Aftermath

by Rachel Trautmiller

  Amanda knew their backlash best.

  Before the coma, Lilly never would have opened her mouth. Never had unwarranted hatred burn so deep. And if she’d ever done something so cold, she’d have found a way to fix it.

  A male groan filled the room. “Somebody inject caffeine into my veins.”

  “Get in line, couch thief.” Amanda pulled three mugs from a nearby cabinet.

  “You told me to take it.” He sat forward. “Then you sat down and passed out. Plus, there's an underwritten code about drool.” He rubbed a hand through hair that hardly moved and stood, facing them both. A dark blob covered part of his shirt, near his shoulder. “Section twenty-seven, article ten. Saliva on one’s clothing or person from a beautiful, drooling woman nulls any thieving actions. Perceived or otherwise.”

  Amanda shot him a look. “I do not drool.”

  He pulled his shirt away from his body. “I’ve got proof of the crime”

  Lilly rolled her eyes. Wished starting over was as easy as these two made it seem, but didn’t dare hope for it. Ten minutes without discourse didn’t mean everything would turn out fine.

  Didn’t mean she wouldn’t screw it up, somehow.

  Amanda shook her head, one eyebrow raised higher than the other on her forehead. “I don’t wear my detective hat until I've reached a healthy limit of sanity. Then the two of you can tag-team me. One will be bitter—like sugarless chocolate, the other too sweet—I'll have to spit it out.” Amanda shot them both a tired wink. “If we mix them together, it sort of balances things, I think.”

  “We all know I’m the overly sweet candy.” A bark of laughter lit the room and entered Lilly's ears as her own. A little rusted with disuse, but a laugh all the same.

  Neither her brother nor Amanda moved. He regarded her as if she were an alien. Amanda’s face held a smidgen of shock. As if she couldn’t believe she’d said anything so…true.

  Could Lilly hope they’d leave it alone? Move forward without questions, concern or joy over her sudden involvement?

  She held her breath. And waited. Resisted the urge to let another bubble of mirth out. Or plain run from the room.

  Baker Jackson glanced at Amanda, his hands on his hips, a soft smile playing across his mouth. He shook his head. “Alright. Coffee for you, STAT.”

  Amanda shot him a glare. “You're far too chipper.” Then she filled all but one mug to the brim. Grabbed sugar from another cupboard and milk from the fridge.

  He rounded the couch and grabbed Lilly in a hug. Shot a smile in her direction as if they were one big, happy family. And he had event-specific amnesia.

  Forgiveness was only clear-cut in books and movies, where someone said words that erased hard feelings in the blink of an eye.

  Instead of making it worse with harsh words.

  Except, this morning she'd done okay. She was still doing okay.

  And being near Amanda didn't make her want pull her fingernails out, one at a time. Maybe Jonas’ stupid letter was good for something.

  Her brother gave a final squeeze and released her. “Sleep okay?”

  “Sure. If you count tossing and turning like a beached whale.”

  He laughed and tapped his fingers against his temple. “Thanks for the mental image.”

  “Amanda's right.” She crossed her arms against her chest. “You are chipper.”

  “It's the DNA specific drool.” He proceeded toward the other woman, an obvious bounce in his step. “It's my spinach.”

  Amanda handed Lilly a steaming cup and then turned back toward her brother. “Your what?”

  He wore an I-know-more-than-you-do-and-I-intend-to-prove-it smirk. And if Lilly kept still and quiet, she could watch this play of events forever. Or until one of them hit exhaustion or extreme hunger. Or danger.

  Last night had proved they could handle it in spades. And they could work together without speaking. Like a left and right hand, the brain the center for communication, but a seamless process that didn't require conscious thought.

  Once upon a time, she'd had that, too. Minus the danger, of course. She stared into her cup. Fought a wave of loneliness. And wished the inky liquid would satisfy it.

  Ariana needed a father to spoil her. Not a ghost who couldn't help her when she needed him.

  The million-dollar question: Who was she more mad at? The teenagers who'd been goofing around? Jeff? The woman who'd landed Lilly in this predicament? Or herself?

