“Really? Guess what, Dad? I was awake when he was in here earlier though he didn’t know it. The things you say I couldn’t have heard when unconscious were repeated when I was. Want confirmation? Explain this,” Angie said, raising her arm. Jerome peered closer as she pointed at the juncture of her elbow. Angie waited until his eyes widened for confirmation he’d seen it. “That needle mark is from Drake injecting me with Oxytocin after he laced my coffee with Benadryl.”
“Angela… What are you saying? Why would you think such a thing?”
She leaned closer and whispered, “I’m saying, Dad, my husband set me up to die. He didn’t want a child, nor did he want to be married any longer. All he wanted was the money from my life insurance policy and the trust fund you set up for me.” Angie paused and let the little morsel to sink in.
Jerome blinked several times, trying to absorb the disgusting words. “Drake wasn’t supposed to tell you about the trust fund until the baby arrived! He promised me.”
“But he did, Dad. While I was in this bed, as he pressed me to give up and die. That’s all he ever wanted, from the moment you and Mom hired him. He’s been biding his time, letting the money accrue, knowing full well you add to it each year. Convinced me to up the benefits in my life insurance policy because I was a high-risk pregnancy. He deliberately waited until the snowstorm to take me out. Drugged me, induced labor. I wanted to call an ambulance. He wouldn’t let me. I remember it all, Dad. He dropped the phone on the floor of the car, made me get it. I took my seatbelt off and he gunned the engine. He didn’t even try to miss the trees. Headed straight for them. When I came to in the snow, I could hear him laughing inside the car. He kept saying I’ve done it! It’s finally over.”
The look behind her father’s eyes switched from confusion and doubt, over to belief and anger. Visibly shaking, his face blanched and Angie wondered if he was about to pass out.
Jerome shook his head. “I just… No! I can’t believe it. Drake loves you! Are you trying to tell me he waited eight years? No, no way. Again, it’s something your damaged mind created while your neurons misfired. Too much television, too many movies. Trauma to your body from the accident, the loss of the baby. Besides, how in the world could he have gotten his hands on Oxytocin?”
“Dad, I know this is hard to believe. How do you think I feel? It’s like I woke up in an alternate universe, one where my child is dead and my husband is a monster. Test my blood. I hoped we could get a tissue sample from…the baby, but it’s too late for that. However, there is another way to prove to you I’m not out of my mind. All you have to do is go to my house.”
“What? Why?”
Angie couldn’t stop a smile from appearing on her face. “Drake laughed when he whispered in my ear how he ordered the drug from someplace overseas. How easy it was to buy, and how he nearly pissed himself when it arrived at the house, because I was home and brought in the mail. Said his heart skipped a beat when he saw me set the package on the table. Giggled while he remembered I never gave it a second glance, how ironic it was I held the means to kill me in my own hands, completely unaware of what was inside.”
“Surely you don’t think it’s still at the house, do you? I mean, if what you are saying is true, he’s too smart not to get rid of the evidence! He’s a lawyer for Christ’s sake!”
“I saw it, Dad. The empty package and the syringe. They were in the garbage in the kitchen. When I woke up on the couch, the pain was so intense, I thought I would vomit. I made it to the kitchen, yanked the lid off the can to throw up in, but the sensation passed. At the time, I was in so much pain—then I lost the plug and my water broke—it didn’t really register what I was looking at. Knew I was in labor and needed to get to the hospital. Drake’s been here ever since, which means he hasn’t been home to get rid of it.”
Jerome stood and paced back and forth in front of the bed. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he was chewing on his cheek, a habit he had when stressed.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Angie winced at the time. They needed to hurry. “Daddy, I know this is a lot to take in. Trust me. But I swear, I’m telling you the truth. Just… go. Check out my story. If I’m wrong, and it’s like you say, ramblings from my damaged brain, fine. We’ll forget we ever had this discussion and chalk it up to a brain misfire. I promise you though, I’m not making this up. I know what I heard. Know what I saw. Please, Daddy? Go to my house. Bring back what you find.”
