It was a conspiracy.
I dodged the question for as long as I could, but I was getting it on all sides. My mother joined the baby train of course, hinting and asking every chance she got. I learned to give careful answers. Never give an exact timeframe. Always push it off for a little longer. There was always something that had to come first. We had to settle in the house first. Mitch had to get his new promotion first. We had to pay off the cars first. We should try getting a dog first.
Then suddenly, in the split of a second, none of it seemed to matter anymore.
On a Saturday morning in May, we were at home. He was on the big leather sectional couch in the living room watching his golf game and I was in the kitchen. It's funny now, but I can't remember what I was doing. I just remember us joking with each other. Well, I was joking with him because I didn't want to talk about children for the hundredth time.
“When we have our first boy, I won't be wasting time on the couch. We'll be out in the yard throwing the ball around,” I remember him saying.
“You mean when we have our first dog?” I called back. “When we have our first dog you can play with him as much as you want.”
“You keep talking about a dog,” he replied and I was glad I couldn't see his face. I didn't want to see how affected he was by my change in subject. It was beginning to get harder and harder with him. “You better be careful, one of these days I'm going to bring one home.”
“We'll see,” I said. “You wouldn't know how to pick a good one. If I let you go by yourself, you'll come home with some little teacup rat who won't even know the meaning of catch.”
“Well if I let you go, you'd come back with a pitbull who hated everyone but you,” he tossed back.
“As long as he loved me, that's all that's important,” I said, smiling at the thought of the hypothetical pitbull. It really did sound delightful.
The doorbell rang and I thought it was the delivery guy, bringing a stray wedding present. For months, we'd been getting stragglers from family and friends who couldn't attend. We were still swimming in our new house and every new gift still fit in the massive kitchen or in one of the half-empty rooms. The living room and dining room and our bedroom were all decorated, but Mitch's office and the sunroom and the bedroom we were turning into a workout room were all still a works in progress. I went to the door with a smile on my face expecting a new thing to find a use for. We still hadn't gotten the custom towels or the expensive wok I'd asked for, for example. I was completely blindsided by who I found instead.
“Joan Vasquez?” he said when I opened the door. “Do you remember me?”
“It's Stevenson,” I said automatically, my shock making my muscles freeze and my stomach drop to the floor. “Joan Vasquez Stevenson.”
“Oh,” the man said, his furry white eyebrows knitting. “You got married. Congratulations.” I stared at him, my hand poised on the doorknob. I was absolutely terrified, I know now. But at the time I just felt numb, like I'd been submerged in a pool of freezing water. There was only one reason the man was on my doorstep. He'd come bearing bad news. And I wasn't ready to know.
“Thank you,” I whispered, then cleared my throat. “It's been a long time but I remember you, Detective. ” He looked a lot different than the last time he'd stood on my doorstep, almost three years ago. He looked older, more slumped over. The skin on his face seemed to hang and there were deep grooves around his mouth, like he hadn't smiled in years. He was wearing a rumpled overcoat and there was drops of water in his salt and pepper hair from the misty afternoon air. But I knew him.
“I, uh, I hate to impose, but do you mind if I speak to you a moment?” he asked, eyeing the fancy front entrance. I could understand why; I'd fallen in love with the house the first time I'd seen it, too. It was a brand new house, but Mitch had customized it. It had big windows and a wide door and a nice stone path that lead up from the street. The exterior was clad in cedar shingles that he said reminded him of his childhood summers spent in Maine. It was a nice house, to say the least. It was also a bit far from the small, modern condo I'd lived in the last time the detective and I had met. I'd come up in the world and, from all outer appearances, I was happy. I had gone through hell and come out the other side. I was a success story.
But he was about to shatter that illusion.
“Sure,” I said after a moment, even though I would've rather slammed the door in his face. Curiosity was more pervasive than self-preservation, though, and I opened the door wide and stepped out onto the porch. The detective glanced past me into the house, but I pulled the door closed behind me so he couldn't see inside. I didn't want Mitch to be involved, but I had to know what the detective wanted. I knew I probably couldn't keep it hidden, but I wasn't thinking straight.
