Accuse

by Nikki Sex

  I’ll bet that every Tom, Dick and Harriett will be trying to get more information or will just come out for a peek to see what's going on.

  “Am I boring you, Wilkinson?” Bronowski asks in a mocking, irritated tone.

  I jerk out of my reverie, astonished to find that I’ve tuned-out. “I beg your pardon,” I reply with a faintly embarrassed smile. We both know I haven’t been listening. “I think I’d better talk to my lawyer now, don’t you?” I ask the detective.

  “Fine,” he says, as he stands up and storms out.

  When my lawyer finally arrives, he’s furious. He bustles, he glares and makes every possible attempt to intimidate the police.

  “Mr. Wilkinson, are you OK? Have you been denied counsel?” he asks in a melodramatic way, as if he’s appalled by what has transpired. I suspect he was on stage as a child. I think he would’ve been a huge success if given half a chance.

  I smile.

  They say you get what you pay for. This is particularly true when you buy the services of a lawyer. My guy’s costing me a fortune, but he’s worth every penny. I spend the whole day in custody, but in the end, they can’t hold me.

  The police release me in time for dinner. Unless they can find a motive or more evidence of my guilt, I’ll remain a free man.

  Chapter 30.

  “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.”

  — Nelson Mandela

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  Alrighty then—let’s take an inventory of my morning so far.

  It’s storming outside, a decent reflection of the tempest that is overwhelming my mind, my heart and my life. Grant has been arrested for murder. I have no clue when or even if he's going to return.

  Meanwhile, I’m still reeling from one of the worst panic attacks I’ve had in years. When I saw all those police, all in one place at my door, the past roared back to the surface of my mind. My brother, my mother, Jamie.

  I’ve deluded myself into believing I was past that level of dysfunction. I'm so disillusioned and disappointed in myself. I've been doing so well for so long. I’ve come ten steps forward only to go eleven steps back.

  So, here I am now, alone, freaked-out and solely responsible for the care of a six-month-old child. To top it all off, a few minutes ago, my period started.

  Now my day is complete.

  Can anything else possibly go wrong? Famous last words. I should know better than to tempt fate with that thought, especially on a day like today.

  I’d give three night’s sleep to crawl into the Zen-comfort and safety of the small black box André made for me. My anxiety level would immediately drop. Unfortunately, no-can-do. If I run away to my retreat, who would look after the baby?

  Thank God, Briley entertains himself. I only have to occasionally shift a different toy within reaching distance, or move the Noah’s Ark mobile that hangs above him.

  Mitten brushes against my legs, demanding attention. Absently, I stroke him. From time to time, he almost makes me smile by batting at one of the dangling toy animals hanging from Briley’s Ark mobile. He’s trying to snap me out of it, bless his furry sox.

  Mitten is attentive and protective. He’s seen me like this before and was my rock during my little meltdown. I love him so dearly.

  I’m physically exhausted and an emotional wreck. In hopes of distracting myself, I pick up the remote control to Grant’s wide-screen TV and aimlessly flip through the channels, unable to settle on anything. My mood keeps vacillating from numbness and depression to abject fear and anxiety.

  It often can take three to four hours for me to fully come down from one of my panic attacks. Until then, I simply can’t think clearly.

  Oh, yeah, I’ve climbed back on board the crazy train. Until the engine runs out of fuel and the locomotive slows down, it still seems as though I’m speeding along at a million miles per hour. There’s no easy way to disembark.

  I can only wait and suck it up. Getting off the train takes time.

  “Hello?” I hear the call of an unfamiliar female voice.

  “We’re in here,” I reply. My stomach tightens as a fresh spike of anxiety shoots through me. Grant sent her, Grant sent her, I tell myself. I trust Grant.

  I hear the front door close and the sound of an umbrella being set down. I look up to see a petite woman peeking around the corner and then tentatively come toward me.

