Toxicity

by Katie May

  My breath leaves me in a whooshing gush.

  She looks...small. Tiny. Like a young child.

  Her blond hair fans across her pillow and porcelain face, and white bandages are wrapped around her head. Surprisingly, there’s no heart monitor connected to her, but her eyes are closed, breath steady.

  “We’ll wait out here,” Byron says, nodding to indicate him and Phillip.

  I nod, watching them move further down the hall to stand by a vending machine. Ripping my gaze away from them, I study Aurora.

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” I whisper hoarsely. It’s uncomfortably silent in this room; the stench of bleach and sweat permeates the air. “I’ll find who did this, I promise.”

  Silence.

  Gaining courage, I reach for her pale hand and squeeze it in mine. Her skin is warm. Alive.

  I have to remind myself repeatedly that she’s not dead, not yet. She’s still alive and breathing, willing to fight another day.

  “I know you hate me,” I continue. “I don’t blame you. I sometimes hate myself. Trust me. I know what you must think of me. A poor prostitute marrying a rich businessman? Sounds like a Cinderella story.” Snorting, I release her hand and smooth both of mine down my green and black polka-dotted dress. “We’ll never be friends you and I. But maybe, just maybe, when you wake up, we won’t hate each other anymore. How does that sound?”

  I glance at her sleeping, serene face, almost as if I’m expecting a response. Her eyes remain closed, lashes feathering against her high cheekbones.

  “Visiting hours are over,” a gruff voice says from behind me. I turn, jumping out of my skin, to see an abnormally tall and skinny man. With a receding hairline and prominent wrinkles, I put his age to be around fifty, maybe sixty.

  “It’s still morning,” I say, stunned by his tone. His eyes are narrowed into very thin slits. “And the nurse said I could.”

  “This is my patient, and I say you need to leave,” he announces coldly. I can feel my hackles rise, anger thrumming through me.

  I didn’t want to have to pull this card…

  “She’s my step-daughter,” I say, internally wincing. The last thing I ever thought I’d be is a step-mother, especially at my age. And especially not to someone like Aurora.

  His eyes flare brightly, hotly, and he takes a step closer, towering over me. He’s so damn tall I have to strain my neck to hold and maintain eye contact. His nose is crooked, I realize absently. Almost as if he had broken it and never bothered to get it fixed.

  Ironic, considering he’s a doctor.

  “I’m not going to ask again,” he says darkly. Every muscle in my body is coiled and ready to spring, but I restrain. This stupid asshole doctor is not going to get the best of me today. Not after everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve endured.

  Instead of pounding his face in, as I want to, I flash him a charming smile.

  “Of course. Doctors know best, after all. And we all just want what’s best for Aurora.” With another disarming smile, I slip past him and into the hall. I can feel his eyes on me a second before he shuts the door and closes the blinds.

  What a suspicious asshole.

  “What was that all about?” Byron asks, rushing towards me. His hands hovering over me as if he wants to touch me but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. I decide for him, stepping into his embrace. His arms snake around my waist, squeezing tightly. I can feel Phillip behind me stroking my hair. With one in front and the other in back, I’m reminded of our compromising position in the club.

  Sandwiched between these two handsome men…

  Shaking my head, I pull away and glance over my shoulder. The door is still closed, and the hairs on the back of my neck salute the world. I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t quite right here.

  “That doctor.” I nod towards the closed door. “He was acting strangely. Do you think…?” Horror swamps me. “What if he’s not actually a doctor? What if he’s the murderer?”

  Both men tense, taking a step closer to me as if to shield me from the world. From the threat. After a moment, Byron steps away with a pointed look at Phillip. Phillip nods, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me into his lean, muscular body. I allow him to, stomach churning with the implications that I had let a murderer into Aurora’s room. I want to charge in there and kick the man’s ass. I want to—

  Byron returns from where he retreated to the nurse’s station, two security guards following behind him. They indicate for him to remain outside before charging into the room.

