by Alex Gates
“No one asked you to.”
“And that’s the problem.”
I shut the car off. Neither of us moved. “It’s not always me who refuses to change, James. It’s not me out there, half-blind, refusing to have a surgery that could save my sight. Not me working when it’s against a doctor’s orders, when every day spent at that computer takes a year off your vision.”
“It’s not the same.”
But it was. It was exactly the same. “Maybe I’m not the only one feeling worthless because of a kidnapping.”
“Yeah. How about that?” James shook his head. “See how good we are together? Both too screwed up to admit that we need help.”
We didn’t need help. We needed each other. And somehow I was doing everything in my power to wedge that fear between us.
I sighed. “You know why you’re doing this, don’t you?”
“Why?”
“You’re destroying yourself now so you can feel like you’ve protected me for the future.”
“Right.”
He wasn’t that hard to read, but I’d never tried to finish the whole book. “The job and the surgery and the wedding…it’s not because you want to do this. It’s because you live in the past too. You fell in love with the girl from ten years ago, the one who crawled out of that basement and ran into the arms of the first agent she saw. And now…”
Why did I fight with him for wanting to love me?
Why couldn’t I accept him, us, our life together?
Why did I try to ruin everything, always?
My voice weakened. I leaned against the driver’s side door. My breath fogged the window and hid me from the world.
“What if I told you that I didn’t need a ring on my finger to be indebted to you?” I asked. “I don’t need a wedding to prove how I feel about you. I don’t need a madman in jail just to feel safe with you.”
James searched outside of the car for the answers that’d never come. “I love you, London.” He drew the words out. “But sometimes I don’t know why.”
The silence tore through me, but it was comforting this time. “That’s why I love you. I’ve never needed a why. You were always there. You gave me a new life. You promised me forever. And I have it.”
“I’m not going to be ashamed for wanting to take care of you,” he said.
“I know.”
“You need to take care of yourself too.”
Two hypocrites in love. “I’ll see this case to the end. Then it’ll all be different. I promise.”
We’d both heard that before, and yet, we fell for the same line every damn time.
I slipped from the car and waited for James, pretending to brush the snow from the walk instead of hovering in case he tripped over the uneven stairs.
But he was the one who stopped me before the door.
A glint of light escaped from the one-inch gap between the door and frame. Cracked open only slightly.
Fear was a welcomed relief after a day of frustration and rage. I unzipped my coat and reached for my weapon. James already held his gun. Quicker than me and he was practically blind.
His jaw tensed, but he nodded and followed.
I nudged it open with my foot. My old Victorian was anything but silent. Old floors, older frames. The door squeaked, but whoever was inside probably knew I’d come home anyway.
And I hoped they had worse aim than Eddie Kirwin.
The entry was clear. I edged with my back to the wall, sneaking the quickest of glances through the hallway. The floor plan was anything but open. Walls, stairs, a winding hall leading from the foyer into the living room and then past the kitchen.
I hadn’t left the kitchen light on, but a glow illuminated down the hall, a cold golden halo in the mid-afternoon gloom of falling snow. We stepped in quiet unison. Foot over foot.
Nothing in the corners.
The living room was undisturbed, only the floor length curtains fluttering near the register.
No creaking from the upstairs or the basement.
Either my intruder was lurking in dire stillness...
Or he’d already gone.
We rounded the kitchen. James immediately covered the second entrance, watching as I edged to the table, gun still readied in my hands.
A piece of grey construction paper rested at the head of the table. Crayon marks dotted the entirety of the drawing—a kid’s scribble of a house, two awkward stick figures, and plenty of daisies in the yard. The artist had splattered every color in the box on the paper. A rainbow of doodles and fun.
A shaky word filled the corner, as if she had tried to write the word as neatly as the blue crayon could allow.
Kaitlyn – 7
But the art was marred. A bigger scrawling obscured and uglied the drawing. Thick black sharpie wrote over the picture.
A warning.
You will never know my pain.
17
Getting tired yet?
It’s so hard to fight.
-Him
Nothing terrified me more than a midnight call-out to Poppy Drive.
Flashing red and blue lights tormented the wide-eyed windows and gasping doors of the houses on the street. It clashed with the merry, multi-colored Christmas lights and decorations spreading what little joy the families could offer. A bed of fresh white snow captured the kaleidoscope of streaking, muddled colors.
I pulled beside Ben’s car. He’d made it here before me, even though I’d only pretended to sleep to placate James. Also pretended to have a headache. It used to be that sex eased most stresses, but I wasn’t ready. Couldn’t face the darkness that guilt created.
“Media already heard the call.” Ben chugged a quarter of his Mountain Dew with a grimace. “Picked it up on the scanner. Expect a couple nebshits to point a camera in our faces.”
A crowd of neighbors clustered on the sidewalk, shivering in wool jackets tossed over robes and pajamas. Their hushed, frantic words carried over the street.
“But it’s too soon.” A woman covered her mouth with a gasp. “It’s too soon for another girl!”
The gut-punch ached inside me. Had the kidnappings become so common, so routine, that people expected a child to be taken by the predator stalking the families?
