“And you want to know if you should get divorced.”
“I know we should. I’ve known that for a long time. Since Deck died…”
Zachary waited for a moment to see if he would pick up his broken thought. Zachary and Bridget had only the idea of a child standing between them. A phantom pregnancy that would never be. For Spencer and Isabella, it wasn’t academic. It wasn’t just an idea. They had shared a child for almost five years. It had, perhaps, been the only thing left holding them together. Having Declan torn from their lives had ravaged both of them. It had damaged them, and maybe their relationship was beyond repair.
“You have to do what’s best for you,” Zachary said finally, aware of how inadequate the advice was. He didn’t know what was best for himself; how was he supposed to give marriage advice to someone else? “For you and Isabella.”
“But what if the same thing isn’t best for both of us?”
Zachary scratched at a spot on his pants and found that it was a snag. He tried to smooth the pulled fibers back down. Bridget had insisted on the separation and divorce. Zachary had been more than prepared to fight for the marriage. To find a way to make it work again. He had known that if they just worked together, they could heal the rift.
Spencer was on the other side. It was Spencer who had decided his marriage was unsalvageable and that he couldn’t move on until he was free. Zachary was supposed to tell him to leave, while his wife was fighting for her life a few rooms away.
Zachary was silent.
“Am I supposed to stay because Isabella needs me?”
Zachary took a deep breath. “For now,” he said, telling Spencer what he already knew. “I don’t know for how long… but you need to wait and make sure she’s going to be okay. Then you two need to have a long talk, and decide how to make the split as pain-free as possible.”
Spencer nodded, staring off into the distance. Molly was returning with a tray of coffees for all of them.
“Is that what you did?” Spencer asked.
Zachary shook his head. “No. It’s not.”
It was almost noon before a doctor came to talk to Molly and Spencer about Isabella’s condition and prognosis. He looked at Zachary but wasn’t rude enough to ask who he was and why he was there.
“We lost her a couple of times,” he said. “But she’s finally stable. We’ve done everything we could to clean her blood and minimize the damage to her liver and kidneys. We won’t know what level of functioning they have for a while. There will be a lot of testing to do over the next few days.”
“What about brain damage?” Spencer asked.
“We are hopeful that there will be no perceptible brain damage. Only time will tell. For now, she’s sleeping, and we want to keep her asleep for the next day or two.”
Molly was nodding along. “Can we see her?”
“Yes.” He glanced over the three of them. “Family only.”
Molly looked like she was going to object to this, but Zachary shook his head. “That’s fine. You don’t need me in there.”
She clutched at his arm. “Are you going to be here when we come back out?”
“No. I think I’ll head home now. I haven’t had much sleep the last few days. It will be good if I can get some rest.”
She held his arm tighter. “We need to know what happened to Declan,” she pleaded. “You can see that, can’t you?”
He nodded, defeated, unable to answer aloud. Molly let his arm go.
Zachary put his key in the lock and turned it. Nothing happened. There was no resistance or snick as the bolt slid back. He turned the key the opposite way and heard and felt the bolt slide. Then he unlocked it again.
Was it possible that he had been in such a hurry when he rushed from the apartment to the hospital that he had forgotten to lock the door behind him? He stood there for a moment, frozen, listening for any movement. He tried to replay his departure in his mind, but locking the door behind him was so routine he couldn’t remember it.
There was no note on his door this time, nothing that hinted at the presence of an intruder.
He slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open, ears pricked for any sound.
There was a noise. He couldn’t identify it at first. Someone rifling through the contents of his bedroom drawers?
He didn’t have a gun. It had never seemed like a good idea to have a lethal weapon that convenient. Zachary pulled the door shut again, as quietly as possible, and took out his phone.
The police were there in five minutes. No one had left the apartment by the door, and there was no fire escape or way to leave by the window.
“He’s still in there,” Zachary said in a low voice, which he hoped would not carry as easily as a whisper.
“You know who it is?”
“No. I’ve had a few threats lately, but I don’t know who from. I didn’t see.”
“I’d like you to go down the hall.” The policeman gestured the way they had come. “Don’t want you right outside the door. Just wait over there.”
“Okay.”
He retreated and watched the operation as the policemen pushed the door quietly open and looked around before entering.
If Zachary were a TV detective, he would have had two guns, at least, and would have rushed the apartment all by himself, guns blazing. It wouldn’t have mattered whether the apartment was filled with a dozen ninjas with sharp blades, he would somehow be able to overcome them all. Or maybe he’d be the ninja himself and go up against a dozen armed men with his bare hands.
But it wasn’t TV.
He heard the shouts of the police as they confronted the intruder. There were no shots fired. In a few minutes, one of the other policemen came sauntering out of the apartment and down the hall. He had a grin on his face.
“You got him?” Zachary asked. “He wasn’t armed?”
“We got her,” the officer said, smiling wider. “And no, she wasn’t armed.”