  I’m practically draped over Phillip now, my head nestled beneath his chin. His soft, raspy voice—the perfect voice for singing—is whispering to me, comforting me. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but his words rumble through me.

  The security guards exit the room a moment later, the doctor between them, red-faced. The three of them converse with Byron for a moment before stepping away.

  The doctor—whose name I never got—glares at me furiously before stomping back into Aurora’s room.

  Byron returns to Phillip and me a moment later.

  “He’s legit,” Byron says, forking his fingers through his blond hair. “Apparently, he’s just a super asshole. Really weird about his patients. Didn’t even apologize for scaring the shit out of you.” The last statement is mumbled under his breath.

  Releasing a sigh I haven’t realized I’ve been holding, I untangle myself from Phillip’s embrace.

  “Fuck,” I say. “I really thought…” Shaking my head, I add, “So he’s not a crazy murderer, just an asshole?”

  “Just an asshole,” Byron agrees, a large paw resting on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mallie.”

  I shake off both his condolence and hand. I’m a rubber band pulled too taut, seconds from snapping.

  “It’s fine. Let’s go meet with Roman.”

  And get this whole fucking nightmare over with.

  Chapter 10

  The law firm Roman works at part-time is in the downtown area. Sidewalks lined with potted plants and aesthetically placed trees lead to numerous stores and restaurants.

  Roman instructs us to meet him at the small coffee shop across the street from his office. After ordering a mocha, I slide into the booth beside Phillip. Byron sits across from me.

  “Where is he?” I grumble, scanning the patrons for Roman’s familiar shock of black hair and stubble.

  “He’ll be here,” Byron assures, placing his hands overtop of mine where they rest on the table.

  “Mrs. FaCent!” a familiar voice chirps. I stiffen in my seat even as Byron pulls back his hands and hides them under the table. “Mrs. FaCent.”

  I turn towards the voice and force a smile onto my face.

  Deluca’s dark hair is brushed behind his ears, showcasing his sepia skin. One hand is holding a coffee cup while the other holds a phone.

  “Please, call me Mallie,” I say pleasantly. He smiles brightly, his teeth blindingly white against his dark skin.

  “Of course, my apologies. And who might these two gentlemen be?” His voice rises with suspicion, but his smile remains firmly in place.

  “Byron,” the large, blond-haired man introduces.

  I notice he doesn’t offer a hand to shake.

  When Phillip remains silent, staring at Deluca calculatingly, I say, “And this is Phillip.”

  “Friends of yours?” He tries to sound casual, detached, but his eyes light up. I know exactly what he’s doing. I’ve studied law too long not to know—he’s fishing.

  “Deluca.” Roman’s voice is heavy with disapproval. A moment later, he’s standing over the table, hands on his hips. “You wouldn’t be pestering my client and her friends, now would you?”

  Deluca holds a hand to his heart in mock offense, that boyish grin still etched firmly in place.

  “Me? I would never. I just saw a pretty lady, and thought I'd say hi.” He winks at me before turning back towards Roman. “But I have to head out anyway. Duty
calls. It was nice seeing you again, Mallie.”

  With a wave of his hand, he hurries out the glass door of the coffee shop. My breath leaves me the second he disappears from view.

  “What the hell was that?” Byron hisses to Roman. “Is he stalking her?”

  “Deluca frequents this coffee shop,” Roman explains, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to fight off an encroaching migraine. “But don’t worry about him.”

  “Don’t worry—”

  Roman cuts Byron’s complaint off with a wave of his hand.

  Sliding into the seat opposite me, beside his cousin, he stares at me intensely. Unnervingly. I can’t help but fidget from his undivided attention.

  “Do you give me permission to speak freely in front of these men?” Roman questions, glancing between Byron and Phillip. If he wonders who they are—at least in Phillip’s case—and what their relationship is to me, he does good at hiding it.

  I hesitate.