Jerome stopped pacing and looked at Angie, shocked to feel tears running down his cheeks. She must have some residual brain damage. This just isn’t possible! “I will, but only to prove to you you’re wrong. You couldn’t possibly have heard all those things, Angela. The brain is in hiatus while in a coma. If, and that’s a big if, you’re right—and by some weird, inexplicable way you did hear him—and I do find what you say I will, why in the world would you want me to bring it back? The next logical step would be to call the police, have Drake arrested.”
It was the first time in Angie’s life she’d ever seen him cry. She sat up, her voice low and deep. “My husband’s words were the only thing that brought me back, because when I heard them, I decided to make him pay. Please, Daddy. Go, and bring the items back. Then we’ll discuss how Drake Benson needs to atone for nearly killing your child and killing mine. A long, drawn-out trial just isn’t in the cards for him, I’m afraid. Code for the security system at the house is 4389. Remember, not a word to anyone I’m awake. Period.”
Angie watched anger blaze behind her father’s eyes, and she knew the words chosen had been the right ones. Without responding, Jerome nodded and left the room, his back ramrod straight. Angie settled back to her original position in the bed, staring at the clock. Kevin would be by her side soon, her father not far behind. A lazy, wicked grin spread across her lips.
Plan A: initiated. Plan B in progress.
7
Connecting the Dots
Sounds of footsteps and voices pulled Angie from her thoughts. Glancing at the clock, she was shocked to discover she’d been wandering around inside the twisted halls of her mind for almost an hour. Fury burned through Angie’s veins like venom with each new, vivid memory. Pregnancy brain my ass!
She’d spent the time alone reliving her entire marriage. Things she should have noticed, paid more attention to, instead of just pushing them aside. Even before her pregnancy, certain memories of what Angie had eventually chalked up to being overtired from work or had too much to drink–or simply letting the stressors of life skew her thoughts–surfaced. How many times had Angie run out of gas, her wallet empty or missing, and been stuck in the worst part of downtown Little Rock? Whined to Drake on the phone, swearing she recalled filling up as she waited for someone from Triple A to come to her aide because he wasn’t able to leave work? Or the last anniversary dinner shot to hell because she’d gone to the wrong restaurant? “No, Angie. I said Zarino’s, not Zach’s Place! Pay attention, will you?” Zach’s Place was on the seedier side of town and Drake was at Zarino’s, fuming because Angie was at the wrong location and couldn’t follow simple instructions?
Their honeymoon… Drake insistent Angie step out of her comfort zone, conquer her fear of heights, enjoy the adrenaline rush of bungee jumping. At the last moment, as the operator performed a final check on the equipment, noticed a tear in the cord. Drake laughed as he patted Angie’s back, commenting over and over how lucky she was, that the Heavens must be watching, for had she jumped, she would have crashed into the jagged rocks. Drake flew into a screaming rage, threatening the poor Jamaican with a lawsuit for operating with sub-par equipment. He held Angie close, murmuring his love and thankfulness she was still alive.
The most recent had been the grocery store. Angie knew she’d gone shopping. Refilled her prenatal vitamins. Bought groceries. Each silly, petty mistake, added up. Like connecting separate, mismatched swatches of material to a quilt, and when completed, the final product came into full view. He’d set her up, hoping she’d
become just another crime statistic. Simple miscommunication, a small fib here and there, the look of doubt on his face when she bemoaned recalling things different from his version.
All done for money…
Stupid, stupid mistakes. She’d been blinded by Drake’ charm, his wit, his proclamations of undying love. Drawn to his laughter, the way his nose crinkled when he smiled. Pulled into the sadness behind his eyes when he spoke about the loneliness of being an orphan, raised by strangers, bouncing from one foster home to another. Drank in his strength at never giving up on life, pushing himself toward success, despite the seemingly insurmountable odds life had stacked in his path. He was a lone wolf, jittery and edgy when she met him, and she sensed an air of vulnerability beneath the bravado. Like a magnet, his life force overpowered her own mental shields, and she fell head over heels in love.
