by W. Winters
My brother would have been that old then. My brother would fit a description of a young white male in his early twenties.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” I say then clear my throat, sitting at the very end of a bar in Delilah’s hometown. “I was just starting, only a month in. And I thought …” I pause to take in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pale ales and IPAs from the draft the bartender pours. The mug is tilted and the foam spills over to the sound of another classic rock song coming on.
“At first I thought I … I didn’t know what to think. It was a hunch and I thought maybe I just wanted him to be alive, you know?” The men in the back make a ruckus when someone hits the dartboard. We’re surrounded by clatter and barflies, but I’ve never felt more alone.
Until Delilah leans forward, her hands wrapped around an untouched glass of white wine. She peeks up at me and then scoots closer, her right side brushing up against mine.
“You wanted him to be alive.”
“It was more than that … the way he said things … they were different for me than they were for the other notes and they hit on memories.
“It was like he wanted me to know, but he never outright said it.
“I thought it was all in my head … that the suspect was a surrogate or worse, was playing me.”
“I was there,” Delilah whispers, his gaze turning to the sweet liquid in the wineglass. She runs her finger around the rim of it. “You never told me.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” I say and my excuse sounds just like what it is. An excuse. Her small hand is gentle as she rests it on my thigh and rubs back and forth in a soothing motion. Her lips part but she doesn’t say anything. Neither of us does for a moment until she takes a sip of wine and then leans closer to me.
“You were hurting, you were scared and didn’t know who you could trust or if what you were doing was the right thing.” She adds to my excuses, my reasoning for going along with it back then.
“Maybe it worked like that at first. But then … he’d … he’d set people up to go down and give me leads on them.”
“You worked together?” she asks and I nod. The truth is begging to be spoken aloud finally. All those cold cases. All those men who disappeared. I knew it was coming. I knew Marcus wanted to interfere and I let it happen.
Instead of bringing any of that to light, I lift my beer to my lips and take a swig.
“I should have told you.” I nod my head, agreeing with myself. “We were partners.”
“I could have told our superiors. It sounds crazy, Cody. You sound crazy even now when … when I believe you,” Delilah says and glances at her wine, then back at me. Her plump lips are a dark shade of red that complements her warm umber skin.
It hurts to watch her, knowing she’s conflicted and that she’s hiding from me. She doesn’t know I know. I can see how much it kills her. Every time she slips beside me, letting her gentle soul be seen, she pulls back, stares at her wine and the sadness overwhelms her.
It’s not fair to her that it happened this way.
“I was afraid to trust him at first …” I trail off, remembering the instincts pulling me in all directions. She’s got to be going through the same. I can be there for her, though.
An older man rises beside us, making his way to the back probably to relieve himself. With him gone, there’s no one surrounding us. The place is only half-full and most of the people are at the other end of the bar where the flat screens are playing football.
“I know … I know he kissed you.” I let the confession slip out without looking back at her. Even though I can feel her gaze pierce into me, begging me to look back at her, I continue, wanting to get it all out so we can start over. So we can start fresh now with no secrets or lies between us. “I know he traded … he plays games …” I suspected something was up when I started to receive fewer texts from him, but the ones from two days ago when she never texted and her father was found dead spelled out everything.
He was with her, protecting her and he didn’t want me to worry.
It’s like stepping into an ice bath remembering the message he sent. If I hadn’t been stopped at that red light, I swear to God I would have crashed.
“That’s why you backed away from me?” I ask her, finally taking a peek down at Delilah and finding those big brown eyes staring up at me. They’re bathed in insecurity and begging for forgiveness.
Her lips are parted and her breathing is staggered.
“It’s because he stepped in, not because of something I did?” Even as I speak the last part, I know that’s not all true. It’s because he told her first. I should have told her. The moment I wanted her in my bed every night. The moment he came into my place and scared her. I should have told her everything.
“Cody,” she whispers, emotion drenching my name.
“I can deal with that. As long as you still want me,” I admit to her and feel the ache of needing her, truly and deeply needing her to forgive me and care for me again. I waited so long to make a move and it’s because of my brother. The way he spoke about her … I thought he wanted her and if I kissed her …
I thought he’d moved on and I thought wrong.
“Cody. I did more than kiss him,” she says. Her confession is spoken in a tight voice and the nervous exhale that follows adds to her uneasy posture. She won’t even look at me, staring across the bar at an empty seat instead.
He did more than kiss her? The betrayal and jealousy are felt instantly, deep and primal. Licking my bottom lip, I stare straight ahead and attempt to take another swig of beer, but I can’t. I’d rather throw it at the back wall. Every muscle coils inside of me.
If he thinks I’ll let him use her like he used me, he’s dead fucking wrong. Brother or not, I’ll kill him for bringing her into this. He said he was protecting her. That doesn’t mean fucking her.
After a moment, I swallow thickly, take a drink and tell her, although I still stare at the back wall as I do, “If I had told you … you wouldn’t have.”
