by Dori Lavelle
Before I could change my mind, I said goodbye to my friends—both residents and staff—with a promise to drop by in the morning to help out with breakfast.
Still smiling, I opened the door and a sudden flash blinded me. I shut my eyes instinctually. When I opened them again, more flashes burst from every side, so I squinted and raised my hands to my face. A few heartbeats later, I realized what was happening.
Reporters and news vans dotted the front yard, and they were taking pictures and shouting questions I could not make out over the commotion.
Nauseated and reeling, I stepped back into the building and closed and bolted the door. I turned to find Lynnette, Melisa, and a few residents staring at me with their mouths open.
Some of the residents had their faces glued to the window, observing the chaos outside.
“How did they know you were here?” one of the volunteers asked.
“I don’t know.” All I did know was that I was trapped. They wouldn’t leave until I talked to them. But what could I say? I wouldn’t want to drag Nick’s reputation through the mud any more than I already had. The best thing for me to do was keep my mouth shut. But for how long? How long would I allow people to think of me as something I wasn’t?
***
Fifteen minutes later, I was pacing the cafeteria, barely able to breathe. My whole body warned me something major was about to happen. “What do I do?” I said for the tenth time.
“I think it’s time you stood up for yourself. Tell the press what really happened. You don’t want anyone to think you got away with murder,” Lynnette said gently.
“But I’m not in prison.” My voice rose. “Shouldn’t that tell people I must be innocent?” I wiped the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand.
“You have no idea how many criminals walk these streets. Many innocent people are in jail while the guilty walk free,” said one of the residents.
“Carlene, you’re like a daughter to me, so I won’t lie to you,” Lynnette said. “I honestly think this is the key you need to move on. The sooner you face the world and set the record straight, the sooner you can continue living your life.”
I nodded, but thinking about all the reporters camped outside made me shiver. I hugged myself. “Maybe you’re right.” And maybe this was my last chance to reveal the truth to Nick—even from a distance.
I was guilty in the sense that I had pulled the trigger, but I was innocent at heart. He had to understand that.
“You don’t need to say much,” Melisa said, patting my hand. “Just that you’re innocent. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek, then pulled Lynnette aside and asked to borrow her cell phone.
While attempting to gather my courage, I peered out the window, and to my surprise, I saw that some residents had gone outside and were talking to the reporters. Lynnette said they were trying to defend me, but I didn’t believe that was all it was. Of course some just wanted to bask in the spotlight. They wouldn’t be able to help me, anyway. Only I had the power to do that. With every passing minute, my determination to set the record straight strengthened.
I shrugged on my coat, grabbed my purse, and stepped out the door.
The reporters mobbed me like a pack of wolves and bombarded me with questions. There were at least twelve or fifteen of them.
“Miss Adams, was the man you killed really Nick Johnson’s brother?” a man wearing huge glasses asked.
“Why aren’t you in prison?” a woman to my right chipped in.
“The police looked into the case and gathered enough evidence to prove my innocence,” I said, wondering if anyone heard me at all. I glanced at the Oasis windows to see Melisa on the phone and Lynnette giving me a thumbs-up. I swallowed and continued, my voice firm and controlled. “I’m not in prison, because I’m not guilty of murder.”
“How can you prove your innocence if your alibi can’t exonerate you because he is dead? You killed your boyfriend’s brother, the man you apparently loved. You did pull the trigger, didn’t you?”
The same words Nick had used before he’d disappeared from my life. They stabbed the same raw spot in my heart.
Stand up for yourself, Carlene, I told myself as fear gnawed at my confidence, but I had to get them off my back once and for all. I lifted my head high, squared my shoulders, and reached for one of the microphones being shoved at me. I gazed into the throng of people, no longer caring about the flashing lights. I had been so hesitant about telling Nick the whole story because I didn’t want to taint the few memories he had of his brother in the short time they had known each other. But what other option did I have? Nick had to know.
