“You can’t do this alone. You have no idea what it takes to raise a child on your own. And I can’t do it with you—” He stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“I didn’t need you to do it with me. I can handle it on my own. That didn’t give you an excuse to murder my child.”
He scoffed, blinking wildly, his eyes big and wide as if he suddenly couldn’t see. “You can handle it on your own? Really? Have you seen this place? Where is the baby going to sleep? What are you going to do for money?”
“I can get a new place. I just sold a collection to a museum in St Louis. I can take care of this baby on my own, without your help.”
“Until you sue me for child support.”
“I’d have to admit I’d ever touched you for that to be the case,” I spat. “And I’d never do that.”
“You say that now,” he said angrily, pinching the bridge of his nose again with a pained expression. “But it’ll be different when the baby comes. I can’t support you.”
“I don’t need your support!” I screamed, kicking at the table. “I need you to get the hell out of my house before I call the cops and tell them what you did.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he cried, stepping forward, a meaty finger in my face. “You hear me, you bitch? Don’t you dare!”
I stepped back, crashing into the wall. “Don’t talk to me that way!”
“I should’ve known it all this time. This was what you wanted. To trap me. To keep me here. Keep me stuck with you—”
I slapped him, the noise reverberating through the house. He fumed, his nostrils flaring with a heavy breath as his hands formed fists. He slammed his fists into the wall on either side of me. “You were good for a nice lay, Lainie. But even that got old after a while.” He reared back, hawking spit in his mouth. His lips pursed and head still back, I watched him launch it into my face. I stayed steady, his warm, wet spit dripping down my cheek.
“Get out.” My lips barely moved as I uttered the words.
He staggered backward, his movements unsteady as he turned around, shaking his head, the white bandage now a slight brown color, like dried blood.
I didn’t say a word, didn’t move an inch until he’d shut my door. I’d have to change the locks. I wiped the spit from my face with my palm, drying it on my shirt, and allowing the tears to fall—real this time.
This was over.
All of it.
I wasn’t going to the police. I would never tell anyone what had happened.
I never wanted to see, hear from, or speak of Lucas Martin ever again.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Naomi
When the knock sounded at the door that evening, I jumped from where I sat on the sofa, the TV droning on though I was paying it no attention. I’d sat in silence, staring at the wall and waiting for the pounding at the door to let me know I was being arrested—taken to jail. That Lucas had told what I’d done. The notification that my life as I knew it was over, that everything good I’d done in my life had been undone by a millisecond’s choice.
My arms shook as I walked across the room and into the foyer, wrapping the robe around my pajamas. I’d worn layers, feeling inexplicably cold, and I was intensely aware of Brent’s gaze following me as I made it to the front door, peeking out the window to my right. The cop car sat in the drive. Two uniformed officers stood just beyond the door.
I looked back to him, the blood draining from my face. It was happening. This was real.
“Who is it?” he asked. Brent had helped me clean the blood from the floor, he’d listened to me discussing all that had happened, and he’d reassured me that it was an accident, that I wasn’t to blame. Despite his reassurances, we’d both just been waiting for Lucas to report to the hospital and turn me in. He had enough friends there, I had no doubts they could make the medical report say whatever he wanted. What better way to get full custody than to prove I’m an unfit, unstable mother and wife who tried to kill her husband? I swallowed, feeling bitter. It was such a good plan it made me sick. I’d handed him the keys to the palace. Was that what he was hoping for after all? Had he tried to agitate me into pushing him? I was the one who decided to climb the stairs, though… He hadn’t led me, had he? I snapped back to reality, shaking my head at Brent with tears in my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, no idea what I was apologizing for.
Brent stood. “Wait—”
My voice was shaky and hoarse when I opened the door. “Can I help you?”
The officers stared at me, their faces solemn. “Are you Mrs. Martin?” the first one asked, his deep blue eyes narrowing on mine.
