has cheer this afternoon, so I’ll drive her there and bring Damian too. He usually plays around with some other kids there while she practices.”
Ryan scoffs.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. You have it easy, do you know that?”
He places a hand on my neck. It’s gripping me like he’s holding me, so I won’t run away.
“You get to hang out at the house and then with the kids all afternoon. I hope you appreciate how good you have it.”
I nod. “I do.”
I try to pull away, but he’s not letting me go. His grip on my neck gets tighter until he leans over and speaks close to my ear, “What we have is so precious. We don’t want to ruin that, do we?”
“N-no. Of course not,” I say. I wonder what he is referring to. Does he know I have been meeting with Frank and talking about him? Does he know I was at the OSI? Did someone see me and tell him?
“Good, we agree then,” he says. He studies me. His glare is running up and down my body like
he is sizing me up. Then, he leans over and kisses my cheek and then my shoulder. “You’re so delicate, so fragile.”
“You’re gonna be late,” I say. I grab a dishtowel and start folding it, praying he won’t see the goosebumps on my arms and neck.
He leans up against me.
“Maybe I’ll be late today then. You don’t mind, do you? It’s not like you have anyone who expects you to show up, do you? You’re not seeing anyone today, are you? Just like you didn’t see anyone yesterday, right?”
I swallow. Does he know about my lunch with Frank and Vera? I think like crazy; I go over all my messages with Frank and wonder if he might have seen any of them. No, it can’t be. I’ve been careful to delete everything. Every time Frank emails me or texts me, I delete it.
I stare at my phone on the counter where I left it when going to send off the kids. Did he have time to go through it? Has he found something I missed?
I scoff. “Of course not. But Chip might be pissed if you don’t show up.”
He laughs. “What’s with the potty mouth? You never talk like that.”
I laugh a fake laugh, and, as he kisses my ear, his hand finally lets go of my neck. His hands are on my breasts next, and he’s moaning, pressing me up against the counter. I close my eyes and pretend to enjoy it, but I want him to leave. The thought of him touching me, his hands groping me, makes me want to scream.
“Honey?”
“Mmm.”
“You’re gonna be late now. Seriously.”
He looks up at the clock above the window. “Shoot.”
He kisses my cheek, then drinks the rest of his coffee before he rushes out the door. I smile, relieved, and wave at him, then exhale deeply as I close the door behind him, my beating heart threatening to explode.
I’ve got to do something; I think to myself as I wave to him, smiling eagerly, while he is driving out of the driveway.
This can’t go on.
I clean the house, running the vacuum cleaner across the floor aggressively, then pick up Ryan’s pants from a chair and hang them back in the closet. I’m putting his shoes away when my hand brushes against something at the bottom of his closet. I pull it out. It’s his thermos bottle—the one he usually takes with him in the truck or when going for a run. I frown while I wonder what it is doing there. I also wonder if it needs to be washed, so I unscrew the lid and look inside to see if there’s any liquid in it that may have grown old and gross. I wonder why it is rattling when I shake it. I peek inside.
Then, my heart stops.
There’s no liquid inside it. But there is something else. I turn it upside down, and out fall at least three orange bottles of prescription pills. I pick one up and look at the label.
Painkillers.
Fentanyl.
I stare at the label, blinking to make sure I am not just seeing things. I can’t breathe. I can’t hear anything over the sound of my pulse pumping in my ears, and it makes me dizzy.
I rise to my feet, holding the pill bottles between my hands. I then decide to place them back inside the thermos, so the kids won’t see them when they get back and take the thermos with me downstairs.
I start cooking dinner, preparing everything while planning how to deal with this properly. I know he’ll be angry, but I’m done. This is it. I’m done being a victim. I need answers now. A plan has been brewing inside of me for days now, and as the afternoon progresses, I pop open a bottle of wine, then have a glass before the kids come home from school. I am very good at pretending like nothing happened, and they both grab a snack, then do their homework, and we take Isabella to cheer. Once we’re back, a few hours later, Ryan isn’t home yet, so I drink another two glasses while finishing dinner. When I hear his truck drive into the driveway and the garage door open, I place my phone in my pocket and turn on the Dictaphone Voice Recorder app I used to use for work. My plan is to confront him and then record his response. What I’ll do with it depends on what is on it. If I find it incriminating, I’ll go back to the investigator. At least, I think I will. If it’s not enough, then maybe I’ll just keep it and use it in case I need to fight for my children in court. No matter what, it is time to face the music.
I am done pretending.