Tightening my grasp on the microphone stem, I cleared my throat. “I did love Chris,” I started, and an unexpected hush fell over the crowd, “and would never have wanted to harm him in any way. But he was not well. He suffered from a manic-depressive disorder.” I swallowed hard. “The day he died was the day he’d planned to die.” I paused, gathering my courage. “He wanted to commit suicide…to shoot himself.” I squeezed my eyes shut in an attempt to shut out the images of that day, but they played behind my eyelids like a devastating movie.
Chapter Seven
Chris had been especially depressed on the Saturday two weeks before his death. He’d tossed and turned the night before, and when we went out for lunch, he’d only managed a mouthful of spaghetti carbonara—his favorite dish.
“What’s wrong? Not hungry?”
“Not really,” he said.
I pushed my green salad aside. “Talk to me.” My stomach twisted like it always did when he was hurting. I wanted to reach down deep into his soul and fix whatever had been broken.
“I dreamt of her.”
I leaned forward and placed a hand on top of his. I knew who he was talking about, knew what was coming. We had the same conversation at least once a month when he fell into his dark place.
“The last time I had this dream was on my fifteenth birthday, when my father came home drunk. I’d wished so much for that day to be different. I wanted him to see that I was there, that I needed him.”
“To see that you were hurting, too,” I added. This was how it always went, him pouring out his heart and me helping him empty it. Only for it to be filled again a few weeks later.
He nodded and ran a hand over his head. He always wore a buzz cut that made him look striking and a tiny bit dangerous. The short hair electrified his bright eyes even more.
“Did you take your meds?” I asked cautiously.
His eyes darkened. “I’m tired of taking that shit. I want to feel normal.”
“But, Chris—”
“Marianne, don’t push. I’m fine. I’ll get over it.”
Yes, he would. Until it started all over again.
In an attempt to raise Chris’s spirits, I used up a lot of my savings and surprised him with a helicopter ride I’d managed to get on a discount. His kind of thing. I’d been saving up for it for a couple of months, and the surprise had been meant for his birthday, in a couple of weeks. I was well aware that, as usual, he’d be depressed afterward, but I wanted him to be happy, even for a moment.
And he was.
Until the weekend after we landed.
I’d woken up early to go look for something to eat. I hated to start the day without breakfast. But apart from a bottle of water, our fridge was empty.
“Chris,” I called out, “I’m going out to get breakfast. I’ll be right back.”
When I returned to the apartment, the place was eerily cold. I shivered despite the warm weather.
I placed the eggs and milk in the fridge and went to the bedroom. Everything looked the way it had when I’d left—the crumpled sheets, the TV on mute, the half-closed curtains. But Chris lay in bed, staring at me. His eyes were darker than they’d ever been, but his face seemed relaxed; a tiny smile tipped his lips.
“Hey, babe,” he said. “You’re back already?”
“Yes. Why do you see
m so weird? Are you okay?” I stepped forward. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Don’t,” he said firmly. “Don’t come near.”
My stomach dropped. “Chris, what’s going on?”
“I’ve come up with an idea. A way out of this shit misery. I’m leaving.”
I frowned. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”
A large grin spread across his face. “Where nothing can touch me.”
I inched forward. “What are you saying, Chris?”
“I love you, babe, but you can be so naïve sometimes. I’m talking about death.”
“Chris, you’re not thinking of…” The words stuck in my throat.
He nodded and grabbed the bottle of water from the nightstand—the same one that had been in the fridge before I left.
A wave of panic slammed into me, and I rushed to the bed. “You didn’t take pills, did you?”
“Stop!” Chris warned, and I flinched. “Don’t come near.”
I’d managed to reach the edge of the bed, so I sank down on it, at his feet. “Chris, don’t talk like that.”
“It’s over, babe. I’m done with life.”
His words sent an involuntary shiver racing through me. “Chris, don’t,” I pleaded.
