Not My Heart to Break

by W Winters

  “Officer,” I interrupt, the cup of pills in one hand, and a cup of water in the other. “I don’t want to… hinder an investigation. But it’s important she take these at a certain time and if she’s being questioned—”

  “I waive my rights; I don’t need a doctor or lawyer present.” Melody gives me a soft smile, as if thanking me and I ignore her.

  “With all due respect, Officer, her doctor would need to approve her mental state before anything she says would be admissible in court.”

  Walsh searches my gaze; it’s quiet. Too quiet. The way he looks at me, like he knows something I don’t… I don’t like it.

  “I can take them,” Melody pipes up just as I part my lips to tell him he has to come back during visiting hours. She reaches up for the cups, throwing the pills back and then does the same with her cup of water. She huffs a small humorless laugh as she crumples the little white cup in her hand. “I can’t believe the priest was in there,” she whispers.

  Tossing the small crumpled cup into the larger paper one, she sets both down on the nightstand, staring at it when she speaks. “Why would he go there?”

  Officer Walsh leans forward and the movement steals my attention. He looks at me as he asks Melody, “Did you know about the others going there? Maybe just the man who hurt you?”

  “I don’t know anything,” she answers him in a whisper, but she can’t look at him.

  The rush of blood that met me when I opened the door, slows to a trickle. Melody’s quiet. Her gaze is still focused on the cups on the nightstand. Or something else that’s there maybe. There’s nothing else present except for a clock, but maybe in her mind, something else is staring back at her.

  “What happened at the farm?” I ask the officer, remembering something I read a week ago. Six men were killed in a fire at a farm off the highway, just before the state line. They hadn’t identified the bodies yet.

  “A fire,” Officer Walsh answers and I’m quick to look back at Melody. The sweet girl who hums to herself. She came in the day I read that article, which was the day after it happened.

  “Five members of a gang from upstate were locked in an old cattle farm two nights ago…” He watches Melody for her reaction before adding, “And a priest.”

  Her eyes close solemnly and then Melody readjusts, seeking refuge with her blanket as she covers herself up to her waist.

  “The five deserved it,” she speaks up and then looks back at the officer. “You know that one did, you know what he did to me,” she says, pressing Walsh to agree with her. Her body sways first and then the action turns to a gentle rocking. It speeds up with every passing second of silence. “I’m not sad that they’re gone.”

  “Did the priest deserve it?” Walsh asks her and Melody’s large eyes gloss over.

  “I don’t know,” she whispers on every rock. “I don’t know anything.”

  “I think that’s enough for tonight,” I say to break the moment, moving between Walsh and Melody. The officer rises, ready to object, but I don’t let him. “I don’t know what’s right and wrong. I don’t know what she did, but she’s my patient. She’s not well, and she’s not in the right mind to talk right now. You can always take her in for questioning.”

  Gathering the tray, I open the door to Melody’s room and wait for Walsh to leave. He tells her to feel better before leaving. She tells him good night and the exchange is odd to me.

  I don’t know if he’s with her or against her. If he wants her to feel like he’s her friend, he’s certainly accomplished that.

  The door closes with a resolute click. Keeping my pace even and doing everything I can to remain professional, I walk straight ahead to the end of the hall then to the left, to the nurses’ station.

  Slipping the tray on top of the pile, I watch as Officer Walsh signs the check-in sheet. Signing himself out.

  “I appreciate you letting her talk,” he says absently, not looking at me as he does. The pen hits the paper and he stares at it, looking at all the names, I guess.

  His large frame towers over the small desk in front of me and it makes him appear all the more foreboding.

  The manner in which he speaks throws me off. Letting her talk. As if he’s not grateful that he was questioning her, just that she needed to get something off her chest. That’s the real reason.

  “You can’t get reliable information from her,” I tell him although I can’t look him in the eyes. There are things Delilah wrote and I know they’re coloring my perception of this man. “She’s not in the right mind.”