Zachary’s stomach flipped. Her? She? It didn’t make any sense.
If Principal Montgomery had been granted bail, then maybe she had gone to his apartment to try to find any evidence he had of her affair and destroy it. But the lock hadn’t been tampered with. He couldn’t think of any other woman who would invade his apartment. Kenzie? Even if she had come by to wish him a Merry Christmas, she couldn’t have let herself in.
There was only one person who might still have a key.
In his bedroom, Bridget was on her feet. If the police had taken her to the ground and handcuffed her, they had released her again after a short discussion.
“Your intruder was in the bathroom,” the policeman said. “Apparently inventorying your medications.”
Zachary looked around the room. His drawers had obviously been opened, no longer all closed flush. A tie was sticking out of one of them. He looked over at the bathroom and saw a garbage bag on the floor. There were still some items on the counter where he had left them the day before, but most had been put back in the cabinet or tossed in the garbage bag. Zachary finally looked back at Bridget, baffled.
“What’s going on? What are you doing here?”
Her face was bright pink. She tried to look cool and casual but was obviously embarrassed by the scene she had caused. “I couldn’t get ahold of you,” she explained. “Your phone was going straight to voicemail like it was turned off.” She shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed in front of her, ears turning a deep scarlet. “I was worried about you.”
Zachary looked at her, at the bathroom, and at his drawers.
“I know it’s a bad time of year for you.” Bridget’s voice faltered. “I called to make sure you were okay. I came over because… I had to make sure you hadn’t done something.” She glanced toward the bathroom. “When I saw everything out on the counter… I was getting rid of it. Before you could…”
He was so stunned by her actions he didn’t know what to do or say. In spite of the way she had screamed at him every time she had seen him, s
he had reached out to him on Christmas Day, worried about his state of mind. She had abandoned whatever other plans she had for the day to go to his apartment and check on him. To dispose of the pills that might be too much of a temptation for him.
“Do you want to press charges?” one of the cops asked, humor in his tone.
“No. No, I’m sorry I got you all out here… I just heard someone… I wasn’t expecting visitors…”
“Better than getting shot or cracked over the head by a burglar. We discourage people from rushing in if they think there’s someone in the house.”
They prepared to leave, finishing their various notes and calls and whatever else had to be done to document the incident before leaving. They all wished Zachary and Bridget a Merry Christmas and headed out.
And then it was just Zachary and Bridget. Standing there looking at each other, not sure what to say or do.
“I’m sorry,” Bridget apologized. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was really worried.”
“It’s okay. I was at the hospital.” He held up a hand before she could rush in, demanding to know if he was okay. “I had a client attempt suicide last night.”
She gave a laugh of disbelief. “I’ll bet that was a shock.”
“It was, and it wasn’t. The timing was… fortuitous… if a suicide attempt can be fortuitous.”
She looked back toward the bathroom. “Because you were considering it yourself.” She said it baldly. There was no beating around the bush with Bridget.
“More than considering,” Zachary admitted.
“I’ll finish going through this stuff.” Bridget went back into the bathroom and continued to examine the pill bottles. “Do you want me to stay with you today?”
“No. You go on back, have dinner with Gordon and his family.”
She turned and looked at him through the doorway, her eyebrows shooting up. “What? How do you know my plans?”
“I just assumed…”
“You just assumed what? I’ve never even told you who I’m seeing!”
“It’s a small world. I still hear from friends.”
She threw a couple of pill bottles away with a scowl and quick, angry movements.
“I told you before; you stay out of my business. Just quit it!”
Zachary leaned against his bureau, watching her. “You’re the one breaking into my house,” he reminded her.
“I didn’t break in. I have a key.”
“And you called Kenzie to warn her off?”
Bridget paused, and he saw her biting the inside of her cheek as she thought up a response.
“I felt like it was my duty to let her know… how things are.”
“Why didn’t you call her when you couldn’t find me? I might have been having Christmas with her.”
“I did,” she admitted.
“But I’m the one interfering in your life.”
“I’m sorry if you think I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, Zachary, but it’s for your own safety. Just because things didn’t work out between us, that doesn’t mean that I don’t still care about you. I don’t want you to… I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
Zachary sighed, watching her clear away the last few bottles of pills. Her instincts had been absolutely correct. She knew from experience how difficult the season was for him.
She lifted the garbage bag and tied the top.
“Did you leave me with anything?” he asked.
“A few Tylenol. A few Ambien and Xanax.” She shrugged. “If you need something… call me.”
What he needed was the life that they had had together.
But she had ripped that away from him, and she wouldn’t be giving it back.
