Reyes looks down at his feet and shakes his head before he gazes at me, his eyes sympathetic. "I don't know, but there has to be another answer."
I exhale and look away. I can't stand the pity I see in his eyes. The total disbelief in his demeanor.
"Hey, Kylie," he reaches for my hand and squeezes it. "I'll take everything with me, and have the lab check it for fingerprints, or anything which might point to whoever did this. I'll make some calls and see if I can find out where the flowers came from, and who paid for them. Okay?"
I'm not really comfortable with the intimacy of his actions tonight. We barely know each other, our relationship is purely professional, yet he's acting as if we have a burgeoning romance.
Except you called him, asked for his help, invited him to your apartment.
I gently extricate my hand from his. What the hell was I thinking?
My shoulders sag. Jesus, my life feels as if it’s unraveling before my eyes and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it. "Okay. Thank you."
"No problem." He walks into the kitchen and glances around. "Trash bags?"
"Under the sink."
Carefully, he places the card and envelope on top of the roses, replaces the lid on the box, and slides it into the trash bag, tying it shut. I hold the door open as he leaves. In the hallway, he turns to me. "Lock the door. I'll see you in the morning."
I smile and nod as he steps onto the elevator and the doors close. I grab my wine from the counter on my way to the bedroom. Changing into lounge pants and a tank top, I grab the TV remote, and curl up under the covers.
I regret calling Reyes instead of Alex. All I want right now is to feel Alex's strong arms around me, the way he covers my face with soft kisses, and whispers he will protect me and keep me safe. He comforts me like a warm blanket on a cold night.
Reyes tried to console me, but I don't know him. And I don't want him. Alex is my rock, the light which guides me to shore when my life is tossed around like a boat on an angry sea.
I need him so badly. But he betrayed my trust.
And I'm left to face this threat on my own.
15
Lisa and I sit in my office, going through files, and chatting about her upcoming midterms. It feels like old times, when she was my legal assistant. She has been with me for the last ten years, through my harrowing relationship with John, and when I first met and fell in love with Alex. So much has changed in such a short amount of time, my heart aches whenever I think about all the good times Alex and I shared. I miss them. I miss him.
Reyes appears at the top of the steps and bounds into my office with a smile that covers his entire face. He reminds me of a dog who's just happy to see the owner—tail wagging, tongue hanging out. Lisa stares at him as if he's lost his mind and fearful he'll turn into a psychotic killer in the blink of an eye.
"Hey," he says, a little out of breath. "Good news, I have the nine-one-one call from the night Ellen Wells died."
"The one Alex made?" I ask.
Reyes nods, his eyes darting back and forth between Lisa and me, waiting for one of us to acknowledge this as a truly wonderful moment. I catch Lisa's eye, she shrugs, and turns her attention back to Reyes.
Okay, I'll bite.
"Um, didn't we already have that? I thought it came with all the trial evidence."
Reyes claps his hands and rubs them together. "Yes, but it was an old analog tape. The IT geeks at the DA's office converted it to a wav file, filtered out all the static, amplified the audio so it's clearer. Then uploaded it to my computer—"
I lift my arm and put my hand out in front of me. "Stop talking. I don't speak computer tech shit. Are we able to listen to it?"
"Yep," he answers, the grin even wider across his face, which I wouldn't have thought possible.
"Let's do this."
Reyes hooks his laptop up to some speakers he brought with him. I've actually been dreading this. I'm not sure my heart can handle hearing Alex on that night. It nearly destroyed him when he finally opened up and talked to me about it—and that was eighteen years after the fact. To hear him having to relay that his mother was brutally beaten by his father and was dying on the floor in front of him—it's going to be one of the hardest things to sit through and remain professional and objective.
The sound of a phone ringing breaks the silence in the conference room.
"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" The female dispatcher asks.
"I need the police." Alex starts crying heavily into the phone.
"Okay, I need you to calm down and tell me what's going on?"