  Do I trust Byron and Phillip with whatever information Roman tells me?

  I surprise myself by nodding.

  Because yes. Yes I do. I shouldn’t—I really shouldn’t—but I do.

  Roman releases another breath, his hands moving to his temples to rub at the skin.

  “The footage from campus was erased.”

  “What?” Byron explodes, jumping to his feet. Realizing he’s making a scene, he works to quiet his voice and returns to his seat. “What?”

  I want to echo that word.

  What exactly does this mean?

  “The cameras from the campus last night were conveniently shut down...the first time it happened in years. There is no footage to corroborate Mallie’s story that she was at the school when she claimed she was.”

  Panic begins to bubble up from my chest, choking me. I can’t seem to inhale enough air.

  Phillip’s tattooed hand rests on my knee, but for once, it doesn’t comfort me.

  “How...why?” I babble. My hands are trembling, shaking, and no matter how much I concentrate, I can’t seem to get them to stop.

  “Someone’s framing her.” Phillip’s voice is quiet, but it seems to penetrate the last of my common sense.

  Framing her.

  Framing her.

  Framing me.

  That can’t be true, can it? This isn’t an episode of Criminal Minds. I’m just Mallie...no one special.

  Why me?

  “We don’t know that,” Roman counters, but even my stoic professor doesn’t sound convinced.

  “Then what the hell is it?” blurts Byron. “And how are we going to fix it.”

  Roman ignores them and their outbursts, focusing his eyes on me. Only me. As Byron had done only a few minutes earlier, he reaches across the table and takes my hand in his.

  “Don’t worry. All we need is one witness to say they saw you on campus. I know it was pretty fucking early in the morning, but there’s always a party going on. Or a study group. Or a late night hookup. Someone, somewhere, saw you and can vouch for you.”

  I’m trembling, but his words do provide comfort, though minimum.

  “So we need to find a witness,” Byron clarifies, and Roman nods.

  “We need to find a witness, and we also need to find who did this.” Roman’s penetrating gaze slides to Byron. “And to do this, you can start by telling me what happened to your knuckles.”

  Byron’s face goes slack.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Your knuckles,” Roman repeats, nodding towards his bandaged hand. “What happened? You didn’t have them a couple days ago.”

  Byron’s face goes red, though I can’t tell if it’s with anger or shame. His lips tighten into a thin line.

  “What is this? What exactly are you accusing me of, Roman?” His voice is as dark as I’ve ever heard it. I barely recognize the man before me—the playful, sweet neighbor who does hand puppets and makes me laugh is nowhere in sight.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything—”

  “Fuck you, man! Fuck you!” Byron’s strident outburst captures the attention of the few other coffee shop patrons. A college student on her computer in the corner, the young barista, the old men sitting around a round table. They all turn to stare at our group. Gape at our group.

  “By…” Roman warns. He turns towards his cousin, his expression carefully blank and his voice a hushed murmur. “It’s just a question. What happened to your knuckles?”

  “If you have nothing to hide, then you should tell us,” adds Phillip quietly.

  Byron’s furious gaze darts from one man to the other before finally turning towards me. His eyes implore me, beg me, to believe him.

  All I can do is shrug helplessly.

  His expression...it shatters. My heart clenches, but I don’t stop him from jumping to his feet and storming towards the door. Instead, I just watch him.

  We all wear masks in this world.

  And Byron? I haven’t even caught a glimpse of the man underneath.

  Chapter 11

  I’m called into the police station the next day. After a fitful sleep—worried sick about a missing Byron—I’m feeling drained and exhausted.

  Roman meets me at the front of the police station and places a hand on my lower back, propelling me into the same interrogation room as before.

  It’s empty when we arrive, and for some reason, that makes my tension and pulse skyrocket. My palms are sweaty, and I attempt to wipe the excess moisture on my skirt. Roman places a steadying, comforting hand on my shoulder.

  I can’t help but think of other places I'd like to have that hand touch.