It had to end, and it would end in blood. But I didn’t expect it from a domestic call on Poppy.
I followed Ben, dreading the steps to the Gibson’s house. “Did Tim snap?”
Ben shook his head. To my surprise, he led me passed the cream home with the happy crimson shutters. Instead he pointed to the end of the cul-de-sac. The Wicker’s home.
“David?”
“Nope.” Ben waited for me to limp up the front stairs. A woman’s hysterical shouting echoed from inside. “Amy and a neighbor.”
The local patrol did a poor job of containing the women. At least they had the common sense to call us with any disturbance on the street, even when the domestic wasn’t exactly a domestic.
Just…extramarital.
“You homewrecking whore!”
Quite a declaration for a woman to shout at a grieving mother.
Trish Desmond punctuated every word with a hiss. The patrolman blocked her from attacking Amy Wicker, but he had a hell of a time holding the little housewife back. Years of Zumba and powerwalking at the local gym had strengthened Trish’s legs into tree trunks. It did nothing for the few extra pounds around her midsection. A drinker’s gut. Might be why she slurred her words.
And why Amy took such offense to her accusations.
David held her arms, nearly wrenching the terrycloth robe from her shoulders. She was nude underneath, and her struggling exposed her body to the street. Amy didn’t care.
It was most animated I’d ever seen her.
Raging. Energetic.
Manic.
“Don’t you ever come into my house again!” Amy’s shrill cry would shatter the entry way chandelier. “Get the hell out, you crazy bitch!”
Trish struggled agains
t the patrol, clawing and scratching his uniform to close in on Amy.
“Fuck you!” She howled in misery. “You’re the reason Todd’s dead! It’s your fault!”
Amy stumbled backward, clutching at her robe. Her expression flickered.
Pain?
“You think I wanted him to die?”
Trish yelled, her words spat in absolute hatred. “You wanted my husband all for yourself! You always did! You pushed and pushed until you had him wrapped around your finger. It wasn’t enough to sleep with him. You begged for him to leave me!”
Amy stammered, her words broken. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“And you!” Trish pointed at David and shoved the patrolman off her. “You fucking coward.”
David’s jaw tensed. He said nothing—staring, only staring—at the woman screaming in his living room.
Trish glowered at him, her eyes wild. “You knew what they were doing! You knew she was fucking him on the side. You’ve known for years! And you did nothing!”
“Don’t you dare insult my wife.” David’s warning was quiet, dire, and the only words that anyone should have heeded. “Apologize. You have no right to question her faithfulness to me.”
“Come on, Dave!” Trish groaned. “She’s a whore. She’s always been a whore. She fucked Todd every morning, noon, and night for five years! Only stopped when she couldn’t dig down six feet to hop on him for more!”
“Shut up!” Amy struggled against David’s hold. “How pathetic are you? Are you that desperate that you’ll make up freaking stories so that people will finally pay attention to you?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“You can’t cope if you’re not the center of attention. If it wasn’t the infertility it was the almost breast cancer. The suicide attempts. The lies. For years you’ve been scheming and plotting and lying, and we put up with it. Todd put up with it!” Amy yelled, her voice pleading with the officers holding Trish. “She couldn’t stand that no one gave a damn about her after the girls were taken. It’s eaten her alive because she can’t control everyone and everything by forcing them to obsess over her. This is nothing but a stunt to gain pity! And it’s not working, Trish! Everyone knows. Everyone sees you for what you are! Trash.”
“You bitch.” Trish tore at her own hair. “You don’t even feel any remorse, do you?”
“For what?”
“His death!”
“He drowned, Trish! It was an accident!”
“It’s your fault!”
“No!” David’s bellow shocked everyone. He pointed a trembling finger at Trish. “Don’t you…Todd was my best fucking friend. You won’t dishonor his memory with lies.” Amy reached for her husband. He was beyond consoling. “You know why he went on that trip? He wanted to get away from you. Went out with the guys for that weekend because he couldn’t stand how goddamned miserable and crazy you’d become. He left to get some space from your bullshit. If anyone…” He gestured towards her. “You’re the one who killed him. Your constant bitching was just as good as a fucking push into that river.”
“You son of a bitch!”
Trish made her move, diving forward with manicured nails raking the air like claws. Ben intercepted her. She leveled him with a heel bashed into his knee. He swore, but the patrol opened the front door, and he yanked Trish outside.
Amy burst into tears. David hesitated before pulling her into an embrace.
I made the decision, chasing Ben.
“I’ll take her in,” I said. “Let her cool down a bit. You got it here?”
He released Trish. She collapsed to the ground in a fit of tears. He rubbed his knee with a grimace. “Yeah. I’ll make sure the Wickers are okay.”
“You’re gonna arrest me?” Trish turned sullen, quiet. Exhausted. “Fine. At least it’ll get me away from here.”
“Not arresting you.” I helped her to my car though I kept her in the back. “But we’re gonna talk.”
“Good.” Trish frowned, instantly calm. “About time someone listened to me. Nothing is what it seems on this godforsaken street, and it’s all because of Amy Wicker.”