  “Hi, Renata, I’m Sally Ann,” she says quietly, walking into the room. She brings a soft floral scent and the fresh smell of rain with her. Her light blue eyes are hesitant, but kind. It’s obvious she doesn’t mean to impose, yet she appears to be well aware I’m in trouble.

  “Grant asked me to come,” she says. “Those policemen should be ashamed of themselves! I don’t know what they thought they were doing coming here, going through his home and scaring you half to death. Grant is a hero. He wouldn’t ever do anything wrong!”

  “Yes,” I agree, glad to find I’m not stuttering.

  Strangers make me uneasy. I feel awkward, mute and stupid around them. A client is different because they need my help. Luckily, I’ve learned to be a good actress for short periods.

  Sally Ann is excusing my irrational hysteria by blaming the police, and her loyalty toward Grant is nice too. A flash of curiosity piques my interest. I’m surprised into assessing her objectively, despite my fractured mental state. This woman is either a counselor, or she’s naturally empathetic.

  “What can I do to help?” she asks with sweet sincerity.

  My God, it’s such a relief to have her support. Sally Ann is an attractive young woman, perhaps my age or a little older, with a very pretty, symmetrical face. She’s wearing a light blue cashmere sweater and blue jeans. Her figure is curvy, and her thick, wavy locks are shoulder length. Her brunette hair contrasts with her striking light blue eyes. It’s a powerful combination.

  No barriers, no hidden agenda—her kind-heartedness isn’t an act. This genuinely sweet and wholesome woman has arrived in order to help. I almost cry with relief.

  “Thank you… for coming,” I murmur.

  “You are most welcome—oh!” she suddenly interrupts herself, her almost musical voice singing, “What a gorgeous little baby! And what a beautiful cat!”

  I briefly introduce her to Mitten, who likes her instantly. This settles the matter for me. Mitten is a wonderful judge of character.

  “Do you have experience with babies?” I ask.

  “Oh, yes,” she replies in that soft, quiet voice. “I’m very good with them.”

  That’s all I need to know. Urgent with the desire to leave, I stand up. “Would you please look after Briley?” I ask her. “Just for two hours or so? Honestly, I need some time alone in order to pull myself together. I’ve had such a fright.”

  Sally Ann’s expression is filled with compassion. “You poor thing! Grant told me what happened over the phone. What a terrible shock for you. Go!” she says, making a shooing motion with her hands. “Don’t you worry now. I’ll manage just fine.”