"My mom."
"What's the matter with your mom?"
"I think she's dead." The desperation in his voice nearly rips my heart to shreds. Tears build and it's everything I can do to keep them at bay.
"Is she breathing?" the dispatcher asks.
There are scuffling sounds in the background. Alex's voice sounds distant, as if he has pulled the phone away from his mouth. "No, she made some gurgling noises, and blood is coming out of her mouth…and her nose. But she's not making any sounds now."
"What's your name?"
"Alex."
"Okay, Alex. I'm Delia. Can you tell me what happened to your mom?"
"It's my fault. She's dead and it's all my fault."
"What?" The dispatcher's voice raises an octave.
Nothing but the sound of sobs can be heard. My heart skips a few beats. God, I want desperately to hold him in my arms, close to my heart, and whisper to him it's going to be okay.
"I couldn't protect her," Alex says through broken sobs. "I couldn't stop him from hurting her."
"It's okay, Alex," the dispatcher says, her voice calmer, softer. "Help is coming, but I need you to tell me what happened. Who couldn't you stop?"
"My dad…" Alex's voice trails off, replaced by whimpers. "He kicked her and punched her over and over. She was crying and trying to get away. Then he started banging her head against the floor."
"Is your dad still in the house?"
"No, he left."
"Is there anyone else in the house with you?"
"Yeah," Alex's voice softens. "My brother and sisters."
"Are they in the room with you and your mom?"
"No! I never let them see him hit her."
"Alex," the dispatcher's voice is quiet, tentative, "did your dad hit you?"
There is a long pause. "Yeah…I only wanted him to stop hurting my mom…but I couldn't help her…" His statements are broken up by short, breathy sobs.
Tears break free and roll down my face. Alex—always the protector. Of course, he would put himself in harm's way to keep his siblings safe. If he could’ve figured out how to take the beatings for his mother, and spare her the pain and humiliation, I have no doubt he would’ve without a second thought or a single regret.
The sound of police arriving on the recording can be heard and, soon after, the call is disconnected. The conference room is quiet. I'm not sure any of us are still breathing.
Reyes shifts in his seat, runs his hand down his face, and releases a long, heavy exhale. "Jesus, how could anyone listen to that and think he had anything to do with his mother's death?"
"It's clear Alex never confessed to killing his mom," Lisa adds.
I'm frozen—no, I'm numb. I'm completely and utterly wrecked.
I clear my throat. "Hey, can I have a minute?"
"Of course." Lisa stands, squeezes my shoulder, and walks around the conference room to the door. Reyes follows her, glancing over his shoulder at me. I'm sure he'd like some sort of sign I'm okay, but I can't give it to him. A little piece of my soul is sobbing for Alex, and for his mother, and I can't believe I will ever be able to get the sound of Alex's voice out of my head.
When Alex finally opened up about his mother's death, I thought I understood the pain he felt. What I understood was how much pain he was in retelling the story.
But now—hearing his voice—being transported back to when the inci
dent was taking place, it finally struck me how horrible his life must have been. He lived in a world of alcohol-induced violence. Forced to watch the life drain out of his mother, knowing he was powerless to prevent it.
She was the first woman he ever loved—the only woman, until me. My father's death destroyed me, but I didn't have to witness it. What if I had? Would I be the same person I am now? Would I be strong? As strong as Alex?
He's told me so many times his greatest fear is not being able to protect me—save me—and I belittle him for it. I scoff at it when he tries to explain why he let me believe for so long John died.
I amble into my office, drop into my chair, and grab my cell phone off the desk. My screensaver pops up—my favorite picture of Alex, head tipped back just a little bit, laughing while he tries to fend off my incessant picture taking.
My emotions are all over the place. I love Alex, but even though I understand his compulsion to protect me, I'm not okay with how he determines what I need and how much I can handle. I want to forgive him, but I'm not sure I can let go of the pain of his betrayal.