“Y—” I cleared my throat. “Yes, I am. What’s this about?”
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Bruce with the Davidson County Police Department.” My blood ran ice cold, the room blurring around me. “This is Officer Lyons. Do you mind if we come in?”
“I…” I didn’t know what to say. This was it. I was going to jail. Tears filled my eyes.
The officer cleared his throat. “Ma’am, there’s been an accident.”
Just like that, the blurriness disappeared, my vision and hearing returning to its original state. I brushed a tear from my cheek. “I’m sorry, an-an accident?”
“Do you mind if we come in?” he asked again. I was hardly listening, my thoughts racing. Brent was just behind me, his hand on the small of my back.
Becca. Becca was upstairs. Becca was safe.
My parents. My parents were in Bora Bora. They were safe.
It had to be Lucas. I looked back to Brent, who looked equally horrified.
“Please just tell me,” I said softly, addressing the officers again.
The first officer nodded, straightening his posture. “Your husband was Lucas Martin?” he asked, and I heard it. Was. The word sucked the breath from my chest.
I nodded, my entire body numb. I felt certain I was going to pass out. “Yes,” I squeaked out.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s been an accident on North Brumfield, near the Old Creek Woods. Your husband was the driver.” He paused. “The accident was fatal…” He continued talking, but I was no longer listening. I fell to the ground, though Brent scrambled to hold me up. I didn’t know what was being said. I didn’t know what was happening or what I should be doing. What I did know was that up until that point, I was ready to never see my husband again. Now, given no choice, that fate was devastating.
Brent held me tightly, speaking to the officers as my screams echoed through the house. I watched Becca’s tiny body appear at the top of the stairs, watching it all unfold. I didn’t hear what was said or what happened, but soon enough, the officers were leaving, the door was shutting, and Brent was on the floor with me, arms wrapped around me as my sobs carried through the suddenly too-quiet house.
He was gone.
My husband was dead.
My secret had died with him, but it felt like I’d died, too.
“What happened?” I choked out when I could manage to catch my breath. Brent shook his head, his jaw tight. I couldn’t tell if he blamed me or not.
Was I to blame?
His only brother was dead. They weren’t close, but he was still family.
I’d pushed him down the stairs just hours before his wreck, and Brent knew that. To my great relief, if he did blame me, he didn’t move from his spot, and his arms remained around me.
“He’s gone,” he said softly. “We have to go identify the body.”
The body. My chest went tight at the thought.
Because there was a body. Because he was dead. Because he was never coming back.
Because of me.
What have I done?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Clara
I rushed into the apartment, a mixture of vomit and blood down my shirt. I turned on the faucet, scrubbing the blood from the lines in my fingers, under my fingernails, up my arms. I stared in the mirror, at the bl
ood speckled there.
Was it mine?
Or his?
There was no way of knowing.
I stripped my clothes away, knowing I’d have to burn them or dispose of them quickly. I had to get rid of any evidence. As my shirt passed over my face, I was overwhelmed with the smell again—burning flesh, vomit, blood. The sickening sound of metal crunching against wood. The deafening screams. I remembered the way he looked. His face, so much pain and fear. My heart had been pounding so loudly in my chest I was sure I was going to pass out.
It wasn’t my fault, I tried to reason with myself.
It was an accident—a tragic accident.
But the police wouldn’t see it that way. Not if they found out I’d fled. I pulled my pants off next, throwing the clothes into a discarded pile on the floor and stepping into the shower. As the water hit my face, I thought of him, of our many moments spent under this steady stream of water.
He was gone.
He was dead.
I fell to my knees without warning, my chest tight, and a silent sob escaped my throat. What had I done? What should I have done?
I was unable to stop myself from reliving the last moments of the life of the man I loved. The moments I knew I’d forever be haunted by and unable to share with anyone.
I hadn’t wanted him to drive. It was why I’d followed. I’d wanted to protect him. I’d wanted to keep him from danger, but in the end, I’d been the most dangerous thing of all.
