Fugitives of Love

by Lisa Girolami

  Sinclair placed her hand over Clara’s. “It has been too long. For all of us.”

  As they left Clara’s porch, Brenna hurried toward the car. “Let’s go before Topher sees us.”

  Sinclair’s head spun and her emotions boiled hot in her throat. She stopped in Clara’s driveway, looking at Topher’s house.

  “What are you doing?” She heard Brenna but she seemed far away.

  This shocking information had frozen her in time. Her vision blurred around the edges and she felt miles away from her body. Topher had physically abused her for years, but in one reprehensible moment, he had committed murder and told her she’d done it. He had exploited her psychologically and had cruelly executed a twenty-year sentence upon her. Her abusive childhood was being played out again. But this time, she was in control. “That bastard.”

  “Let’s go, Sinclair. We need to get to Marie.”

  Sinclair’s vision cleared and she walked toward his porch.

  “What are you doing?” Brenna’s voice strained with anxiety. “What are you doing?”

  She caught up with her at the door, pleading, “Sinclair, don’t.”

  Sinclair knocked loudly.

  Topher swung the door open.

  “You killed him,” she said angrily. “Not me, you bastard. You accused me of murder and made me believe I did it. You banished me from everything I ever knew.”

  “Stop your jawing. You’re crazy.”

  “I’ve been looking over my shoulder for twenty years, and now I’m going to take back the life you stole from me.”

  “You ain’t got a life. The police will be looking for you when I call them.” He walked inside and Sinclair followed him.

  He turned and yelled, “Get outta my house.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do any more. I know you killed him.”

  “Your fingerprints were on the gun. Go ahead, ask the cops.” He jabbed a finger toward her face. “You did it.”

  Sinclair shook her head slowly, seething at the human piece of flesh that was once her stepbrother.

  Topher’s face grew red and he looked over Sinclair’s shoulder. “Who the fuck are you? You her lawyer or somethin’?”

  Sinclair realized Brenna had followed her in. “Leave her out of this.”

  “You gonna go to the cops and lay some bullshit on them? Huh?” Before Sinclair could react, Topher pushed her aside and grabbed Brenna by the arm, throwing her to the ground.

  He dropped down quickly and knelt on top of her. Sinclair grabbed a metal chair leaning against the wall in the entryway. Just as he raised his hand to punch Brenna, Sinclair smashed the chair against him. He rolled off her and clutched his head.

  Sinclair reached for her hand. “Are you all right?” She helped her up and pushed her toward the open door.

  Topher still held his head but turned sideways, looking up at her. “Fuckin’ bitches!”

  She grabbed the chair again and raised it threateningly over her head.

  “Turleen, call the police!”

  Sinclair left him on the ground and followed Brenna out the door. She kept the chair with her until they reached the car. As Brenna climbed in, he appeared at the door yelling obscenities. Sinclair chunked the chair on his lawn and got in the car. Without a word, Brenna started the car and they drove off.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  They returned to the hotel and Brenna still shook from the confrontation. She could barely slide her hotel key card through the slot. She’d never seen a real fight before, let alone been involved in one. It rattled her to the core. There were plenty of fights on the streets of New York, but a car window or a television screen always shielded her. Things had gotten out of control at Topher’s house and she couldn’t calm down.

  She was frightened for Sinclair, but she was also frightened for herself.

  “Are you okay?” Sinclair asked her when they were safely inside the room.

  Brenna wasn’t sure and didn’t want to admit it. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, other than the fact that I stooped to Topher’s level and hit him. I never, ever wanted to end up doing that.”

  “I’m glad you did because he was going to beat me up.”

  “I wouldn’t have let him hurt you. I shouldn’t have gotten you into that. I took you into that horrible house and put you in danger.” She sat down on the bed. “I’m no better than him.”

  “That’s not true. You were protecting me. Topher and your stepfather didn’t do anything but cause pain and fear. You’re nothing like either of them.”

  “I’ve spent my whole life hiding. And for what? Nothing! I’ve lived with a lie I was too young to rationalize or argue against.”

  “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “I do blame myself. And I blame my stepfather and I blame Topher for the miserable life I’ve had.”

  “It’s not miserable, Sinclair. We met. And that wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed in Little Creek.”

  “Have you ever heard of damaged goods?” She poked a finger against her chest. “I’m the poster child.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “I’m probably that, too.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You’ve carved a life out for yourself in Maine and moved on from your childhood. And I’m crazy about you. Not the girl that left Little Creek, but the woman you are today.”

  “I still am the girl that left Little Creek. I could have come forward at any time. But I’ve become too good at hiding in my house and pushing people away. If my stepfather’s goal was to fuck with my head forever, he should be congratulated.”

  “He didn’t win, Sinclair. You came back here. You faced your stepbrother.”

  “And I could still go to prison. It’s his word against mine.”

  “And Clara’s. She can prove that—”

  “Prove what? She was a fifteen-year-old girl. She didn’t see anything. There are no guarantees here.” Her body was tense, and Brenna had never seen her so frustrated and resigned. “I turned myself in. I said I murdered him.”