A cup of coffee soothed most nerves. Trish Desmond drank only Earl Grey tea.
She preferred loose leaf, but she persevered, accepting whatever the department had collecting dust in the unused shelves under the coffee maker.
“Feeling better?” I took the seat across from her in the interview room. Two AM was not a time for a productive conversation, but adrenaline made people more honest. I didn’t want it to drain away. “Anything I can get you?”
She sniffed the tea, made a face, but sipped it anyway. “I’ll be fine.”
Better than fine. Trish pulled a bottle of pills from her jacket pocket and popped one without a care. I raised an eyebrow.
“Hope those are prescription,” I said.
“The Poppy Drive Cocktail.” Trish jingled the pills. “Eat Xanax like Halloween candy.”
Fantastic. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“I’ve never gotten along with Amy Wicker.”
This was obvious. “What possessed you to go over her house and start a fight at midnight, three days before Christmas?”
“I had enough.”
“Enough of what?”
“Enough of her. Of the constant lies. Of no one actually being honest.”
“What are they lying about?”
Trish dug her nails into the Styrofoam cup. A little jiggle, and she’d rip a hole through it. “My husband.”
I’d pulled the report before sitting with her. The names and details were fresh in my mind. “Todd?”
“He’s been dead for three months,” she said. “No. Four now. Jesus, has it been that long?” Her voice soured. “Ask Amy Wicker. She’d know. Probably has kept a candlelight vigil for him since the accident.”
“What happened, Trish?”
She swallowed. “What always happens. I loved my husband. He loved another woman.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m bipolar, not stupid. I know what’s happening in my own house. But I just…” She looked away, ashamed. “Sometimes, my head doesn’t let me care. Or I care too much. Either way, I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control Todd. Couldn’t do anything right by him or because of him.”
“Was he abusive?”
“What’s it matter now?”
“It matters,” I said.
“We fought a lot. With fists. But that was us. It wasn’t abuse, just…frustration. But emotionally?” Trish nodded. “Yeah. You can say it was abuse. Torture maybe. He was my husband, but he’d been with Amy for years. Years. No one batted an eye. No one said a goddamned thing. He’d be over there in the middle of the day. When David was at work or when David worked late. He’d come back home reeking of her perfume, but I…couldn’t let him go. I knew what was happening. Everyone knew it.”
Interesting. None of this was in the files, though usually we avoided petty gossip. “Did David know it?”
She puffed a breath. “Who knows? If he was smart, yeah. But I can’t read David. I think he loves his wife. But sometimes…he looks at her with such hatred. He’s broken anyway cause of Alyssa. Was never the same after she was gone. Can’t expect him to be rational. He needs a faithful wife to endure something like that—a wife and a best friend. But look at what Todd did to him.”
“Did Amy ever deny it?”
“Amy has no remorse for anything. Doesn’t even care about the pain she’s inflicted on her family. She lost Alyssa and then lost all semblance of sanity. Didn’t try to have more kids. Didn’t try to help her husband. Just shut down…and once her life was ruined, she aimed for mine. Went straight to Todd.” Trish twisted, pulling a leg up into the chair with her. She wrapped her arms over her knee and shook her head. “Whore. She mourns Todd more than I do. It’s sick.”
I’d checked the other homes on Poppy Drive—interviewed the families, did a little digging on the
m. But I hadn’t heard any rumor of impropriety between Amy and Todd. Then again, Todd was dead. And, compared to the rest of the street’s misfortune, the three little girls was a far greater tragedy than a drunk man accidentally drowning while camping with his drinking buddies.
“How did Todd die?” I asked as if his closed folder wasn’t resting under my hands.
“He was murdered.”
No hesitation. No doubt.
A chill held me in place. “You think so?”
She quoted with her fingers. “The official story is that he drowned. Was out on a hunting trip with the guys from the street. He slipped and fell into the river. They tried to get him out, but the current was strong. He drowned. They found him a mile away…if you believe it.”
“And you don’t?”
“Todd was an excellent fisherman. All the guys are. Hunting. Fishing. Trapping. Camping. They’re always out in those damned woods. Todd knew how to handle himself around a flooded river. He’d never have fished in it.” Her voice lowered. She didn’t break my gaze, completely confident. “He was pushed.”
I’d never get to sleep tonight. I picked up a pen, but what the hell was I going to write down? I had no idea if Trish was crazy, having an episode, or stone-cold sober.
“Why would someone kill your husband?” I asked.
She wagged her finger. “Not someone. David. David must have learned about the affair. He waited, snapped, and murdered Todd. That’s the only explanation.”
Was it? I could think of a few others, but Trish’s eyes widened. She leaned forward and nearly spilled her tea.
“You can help me,” she said. “I want a homicide investigation. A real one. None of this accident bullshit. David Wicker killed my husband, and I want some goddamned justice.”
A knock interrupted us. I excused myself and offered to bring Trish something to eat when I’d returned. She requested something gluten-free. A fat chance in a department stocked with comfort foods and every variety of potato chip.