  “She’s never in the right mind,” he tells me. When he closes his eyes, he runs a hand down his face, letting his need for sleep show. “She could barely focus when she first came to me.”

  I don’t know what to say or what to think. I don’t know much about her, only what’s on her chart, what she prefers to eat and the songs she must like, because she hums them constantly. I’m not her therapist or her doctor. Only her nurse.

  “You’ve talked to her a lot?” I ask him, probing to see what he knows.

  He nods once and then leans against the desk with the palms of his large hands bracing him. “She came to me for help; I tried to… but the evidence.” A frustrated sigh leaves him. “I did everything I could but there wasn’t enough to charge him with anything and he didn’t confess. I thought we were close to getting one, but he didn’t give us anything.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say automatically and search for more. “I wish things had turned out better for both of you.”

  Something I say makes his gaze narrow.

  “How do you think she and her friends managed to pull it off?” he asks me and then clarifies. “The five men who hurt them being burned alive in the barn. How did they do it?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I answer him and he gauges my reaction. I add, “Maybe it wasn’t them?”

  “They’re my only suspects. A murder of revenge. That’s my working theory. Five young women and men, all of whom have never stepped out of line in their lives. One night, they conspired and committed murder. How did they do it?” he questions me again.

  “I can’t tell you.” I’m certain surprise colors my eyes when he looks at me. I’m not a cop or an investigator. I don’t know why people do the things they do. I’m shocked by weekly events here. I could only imagine what transpired that led to the fire that night.

  “Someone helped them,” he concludes.

  “Who would help them? The priest?” I take a guess, still confused and not completely on board with Walsh’s working theory.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t understand how Father John plays into all this.” I can see the wheels turning in Walsh’s head, trying to piece together what happened.

  “If it wasn’t the priest who helped them… then who?”

  “Someone they see as a vigilante. That’s my theory.”

  “A vigilante?” The longer I stand here talking to him, the more and more I feel insane. Or maybe he’s the one who’s lost it. My mind whirls with all the secrets I know and it makes it more difficult to pretend I don’t know what he’s getting at. He called Marcus a vigilante. Delilah wrote about it.

  “Someone who wanted the men dead for a different reason. Someone who would benefit from the event occurring and make himself look like a hero in the process.”

  “Who would want them dead?” I play along, pretending I don’t know what he’s implying.

  “You know who.”

  “I don’t understand. I’m afraid you have me at a loss,” I lie.

  “Marcus. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Everyone in this town has,” he comments and I feel my cheeks burn. For a moment, I doubt that I’ve held the secret of taking Delilah’s notebooks close enough. I question if he knows. Or is it just that he assumes everyone knows about Marcus? The way he looks at me, though... It feels like he knows I know all about him and all about Marcus.

  “A girl is hurt, and not well. This man seeks her out, knowing he can get her to do
unspeakable things in order to feel better. In order to feel like she got the justice she should have gotten from the legal system.”

  I don’t want to know about any of this. I’m her caretaker and that’s the only reason I intervened. The words are there, ready to be spoken. Instead I find myself thinking and pray I swallow the thought quickly enough that the officer doesn’t see it written on my face. Is that what happened with Delilah?

  I’m drained as I get to my loft and sag against the door. There’s not an ounce of me left to keep me upright. My keys jangle as I toss them on the counter.

  I’m torn when it comes to Officer Walsh. What I read about him and what I saw tonight are at odds, painting contrasting mind pictures. I don’t know what to think about the man, but I can’t get what he said out of my head.

  I find myself slipping into old habits, inserting myself between the business of powerful men with unjust causes just as easily as I sulk to my living room to gaze at the bouquet.

  Some nights I’m numb from work. It’s a brutal reality to be submerged in. That’s why I told Seth I want to stay at my place after long shifts. He agreed. Nearly everything I suggested, he agreed with this morning. Technically, yesterday morning.