  “But you didn’t know what you know now.”

  It was as if she didn’t hear her. “And the prosecutor will have a field day with someone like me. I’m trailer trash to them,” she said, and began counting the evidence with her fingers. “I never went to college. My stepfather was a great model of how to raise kids by beating them. And a belt across the back of my legs formed what I know about love and attention.”

  Brenna stepped to the bed to sit down next to her, but Sinclair stood up quickly and walked to the window.

  “You’re none of those things. I have felt such love from you, such real and true care from you, and it’s a thousand light years removed from anger and violence.”

  Sinclair didn’t respond. The moments when Brenna seemed to lose Sinclair terrified her. She’d become unreachable when they’d first met and Sinclair tried to push her away. It had happened earlier, in Clara’s driveway. It frightened her that Sinclair couldn’t even hear her. It was starting again now.

  With increasing apprehension, Brenna tried again. “You know how to love.”

  “Love,” she said flatly. “I can run. I can hide. I can have sex. But love? I’m not so sure.” She turned to face Brenna. “I’ve never had a long-term relationship. If you haven’t noticed, I suck at ‘getting out there.’ I’ve become a wretched recluse that won’t leave her home.”

  “You did run and hide. And you may know how to have sex, but you also know how to make love. With me. And I believe you’re very capable of a long-term relationship.”

  “You’ve got an answer for everything.”

  Sinclair had completely disappeared. The tucked-away emotions and alarming remoteness sliced into Brenna like the first cuts of a razor.

  She wanted to run. This was too heavy, too complicated.

  Brenna knew all too clearly that she could shut down too, and her whole body screamed, telling her to defend herself from the pain of exposure and vul
nerability.

  “I don’t have a lot of answers, but I know how I feel about you.”

  “You can’t have feelings for someone you don’t even know. Everything was fine a few weeks ago, and then you come galloping into my life and everything turned upside down. How can you say you want to have a long-term relationship with me…after a few weeks?”

  “I know enough about you to—”

  “I don’t even know myself!” Sinclair yelled, and backed away. “I don’t know who I am!”

  Sinclair’s fists were balled up tight and she bent over the dresser, knuckles white against the hickory-stained wood. “For twenty goddamn years, I thought I was a murderer. I hated myself. I knew I didn’t deserve a nice life. I almost ran away from Peggy’s kindness because of what I’d done. Or thought I did.” She turned to look at Brenna, eyes furious and glistening with tears. “But I needed to eat. I loved her, but I couldn’t consider her my family either because I was always afraid I’d wake up and find that I’d murdered her, too. That’s why I haven’t sought out a relationship or a family. I may not have killed my stepfather, but I’ve lived like I have for so long, I don’t think I’ll ever erase the belief from my head.”

  Brenna moved toward her.

  Sinclair hunched defensively over the dresser and held her hand up.

  “Don’t do this, Sinclair,” she said desperately. They were both close to imploding and Brenna hung on to a fragment of hope.

  She didn’t look up. “What? Don’t give up”?

  The words slapped Brenna hard. She should simply get her coat and walk out the door. Her logical brain tugged at her to muster up what pride she had left and go home.

  In the silence that followed, a thick, uncomfortable foreboding rose in her chest, like the moment someone feels she’s teetering at the edge of a cliff. The air was charged with a disquieting energy that increased with each passing second.

  The bedside clock ticked mechanically. The windows rattled slightly from the onslaught of a wind gust.

  And then something inside Brenna clicked. “That’s right. You’re not going to give up.”

  “Too late.”

  Brenna got to Sinclair in two steps and seized her arm, turning her away from the dresser. “You’re not going to do this. You’re not pushing me away.” This was a completely foreign action for her. She’d never stepped up and fought for anything. But her feelings for Sinclair took over completely, and she was more afraid of losing her than of the difficulties they faced. “We’re going to walk through this mess and see how far we can get. We’re going to fight with all the strength we have. There’s got to be something to what Clara said. We need to get to Marie and tell her and she’ll fight, too. I’m not letting you go, Sinclair. I love you and I’m not turning away.”

  Brenna put her arms around Sinclair and held her. Sinclair struggled at first, trying to wrench herself free. Brenna held on tight, much like she would do with a panicky child.

  Sinclair screamed, “No!” She fought harder but Brenna wouldn’t let go.

  Slowly Sinclair’s tense muscles started to ease. She finally relaxed, almost crumpling to the floor. With one arm holding her up, Brenna stroked Sinclair’s hair and listened to the quiet sobs of the woman she realized she would do anything for.

  “You said you’d never really had a family,” Brenna said with more conviction than she’d ever known, “but you have one now.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “This is really good, Sinclair. Do you think Clara would repeat this to the police?”

  After the confrontation with Topher and their subsequent argument, they’d called Marie to tell her about what Clara remembered. “She’s afraid, but I think she will.”

  “They’ll still need evidence to prove Topher killed the father or, at the very least, that Sinclair didn’t. Can you get Clara to come to your hotel? I’ll be right over. I need to speak with her.”