With a monster. One she’d cuddled up next to every night for almost ten years.
Unbelievable…
She wouldn’t cry for the losses, at least not yet. When everything was finished, and her revenge obtained, she would grieve. Hard. Release the pain and sorrow embedded inside every fiber of her being. Let her emotions run free, take over her mind, heart and soul as she mourned.
Just like Mom did. Oh, Mom, I’m a member of your club now–though I certainly never thought I would be. I’ll make this right. Forgive me for what I’m about to do.
The door opened, so she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She could tell her visitor wasn’t Drake because she didn’t hear the sound of his wheelchair or labored breathing. It wasn’t her father, either, judging from the absence of his telltale cologne.
“Angie?” came the quiet whisper of the man she’d been waiting for.
Turning her head but with her eyes still closed, she tested the waters. “Kevin?”
Kevin’s warm fingers wrapped around Angie’s. “Honey, you awake?”
Angie felt the weight of Kevin’s body as he sat on the edge of the bed. She squeezed his hand with all her strength, giving it a nudge for him to move closer. “Alone?”
“Yes.”
Angie released Kevin’s hand and sat up. Scanning the room and seeing no one, she motioned for him to come closer. He did, and they hugged. When he pulled away, she noticed he was wearing his scrubs and lab coat.
His big, brown eyes were full of worry, his brow furrowed. “Okay, cuz, what’s going on?”
“We don’t have much time, so you need to listen and remember everything I say. You once promised me when we were little, after Amelia died, there wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do to make me happy. Did you really mean that?”
“Angie, I was just a kid, but, yes, I still feel the same way. Now stop playing around and being so damned cryptic! What’s going on?”
“I need your services. That’s what.”
Taken aback, Kevin gaped at her. “My services? Oh,” he softened his tone, “you mean for… Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s all taken care of.”
Motioning for him to hush, Angie leaned her head toward his and lowered her voice. “No, that’s not what I meant. I need to arrange a funeral. A cremation, to be exact.”
Kevin felt tears spring into his eyes. “Oh, sweetie, I know you do. But, it’s all been taken care of. Drake said to wait—”
Angie put her hand over his mouth to silence Kevin’s words. “Fuck what Drake said. Yes, Kevin, I need to arrange a service for my daughter, but she isn’t the only one. It will be a dual service. Mother and daughter.”
Kevin jerked his head away and gasped, “What the hell? Don’t you mean grandmother…”
“Kevin!” Angie snapped, her voice a low growl, “Sit back down and listen. You can ask all the questions you like when I’m done explaining, but until then, be still. I don’t have much time to lay out the entire plan. Okay?”
Despite his obvious misgivings about Angie’s sanity, Kevin nodded.
“Good. Okay, as I said, I need a dual cremation service. For me and my daughter. And for you to pull deep from your acting reservoirs. Congratulations, you’re now head of Neurology at St. Vincent’s. You are going to convince my husband I’m brain dead, and to sign the papers to pull the plug. Here’s why.”
In hushed tones, her voice low and melodic, Angie told the painful, unbelievable story to her cousin. Kevin’s face shifted from shock, grief, horror, and finally settled on rage. True to her instructions, Kevin never spoke while Angie told him everything, and how he would play a pivotal role righting the wrongs done to their family.
Once Angie finished, Kevin dropped two huge bombshells onto her already destroyed world. His words wiped all traces of doubt from her mind. They burned away the last remaining wisps of concern about whether what her brain remembered was true or not. Lit a fire deep inside her, destroyed her old life and thought patterns. The charred remains wanted, needed, craved, revenge.
The last sentence was spoken just as her father entered the room. Ashen from shock, he never said a word as he walked in. Anger wafted from him, stronger than his obnoxious cologne. With a slight nod toward Kevin, he held up a plastic sack and Angie knew he found the evidence. In his other hand was a piece of paper. She recognized the format: it was a lab report. She didn’t need to see it because she already knew the answer. Her father’s facial expression said it all: he believed her. One-hundred percent.