“You don’t know that and this isn’t your fault. I made that decision.”
She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. She doesn’t know the lengths that Marcus is willing to go to. Every warning screams at the back of my throat, yet there’s only ringing in my ears when I peer down at her.
“If you want me to go, I won’t. I’m not going to just let you go either,” I finally tell her and her reaction at my admission is everything. From the soft inhale and slight lean forward, to the way her hands seem to inch across her lap to get closer to me. I haven’t lost her yet.
“I won’t lose you,” I tell her and I promise myself. My pulse picks up and the heat between us is coming back. “I don’t know what would happen to me if I did.”
Delilah
Cadence’s place is small, but plenty big enough for the three of us. She’s got a corner lot for her condo and Mom’s been on the porch outside almost all day. I keep checking on her and so does Cadence.
Clicking send on the email, my stomach sinks and the sip of coffee doesn’t help the sickness that’s settled there. Claire’s agreed to let me stay here rather than come in for an immediate evaluation as the board demanded. I’m on leave and they can’t mandate that I be brought in on a whim when I haven’t been formally charged with anything.
I have two weeks and then I need to follow procedures. Starting with a psych evaluation.
Even Aaron, the secretary, sent an email asking if I was all right. I’m more than certain the office, and probably the whole courthouse, is buzzing with gossip of my father’s death and my possible involvement given the note that was left.
Miller and Judge Malden also sent their condolences via flowers to the office. Aaron provided me with pictures. The prick that travels along my arms as I close my laptop on the kitchen counter accompanies the questions. So many questions but the main one being, do they suspect I was involved?
Sometimes we let our minds get away from us, and I remind mys
elf of that. There’s no way they suspect me. My mother, though? It’s almost always the partner when a husband or wife is murdered. Almost always.
“I swear, it never stops.” My sister’s already speaking, her voice coming into the kitchen before she’s even down the stairs. Her heels click as she rounds the banister. “I’ll only be gone for an hour, though,” she tells me even though she’s staring into her purse, digging for her keys most likely. She adds, “tops,” and like I suspected, her keys dangle from her hands.
Her hair is perfection, with thick natural curls that shine down to her shoulder blades. A black pencil skirt and a cream blouse are classically professional, yet on her body they could look scandalous.
“They really called you in two days after?” I ask her and she lets out a sigh of frustration before slinging the black leather hobo bag onto her shoulder.
“It’s not them, it’s my patients.”
Guilt rides down on me. “I’m the workaholic, not you. Maybe you would say I’m projecting because work is what I wish I were doing.”
“No,” she says and then leans forward, giving me a kiss on the cheek with both of her hands gripping my forearms. She leans back, still holding on to me as she adds, “I’d say you don’t want to be left alone with Mom.” Her diagnosis sinks that knife a little deeper. “And I don’t blame you.”
“Go analyze someone else’s psyche,” I say, batting her hands away, once again opening my laptop and taking a seat on one of only two barstools lined up at the end of her counter.
“Just … one hour,” Cadence says and I wave her off, not bothering to look up and give her more reassurance. It’s her house, her life. She’s right, I don’t want to be alone with my mother who looks like a shell of herself and is constantly crying or staring off at nothing. But I deserve just that.
The clicking of her heels is steady and determined, followed by the front door opening and closing. I can even hear her car turn on and then drive off. All the while I stare over my left shoulder, past the small living room with only a single sofa and one reading chair tucked into the corner. I have a direct line of sight out the glass doors to the patio and seated there, with the same mug she’s had for hours, is my mother. The wicker furniture is comfortable enough, but I know the thin blanket my sister gave her can’t be giving her much comfort since it lays on her lap and doesn’t even cover her upper half.
Her nightgown is thin and she’s got to be freezing, but the last three times we asked her to come in, she only shook her head and began crying again.
“I loved him. I loved him so much,” she whispered the last time I went out there.
I wanted to talk to her, to try and process everything that’s happened between the two of us, but she merely stared ahead blindly with a sad smile on her face, telling me she was counting all of her mistakes. She said she’ll be out there for a while and not to mind her. With a small pat on my hand she looked me in the eye and added a please and another apology.
I debate on the likelihood that she’ll come in if I go out there and ask her to again. It’s slim to none, but I have to check on her.
Cadence still doesn’t know it all. A single whispered conversation confirmed that our mother killed our father. My sister left, locked herself in the bathroom and then asked me for time. That was last night and this morning she’s avoided any real conversation. We need to all sit down. The three of us know a secret no one else can ever know.
First, I need my mom to tell me what she’s willing to let my sister know. It’s obvious Cadence blames herself for something that she said triggered our mother. At least that’s what she believes.
Whatever happens and whatever’s spoken between us, I want the three of us to know we still have each other. Given the current state of each of us individually … I don’t know how to make that happen.
All I know is that the police suspect someone else and have evidence that leads to that person.
You need to believe someone else did it. It’s so much easier when someone else did it.
