by W. Winters
“I’m telling you,” Cody says, starting up again, bringing my gaze back to his. “You’re worked up and I don’t blame you, but there’s nothing I know that you don’t.” His voice is calm and comforting, but his eyes are flat and devoid of commitment. It’s like they want me to know he doesn’t mean a damn word he’s saying.
My tired body begs me to give in to Cody, to just believe him and shake off the horrible gut-wrenching feelings that seep from the marrow of my bones. Every time I close my eyes, though, I see the picture of the boy. The statements. The death certificate.
“I don’t think you believe me,” Cody says when I don’t answer him. The sizzle of the thick slice of ham he places in the frying pan brings me back to the present. It’s pitch black outside, but still the streetlights filter in through the curtains in Cody’s dining room.
With my arms crossed, I lean my hip against the counter and I have to clear my tight throat before telling him again, “It’s just that I feel like there’s more to it.” Shame washes over me. I should tell him I went through his things. I should confess that much and maybe he’d confess too.
“Because the cases haven’t been solved. Every case I’ve ever had that went cold … I’ve felt like that,” he says, speaking to the stove instead of me, flipping the ham and then scooping potatoes from the back pan onto the two simple white plates beside the stove.
Even with my sanity stretched far too thin, somewhere in the back of my exhausted mind I’m fully aware that I should be grateful for Cody and that, as far as I know, he doesn’t have any reason at all to lie to me. I can’t shake this feeling, though. My gut instinct is that he’s lying … it also whispers that I should keep what I know hidden from him just the same. One old case file I opened while I was snooping has shifted everything.
He continues, “Because there is more to it. To all of those cases we didn’t close. You and I both know that.” He adds under his breath, so low I almost don’t hear, “There’s more to all those cases.”
With a deep thump in my chest that ricochets a pain that can’t possibly compare to his, a flash of the photo I found comes to mind. The black and white photo of Cody and his brother standing with an older man, maybe their uncle since they resembled him closely. The image is followed with more thoughts of the case that was never fully closed. At least not for him.
The silverware clinks against the porcelain as he places a plate in front of me, not missing a beat of his explanation. “Of course you feel like there’s more. There is more; I just don’t know that we’ll ever know the truth.”
My gaze flies to his, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s focused on spearing the ham and eating, like I should do. Lord knows I’ve had more to drink than I needed tonight.
With every swallow, questions beg to be spoken.
I barely taste the meal, although the heavy scent of butter and pork makes me believe it should be delicious.
“We may never know the truth, but we did everything we could.” Cody’s statement carries a note of finality. As if it’s the end of the conversation.
A sadness washes over me. I’m sure that’s what he thinks about his brother’s case and it tears me up inside to imagine him as a young boy, being handed paperwork and most likely, told little lies to lessen the blow of what happened to his younger brother.
We did everything we could. I’ve heard it so many times. Everything isn’t always good enough though, is it?
“Eat something.” Cody’s command sounds more like a plea. He even wears a half smile, as if smiling would make the thoughts in my mind disappear.
The atmosphere changes when his gaze softens. “Delilah, baby,” he says, dropping his fork and striding toward me to pin me between him and the counter. A hand rests on either side of me, but he doesn’t touch me. “You haven’t slept, I’m guessing?” he says and he guesses right. “I know you haven’t eaten.”
The way he cares for me, obviously trying to console me, destroys that nagging bit inside that believes he’s being deceitful.
“You need sleep.” With a single kiss on my forehead, suddenly my mother’s warning fades and I remember what my father told me. I trust my instincts from years ago, when I first met and fell for this man. My gut back then said that I could love him. And the part about secrets? Well, just like I told my mother back then, we all have them.
I share one of them right now. “I’ll have nightmares,” I say, whispering the confession, feeling a flurry of fear run through me.
Cody’s eyes flash with shock and then he rests a hand on my chin. “Is that why you aren’t sleeping?” With both of my hands I pull his away, kissing his knuckles and nodding against his chest.
Leaning into him, it’s easy to close my eyes.
He’s gentle as he holds me, rubbing soothing circles on my back and the fight … or whatever that was a moment ago seems to vanish. Disappearing like it never happened.
He plants small kisses along the crown of my head and tells me, “You’re going through hell. You’re stressed and it’s killing you.”
My eyes slowly open and I stare at the curtains as the panel on the right sways gently from the air exiting the floor vent beneath it.
“I know,” I say and it’s all I admit. It feels like I’m drowning, but there isn’t an ounce of water to baptize my sinful soul in.
There’s a rumble in Cody’s chest, deep and masculine when I lift up my lips and kiss his throat, right against his Adam’s apple. The stubble there tickles the tip of my nose.
A contented sigh leaves him and so I do it again.
I let him feel the hint of my smile against his hot skin when the growing erection he has becomes more than obvious.
“Look at what you do to me,” he groans, as if it’s an apology or perhaps like I’m torturing him.
“How about you fuck me to sleep,” I suggest, wanting nothing more than just that. “Make me forget it all.” My murmur pleads with him and in an instant, a yelp is ripped from me as he lifts me by my ass and sets me on the kitchen counter.