  Because Amanda Nettles was not, nor had she ever been, the problem. If she repeated it a million times, could she hold on to the peace?

  “Like Popeye.” Baker Jackson grabbed the cup not filled with three scoops of sugar and half a gallon of milk.

  Amanda stirred her diabetes in a cup, then discarded the spoon in the sink, nearby. “So, you think you're a cartoon sailor that gets strength from drool?”

  “More or less. Minus the cartoon, as you can see.” He gestured to the shorts and t-shirt Amanda had found for him to sleep in.

  “If a Saint Bernard slobbered all over you, would you suddenly develop a huge set of pipes?” Amanda sipped from her cup, a twinkle in her eyes. “Because I'm willing to find a dog big enough to bowl you over, shake its juicy jowls on your face and see what happens. Purely, in the name of science.”

  Oh, brother. Literally. Time to duck out. Except, Lilly couldn't move, an interloper in their life yet again.

  He took the mug from Amanda's hands and set it aside. Then he pulled his shirt away from his chest, the drool blob a spot a blind person could identify. “See?”

  “Hey.” She reached for the cup.

  He stuck out his arm and blocked her path.

  Amanda eyed him. “You may turn into a man with superhuman strength with drool, but I'm the scariest monster you'll ever see without my coffee.”

  A grin lit up his face. “I’ve witnessed it and I’m not—” The tone of his phone cut through his words. A bit of panic jumped onto their faces.

  Lilly could feel the jittering emotion all the way to her toes. Except, it started climbing her nervous system like King Kong aiming to create havoc from the tallest point in the city.

  Had something happened to Jonas? Had he been attacked? Coded on the table? Fought through the sedative medication long enough to give needed answers?

  She gripped her mug and pressed the questions back. Why was he her first thought, anyway?

  Baker Jackson scrambled for the phone he'd left on the coffee table. He flipped it open and pressed it to his ear. “Robinson.” He paused. His gaze swept the living room until it came to rest on the TV, located on the stand ten feet in front of him.

  Amanda grabbed her coffee and hugged the mug with both hands. Rounded the counter as he grabbed the remote. The TV flicked to life with the Channel Six, five o'clock news.

  Jonas' face was in one corner. Dark, curly hair was wind-blown in wild abandon. His dark brown eyes held an edge of menace as he and Robinson's co-worker, Jordan, hauled that woman into the back of a police cruiser. The house, behind them, was on fire.

  King Kong swung from her nerves to her esophagus, a death hold choking off air and threatening to bring up the minimal coffee she’d consumed.

  The Agent's condition is listed as critical. The red-headed newscaster flashed the camera a smile full of sympathy. Our thoughts and prayers are with him and his family at this time.

  Amanda gave a harsh shake of her head. An unsteady hand found the edge of the counter, the other white-knuckled her mug, now. “No.”

  The Agent was an integral part of the apprehension of serial bomber, Bethany Markel, last year. They switched to a picture of the incarcerated woman. Brown hair, the same shade as Amanda's, hung around her face. Hazel eyes glared at the camera as if one vicious stare would bring the viewer to their death with some sort of mind power.

  The weight of it settled on top of the anxiety jumping around in Lilly's body. A shot of anger zipped into her chest. This woman had violated her in a way that went against everything L
illy stood for.

  She was—had been a nurse. Took her vow to devote herself to the welfare of those in her care, seriously. This woman should have done the same. She didn't deserve the tax dollars it required to house her while she awaited death. They should have executed her on the spot, saving them all a lot of anguish.

  Would it have helped?

  Neither Baker Jackson nor Amanda moved, their gazes glued to the TV, as if in a trance.

  According to the Secretary of Public Safety and the Director of Prisons, Markel will face lethal injection on May fifteenth. Neither the Attorney General nor District Attorney's office offered formal comment on this timely decision. Markel awaits her sentence at North Carolina Correctional Institution for Women, in Raleigh.