  Within a half hour, Sinclair and Brenna returned to Clara’s house and brought her back to their room. Marie sat with her at the small table, while Brenna and Sinclair sat on the edge of the bed.

  “This is an affidavit,” Marie explained to Clara. “It’s a formal statement of fact, signed by you, as to what you witnessed the night of the murder. It will serve as evidence in court, if needed. Do you understand that?”

  “What do you mean, if needed?”

  “It is very important that you appear in person. However, in the event that you can’t, this will represent you.”

  Clara nodded toward the paperwork that Marie had placed in front of her. “This is insurance?”

  “It is.”

  Sinclair understood what Marie was saying, and by the way Clara inhaled deeply, she knew Clara did as well. If something happened to their witness, at least they’d have her statement.

  Clara turned toward Sinclair. “I owe it to you.”

  She spent the next hour drafting the document with Marie.

  Sinclair listened to Clara as she retold the details of what she had experienced that night. Clara finished writing the document by hand and signed it, and Sinclair felt a strange mix of anxiety and relief. “What happens now, Clara,” Marie said, “is that we go to the police so you can tell them what you told me.”

  “Do we come along?” Brenna asked.

  “No. They won’t want any third parties in the room. Especially one that is relying on the testimony. They don’t want any possible intimidation from Sinclair, which could sully the statement.”

  Marie called ahead to Detective Tally and then left with Clara.

  “Well,” Sinclair said, “I guess there’s not a lot to do now.”

  “There’s one thing.” Brenna reached for a plastic shopping bag that sat on the dresser. “I got this when I was waiting for you to get bailed out. I just haven’t had the chance to give it to you until now.”

  She handed the bag to Sinclair. In it was a small radio. She looked up at Brenna.

  “What you’re going to do now,” Brenna said as she came over to the bed and sat down next to her, “is tune that to a station that plays some Elton John or Jackson Browne, and you’re going to lie here with me and relax.”

  Sinclair almost cried at the wonderfully thoughtful gesture of love. A sob gripped her and no words came, so she quietly accepted Brenna’s open arms and lay down.

  *

  A few hours later, Marie called and Brenna put her on speakerphone.

  “I submitted Sinclair’s recantation of her previous confession. It’s officially in the records now. And then the police took Clara’s statement, but it’s still a completely circumstantial case. I also told the prosecutor about Clara’s statement.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Great. Present it at trial.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything yet. He’s just blowing hot air at me. But he’ll move forward with a trial unless we have evidence to support Clara’s statement and Sinclair’s recantation.”

  “What happens next?” Sinclair asked.

  “Well, to catch you up to today, every felony case goes to a grand jury that decides probable cause. That happened back when the crime occurred. The detectives shared their evidence and what they knew from interviews, and then the grand jury returned an indictment and issued a warrant on you. So a formal charge has already been made. With this new information, however, I’m going to argue for the charges to be dropped.”

  “Will they do that?”

  “No. Not right away, at least. When I meet with the prosecutor, we’ll exchange information. I’ll want to know what they think and vice versa. It will come down to corroborating the statements with the evidence.”

  “What evidence do they have?”

  “They told me they have the handgun, the stepfather’s clothing, a shirt of Sinclair’s, and blood samples. Sinclair, can you describe the shirt you were wearing?”

  Sinclair thought hard. “It was my favorite yellow s
hirt, the one with the green peace sign on it.”

  “Good, your recollection will help corroborate the facts. Your shirt also had vomit and blood on it. Do you remember how they got there?”

  She looked down, trying to picture that night. Suddenly, she knew where the blood came from. “After the second bottle with Topher, I was trying to get to the bathroom before I went to lay down, but my stepfather grabbed me. He knew I’d been drinking and he hit me in the face.” She raised her hand to touch the memory of the pain. “My nose.”

  “Maybe that was what Clara saw on your shirt,” Brenna said.

  “At the time, all the police had was an unapprehended suspect so they didn’t release funds for forensic testing. It wasn’t justified at the time.”

  “Is it now?”

  “Yes, but they haven’t done anything with it yet. They haven’t told me anything more than what they’re holding. I don’t know if they found fingerprints on the gun or anything else. I’ll ask when I call the prosecutor back because there should be reason enough now to conduct tests,” Marie said before blowing out a breath that sounded, over the phone, like wind through a straw. “Now we need to wait and see if it corroborates what you remember. Sinclair, you’ll need to go to the lab and get your blood drawn. I’ll get that set up for tomorrow.”

  “What good will that do if you can’t test it against the evidence?”

  “We have to do all we can do, Brenna,” Marie said. “Now, what about the vomit?”

  A vague and spotty recollection teased the edges of her brain. “My nose hurt,” she began, “and then I…and then I was…”

  “Take your time,” Brenna said.

  “I was sick. I threw up. That’s why I changed my shirt when I ran away.”

  “At what point did you throw up? After you knew your stepfather was dead?”

  It took more time to reach the information stored so far back in her mind. “I woke up because Topher was shaking me. It smelled awful. I had puke all over me. He made me get up—”

  “From your bed?”

  “Yes. And that’s when he told me I’d killed him.”