I had sat in my car, watching as he pulled up to an apartment I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t anywhere near his house, so I had to assume it was either a relative or a patient, but I didn’t think he was stupid enough to go to a patient’s home. It was strictly against hospital policy.
I guessed that didn’t matter so much to him anymore, as he was—we were—planning to leave the hospital.
He was at the apartment for around an hour, me sitting in my car on the street, contemplating every bad thing he could’ve been doing in there. Perhaps it was his own apartment to escape Naomi, perhaps this was his mother’s apartment, perhaps he’d kidnapped Becca, perhaps it was—
He had walked out of the apartment, interrupting my racing thoughts then, and I jumped from my own car, hurrying toward him.
He stopped, staring at me like he’d seen a ghost, then shook his head and hurried around to the driver’s side. “What are you doing here, Clara?” He was angry. Agitated.
“I followed you,” I said simply. We’d left things on such a good note, I desperately didn’t want to ruin that. “I was just worried.” I held out my hand for the keys. “Let me drive you home.”
“I’m not going home yet,” he grunted, pulling the car door open. “You should go back. I’m fine.”
“You’re obviously not. You’re upset. Are you okay? Did something happen?” I gestured up to the building he’d left.
“I’m not upset; I’m fine.” He tried to sink down in the car but stumbled.
“Luke, your head!” I shouted, grabbing at the back of his shirt and sliding my arm under his arm to keep him from falling.
“I told you I’m—”
I smacked my hand to the back of his head indignantly, and when he winced, I held it up, my palm covered in blood. “You’re not fine. The stitches didn’t hold. You’re still bleeding, and we have to get you to the hospital.”
He stared at my hand in panic, but it came across as a diluted version of panic, as if he knew how he was supposed to feel looking at his blood on my hand, but couldn’t feel it down deep. “I’ll go to the hospital after I get to the bank.”
He made a move to get in, but I moved faster, shoving myself into the driver’s seat. He groaned. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not letting you drive,” I said firmly, arms crossed to show I was serious.
“You don’t have a choice,” he said, groaning as he bent down and scooped me up like a baby. He lifted my weight awkwardly, my legs banging into the steering wheel, head slamming into the ceiling, and half shoved me into the passenger’s seat.
“What the hell?” I cried, holding my head and legs in pain. “Seriously, Luke?”
“If I wasn’t fine, do you really think I’d be able to do that?” he asked, sinking into the driver’s seat and starting up the car. I wiped the sweat from my brow, noticing the crimson stain he left on the headrest as he leaned back to buckle in.
“If you were in your right mind, I don’t think you’d need to.” I took in his appearance—wild, erratic eyes, flushed neck and cheeks. “Have you taken something else?”
He scoffed then attempted to pull out, but stopped to wait for a passing semi. “Of course not.”
“Luke, I seriously think something’s wrong. You could have a major bleed. We need to get you to the hospital.”
He shook his head, pulling out, and I buckled up, suddenly fearing the worst that could happen. “You’re losing a lot of blood! You’re a surgeon, for crying out loud. How can you be so daft?”
He snorted, but he didn’t look my way as he accelerated, turning onto the highway that led out of downtown.
“Luke, seriously, I don’t feel safe right now. Something’s really wrong with you. You aren’t thinking clearly.”
“I’m fine!” he shouted, squeezing his knuckles around the steering wheel as he blinked uncontrollably. “If you don’t trust me, you shouldn’t have gotten in the car.”
“I never said I don’t trust you, just that I’m worried about you.”
“Yeah, well, don’t be. I can take care of myself, Cl—”
He stopped mid-sentence, yawning heavily.
“Are you tired? You could have a concussion! We have to get you to a hospital.”