The consequences of delivering what feels like justice come with some sense of relief. A drunken attorney once told me that. I didn’t think much of him back then, but oh how I wish those words were true right now and that I could, even for a split second, believe that someone other than my mother had done it. And that the police would find them, prosecute, and all would be right in the world. Save one more gravestone that shouldn’t exist.
The morbid thought is interrupted by the buzzing of my phone, vibrating against the granite countertop. If it was anyone else, I’d just watch it ring and not answer.
But it’s Cody. And after last night, the lone hour I gave him before coming back here to my sister’s, I can’t ignore him.
There’s so much I need to tell him still. So much I want him to tell me.
“Cody?” I answer, holding my phone to my ear. I don’t remember the last time I didn’t answer on speaker. But with my mother in view, I don’t want to risk her hearing any of this.
“How are you holding up?” His tone is caressing, and a bit of it soothes me, a bit reminds me that so much is hurting.
“Not the best, not the worst,” I tell him and stand up from the stool, leaning against the counter and stretching my back a bit. “Slept like shit and feel even shittier now.”
My voice is deadpan but when Cody huffs a gruff laugh, the semblance of a smile tilts up my lips for a moment.
“Did you talk to the DA?”
“Yeah, she said I need to come in for counseling when I get back.” I’m not given a chance to wonder how or why Cody would know that as I straighten. He doesn’t give me the chance to wonder.
“There are some concerning thoughts from the PD back home too.”
“Thoughts? Do they have a lead?” My pulse races and it hurts, physically, to feel it pounding in my chest.
“Can we talk about it in person?” Cody asks and I glance over my shoulder to watch my mother, thinking only of her being here and how that could be problematic with Cody coming over, but she’s gone.
“Hold on,” I say without thinking into the phone, pushing back the stool. The sound of the legs scraping is so loud Cody can probably hear it on the other end.
“You all right?” he asks but I’m too focused on the wicker chair and the puddle of blanket that blows slightly in the wind.
Where did she go? With my brow pinched I open the sliding glass door and call out, the phone pressed to my shoulder so Cody can’t hear. “Mom?” I look around, searching to the left and to the right, but she’s nowhere in sight.
“You okay?” Cody asks, calling out my name on the other end.
“I don’t know,” I tell him as I pick up my pace to go inside and call up the stairs for my mother.
It’s quiet. Too quiet and my damned heart starts racing again.
“What’s going on?” Cody asks at the same time I feel someone or something behind me.
When I turn, I fully expect it to be Marcus.
I don’t have enough time to tell Cody who it is as the scream is ripped out of my throat and a bag thrown over my head.
With the dizziness, the clatter of my phone hitting the floor and the wind knocked out of me, I swear I try, but then there’s another bash to my head.
Marcus
There’s always a calm before the storm. Some may think there’s hope that it’s over when the gray skies clear and the harsh wind silences its angry cries. I’m more than aware that hope is nowhere in sight and that the quiet moment is for readying, for preparing for the violence that’s sure to come.
There’s a reason I paired them together years ago. They were the only two people outside of the chaos who needed to stay there, in the blur on the edge.
She’s only a little mouse, not even a pawn in the games. And yet … he couldn’t hold on to her; he couldn’t contain her. He couldn’t keep her safe in his small, insignificant world.
My brother failed me. It’s a betrayal of the worst kind.
He’s too careless, blinded by her and that’s only going to cause more problems. I was too late, but he was supposed to be there with her. Cody was supposed to be watching her.
Without him, my pieces are limited and for the first time in years, I’m lacking. I’m behind. And it’s all his fault.
“Tell me the moment you find her.” My command is short, my tone even and just as placid as the autumn skies above me. The shades of red and orange bleed in my mind. Just as they did, one by one, massacred in the alley behind the abandoned warehouse, giving me every detail as I flayed the flesh from them. I had enough of them, watching the condo from their positions in windowless vans. So fucking obvious.
I slowly tortured one while the others watched.
Ask a simple question: What car did they leave in?
Get a simple answer: A black Mercedes SUV.
And ended his suffering with a gunshot to the back of his head.
Cody should be grateful for the use of the gun. It would have been better for me, for my sanity rather, to be a bit more harsh. But evidence will be on his side.
“Of course. Is there anything else?” The man I’ve hired who’s on the other end of the line is a specialist of sorts. He acquires things … certain precious things.
I swallow thickly, breathing in deep to stay levelheaded. Is there anything else other than her?
Time changes so much. There’s always been more, far more important things than the little mouse who set me on this course. But now?
How could there possibly be anything other than her?
A stirring in my gut travels up my throat at the thought of her no longer existing. At the vision of her laying in a pool of her own blood like I’ve seen so many times with people in their last moments.
A strangled muffle echoes from the small closet. A quick glance proves the blood has leaked through the gauze once again. The bastard bit off his tongue and tried to swallow it.
An honest effort at suicide if ever I saw one.