  Markel's attorney, Zander Singleton, stated that his client ‘received the news with dignity and responded with the calm, on which, she is known for.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A MOUTHFUL OF coffee punched beyond Amanda’s lips. It hit the floor with a splat. The force of it sent droplets sailing onto her ankles. A clammy hand met her mouth. Swiped a dreg of the substance from her lips.

  The news had single-handedly outed Jonas while announcing the imminent death of the state’s largest menace to date. And she’d received the news with calm? What was that?

  Robinson was still on his phone, his face the picture of stone. Pissed off granite with TNT stuck inside. Lilly’s lips were pressed together, her eyes fixed on the newscasters.

  A large hand squeezed Amanda’s chest and stomach in rapid succession. Only a stupid person would believe Beth’s death would end the agony. And this little report wouldn’t mean an onslaught of press aimed in their direction. Specifically, her. Maybe Lilly.

  Singleton states, ‘Mrs. Markel asked only for a piece of paper and a pen.’ The newscaster stacked her reports. Flashed a smile.

  Dread slithered up Amanda’s spine. Did she rush to Robinson’s side and turn off the TV? Destroy the remote so none of them would have to listen to another word about the past?

  ‘So that she could write a letter to her sister.’

  No. Freaking. Way.

  The sound of breaking glass hit her ears. Her mug wasn’t in her grasp anymore, but at her feet in chunks and shards. Scattered toward the island and the couch. The news continued. Amanda couldn’t hear anything beyond the whoosh of blood in her ears.

  She’d heard wrong. No way Beth would write her a letter.

  Both brother and sister watched her, mirrored images of shock. As if Amanda had known this all along and not clued in either party.

  When was the last time she’d checked the mail? Last week? She spun around. A shard of something sharp cut through her heel, the pain dull in comparison to everything.

  Keys.

  What had she done with them? She spotted them on the hook by the door.

  Amanda swiped them and disarmed Addie. Then she pulled the door open and exited. Waited until it closed. The empty hallway loomed in front of her. The mailboxes at the end beckoned. It might not be in her box yet. She’d set up mail forwarding services so that she didn’t have to give out her address.

  If there was a letter, did she open it?

  Shaky legs carried her in that direction. The key fit into the lock with little effort. Letters filled the inside. An advertisement flier rolled around a stack of mail in the middle.

  She pulled all of it out. Didn’t dare to breathe. Flicked through credit card offers, automobile rate reduction promises and bills.

  One-by-one, they fluttered to the floor. Until there was nothing left. Nothing, but the lone, white envelope still resting inside the compartment, wedged in the back. As if it had hidden itself in hopes of never being found.

  The whoosh in her ears turned to a solid pounding. She grabbed the crumpled letter. Her full name flowed across the front in the same bold handwriting as Jonas’ letter. The NCCIW’s address was at the top.

  What if she burned it? Never opened the thing and forgot it existed?

  From the corner of her eye, she noted Robinson’s approach. His face was a mixture of concern and something far more visceral. One warm hand found her back, a quick touch that lent a millisecond of peace. The other grabbed the letter. Then he tore through the white envelope and pulled out the contents. Together, they scanned sentences confirming what the news was saying.

  Dear Amanda,

  By the time you read this letter, I’m sure you will have all the information I’m about to give you. I am not afraid of dying. It seems fitting given the circumstances. The Warden and my attorney served my death warrant today.

  The Warden has informed me that two members from every family impacted by my actions will have the opportunity to attend what will be the end of my life.

  The prison might want to consider expanding their facility to accommodate the volume of people that might flock to such an event. Eye for an eye, right? I suppose I cannot say that I don’t understand the allure. Punishment for someone or something who has reaped havoc on such a multitude.

  It’s only human nature to place blame and exact consequences. To make sure they are fulfilled. So the other person understands that their behavior was inappropriate.

  Some might say there is no learning in death. Once the barbiturates hit my system, I won’t know the difference between living and dying. Love and hate. Success and failure.

  And this will make a lot of people happy. One less prisoner to feed, guard or rehabilitate.

  I do not expect a response from you. I do not want one. I simply wish to ponder your future actions, because like myself, you are complex.