Chapter 27
I pour myself another glass of wine, then down it fast before putting the empty bottle away. I am washing the glass when I hear his steps in the garage, and he opens the door.
“I’m home.”
I take a deep breath, then grab a mint from the drawer, so he won’t smell the wine on my breath.
“Honey?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” I yell back. He comes out to me, whistling happily.
“Today was a good day,” he says, smiling. I turn to face him, and he sees it on my face immediately. I am not even trying to hide it.
“What’s wrong?”
I grab the thermos and place it on the counter. It rattles as I put it down. “I wanted to wash this, but when I opened it, guess what I found?”
Ryan stares at the thermos. His smile is gone, so is the light in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, so I open it and pour out the pill bottles. They roll onto the granite countertop.
“Care to explain?” I ask.
He stares at me, then takes a step closer. I regret drinking all that wine since it makes it harder for me to evaluate the situation properly. I thought I needed it in order to confront him. I should have stopped earlier.
He shrugs. His eyes change as he stares at me. He gets that expression on his face, the one that makes my skin crawl.
“Do I care to explain? Me? You want me to explain these?” he says as he grabs a bottle and throws it at me. I duck, and it hits the stove behind me with a loud clang. “How about you explain why you’re snooping around in my closet, huh? How about you explain that?”
“No,” I say, staying firm. “Not this time. I’m not letting you make this about me. I asked you a question, dang it. Answer me. Why do you have these?”
He scoffs. “I was injured, remember? They gave me a medal and everything. Called me a combat-wounded war hero, remember that, do ya? Yes, they gave me pills for it, and yes, I have been taking them. I still do. I can’t seem to stop, even though the pain is gone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t I tell you? Are you freaking kidding me? It’s not something I am particularly proud of, Laurie. It’s quite simple. I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve had that look in your eyes for months now, and I can’t seem to shake it. You act weird around me like you’re afraid I might break or something.”
I stare at him. Now, I’m worried. I’m very concerned that I’m mistaken. Once again, I doubt my own judgment. I shake my head. No. I can’t let his words get to me. I saw him run out of Ted’s house. I saw the messages to Sandra. I know he met with her. It’s not just in my head.
“Okay, so tell me this,” I say. “Why did you meet with Sandra right before she died? And don’t say you didn’t because I know you did.”
“What on Earth are you babbling about now? I swear I don’t know what you’re saying half of the time these days,” he sighs.
“You were at her house, weren’t you? On the day she died. You were over there, having coffee with her, am I right?”
He pauses. He’s biting his lower lip like he always does when he’s pondering something serious—like when we got the news that Damian had a cleft palate and needed surgery at the age of only eight months.
But he’s not talking yet. I try one more punch.
“I know you were at Ted’s house too.”
“Excuse me?”
“On the night he killed himself. You were there both in the afternoon and then again later. I followed you when you left our house, drunk, and I know you went inside Ted’s house. When you left, I looked in through the window and found him dangling from the ceiling in his living room. Yes, that’s right. I was the one who found him. I never told you about
it, but it was me.”
I stare at him, scrutinizing him. I can’t seem to read his reaction properly. Is he regretful? Is he surprised? I can’t tell.
“We…we went to the funeral and everything, and you didn’t even tell me this?” he asks, again trying to make it about me, but I’m not taking the bait. He wants me to be the small one because he knows I have the upper hand now.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Laurie. Do you hear me? I’m telling you… Back off now.”
I shake my head. “It’s too late. Cat’s out of the bag. There’s no way back now. And let me ask you this, Ryan because it has had me wondering for days now. If you went in there…if you were in Ted’s house and he had already killed himself, why didn’t you call the security forces? Why didn’t you call for help?”
He is staring at me, his fists clenched. I can hardly hear anything over my beating heart, knocking against my ribcage. I have no idea where to go from here, what to do or say next. I wanted to confront him because I thought he’d tell me the truth. I thought he’d come clean, and we would clear everything up. It was naive, yes, but somehow, that’s what I believed would happen.
Why doesn’t he at least try to defend himself? Why doesn’t he even plead his innocence?
But, of course, he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes the wine glass I just washed into his hand and throws it against the wall with a loud growl. As the glass rains onto my kitchen floor, he turns on his heel and walks out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
That night, I am alone in bed. Ryan doesn’t come back, which is no surprise to me. I dream about Sandra for some reason. She’s alive and waving at me from the driveway across the street. I wave back but can’t understand what she’s doing here, how she is not dead after all. So, I go to see her, but as I cross the street, a car hits me. And as I turn to look at who is driving it, just before it hits me, I see Ryan behind the wheel, a grin on his face.