And, somewhere deep, I know I am being unreasonable—and that I may lose more than I will gain by holding so tightly to this resentment.
* * *
* * *
After a quick lunch by the water, the walk back to the office clears my head. The nine-one-one call still has me reeling, but sitting on the dock, sharing my sandwich with the ducks, provides a much-needed nudge to get me through the rest of the day. A cool breeze rushes past me, but the sun is shining, reminding me how so many things in life look one way, but are deceptively different—including the change in seasons.
There are only a few cars on the road, the onset of cooler weather is slowing the influx of tourists in the area. A horn blasts behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin as I turn to see what the hell is going on. A man in a truck with a ridiculously high lift is screaming and gesturing at an old man driving his Cadillac, seemingly oblivious that he's the cause of such a commotion. I chuckle and continue on my walk.
A man across the street catches my attention. He's tall, dark hair, suit…he looks like ninety percent of the men on this street of almost exclusively law offices. The man's face is obscured, but there is something in the way he is standing with one hand in his pocket and the other oddly straight at his side.
I draw in a breath and my heart stops. There's only one other person I know who stands in such a uniquely odd manner.
John Sysco.
It can't be! Every ounce of blood drains from my extremities, and pools at my feet. John's locked away. He can't be here! The man finally lifts his head and confirms my worst fear. Even from this distance, I'm his prisoner, unable to move, and helpless to look away. He advances toward me, a smile as demonic as he is darkens his features and I'm reminded of the depths of his depravity. Visions assail me, one on top of the other in quick succession—the flogging, the blood, the assaults—and I'm wracked with fear and humiliation, as I always am during these episodes.
My office is only a block and a half away. I can make it there before he catches up to me. Lock myself in and call the police. Fear ignites my adrenaline, my sights on my office building.
Heavy footsteps hit the sidewalk behind me. His breath is on the back of my neck. An icy shiver runs down my spine. If he reaches out and grabs my shoulder, he can swing me around, knock me off balance. I'll be at his mercy. I've been there before—the victim of his cruel torture while he proclaims his love and possession of me. The sting of the flogger as it rips through my skin is as real to me today as when it happened.
My heart pounds. The door to my office is ahead. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the storefront windows. John is still behind me, and for a fleeting moment, I consider screaming for help. But John is far too adept at talking himself out of tight situations. He has an uncanny ability to get people to believe the most outrageous excuse is actually quite rational. It's what made him one of the top attorneys in the state.
A few more steps—I'm at the door. My hand grasps the doorknob. I yank the door open, stumble onto the landing, and slam the door shut behind me. The whoosh delivers an ominous whisper, "You will never escape me, Kylie."
I scramble up the stairs, fumble through my purse to find my cell phone. My hands tremble. A dark figure appears in the reflection in the glass walls of my office. He's behind me. My chest heaves. The more air I try to drag in, the less I can breathe. In my haste, I forgot to lock the door. The room spins, everything distorted, and I'm trapped here.
Hands are on my shoulders, fingers digging into my flesh. I squirm, but he tightens his grip, and I'm unable to break free of his clutches.
"Let me go!" I twist around and escape his restraint. He lunges for me. I step back but hit the desk behind me. I'm cornered—but I'll be damned if I go down without a fight. Balling my hands into fists, my eyes shut tight, I pummel his chest. His hands wrap around my wrists, and I try to wrestle away.
"Kylie, calm down. Stop fighting me."
That's not an option. I know my fate if I give in. There is no limit to the torture he will inflict on me. It could be days, weeks—months—before someone finds me, alive or dead.
"Leave me alone, John."
He loosens his grip on my wrists and pulls me into his body. "It's me, baby—it's Alex."
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and even longer for me to begin to believe them. I open my eyes. Things come back into focus—Alex's suit, the tie I bought him, his strong hands. His unmistakable scent. I raise my head, and gaze into the beautiful Mediterranean blue sea of Alex's eyes.