He jammed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders as a breeze kicked up. I wrapped my arms around my chest even though the chill barely bothered me. I stared at him expectantly, toying with the ring on my finger with my thumb. I'd lost more weight – the ring was looser. “I got a call from the FBI this morning,” he said. “I told them I would swing by and tell you the news.”
“What news?” I asked, blinking quickly to soothe the prickling sensation that burned in my eyes.
“They got a hit on Elliot Pritchard,” he said and, even though I expected it, it still felt like someone had just punched me in the head. “His fingerprints were run through the system two days ago.”
“Where?” I blurted out, digging my fingernails into my biceps. “Where is he?”
“It's uh... a bit complicated,” he said, clearing his throat and shifting his feet. “Apparently, he was working on a fishing rig out of Alaska.”
“Alaska,” I repeated dumbly. So that's where he'd been. Elliot was far, but not as far as I'd thought. In fact, it was downright close, compared to all of the places I'd imagined him being throughout the years. It was a quick plane ride away but it might as well have been across the world.
“About a week ago, a bad storm hit where his ship was anchored. They got hit pretty hard and the boat was damaged. Five men were lost.”
“What do you mean lost? What does that mean?”
“Their bodies haven't been recovered, but they're presumed dead,” he said, matter-of-factly. I didn't know if I wanted to shake him or thank him for his lack of emotion. I needed his levelheadedness, because at that moment, I felt like I was going to explode. Elliot couldn't be dead. I would know if he was dead, I told myself. I would feel it deep in my soul. For all those years, I'd been absolutely positively sure he was alive. Up until a minute before the detective had started talking, I'd been sure he was alive. But now my world felt like it was tilted askew. Everything I thought I knew was false. There was still hope, I told myself. Elliot was tough. He wouldn't go down without a fight. He would fight until the very last.
“They ran his fingerprints,” I said, grasping for all hope that Elliot wasn't one of the men who went overboard. “So that means they have to have him in custody?”
“Not exactly.” The detective dropped his head and I knew it wasn't good. I knew I had to get control of myself. If I didn't, I might give away something I didn't want to reveal, especially not to member of Seattle's finest. “When the ship was damaged, there were injuries onboard. Some body parts were recovered. The authorities are working on identifying the men through the remains.” The detective pulled his hands out of his pockets, a pack of gum in one of his hands. “We got a hit on Pritchard right away.”
“Oh God,” I whispered, because I couldn't get ahold of myself in time. I bit down hard on my bottom lip, trying to keep the bile from rising in my throat. I felt my knees going weak, but I forced myself to keep standing as the cold reality hit me. Elliot was lost. There wasn't even a body to mourn over. He was in pieces. As I stood around my expensive house and laughed with my husband over silly things, he was cold and bloated and rotting.
“We never expected the search for Pritchard to take this long,” the d
etective continued. “We've... I've never stopped thinking about your case. Even all these years later.” I nodded at his words, even though they were barely registering. I could only think of Elliot's cruelly beautiful face and how he looked the last time I saw him, in the hospital. He'd been trying to tell me goodbye and apologize, but he couldn't. He didn't know how. So instead he'd left me. He'd left me all alone.
And now he was dead.
“I'm trying to quit smoking,” he said, holding up the pack. He offered it to me awkwardly, trying to be polite. I stared down at the pack of peppermint gum but I couldn't even think of a response. He shrugged and unwrapped a piece and popped it in his mouth. He slipped the pack back in his pocket. “I know it's kind of a shock,” he said. “I apologize for that. But I figured you'd want to know as soon as possible.”
“A shock, yeah,” I said, forcing myself to nod. “So... what if they find them? What if they're alive?”
“At this point, it's not considered a rescue mission,” the detective said, the scent of the peppermint wafting in my direction. “Apparently, this isn't as uncommon as it would sound. The seas are rough up there. Usually a few deaths every season, according to the guys on the ground.”