The sudden movement has my heart racing but the heat is all from the longing look in his steely blue gaze.
“Now that I can handle,” he says before capturing my lips with his. His touch is strong, unrelenting and easy to get lost in. With his right hand steady on my hip, his left roams up my shirt and lingers over the curve of my waist. I wrap my legs around his hips and press my feet against his ass so I can feel his hard length against my core.
I’m shameless as I grind against him. I only break the kiss to take a breath of cool air, but Cody doesn’t take the moment to pause. He continues his relentless touches, trailing his warm lips down my neck and kissing along every inch. My nipples pebble as a moan slips from my lips.
“Please,” I beg him. And that single word is his undoing.
“Not here,” he says as he lifts me into his arms and I cling to his broad frame while he takes me to his bed.
When he’s done with me, after fucking me until I scream his name and forcing my release from me, I thought he’d done exactly what I’d asked: to fuck me to sleep and make me forget it all. I thought he had, but he didn’t. Sleep eludes me and all I can see are the palest of blue eyes watching me from a memory in the dark night, judging and waiting.
Cody’s eyes close faster than mine and even though my lungs beg me to breathe in time with him, the sound of his inhales and exhales so soothing, I can’t fall asleep.
I can still feel him inside of me as I slip out of his bed. Leaving the warm sheets behind, I let out a small hum of satisfaction at the hint of pain and pleasure that lingers.
I’m quiet as I slip out, gathering a chair from the dining room and bringing it to the hall closet so I can have just one more look. Sitting cross-legged in the early morning on a hallway floor, plagued by insomnia, digging through a box of a lover’s darkest moments … that’s certainly not anything I ever thought I’d be striving toward. Yet here I am, obsessing over doing exactly that.
&nbs
p; As I reach up to the box, my shirt lifting, I’m only vaguely aware of the floor creaking behind me. With my mind focused on the little boy in the photo labeled with the names of two brothers with their uncle, and what exactly each of those papers tells me about him and maybe little hints of what made Cody the man he is, it doesn’t register.
My subconscious is aware that someone is behind me, but my desire for the truth is greedy and requires answers.
“Those aren’t yours.” The single sentence is chilling. With my heart slamming into my throat, I whip around to face Cody, nearly falling off the chair. Caught red-handed.
What makes matters worse is that his eyes look how mine feel. Exhausted and spent. The remainder of his expression, though, is hard and lacking forgiveness.
Swallowing thickly, I tell him, “I’m sorry.”
“I mean it, Delilah.” Cody’s pale blue eyes hold a warning as he adds, “Everyone has their boundaries.”
Marcus
The majority of people in Delilah’s hometown, a staggering ninety-two percent, are born in the hospital that’s thirty miles from her home. It’s where she was born and her sister too. We’re far away at the moment, but I think of that hospital oh so often.
Nostalgia, perhaps.
When I looked up her birth records years ago, I noted her mother was also born in that hospital, delivered by the same doctor. A woman named Meredith was proud to be the lucky doctor who brought them both into the world. Isn’t it a beautiful thing, bringing a new, innocent life into this chaos?
Staring at the monitors while Delilah stares at Cody, I think back on those days, the earliest ones of my life. There’s not much before the barn that I remember. Only the immediate events leading to it. I consider those events my conception. After all, had they never happened, I wouldn’t be who I am.
She was born in the hospital and I was born in that barn.
“I appreciate it, Cody, really I do … but I can’t stay here.” With her arms crossed, Mr. Walsh should know he’s not winning this one. It’s his controlling nature, his arrogance even, in thinking his home is better suited than Delilah’s.
Turning my head to face the window, I can make out their silhouettes through the curtains. From my vantage point, and given their positions, it’s easy to tell they’re having a heated argument. Having the monitors, though, is far more helpful. I should feel guilty that a system I put in place years ago is now being exploited. I should feel many things … and I am, just not the correct emotions.
My phone buzzes with a message, but it’s not one from either of them and I’m far too interested in this development.
Their argument is unfortunate. Not because I wish them pleasantness, or because either of the two are making a better case than the other. It’s unfortunate simply because the raised voices and harsh tones are so very reminiscent of a lovers’ quarrel.
Memories swirl and I lean back against the roof tiles. With the moon setting just beneath the tree line, it’s dark enough that no shadows can survive. They’ll never see me, but I can see them just fine.
And with the monitor in my hand, I can hear them just as clearly.
The tears that streak down Delilah’s face remind me of the first time I went to the hospital that carries so much weight on my conscience this morning.
It was that little girl, with the same tears, who changed my decision. She was there and I didn’t expect it. Had the events been different, and her father been the only one brought in with the unconscious woman losing her breath, I’d have told them all. I would have relied on what a former version of me was told to do, before this new one was conceived.
I could have spent hours mourning over every vision and letting it all spill out, but I kept it all in, swallowed it down and watched her being held in the arms of a monster. And she clung to him. Her head was tucked so carefully under his chin while the woman was whisked away on a gurney.