  Before I disappear, I show her Briley’s bottle, which is ready when she needs it, and also the location of some jarred baby food. As soon as possible, I take off, escaping into the much needed, familiar safety only my little black box can provide.

  ~~~

  We all have our boxes we escape into, in order to get by. Mine just happens to be a physical one.

  A psychiatrist once diagnosed me as “agoraphobic” with “severe social anxiety.” If I’m at a party, or any gathering I feel awkward, stupid, mute and judged. It’s not them—it’s me. I can be friendly, but I find it difficult to make friends.

  André taught me how to act normal around strangers.

  Feeling normal is the tough one.

  Like a frightened mouse, I spend almost three hours regrouping. I’m cut off from everything, curled up into a ball, enveloped by comforting dark silence. When I come out, I’m able to be myself again.

 
Sally Ann is sitting on the couch, playing with Briley. She looks up with a smile as I enter the room.

  “Hi, Renata,” she says. “You look so much better!”

  “I feel better, thanks to you,” I say, forcing myself to speak confidently. Sally Ann blushes and shakes her head, unable to easily accept my tribute. We’re both apparently shy, which is pretty funny.

  I change the subject. “Did you have any trouble?”

  Sally Ann tells me in detail that she fed Briley, changed him and gave treats to Mitten. Her eyes are bright, her manner enthusiastic. It’s clear she's enjoyed her time with both of them.

  She’s straightforward and happy to talk. What you see is what you get with her. I like that. It’s unusual to find anyone as open and easy to read as she is. Maybe this type of behavior kicks in when she sees someone she perceives of as wounded, exactly like I was when she first arrived. She’s a nurturer.

  Sally Ann has also made herself at home by brewing a fresh pot of coffee. Thank God!

  I offer her a slice of chocolate cake, and serve us both. After such a terrible morning, I’m empty inside. Now that I’ve gotten it together, I’m able to eat and settle my stomach.

  “How do you know Grant?” I ask her, pouring a cup of coffee for myself.

  “Oh, I’m a good friend of his sister, Betty Jo. We all went to school together. Grant is three years older than we are. He’s always been so nice to me and my brother.”

  I find listening to strangers much easier than trying to speak to them. With careful questioning, I find out that Sally Ann has a twin brother, Danny. Sadly, he was a troubled teen who never grew out of it, I gather.

  Briley is in a baby swing, half asleep. Sally Ann rocks it from time to time. “Danny’s too sensitive, you know what I mean?”

  I nod. Oh boy, I understand that all too well. I was like a raw nerve ending for too much of my life.

  Mitten climbs onto my lap and I absently stroke him.

  “And bullies are just like rabid wolves,” she says, her voice rising with righteous anger. “They instinctively sense who in the herd is the most defenseless. They’re also such cowards! They don’t go for strong prey, they go after the broken or already wounded, you know? They target the easiest one of the pack to bring down.”

  “Stinky! Stinky! Stupid, stinky, stutter girl!”

  “I understand,” I say, as vivid memories of my troubled childhood flash through my mind. Children at my school taunted and tormented me too. I instantly feel a kinship with her poor brother.

  “Bullies seemed to come out of woodwork, inevitably zeroing in on Danny, in the way bullies do,” Sally Ann continues. “Whenever they did, if Grant found out, he’d beat the hell out of them. He was always so protective of Danny, as though he was his personal bodyguard or something. It was sweet, even if it wasn't always done in the sweetest way," she says with an uncertain smile.

  Sally Ann frowns for a moment, her features marred by confusion. “In a way, Grant is kind of like a wolf too—the biggest and scariest wolf of all, but I don’t think he’s ever been a bully.”

  “Really?” I was interested in hearing her story before, but now I’m hanging on every word.

  “Oh, yes,” she says with starry awe in her eyes. “One time, at school, during swimming, this big jerk kept dunking Danny, scaring him half to death. My poor brother was choking and panicking. Grant got so angry he grabbed the bully and held him under water until Danny was terrified the big jerk would drown.” She smiles. “Then Grant made the guy apologize to Danny.”

  I smile. “Impressive.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  We chat for over an hour, mostly about Grant. It astonishes me he's spent his life resisting someone so sweet and pure. I’m even more surprised to find how much I envy her wholesome perfection. I feel a strange, never-before experienced urge to hate the woman. But who could dislike her?

  I've never been the jealous type. However, Sally Ann is just so remarkably demure, caring and lovable. I'm touched by her charm. There’s a compelling sort of innocence in her eyes. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn she’s still a virgin. Actually, I'd bet money on it.

  Grant said he never dated or had any relationships with women other than prostitutes. I'd have thought Sally Ann would be utterly irresistible to him, or to any man with a pulse. Hell, if I had leanings in that direction, I'd fall for her.

  Grant obviously trusts her—and he doesn’t trust easily.

  A bitter knot of envy tightens my chest.