“I don't believe it,” I said. Because I couldn't. I couldn't imagine living in a world that didn't have Elliot in it. He'd been such a huge part of my life for so long. He'd been the sun that I'd been orbiting around, even though he was gone. I thought of him every day. Even on my goddamn wedding day, I'd been consumed with thoughts of him. It was always him. Always.
“Believe it,” the detective said, his voice low and comforting. “He's not going to threaten you ever again. He may have gotten away with it for awhile, but fate got the bastard, in the end.” I closed my eyes because it was becoming too hard to keep up the facade. It was becoming too hard to control myself and to not scream and to not destroy something, anything. I wanted to break something and hear it break. I wanted to see the world burn. “Sometimes we get lucky,” he said, eyeing me. “Even though he should've rotted in prison for life.”
“Jo?” Mitch's voice surprised me and I jerked my head to look at him. He was standing in the doorway, looking from me to the detective. “You okay?”
“Can I have a minute?” I asked him, not caring if it's rude or harsh. I couldn't regulate my tone. It was too difficult to hide the emotions when they were taking over. My self-control was gone.
“You're upset,” he said, taking another step out onto the porch. “I'm Mitch Stevensen, her husband,” he said, turning to the detective and holding his hand out. The detective took it and shook it, awkwardly.
“The name's Marshall,” the detective said and then looked at me. “But I've already taken up enough of her time. I think I'll be going.”
“What's this about?” Mitch asked. “What's going on?” He held his hand out and grasped my elbow lightly. I didn't move away from his touch because it felt good to have someone to lean on. I didn't know how much longer I'd be able to stand on my own. But I still didn't have all the answers I needed. I needed to know more and Mitch was standing in the way.
“Go inside,” I said, looking him in the eyes so he would know I was serious. “Please.” He shook his head, being stubborn at the worst time.
“You look like you saw a ghost.”
“I'm fine,” I said, stepping away from him. I steeled my spine and my tone. “I just need a few fucking minutes and then we'll talk.” He sucked in a breath at my tone and I almost regretted it. I almost regretted letting him see a glimpse of the real me. The real me who didn't give a shit about being polite or smoothing over hurt feelings. The real me who didn't give a fuck about doing what other people expected. The real me who only wanted what I wanted and didn't give a shit about the consequences.
The real me who was in love with a dead man.
“Fine,” Mitch said and then he turned and went back into the house. I tugged on the ends of my hair until tears sprang in my eyes. When the door closed behind him, I addressed Marshall again because I had to know.
“I just want to know for sure if he's dead,” I said the words carefully, slowly. So slowly that I almost choked on them.
“He's dead,” Marshall said softly. “His body will be recovered eventually, but these things take time.” I nodded, trying again not to think about his body floating in the vast sea, all alone. But that wasn't Elliot anymore. It was just a rotting corpse. “Don't think about it too much,” Marshall said, as if that were going to comfort me.
“I won't,” I said woodenly. “I haven't thought about him in a long time. I'm happy now and he can't take that away.”
“That's right,” Marshall said, but he didn't believe it any more than I did. “That's exactly right.” He shrugged and I could tell he wanted to go. I didn't blame him. It was supposed to be happy news, news that would make me feel vindicated or something. A victim got justice. But I wasn't playing the role properly. I was being difficult.
“Thank you for coming out here and telling me in person,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“Not a problem.” He shrugged and his shoulders seemed to slope again. “I'll let you get back to it then.” I nodded and then he stepped off the porch and back into the misty afternoon. I watched him and as he walked toward his dark sedan parked on the street, a thought occurred to me.
“Where's Wilson?” I called after him. “Detective Wilson, your partner?” I stepped off the porch, not caring that I was barefoot and in a thin T-shirt. I didn't feel the cold or the wet. “Are you still partners?” I hadn't thought of Wilson in a long time, but suddenly it seemed strange that he wasn't with Marshall. Marshall stopped in his tracks and looked back at me. “He gave me his card,” I said lamely. “I think I still have it.”