Chapter Thirteen
A few days after Christmas, while Zachary knew that Isabella was still in the hospital, he made arrangements to see Spencer. He called ahead like Spencer had asked him to, as if he were making an appointment with a lawyer or dentist. As far as he knew, Spencer’s days were filled with testing and reviewing products on the computer. He didn’t have meetings or a school or studio schedule to coordinate. Just sitting in his home office, doing his work there. Zachary wanted Spencer to be in a cooperative mood, not in a hurry to kick him out of the house because he hadn’t been prepared to receive a visitor.
He arrived on time, and Spencer opened the door for him before he even had a chance to knock.
Spencer looked as though he had aged ten years. His face was creased and pale. His Christmas obviously hadn’t been any better than Zachary’s. Maybe even worse. He nodded a polite greeting and took Zachary back to his office and had him sit in the chair. Zachary sat staring at the stuffed dog still perched on top of the printer.
“I want to have a serious discussion with you about Isabella.”
Spencer rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What about Isabella? You know everything there is to know.”
“Why do you think she tried to kill herself?”
Spencer looked surprised. “Because she is depressed. Grieving.”
“But why would she want to kill herself? Lots of people are depressed or grieving. They go to the doctor. They get antidepressants. Therapy. Why wouldn’t Isabella do any of that?”
“She did. She went to her therapist. Support group. She didn’t want any medications, because of the side effects. She called Molly and had her stay over sometimes. She painted.”
“Why wouldn’t she take meds?”
“Because they can cause worsening of symptoms. An increase in suicidal thoughts. She didn’t want to risk it. She’s had meds before. They never seemed to work out well for her.”
“It takes some fiddling around sometimes,” Zachary said. “Trying different medications and different dosages.”
“She didn’t have the patience for it. If the first prescription didn’t work… she didn’t want to try anything else. That was it; she’d had enough.”
Zachary doodled in his notepad. He had sympathy for Isabella. He’d been there himself. He knew what it was like to be broken, and none of the things that were supposed to help would.
“Are you sure it wasn’t guilt that drove Isabella to suicide?”
“Guilt? I suppose.” Spencer gave a shrug. “She felt guilty about Declan getting out of the yard without her realizing it. That she was too late. We all feel guilty for being too late.”
“I wonder if it went deeper than that. What if she was the one who gave him the cough medicine?”
Spencer grimaced and shook his head. “She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t give him cold medicine because it might knock him out. It scared her.”
“Maybe she wanted to knock him out.”
“Why?”
Zachary couldn’t bring himself to say, ‘so that she could drown him.’ Not to her husband. Not to Declan’s father. “Maybe he was getting underfoot too much, and she wanted him to be quiet and leave her alone. Maybe she wanted to paint in peace.”
“Isabella wouldn’t do that.”
“I know plenty of women who would. Who have done exactly that.”
“You do not know Isabella!” Spencer snapped. He slammed his palm down on the desk. “Isabella wouldn’t dream of doing that!”
He was breathing hard. He coughed, clutching his side. Pain lightninged across his face. Zachary watched him closely, frowning. Spencer swore and felt his ribcage tenderly. Sweat was gathering around his temples.
“Are you okay?” Zachary asked.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Picked up a bug at the hospital, and all of the coughing and sneezing… you know how sore it can make you.”
Zachary didn’t believe it. “Take a deep breath,” he suggested.
Spencer obeyed, and instead of coughing, winced heavily and protected his side. Zachary got up and went around the desk to him.
“Hold still.” Without asking or giving Spencer a chance to object, he tugged Spencer’s shirt out of his pants and pulled it up. Spencer was too busy guarding his side to stop him.
> Spencer’s hand covered much of the area, but Zachary could still see black and blue bruises. He tried to nudge Spencer’s hand away and caught a glimpse of the dark bruises under his hand.
“You’ve got broken ribs.”
Spencer shook his head. “It’s just like I said. From coughing.”
“You don’t get broken ribs from coughing.”
“You can,” Spencer argued. “I’ve done it before.” He stopped talking and just breathed for a few minutes, pain etched on his face. “Isabella got rid of all of the cough medicine in the house after you asked if we gave it to Declan. She will freak out if I bring any more into the house. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to stop coughing? Maybe honey and lemon. Honey and lemon don’t work for a cough so bad it breaks your ribs!” Anger and pain made his voice thin and strained.
“Who’s hitting you? Isabella? Or is it someone else you’ve gotten on the wrong side of.”
“No. No one is hitting me. It’s just the coughing.”
He started coughing as if to demonstrate, and for a few minutes was so racked with choking coughs that Zachary could feel the pain of it himself.
“You should go to the doctor. Maybe you’ve got pneumonia or bronchitis.”
Spencer nodded. He didn’t attempt to answer. Sweat and tears streamed down his face. Zachary sat on the edge of the desk, watching him.
“Do you want me to drive you to the doctor?”
Spencer shook his head. He held up one finger, and after a moment managed to get enough breath to answer, without bursting into another fit of coughs. “At the hospital. When I go to see Isabella.”
She Wore Mourning Page 14