“Don’t worry. I know I’ve been a burden to you. You won’t say it, but you don’t need to. You deserve so much better.”
“No.” I smothered a sob as I clutched his feet under the covers. “You’re the only man I want. I don’t need anyone else. You’re the love of my life, and it hurts me to hear you say those things. I can’t live without—”
Before I could finish, he reached out and pulled me up to him and under the covers. “I’ve never loved anybody as much as I love you.” He kissed me hard on the lips. The warm palms of his hands swept over my body as he undressed me, and I melted under his touch.
In a flurry, we ripped each other’s clothes off. He dug his fingers into my hair and kissed my lips, my neck, and my face. “You’re all I ever want. I want you forever,” he whispered in between kisses. “My heart belongs to you.”
“Then don’t leave me,” I said, grabbing his arms. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
He flipped me onto my back, and I wrapped my legs around his strong waist. “I never will, I promise. I never will.” He pressed his lips firmly on mine as he parted my thighs and sank himself into me. He let out a deep groan. “Gosh, I love fucking you. I can’t get enough of you.” With his eyes closed and his lips parted, he grabbed my butt and eased himself deeper.
With my eyes tightly shut, I moaned and gyrated and swayed from side to side, allowing him to go deeper inside me. He felt amazing. We had always had incredible chemistry; we had sex every chance we got and almost anyplace we were alone. The more we made love, the hornier we got for each other.
As he slid in and out of me, harder, deeper, slower, then faster, my whole body quivered, and I neared the brink of ecstasy.
His heart was pounding loudly against my chest, and a ball of excitement rolled inside of me.
Chris halted his thrusting and kissed me hard on the mouth, then he moved the kiss to my earlobe, nibbling it gently as his fingers squeezed each of my nipples.
“Don’t…stop,” I begged, choking on my words.
“I won’t.” His breath was fire on my skin. “I never will. You’re so sexy.” Raising himself, he grabbed hold of my thighs. “Look at me,” he said.
I opened my eyes and gazed into his. Our gazes were firmly locked as he started moving again, picking up pace with each thrust. His broad shoulders contracted and heaved as we melted smoothly into each other, and the heat built until our orgasms arrived at the same time, leaving us wrapped around each other, drenched in sweat, heaving. We fell asleep, naked, in each other’s arms.
I thought it was over, that our lovemaking had erased any remnant thoughts of suicide in Chris’s mind.
But when I woke up two or three hours later, I was alone in bed. I walked to the bathroom, where I found him gazing into the mirror with the barrel of a pistol at his head, his eyes wild and face pallid as if he were ill.
“Chris.” My heart leapt to my throat, and I screamed as I lunged for him.
I tried to wrestle the gun from his hand. “Leave me alone,” Chris said through clenched teeth, tightening his grasp on the weapon. “Let me go.”
“No, I can’t.” Fear wrapped itself around my neck and squeezed tight. “Chris, please.” My hands were sleek with sweat and tears as I clutched at his fingers, forcing them to open as I pushed the gun lower and away from his head.
“You can’t stop me,” Chris said, his voice firm and determined, and then suddenly his grip on the gun loosened and mine tightened.
As I yanked the gun away from him, he fell forward as if he’d lost his balance and collapsed on top of me.
A gunshot rang out from the gun in my hand, and black silence descended upon the room.
The police found the suicide note under his pillow. His last letter to me.
Babe, I’m done with this damn world, but I’ll never leave you. My heart is yours FOREVER. See you on the other side. Goodbye.
***
“I didn’t want Chris to die.” I cried openly now, my tears dripping onto the microphone. “I killed him trying to save him.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of distant cars.
Then the reporter with glasses spoke. “Miss Adams, do you think Nick Johnson will ever forgive you? Even if you pulled the trigger by mistake, your hands are still stained with his brother’s blood.”
“Wrong,” a deep-timbered voice replied. “Miss Adams’s hands are clean.”