  “You okay?” he asks softly.

  “Yeah. Just a little nervous.”

  “You’re innocent, Mallie. I know it. You know it. The cops will know it soon. All we need is one witness, Mal, and this entire thing will be over with.”

  I allow his comforting words to cascade over me, the balm to my severed soul and esteem.

  He gives my shoulder one more squeeze before pulling out the uncomfortable plastic chair for me. I sit, and he immediately sits in the seat beside me.

  The door opens, and Moder and Griffin enter the room.

  This time, they both sit across from me, hands folded on their stomachs and identical sneers on their faces.

  “Mrs. FaCent,” Moder says stiffly. He sounds as if my name is poison on his tongue.

  “Please, call me Mallie.”

  I’m really beginning to hate my married name. First order of business: change it. I don’t know what to, but anything is better than FaCent. Anything.

  They both appear as if they’d prefer any name over Mallie. Hell, I’ll be fine with them calling me Silly Goose over Mrs. FaCent.

  “How did you meet your husband, Mrs—Mallie?” Moder corrects himself.

  I hesitate, only briefly, before telling the officers everything.

  Roman tenses beside me as I discuss my...profession before I married Jared. I keep the details vague—not wanting to get in trouble for my past—but I don’t sugarcoat my involvement with Jared. I talk about how our first year of marriage consisted of nothing but sex, but by the second year, he began beating me. I talk about how I left him the night he was murdered. The sex we had, though I don’t mention Phillip’s part.

  Moder questions my relationships with both Byron and Phillip, and I answer as honestly as I can.

  I never partook in sexual activity with any man while I was married. Phillip had comforted me numerous times after a particularly bad beating, and he and Byron had been my friends. I tell them about the club and Nat, Aurora’s threat, and finally, my outburst with the two men and my escape to the college.

  Moder and Griffin remain silent. The only indication they even heard me is the slightest tightening of their eyes when I mention the incident at the club.

  “So Aurora was upset you were dancing with Phillip?” Griffin asks, jotting something down on his notepad.

  “Yes, sir. She had—has—feelings for him he didn�
��t seem to reciprocate,” I admit, heart pinching slightly. I never thought I’d feel bad for Aurora.

  Both Moder and Griffin frown, exchanging looks I can’t decipher.

  “Can you give me his full name?” Moder questions.

  I exchange a glance with Roman, worried I had unintentionally gotten Phillip in trouble, but he nods his head slightly.

  Trusting Roman, I give the officers the required information.

  “Didn’t I tell you this last time I was here?” I ask, sifting through the previous conversation. Now that I think about it, I’m sure I had talked to them about Byron and Phillip.

  “This is just a formality,” Griffin says dismissively. “But I believe we have all we need from you for now.” Both officers stand, and I quickly follow suit. The last thing I want to be is beneath their penetrating stares.

  “Of course. Let me know if there’s anything else you need,” I say sincerely. I may not have liked Jared and Aurora, but they deserved better than this.

  Without responding, the officers exit the interrogation room leaving me alone with Roman. I release the pent-up breath that was damn near bursting inside me.

  “You okay?” Roman asks softly. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, but he’s not looking at me. His gaze is fixed pointedly at the wall.

  “Yeah.” I don’t know what else to say, how I can possibly respond to that. Am I okay? That’s a loaded question if I ever heard one.

  Frankly, I’m not okay. I’m anything and everything but okay. How can I be when my world has changed so suddenly and so drastically I can barely recognize it anymore? I have trouble differentiating good from bad, death from life. My mind is spinning, spinning, spinning, and my stomach seems to be following suit. There’s a tightness in my chest, a clenching of my heart, that even makes breathing an impossible task.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mallie,” Roman promises. “You’ll get through this.”

  This time, I don’t bother humoring him with a response.

  Nodding, I accept his offered hand and allow him to pull me to my feet. As soon as I’m standing, he releases me and shoves both hands into his jacket pockets.