  I sag into my sofa and then kick off my sneakers, one by one without untying them. Tonight, this exhaustion isn’t from work. It’s because I’m questioning my own ability to think straight.

  How did I get to this point in my life where I constantly question my sanity and my judgment? When did it get this bad?

  A knock at the door sounds, as if answering the question. The large black hands on the clock on the wall read 1:47. I’m hesitant to rise, but almost certain it’s Seth.

  There’s no one else who should be here. For a moment, I question if I should get a knife. I don’t have a gun and as the doorknob rattles I curse myself for that.

  “Laura,” Seth calls out before the door is cracked open and I let out a strangled breath. Thank fuck.

  “Way to give me a fucking heart attack,” I reprimand him although I don’t have the energy to speak loud enough for him to hear me.

  I’m still inwardly calming myself when Seth comes into view, closing the door behind him.

  “I made myself a key,” he comments, holding up the shiny silver piece in his hand and then letting it fall, clanging with the other keys on the ring. It takes me a minute to respond. I’m too caught up in how he’s dressed. There’s no suit today, only faded jeans and a black t-shirt. Simple and yet everything I remember. Running his hand over the back of his head, he ruffles his hair before tossing the keys down on the counter… right next to mine.

  The memories come back. Memories of how we used to do just that and it never felt wrong or off or confusing. Not like it does now.

  “Of course you made yourself a key… I’d ask how, but…” I leave the thought unfinished and lean back into the sofa, gathering the throw blanket to pull over myself.

  “You look good,” I tell him offhandedly. Seth looks down at himself and then back at me. I cut him off before he can say a damn word. “I look like hell because that’s how I feel.”

  “Long day?” he asks and stalks into the living room. Stalking is exactly how he goes about it too. Careful steps as he eyes my loft.

  “Yeah,” I answer him and then watch him. “Like what you see?” I ask and my tone hints at how pissed off I am. It’s late, I’m tired, and he’s come here unannounced.

  “Twentieth floor loft with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the park,” Seth says and glances outside, but it’s so dark that you can’t really see a damn thing. He has to pull back the thick curtains and stare for a second and then another until he concludes the same thing.

  As he takes a casual seat in the dusty rose velvet chair across from me, I tell him, “Never thought of myself as a city girl but when I moved here… I wanted a change.”

  I mindlessly pick at the throw blanket, as if there are little fuzzes to be plucked but there aren’t.

  “Dyed your hair, got your dream job and an upscale place,” Seth speaks and looks anywhere but at me.

  “Hey, a girl who changes her hair is a girl who’s changing her life.” Why does it hurt so much to say a simple quote? Is it the unspoken judgment Seth reeks of? Or is it the shame that I did just that: I ran away and changed my life.

  “You’re still the same girl,” Seth comments and leans forward in the small chair. With his elbows on his knees he asks me, “You like it here?”

  “Yeah,” I answer him honestly. “It’s small, but I like it a lot.”

  He only nods, leaning back in the chair and I have to let out a long yawn. Seth looks so out of place in here. My décor is feminine and chic. His rough edges and masculinity stand out in this room. They’d stand out anywhere though.

  He’s busy staring at the flowers and that’s when I remember he didn’t answer my text. “Hey, the number you messaged me with the other day… that’s yours, right?” I ask him and he nods once. “I um… thank you for the flowers.”

  “I got your text,” he answers and that hard lump in my chest grows. He stands from the chair and walks past me to the kitchen. I don’t bother to look and I’m not surprised when I hear the sound of the fridge opening.

  “Make yourself at home.” My comment is complete with a full-on eye roll and then I lay my head back, resting my eyes.

  “You want a drink, Babygirl?” Seth asks and I tell him no.

  “If I have one, I’ll pass out,” I say.

  When he comes back empty-handed I tell him he’s welcome to whatever he wants and that I was just joking, but he shakes his head, slipping his hands into his jeans.