He looked over at me, still mid-yawn. When it ended, his forehead wrinkled. “I said I’m fine, damn—”
“Luke!” I cried, grabbing at the steering wheel as the car veered to the left and into the next lane, narrowly missing a silver car, its teenaged driver looking terrified. “Pay attention, would you?” We went around the next curve, his face a permanent scowl. “I really think you should pull over. I’ll take you wherever you want to go, but I should drive. I understand you think you’re fine, but you’re obviously not. Whether you’ve taken something again, maybe a pill from your mom for the pain and it was a bit too strong or—”
“What do you think? You think I’m some junkie? You think I’ve just popped up to my mom the dealer and taken too many pills to ease the pain? I took a hydrocodone. One. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not high. You have no idea what I’m capable of handling. I didn’t take anything more than what I needed!”
“I never said you did! Even if you took just an aspirin, if you have a bleed—”
“Damn it, Clara, I’m not an idiot. I’m a better surgeon than you are. I know not to take an aspirin while I’m bleeding.”
I fought back bitter tears at his words. “Pull the car over, Luke.”
“No.”
“I said pull it over!” I reached for the wheel as we passed a patch of gravel on my side of the road, trying to steer us in that direction, anger radiating through me.
He tried to jerk it back toward him, fighting me every step of the way. I was looking at him, him at me, when the car crossed the lanes suddenly and left the road. We flipped, the side that he was on collapsing in on him until we landed upside down.
I stayed awake, aware of everything the whole time, though it all came as a blur. The car flipped again, moving at high speed until it slammed into a tree. Luke’s body was smashed on impact, his blood splattering all over me. He stared at me, the scream escaping his throat was terrifying. My shin had smacked the dash, blood oozing down my leg. I unhooked my seatbelt, assessing the damage. His neck appeared broken, though it hadn’t killed him. His chest had shards of glass in it, blood dripping from the wounds.
“Okay, okay, hold on just—oh, God…” I glanced down, where his pelvis had twisted, the hip bone visible from where I sat. His scream was animal-l
ike as the pain set in. I closed my eyes, trying to think. “I have to call 911.” I pulled my shirt off, trying to decide which wound to tend to first. “Put this on your neck,” I said.
He stared at me, his eyes growing wider as his screams reached a peak. He couldn’t move his arms. He couldn’t speak. I knew it was over. I knew from my training there was no way we could save him. The floorboard was pooled with blood—his and mine, but mostly his. I leaned in to kiss his lips. “I love you,” I whispered, tears trailing down my cheeks to land on his. I didn’t want to leave him. I wanted to be with him until the end. But I didn’t want to give up, either. With the right surgeon, the right medical team, enough blood… No. He’d still be paralyzed. He’d likely be dead either way. I pulled my phone from my pocket, staring at the screen. When I looked back up, I noticed the blown pupil. His brain was bleeding, like I suspected. It explained the slurred speech, the erratic behavior.
What do I do? What do I do?
I stared at my phone again, leaning in to kiss him one last time. I tasted the wine on his lips and assumed he’d lied about self-medicating more than he’d admitted, which hadn’t helped the head injury. Of course, it had all been made worse by me grabbing the wheel.
I froze, squeezing my phone. Would they be able to tell it was what I’d done? Would I be blamed?
I looked at the love of my life. Was his life worth mine? No question. But would it be worth it if he wouldn’t make it anyway? The decision was impossible, and I had mere seconds to make it.
I pulled back my shirt, and his eyes widened then fell closed. He knew what I was doing, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to protest. I touched his hand. “I’ll call for help,” I promised. “I’m so sorry.” I choked back tears as I pulled my shirt over my head. His eyes didn’t open again as I forced my door open and climbed free, jumping down to the ground from the upright position of my side. I closed it back carefully, noticing the strong smell of gasoline. It hit me as I saw the clear liquid on the ground. I ran, pushing myself despite the pain in my leg, despite the pain in my chest—raw and emotional, telling me I was killing him. Telling me I still had a choice.
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