I remember standing there, thinking this very thought: this is where people are born. The stark white walls and the yells of nurses blurred with the wide eyes of a little girl who was scared. I wonder if she would remember. I doubt she does. I remember it all, though.
The thing about that unit is that most of the people I surrounded myself with were born there. I wasn’t. I was so far gone from my hometown because I ran north when I should have run south. I know that now, but back then I didn’t. I wasn’t born in my hometown either, though.
I was birthed in that barn.
With the stench of pigs, and old dirt that felt like clay. The child who ran away, somehow escaping certain death, thought that structure would be a place to heal. But that’s all he was, a child who should have died. A child who deserved to die for what he’d done.
So I let him. I let that boy suffer, I forced him to watch and accept what he allowed to happen. I didn’t tell anyone what had really occurred and I knew that woman would die.
But the monster was comforting his little girl. How I could I, of all people, take someone’s parent away?
The biggest difference between my birth and so many others, is that they came into this world innocent, being held dearly, if screaming wildly. Well … most of them. The lucky ones.
I became the person I am when I was seeking shelter in that barn from monsters and watching a man who I knew nothing about commit unspeakable acts of horror that haunted every night of that sanctuary.
I suppose it doesn’t matter where or how you’re born, though … much less so than where and how you die.
“I’m leaving, Cody.” Delilah’s voice is raised and it wavers at the end of her statement. The pain she’s feeling is etched into his name. Let her go. She doesn’t need a damn soul comforting her. Least of all his.
“How can you protect me better than anyone else if there’s nothing you know that I don’t?” the lawyer in her whips at him and a slow grin crawls into place on my face. She knows he knows, and she can’t let it go. That knowledge brings me more peace than it should as I breathe in the crisp fall air.
“Please,” he says, pleading with her and his tone is genuinely desperate. I catch the small details of her expression shift. The thin creases around her downturned lips and the way her gaze softens.
Holding my breath, I watch him touch her as if she belongs to him. As if he can hold her and comfort her and make everything all right.
That’s not the way it works. He can’t make it better. What’s worse is that he knows he can’t.
She’s a strong woman, but not strong enough. That’s obvious from the way she says his name, like it’s the only word she knows.
We all know better. As he leans in and kisses her, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, all I can think is that we all know better.
My phone buzzes again and his messages can’t wait any longer. I could stay here and listen to her sweet moans all night ... but then he’d be the one kissing her.
Personal conflicts aside, I’ll have to leave this ending to be a surprise.
If people knew the story of how I grew up, they would feel so badly for me. Most of them would. If, however, I started that tale with the barn … a sarcastic huff leaves me as I picture women securing their arms around their children and slowly backing away.
The metal stairs to the fire escape creak and groan as I climb down until my boots hit the pavement.
The streetlights shine down on me and that’s just fine. With the jacket that’s tight across my shoulders sporting an electric company logo and the nondescript black bag in my hand, I’m merely out on the job. Fixing a broken cable box or whatever the hell will do the trick to get bystanders feeling comfortable.
I went from being a boy abducted from his shitty hometown with crime rates that rivaled the most dangerous cities, to becoming an onlooker in a sleepy suburb, hiding in an abandoned barn while I observed the most heinous of crimes. I spent my days watching a man who defended both the innocent and guilty for a living, a man everyone seemed to look up to.
It wasn’t o
ften he came to the barn with his victims. But my birth was a long one and I learned who I was, what I wanted, and more importantly, how and why I should kill.
I was the lucky one who escaped one hell, only to be birthed into another.
Delilah
It’s far too quiet in this apartment now that I’m alone. It’s late and the residents above me, the Whitmores, must have gone to bed early or left for vacation. I haven’t heard a thing through the floorboards. It would offer me peace any other time to know the obnoxious pacing and thuds of heavy footsteps are silenced for whatever reason, but not tonight.
I can’t help but to focus on the fact that last time I showered here, Marcus brought roses to my kitchen. He broke in and not a soul knew while I was in this very bathroom. I check my bedroom the moment I step out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel, although I hold on to my gun with a tight grip. The lightweight Beretta hasn’t left my side since I’ve come home.
I take careful steps into every room and I truly wish there were some sign of someone else, even if it’s only Mrs. and Mr. Whitmore arguing over the television channel and what to watch next.
No one’s here. Not a sound can be heard except for my own nervous heartbeat. My apartment is empty, the security system up and running. A click on the keypad to my laptop, open on my kitchen counter, would show any movement at all surrounding the apartment. Of course I see various people coming and going, mostly neighbors and their friends flowing through the locked front door as they’re buzzed in.
With the pads of my feet still damp, I vacate the empty kitchen. The perfectly cleaned island counter, lacking anything at all on it, stays in my mind.
Back in the bedroom, I recheck all the windows. It’s the back bedroom window that I’m certain Marcus came in through before. I don’t have any proof but it would only make sense. It backs up to brush, so it’d be difficult, but it’s quiet along that street with hardly anyone there to witness a break-in.