  “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have gotten you IPA.” I hint at the reason I’m a little miffed.

  “See,” he says as he gives me a weak smile, “same girl.”

  The way he looks at me melts something inside that hurts. Something that’s not meant to burn. “Not all the same,” I murmur, pulling my legs into my chest. I’ve fallen asleep here too many times to count. Work’s draining and the long shifts are hard on me some days.

  Days like today.

  “They remind me of the flowers I got you,” he says as he steps slowly toward them and pauses to observe the bouquet.

  “They are them.” I can practically hear the simper that lingers on my lips in my voice when I tell Seth, “I’d never forget.

  “Cami said it was a sign that you’d gotten both my favorite flowers and hers. She used to joke that the buttercups were her favorite and the flowers were really meant for her as a thank you for…” I trail off as I almost tell him how she pushed me to kiss him. Cami urged me to go after what I wanted and to stop thinking. Seth didn’t make the moves first. He always let me do it. Times have changed.

  “Buttercups?”

  “The ranunculus. These ones,” I say and I have to lean forward to reach. I don’t like the way he looks down at me when I look up at him. He’s uncertain; I can see it so clearly.

  The realization makes me withdraw, pulling the throw blanket tighter around me before tossing it off altogether. I’m falling into old habits, when I shouldn’t. Everything is different now.

  “I have to wash my face and get ready for bed,” I tell him with a sigh as I stand up. “I had a twelve-hour shift and another tomorrow.”

  There’s only so much a person can take. I aim to walk around him, but he stops me, cupping my elbow in his hand and then pulling me into his chest. Have I ever given into his warmth as easily as I do now? Sagging into his chest without hesitation. Closing my eyes and breathing him in. My arms wrap around him and I hold him lightly as he pets my hair and then plants a kiss on my temple.

  “I’m tired,” I whisper. “And I don’t know what we are.” Insecurity rises and with the last statement my eyes open. “What are we doing?” I ask him.

  With sleep pulling me under, it’s hard to remember why I gave myself to him last night.

  “We’re feeling better,
” he reminds me.

  It’s difficult to imagine that this is better. With all the doubt surrounding me.

  “Do you forgive me for leaving you?” The moment the question is spoken, I wish I could take it back. Seth’s warm embrace turns stiff and it takes a long moment before he answers, “Don’t asks questions you don’t want the answers to.”

  A sad smile plays along my lips. It turns sadder when he goes about petting my hair again and the arm he has around my waist holds me closer to him.

  Maybe one day. I don’t believe the thought enough to speak it.

  Peeking up from his hold, I get a good look at the tattoo on his bicep. The thin lines are clean but so close to one another, I can only imagine the ink will bleed together and all it will be is a solid black ring.

  “You got more,” I comment and run my finger along them.

  “More years to remember,” he tells me solemnly.

  “Didn’t you skip a year?” I say but my memory is so foggy.

  He only looks down at me questioningly. His eyes are tired and he needs to shave. “Your stubble’s turning into a beard.”

  He doesn’t say anything, again he only watches me as I leave his embrace, making my way to the bathroom. It’s hot and cold with him and I don’t know what to think.

  “Is there anyone else?” he finally asks the moment I turn to go to the bathroom and get on with bed, with or without him.

  “Anyone else?” The confusion settles into a crease in my forehead.

  “Are you seeing anyone else?”

  “No.” I huff out the response. “I haven’t seen anyone in… over a month now.”

  “Good. When I said you’re mine, I meant it.” His tone is hard and unforgiving, like I’ve done something wrong.

  “Why do you want me?” I breathe out with exasperation.

  “To have you when I want.” Seth’s answer is bullshit and selfish.

  So I hurt him back. “That’s the only reason you ever kept me, isn’t it?”

  “Only reason you ever stayed, isn’t it?” My response may have been a slap to the face. His is a bullet to my heart.