by Leslie Caine
Fairfax's presence at the awards presentation Saturday
night. Or to ask if they'd spent Sunday together.
With his hair adorably tousled and his coat collar up,
290 L e s l i e C a i n e
he looked ridiculously handsome. I sighed and shook my
head.
"What?" He removed his coat and hung it up. "Did I
miss an appointment already or something?"
"No, just some whining and shouting. Margot's upset
that the Sentinel ran a sidebar on the front page about her
private jet . . . not exactly a solar-powered vehicle. And
Matthew Hayes is probably going to get a heavy fine for
buying stolen merchandise. Personally, I doubt he'll do
jail time for that. In any case, he blames me."
"He should look in the mirror. He's the one who broke
the law."
"That's exactly what I told him."
"Good. Did he thank you for showing him the light?"
"Of course. And then we burst into a rousing rendition
of 'Amazing Grace' together."
He chuckled. "Sorry I missed that."
My heart was racing. Something was wrong with the
way Sullivan was acting. The tone of his voice was fine,
but he wasn't quite looking at me. He and I felt out of
step somehow, and it now seemed impossible to keep my
promise to myself.
"Guess you should have gotten up earlier, then," I
said.
He ignored my remark. He raked his fingers through
his hair. His eyes were glassy, and his hands were shaking
a little.
"What's the matter? Did Jennifer Fairfax keep you up
late last night?"
"No, Erin."
"Something's going on between you two, Steve. I saw
the way she was looking at you Saturday night."
He set his jaw and stared at the top of his desk.
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 291
"Tell me something, Sullivan. How is it that you can
find yourself standing two feet away from a grenade that's
ready to explode, and calmly pick it up and throw it into
a pond, but you can't sit ten feet away from me and tell
me the truth about your feelings?"
"Because I'd rather lose my right arm than lose you."
He spoke through clenched teeth.
"Lose me? By telling me the truth?"
Sullivan winced, but otherwise remained motionless.
"Oh, God. I'm right about you and Jennifer." I sank
my head into my hands. "Just when I'd have given anything to be wrong."
"Erin. It was just--"
"Just what?!" I shouted. I was suddenly so irate that I
felt utterly out of control. "Just a mistake? Just a one-night
stand? Just sex? What are you going to say? That it was
meaningless and you were thinking of me the whole
time?"
"I was, actually," he answered in a choked voice. "Not
that it makes it any more forgivable."
"No, it doesn't." I got to my feet. This felt unreal. How
could this be happening? How could I feel stabbed in the
heart like this? Because I'd believed all along that he was
my soul mate. "You knew full well that I didn't want you
making love to Jennifer Fairfax and imagining it was me!
I wanted it to be me!"
"I know, Erin. That's what I want, too. I'd go back in
time and change it if--"
"Are you in love with her?"
"No!"
"It sure looks like she's in love with you, though."
"She thinks she is. But I told Jen Saturday night
that--"
292 L e s l i e C a i n e
"Don't say her name! I know who you're talking
about!"
"It was a one-night stand. Right after Richard died.
When we ran into each other downtown. I was out of my
head, Erin. And I know it was wrong of me, but I was so
mad at you. For not . . . knowing things that I hadn't told
you. And there she was, all of a sudden, throwing herself
at me . . ."
"Yet you went on seeing her time after time, working
with her one-on-one as your private client! What's this
going to do to our business? To our word-of-mouth referrals? Don't you realize she'll tell her friends about this?"
"She won't, Erin. I told her before and afterwards that
it could never happen again, and she said it was fine.
That she, too, was a consenting adult. That she was just
looking for a good time, and that it meant nothing to her,
either."
"Here's a news flash, Sullivan. Women lie. It's less
painful than admitting to someone's face that he's just
broken your heart."
"Have you ever gotten your breath knocked out so bad
you can't get your breath again? And for a split second
you feel like you're going to die from the pain?"
"Yes, Sullivan, I have! That's what I'm feeling right
now!"
"That's the way I felt when I heard Richard died," he
continued, ignoring my remark. "When I felt like it was
my fault." The phone started to ring. I stared at it. "Don't
answer that," he said. He went over to the phone jack on
the wall and disconnected the wire.
I headed for the door. "I've got to go."