My eyes searched the sea of faces; I blinked away tears then gasped when I spotted him. “Nick,” I whispered.
He stood next to one of the news vans, wearing the same cap he had on the last time we met, jeans, and a black polo neck sweater. He moved forward, and people parted to allow him to pass. “The case was revisited and further investigation has shown that Miss Adams is innocent.” He addressed the crowd, but his gaze stayed fixed on mine. “Mistakes were made. New evidence has shown that even though Miss Adams did pull the trigger while trying to save my brother, it was not the gunshot wound that had killed him. He ended his own life.”
I covered my mouth with my trembling hands. What was he talking about? How else could he have killed himself?
“Mr. Johnson,” A woman in a fur coat neared him. “Can you elaborate? If Miss Adams didn’t kill your brother, how did he die? How did he commit suicide without pulling the trigger?”
Without even a glance at the woman, Nick climbed up the steps and stood next to me, draping an arm around my shoulders. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information. I can only assure you that there is sufficient irrefutable proof of Miss Adams’s innocence.” He paused. “My brother was ill, and in the end, his illness won. Instead of killing him, Miss Adams had put her life at risk trying to wrestle for the gun. Now I’d like to ask you to leave this woman in peace. Allow her to live her life. Please respect her privacy. Our privacy.”
“Do you love Miss Adams, Mr. Johnson?” one of the reporters asked.
Nick waited for a long time before answering. Then he turned to me and cupped my face with both his palms. “Since the first day I saw her.” He lowered his head and brushed my lips with his, setting them ablaze. I moved closer and deepened our kiss, tasting his mouth, mixed with the tears rolling down my face.
In the distance, applause and whistles broke out.
Then Nick broke the kiss and grabbed my hand. “Let’s get out of here.” He guided me down the steps and through the throng of onlookers, whose number had increased while I told my story. He pulled me close to his side and we hurried away, pursued by a few reporters.
When we arrived at his Porsche, which was parked down the block, he yanked the door of the passenger seat open and helped me inside. Urging the reporters to stay away, he ran to
his side, got in beside me, and started the car.
As he sped away, my heart still thundered. “What did… what did you mean back there?”
“Chris didn’t die from the gunshot wound. You didn’t kill him.”
“But I did, Nick.” I wanted to believe his words, use them as an eraser for all that had happened. We could have a chance at a fresh start. But I was there when Chris died, when he let out his last jagged breath and the light faded from his eyes. Why would Nick suddenly choose not to believe it after accusing me of being a killer before?
He didn’t respond, but he slowed down and parked in front of The Rising Dough. He unhooked his seatbelt, turned to me, and cupped my face in his palms again. He kissed me and pressed his forehead to mine, his warm breath misting my face. “I am so sorry for what you went through. My brother committed suicide. The gunshot wound to his abdomen was not critical. The bullet didn’t hit a major organ. What killed him was a lethal dose of cyanide poisoning which he must have ingested at least two hours before you found him. The paramedics would never have arrived in time to save him. Chris was determined to die that day and didn’t want to leave anything to chance.”
I unglued my forehead from his and gazed into his eyes. “I don’t understand.” I drew in a shaky breath. “Nick, that can’t be right. I saw all the blood…so much blood.” I bit back hot tears. “I shot him.”
“Yes, but he succumbed to the poison before he could bleed to death. Chris was desperate to die, and he succeeded.”
“Why don’t I know about any of this?”
He brushed my hair from my neck. “Everything seemed to be black and white. The police officer in charge the morning Chris died had found you standing over Chris’s body and didn’t see the need to dig further.” Nick closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them again, they had a sparkle to them. “But forensic evidence was analyzed soon after Chris died, and it revealed had Chris had toxic levels of cyanide in his system. And the gunshot wound was most likely not the cause of his death. But the samples and reports were misplaced and only found two years later, during a renovation of the police station.”