  I'm not sure why I feel this way about Sally Ann. I can only attribute my newfound jealousy to the strength of my love for Grant. I find myself feeling possessive of him in ways I've never felt for anyone. This is surprising. Yet, even with these new thoughts and sensations coursing through me, I can't help but like Sally Ann.

  Socially adept, kind and graceful, I truly admire her.

  It breaks my heart to admit it, but Sally Ann is perfect. Mental demons whisper in my mind with bitter, hateful reproach. You don’t deserve Grant. You’re not good enough for him.

  Sally Ann is.

  By the time I see her out the door and say goodbye, I know three things. One, she adores her brother. Two, the sweet Southern Belle is saving herself for marriage, and three? The poor woman has silently suffered years of unrequited love for Grant.

  Chapter 31.

  "Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy." — Guilaume Apollinaire

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  I’m wearing jeans and boots without a shirt as I labor in the yard.

  Two weeks have gone by since the police so rudely raided my home and frightened the hell out of Renata. Other than her spending a few hours every day alone in her room, she came out of it pretty well.

  The heat from a potential murder charge is off for now. My lawyer assures me that there’s not enough evidence to press forward with the case. At last I can relax.

  The sky is clear, the temperature's about fifty but it’s still early. It's going to be hot today, but not humid. I have the day off from the shooting range. I want to get this project done and spend more time with Renata.

  I have two poles, both eight inches in diameter and fourteen feet high. They’re held fast with wire cables. The four cables and two poles are all anchored in concrete that has almost set.

  These babies won’t be going anywhere.

  I’ve already put the metal crossbar in place, now I just need to attach the two rubber swings I picked up from The Home Depot.

  I stare up at the sky, measuring in my mind. I estimate Renata and I will be able to reach about twelve feet high at full swing. I recall the joy on her face when I took her to that playground after she'd told me how much she loved to swing. It changed her mood from troubled to jubilant so quickly. It was beautiful to watch.

  Delighting Renata is my new favorite thing.

  “I love it,” she says.

  I shoot her a grin and my pulse kicks up just from seeing her smile. I’ve memorized her face, her profile, the feminine shape of her. I could easily draw a detailed picture of Renata from memory—if I could draw.

  Every time I look at her, I can’t believe how lucky I am to have her in my life and in my home. I find it almost impossible to believe she even exists. How can someone so perfect live in the world?

  Despite the cool morning air, Renata is wearing a summery, yellow dress. She’s been watching me while holding the baby on her hip, a common domestic scene I’m getting used to.

  What would it feel like to see her holding our child wrapped in her loving arms?

  Monster! Pervert!

  Echoes from my past make me fear fatherhood, yet these whispering demons don’t hold as much sway anymore. I’ve learned to listen to my negative self-talk. I recognize the inner dialogue, tell myself it’s bullshit, and then ignore it.

  These embedded thoughts no longer have the same power to hurt me they once did. I’ve realized every one is a lie.


  “You’ll be able to try it out later today,” I say.

  “Woo hoo!” she calls out wearing a broad grin.

  Renata wants to know who abused me. I won’t lie, but there’s no way I can tell her now. I’ve explained to her it’s a secret I must keep.

  My history of being sexually abused by the murder victim would be more than enough motive to send me to trial. Who knows when the police might get around to interviewing her? They’ve already spoken to my entire family, my employees and my alcohol rehab facility. They even tried to talk to my AA sponsor, who told them to shove their head where the light don’t shine.

  Luckily, they don’t seem to know about the counseling I’ve had with André. Communication between a therapist and a client is privileged information, but you never know.

  Detective Bronowski kept his word and quickly returned Renata’s iPad. Why haven’t they returned my personal laptop or business computers?

  I had to buy new computers for the shooting range, which was fine. Yet, we're missing our data files. It’s been a tedious task, reconstructing the information we need for taxes and bookkeeping as well as countless other business-related responsibilities.

  My lawyer told me Stan Huber was the witness who claimed that I killed my father. I couldn’t believe it. Stan fucking Huber? The bastard.

  I’d talk to him, but I don’t see the point. Clearly, Alex got drunk or high and jabbered the same plan to kill our father to Stan that he'd blabbed to me. Stan used that knowledge to get out of jail. Of course, being my brother's best friend, Stan didn't want to hurt Alex, so I became the fall guy.

  It doesn’t matter at this point, because I don’t want Alex arrested, either. He's in enough trouble with the law already.

  “You mind holding the ladder again?” I ask Renata.

  “Sure.”

  Renata puts Briley down on the baby blanket and hands him a toy. Damn, she looks hot in that little dress. As she bends over, her ass moves in a way that makes my blood pressure rise. Is she teasing me?