"Please, listen to me, Erin. These last few weeks . . .
months, even, I'd gotten so wrapped up in you, in us, it
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 293
was all I could think about. Wanting to be with you, to
make love to you. Then Richard called out of the blue. It
just felt . . . connected somehow. I got this fantasy stuck in
my head where he'd be my best man at our wedding. You
two would hit it off, and we'd introduce him to Audrey,
and the four of us would be these fast friends, for the rest
of our lives. It was crazy and stupid. Then, just when I realize it's actually happening, that you want me, too,
Richard calls, totally whacked-out. And you two meet,
and you hate each other. Then he gets murdered right in
front of me, and it was too damned stupid to take him to
the emergency room. And--what's-her-name comes on
to me like gangbusters. I was in a state of shock. Couldn't
figure out how it all went so wrong. I started thinking . . .
maybe I was wrong about you and me."
Although I'd listened to his long confession as best I
could, part of me was silently arguing with his every statement. "I've endured my own share of rough times, damn
it all! You don't see me hopping into the sack with the
first client who comes on to me!" I grabbed my coat.
"Erin, please." He came toward me. "I don't deserve
you. I know that. Don't let this be the last straw for you.
I'm begging you to forgive me. I hope I can make you understand. It was a mistake that I regret. But I told you the
truth. All of it. I thought that's what you wanted."
"I wanted the truth to be different."
"So did I. So do I." He stood in front of me, blocking
my path to the door. "Right after the awards ceremony I
told . . . her that I was in love with you. I love you, Erin."
"What am I supposed to say to that now? That you've
got one hell of a way of showing it?"
He looked stricken. "How about that you understand
that
I made a mistake? And that you can find it in your
294 L e s l i e C a i n e
heart to forgive me someday? Can't you focus on the fact
that I love you? Not on the screwup I made when I was
out of my head?"
"Not right now, I sure can't. This is all too much to
sort out at once, Sullivan."
"I understand. All I can do now is apologize and
promise nothing like this will ever happen again."
"I have to go." I left, and this time, he didn't try to
stop me.
I ran to my van, got behind the wheel and sobbed for a
few minutes, but afterwards I didn't feel any better. I
needed to talk to a girlfriend right now. And although I
had several closer friends, it was Linda Delgardio whose
advice I most craved. Maybe because her relationship
with her husband was the one that I most admired of all
my friends.
She answered her cell phone by saying, "Hi, Erin.
What's up?"
"Are you on duty right now?" My voice sounded utterly pathetic to my own ears.
"Not for another two hours." Her voice was rife with
alarm. "What's wrong? Please tell me you're not being
held at gunpoint, so I can keep breathing."
"No, I'm fine. Rather, I'm not in physical danger. It's
about Sullivan. We broke up. He slept with a client."
Silence. "Was this right after his friend was killed?"
"Are you psychic, or something? He didn't talk about
that during a police interview, did he?"
"No, Erin. It's just . . . something that's been known to
happen. A reaction to being confronted with one's own
mortality. But never mind that now. Do you want to
come over?"
"No, I want to know what to do! I want to be somebody
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 295
else . . . anybody but me! He just said he loved me, but
now I can't believe him. We agreed a while ago that we
weren't going to see anybody else. I thought I could trust
him, but I obviously can't. I'm feeling so . . . I don't even
know how to describe it. Like I'm getting pulled every
which way."
Linda was silent for several seconds. "Where are you
right now?" she asked gently.
"In my van. In my parking space."
"If he came after you right now, what would you do?"
"I don't know."
"Do you love him?"
"I don't want to answer that question. The man just
told me he cheated on me!"
"I thought you hadn't even slept with him yet."
"I haven't. Why? Should that make a difference?"
"It would to me."
I reconsidered. It wasn't as if we were engaged, or married. I wanted an operator's guide to this situation. Or just
a step-by-step guide to surviving the next five minutes.
"What would you do if you were me?"
"That depends. Do I still get to be a cop, and carry a
loaded service revolver?"
"No, you're an interior designer. And he's your business partner. Linda, he said all the right things that I've
been dying for him to say, but at the worst possible time.
He broke my heart." I sighed. "I can't take this. It's just
not worth the pain."
"Sure it is."
"Jim's never cheated on you, though, has he?"
"Not since we were engaged, no, but we've had plenty
of fights and other people who caught his eye, or caught
mine. Plenty of times over the years one of has done
296 L e s l i e C a i n e
something stupid or claimed that this was the last straw,
that it's over between us. But we just . . . muddle through
them somehow. If you really want my advice, Erin, it's to
go treat yourself to a massage, or whatever helps you relax. Me, I'd go to a shooting range, but that probably
wouldn't be the ticket for you. Just let your heart heal. See
how this feels in another day, then a week, then a month.
Give yourself a chance to gain some perspective."
I took a deep breath and let it out. "I can do that."
"Good. So are you okay to drive? You can come here.