“We're not partners anymore,” Marshall said. He reached into his front suit pocket and pulled out a white card. He walked back toward me and I noticed he had a slight limp. “Have my card,” he said, holding it out to me.
“Is he still a cop?” I asked, taking the card.
“No,” Marshall shook his head.
“That's too bad,” I murmured, staring down at Marshall's white card. “He was nice.”
“He's dead,” Marshall said, bluntly.
“What?” I said, a tremor of shock running down my spine.
“Three years ago or so,” Marshall said. “He went missing, body turned up in Oregon.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, a crazy thought wriggling its way through my brain. A crazy, ridiculous thought. “I'm so sorry.”
“I'm sorry, too,” Marshall said then continued on his way to the car. I watched him go, telling myself that it couldn't be. There was no way Elliot would've done it. There was no way he would've gotten the opportunity. There was no way Elliot would've risked it. But when I thought about that night in the hospital, the way he looked at me, the way he acted, I didn't know. I didn't know if it seemed too far-fetched. Maybe it was crazy. Maybe it was a coincidence. But I didn't believe in coincidence. Coincidence only looked like coincidence when all the facts weren't present. When all the things that led up to an incident weren't known and it looked like life was a game of chance. Elliot being on that boat was a chance. Wilson being dead for three years was a chance.
But there was a reason. There was a cause and an effect.
It rained today and tomorrow the grass would be green and the trees would be healthy. That was life. Even death was life. Wilson and Elliot were rotting. They were food for worms and flies and fish and whatever else. There was no coincidence.
I stumbled back into the house, tripping over the threshold because my feet felt heavy. I swung the door open and it hit the wall. Mitch was standing there but I barely saw him. I barely saw anything. All of a sudden, it was night. The daylight had faded. And I was on the floor, staring up at my husband as though he was a stranger. He might as well have been.
“Jo!” he said, shaking me, his hands bruising my shoulders. “What's the matter? What's going on?”
He kept asking, but eventually I stopped hearing him.
And I didn't answer.
Chapter Twelve
Elliot's death made the local news in Texas and my mother called the day after Detective Marshall paid me a visit. I was in bed and the bedroom was dark even though the sun had already come up. The curtains were still pulled shut. I lay on my side, staring at the corner of the wall. That day was kind of a blur, as were the days after it. I felt like I couldn't get up or move or think. It didn't feel like there was a point. I closed my eyes and I could pretend that I was back in my old bedroom and Elliot was there next to me, his chest bare and the sheet riding low on his hips. I could pretend that nothing had changed and that no time had passed. I stretched my hand out for him, brushing my fingers against the pillow instead of his face. But I wished it was his skin. I wished I could touch him again.
I felt like I had betrayed myself. He was such a close part of me, I was sure I would be able to feel his presence. I would be able to know if he was gone. But I couldn't sense it. He'd died alone and I'd had no idea. I didn't have a clue and I didn't know what it meant. Maybe I didn't love him as much as I thought I had. If I'd really loved him, I should've gone looking for him. I should've gone anywhere to find him. But I'd been so stubborn. I'd been so angry at him that I'd tried to pretend that I didn't love him anymore. I'd tried to pretend that he didn't mean anything to me and I'd let him go. Because of my stubbornness, he'd died in a horrible way without knowing how much he meant to me. Without knowing how important he was.
He died without me.
“Joan,” Mitch said, his voice soft and close to my ear. I could feel his weight behind me on the bed. “You need to stop this,” he said. “It's not good for you.” I didn't answer him because I couldn't. My mouth felt sewn shut. He didn't talk for awhile and I wasn't sure if he'd left or not. I felt the weight of a hand on my hip and I closed my eyes again, pretending it was Elliot. If I slept, I could dream of him. If I kept my eyes closed and the lights dim, I could pretend nothing had changed and no time was passing.
Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) Page 15