  I suspect that even if you have moved on, there are times you stand in the middle of a crossroads. I imagine life is rushing past you, in hyper-speed, and you, with no clear direction. But you move forward, anyway, somehow managing to push back when life gets too close.

  This might afford you freedom. Or it might be your prison, one I understand all too well.

  So, I wonder. Which side will you choose?

  Beth

  The pounding of Amanda’s heart, combined with the gathering saliva in her mouth, made her want to find the nearest bathroom and expel every last drop of liquid in her stomach.

  Was she supposed to dance for joy? Give in to the anger churning in her gut? Drive to Raleigh and face the biggest nightmare she’d ever lived through? Because Beth was right about a few things. She was at a crossroads. One she’d never left.

  One woman had destroyed innumerable lives. The reminder was right in front of her. Sharing her living room. Trying to move forward, but stuck in an inescapable rut.

  Every day Amanda strived to save lives. Watching one end wasn’t her thing. From either side. She wouldn’t step foot in that prison on May fifteenth.

  Not even if her life depended on it.

  Numbness spread from her hands, into her arms and wormed its way into her heart. Sucked the energy from her body, all at once.

  “Forget about it.” The crunch of paper filled the silence, as the letter crumpled in his hand. “This is one last ditch effort to play a mind game.”

  She knew that. Didn’t make it easier to breathe.

  “Don’t swim in the frigid water, A.J. The tide will suck us both under.” His voice was soft. Those blue-green eyes captured hers. “I’ll find a bridge. I promise.” A tortured expression covered Robinson’s face. His jaw clenched. His eyes stayed glue to hers. Waiting. Always waiting.

  The tide would suck them under. It had before. How was that a fair choice? Despite everything, it was hers. Couldn’t blame it on a deranged serial bomber. Or an angry sibling. The rambling of Alzheimer’s. The letter of a hateful woman.

  “No.” She stepped closer, over the mail splattered at their feet and placed a hand on either side of his face. Watched the intense flecks of green expand in his eyes. Enjoyed the warmth seeping from his skin to hers. Like miracle cream to severely burnt skin. “We’ll find it together.”

  A puff of his breath
whispered over her lips, a promise of something better mingling in the space between them.

  “A.J.” The nickname he always used came out on the softest whisper. The need in that syllable wound around her heart. Kept it beating in a rhythm suited to longevity. Staved off the complete breakdown humming in the wings.

  For once, she wanted to take Naive Youngster up on the offer to land in a moment she’d probably never forget. Stack it up next to all the other beautiful Robinson reflections. Didn’t want to worry how her actions might affect someone—anyone—else.

  She pulled his handsome face toward her own. The instant her lips touched his, the world went from black and white to color. It swirled in glorious patterns of blue, green, red and orange. The sensation of a weightless fall, enough to carry her through anything. Those strong arms pulling her closer only enhanced it. Enveloped her in warmth she’d never get enough of.

  And then he deepened the kiss in a way that had her rising to her tip-toes to get more. Get closer. Revel in the energy zipping through her bloodstream for the first time in, what felt like, forever.

  If they could stay in this moment—

  A female chuckle hit her ears. “Guess you guys don’t need coffee.”

  What?

  “Go away, McKenna.” Robinson murmured against Amanda’s lips. He placed a final, gentle kiss there before stepping back. Those blue-green eyes locked on her for a moment, sending a silent this-isn’t-over sliding through her system. It blanketed all the tattered places in her soul. Much like the hand clinging to hers. Sure. Firm.

  Then his focus shifted to his agent, standing a few feet away. McKenna held a drink carrier complete with two large coffees, in one hand. The other held her own cup. She sipped from it.

  A smirk played across her face. “What’s with the mail and bare feet? Some kind of trend I don’t know about? Sort of like kissing in the rain. Except...”

  “Now, who’s been reading too many romance novels?” Amanda gulped in a breath of air. Tried to get Naive Youngster to disappear, because she was forming some not-so-smart ideas about the man next to her. Those well beyond their intense kiss. The little idiot hadn’t been stripped of her I’m young and invincible mantra yet.