She waited until he sat on the other side of the bed. Once he was situated, Angie reached out both hands until each grabbed one. She squeezed her fingers and whispered, “Just as I said, right?” Daggers of fury danced behind her father’s eyes. His response was a faint jutting of his chin. “I see you are on board now, Dad. Now that there is confirmation, Kevin, I assume you are as well?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Excellent! Now, I need to know just one thing from you, Dad.”
Jerome’s voice was tight, full of anger. “Anything.”
Locking her gaze with his, Angie asked, “Do you have a problem signing off on my fake death certificate? You are, after all, risking your license, not to mention prison time for conspiring with me to commit murder.”
Jerome’s face was hard, set in stone. “If it means making the bastard pay for what he’s done to us, not at all.”
Beaming, Angie replied, “Court is now in session. The guilty party is sentenced to death. So, here’s what we’re going to do to ensure Drake Benson not only doesn’t get a fucking dime, but will never, ever hurt anyone again.”
8
Difficult Choices
Drake woke up from haunting dreams to the sound of a sweet, sensual voice speaking his name. As his mind rose through the blackened waters of sleep and approached the bright light of consciousness, he tried to place the voice. He drew a blank about its source, as well as the strange smells around him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Benson. Need to get your vitals, and then I’ll be out of your hair. Your lunch is here too. You need to eat. Lucky you, it’s your last day of hospital food.”
He blinked to clear the remaining cobwebs from his sleepy brain, forcing his stiff neck to nod in response. The face attached to the voice came into view and he recognized her: Lita something-or-other. He didn’t say a word as she performed her assessment of his health. He remembered Lita from last year’s Christmas party at the hospital. Angie had been assigned to Lita as a mentor at St. Vincent Memorial.
Mind fully alert, visions of the accident two days ago appeared. The wreck that changed his life. He could still hear the sound of Angie’s screams as the car careened across the slick ice. Remembered how his heart pounded in his chest. The sickening clatter of metal connecting with wood when the impact happened. The heavy thud, followed by shattering glass, as Angie’s body plowed through the windshield. Then, deadly silence. Drake shuddered. Unwilling to relive the day, he pushed himself up on the bed. “How is she today?”
A shadow of sadness crossed the young woman’s face. He knew the entire staff found it difficult to see their colleague as a patient. “W
ell, they’ve moved her to a private room. Number 547. You’ll need to remember that when you go to visit. Do you… have someone coming to get you? If not, anyone you’d like me to call? Maybe Dr. Langford?”
Drake moved to exit the bed, groaning from the effort. His broken leg and ribs ached, and when he leaned forward, the throbbing in his head made stars appear. “Haven’t even thought about that, actually. Forgot I was being discharged today. Too much on my mind, I guess. I’ll deal with that later. So, why did they move her?”
“Here, let me help you, Mr. Benson.” In less than a minute, he was situated in the wheelchair. “She’ll recover faster in a private room alone. Want me to take you to her?”
Drake shrugged Lita’s arm off, his words short and clipped. “No. I’ll manage.”
Lita smiled warmly at him. She scanned the room, leaned down and whispered, “You just keep talking to her. I don’t care what the doctors say; coma patients can hear us. Angie knows you’re there. Hearing your voice will bring her back. And your love will help ease the pain of losing your daughter for you both.”
Fearing his emotions would overtake him, Drake nodded and wheeled himself out the door and down the hall toward his wife’s room. He mentally prepared himself to spend another day at her side while he talked to her unconscious mind. Think of the right words to say. Because so far, nothing had helped. He didn’t know how many more days of looking at his wife’s limp, lifeless body—tubes and machines keeping her alive—he could take.
“We need to talk.”
Drake jumped at the sound of the voice behind him. He looked up from his wife’s frozen, pale face into the stern countenance of his father-in-law. “Now?”
Whispered Pain Page 5