I wrap my arms around his neck and crush him. His hands are on my back, his lips gently kiss my temple, and I melt into his warm protective embrace.
"Tell me what happened?" he whispers.
"It was John—he was following me." I swallow over the lump in my throat, and tears sting my eyes.
Alex shakes his head. "No, baby. John's incarcerated at Cedar Grove, remember?" There is a mix of concern and pain in the deep creases on his forehead which reach into my chest and squeeze my heart.
"He was here—I saw him. I've seen him before, driving his car. He's coming after me." My eyes dart back and forth between his, and search for any hint of faith.
Alex guides me into my office and sits me down on one of the chairs, grabs a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, and returns. He twists the top and hands it to me. Maybe it's the cool water on my dry throat, or dehydration—I don't know, but the water rejuvenates me, and I feel a little more normal.
After another long drink, I hand the bottle back to Alex. He sets it on the desk, pulls his chair closer to mine, and takes my hands. I look at his beautiful face, usually so quick with a smile that conveys the depths of his love for me. Something is missing, though, the brightness in his eyes is dull, and he looks exhausted.
"I know how this sounds," I say, staring at the centuries-old hardwood floors. It's easier—not having to see skepticism on his face or in his body language. "There's no way for John to stalk me…but I know what I saw, Alex. It was him, and he was reaching for me."
He places his hand under my chin and lifts it. "We'll figure this out. I won't let him hurt you again." A shadow crosses through his eyes, darkening them. "I won't fail you again."
"You didn't fail me—I wish you could stop blaming yourself. John posted bail. John hunted me down. He shot me. There was no way for you to know I was in danger that day. We both believed he was still in jail."
Silence surrounds us, a cloak that protects us from the reality of the world around, offering us a refuge to speak freely and find our way back to each other.
Alex brushes the hair from my eyes. "I'm so sorry I lied to you when you came out of the coma. I was desperate for you to feel safe again. The doctor was concerned about your recovery and urged us all to avoid anything that might stress you. When you thought John was dead, your entire demeanor shifted. I wasn't going to allow anything to disr
upt your progress. I was so afraid of losing you, baby."
"I get it, Alex, in the beginning—but you've had months to tell me the truth."
"I know, and I should have. As soon as the doctors cleared you to come home, I should have told you the truth. And every day, I swore I would, but days got away from me, and after a while, it became harder to tell you. Our lives finally seemed back to normal. I couldn't bring myself to ruin it."
"I would have understood, Alex. I would have forgiven you—if you had just been the one to tell me. Everything I believed in was destroyed the moment John walked into that room. I was no longer safe, and I no longer trusted you."
Alex places his hand on my cheek, caresses it while his eyes delve into my heart, melting the layer of ice encasing it. "I'm so very sorry. I know I have to work to rebuild your trust, but I will do anything—anything at all—to get back what we've lost. Please forgive me and give me a chance to set things right between us again."
"I forgive you—” And it’s true. Just saying the words lifts some of the weight from my heavy heart. “I just can't forget. I need more time."
We gaze at each other, and something passes between us. An unspoken understanding that we will always be together, that the love we have is not something to be thrown away, but to be cherished and nurtured—and saved at all costs.
Alex leans closer to me, his face inches from mine, and whispers, "I love you, Kylie.
“Always?"
"Forever."
His lips brush across mine, and I shudder as the tingle it produces reaches every part of my body.
“I love you, too, Alex.” My hands wrap around the nape of his neck, and I pull his lips firmer against mine. The kiss is sweet, on the verge of passionate.
Alex runs his hands along my sides, over my ribs, and pulls me closer. My lips part and his tongue accepts the invitation, and slides along mine. The tingle is now an electric charge surging straight to my core. This is what he does to me.
The sound of a throat clearing interrupts us. Reyes is standing in the doorway, stone-faced, a thick vein in his neck pulsing. "Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude."
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