I can make you some comfort food. Chicken soup. Hot
chocolate, maybe?"
I hesitated. The phrase "the last straw" kept ringing in
my ears, and now a strange image came to my mind's eye.
I kept seeing the reveal in Burke's wall, showing the straw
bales. All those broken and bent pieces--were they really
just the result of the shifting foundation? Maybe it was
just a coincidence, or a product of my utter confusion,
but something nagged at me.
"Thanks, but I don't think so."
"What are you going to do instead?"
"Go to the shooting range. Aim at any targets that remind me of Sullivan."
She laughed. "Now, there's a plan."
I couldn't muster a smile, but at least I was breathing.
And talking. Maybe even thinking. Things could be
worse. "On another subject entirely, when the police investigated the scene of the shooting at Burke's house, you
didn't find any loose pieces of straw, did you?"
"Not that I'm aware of. Why?"
"It's just . . . he's got construction problems, with the
concrete in his foundation. The shifting could be causing problems with his straw-bale walls."
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 297
"So the house could be . . . leaking straw?"
"I'm just thinking out loud. Anyway, thanks so much
for your advice. I feel a little better now."
"Any time. And, Erin, Jimmy and I were talking about
having you over for dinner. Tonight's a little hectic, but
what about tomorrow? I don't get off till late, but . . ." She
was obviously making this up as she went along.
"I'd love to. Thanks. But why don't we try for next
week, okay?"
"That'd probably work even better. So. Are you going
to be all right?"
"Eventually. I'll give you a call tomorrow or the day after."
"Take care, Erin. And don't do anything rash."
"Now, when do I ever do anything rash?"
She chuckled and we said good-bye and hung up.
I repaired my makeup as best I could, then backed out
of my parking space. Linda would be furious with me,
but a growing suspicion was starting to get a stranglehold
on me. I couldn't get the image of all those damaged
straws in Burke's wall reveal out of my mind.
There was a simple way of finding out if anything strange
was going on at Burke's house. Many months ago he'd
shown us where he hid the key to his front door, for times
when we needed to let our crews into his home while he was
at work. As long as Burke was at work right now, it would be
simple enough for me to let myself in, remove the screws
holding the glass in place, and investigate to see if the straws
were getting mangled by Burke--or maybe Jeremy--using
that access into his thick walls as a hiding space.
I arrived at Burke's house and peered through his
garage window. His car was gone. Good. It would only
298 L e s l i e C a i n e
take me five or ten minutes to prove or disprove my latest
shot-in-the-dark theory, and then I could scoot out of
here with no on
e the wiser. If, God forbid, Burke caught
me red-handed, I could tell him I was afraid that the
shifting straws could indicate that his house was becoming even more unsafe and that I wanted to take a second
look before calling the structural engineer again. It was a
weak story, but then again, I had red, puffy eyes; every
man I'd ever met hated to belabor any point made by a
woman who'd recently been crying. Men were always
afraid emotions would get stuck to them like white cat
hairs on black velvet.
I stuck a screwdriver in my pocket, raced up Burke's
porch steps, and removed the cap from his lamp. I could
hear his spare key clink inside as I did so. I slid the false
bottom out of the cap, retrieved the key, and set the lamp
cap in the middle of the porch where I couldn't possibly
overlook it. This was undoubtedly a wild-goose chase--a
by-product of my inability to think straight--and the last
thing I wanted to do was accidentally run off with Burke's
key.
I let myself inside, locked the deadbolt behind me,
and entered the living room. The warm air smelled of
cinnamon toast. Burke must have only recently left home
for work after eating breakfast. "Burke?" I called, just to
be cautious, though the jig would have pretty much been
up already if he'd answered.
The desk had been removed from the front porch, I
suddenly realized. Was it in his bedroom, or had the police taken it for fingerprint evidence?
"Focus!" I commanded myself.
I strode boldly into the kitchen and to the reveal on
the east wall next to Burke's table and chairs. I got a sink-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 299
ing feeling of futility as I looked at it. What had I been
thinking? This was straw. Of course the pieces would get
broken along the wall! It was pressed right up against the
glass, after all.
Then again, I thought, unscrewing the fasteners, it
was only the lower third of the visible straws that appeared to be pressed downward, as though something
had been jammed between them and the drywall. Plus,
this spot was in full view of anyone who happened to be
standing near the glass back door. Which was very likely
where Walter Emory had been when he made his unannounced inspection of the property, in the final moments
of his life.
A chill ran up my spine as I continued working to remove the eight screws that held the frame for the window
in place, my mind racing. This would make such an inconvenient--and small--hiding spot. Yet Burke had
