My thoughts were in a terrified jumble as I watched the detectives strolling out the door without so much as a care in the world. But my world suddenly felt like a chaotic mess. How could this be happening? It never occurred to me that I’d be blamed for Julie’s death. Didn’t we both fall? And who was to say she didn’t attack me? Maybe she fell to her death when she violently shoved my head into the wall. At any rate, I wasn’t the type of person to throw someone down the stairs. I just wasn’t.
As soon as the two detectives disappeared, the technician wheeled me out of the room. The first process was removing my catheter, followed by x-rays. Then I was sent in for an MRI. Placed in a tube, I listened to the pounding commotion from the machine, as well as the noises screaming inside my head. Thunderous turbulence echoed between my ears and had me wanting to crawl up the walls, my only thoughts centered on the fact that I had been arrested. It was hard to wrap my head around the idea as my hands hadn’t been slapped with handcuffs and I hadn’t been hauled off to jail. It surprised me when an armed guard hadn’t been assigned to make sure I didn’t go AMA, as Detective Sutton has so adamantly instructed.
I supposed Detective Sutton had assessed the improbability of me going on the lam. Dragging me through the booking process in my condition would’ve been uncalled for. Having never been in trouble with the law, not being a flight risk and having a reputable job, I was surely a very bondable person.
Suddenly, having a job jumped to the forefront of my mind, wondering if Mr. Harrington might fire me after learning of my arrest. The accusation of killing a coworker would most certainly cast a shadow on my otherwise good reputation … and his as well. He wouldn’t want me on his payroll anymore. And from this day forward, I would have a huge blight on my resume. No one in their right mind would hire me once this slanderous news spread. And that was if I didn’t spend the rest of my life in jail for murder. I was doomed.
* * *
“How are you doing?” Martin asked as he assisted me off the MRI table.
“My legs feel wobbly,” I said, clutching to the side of the frame.
“Loss of blood. It’ll make you weak as a kitten,” he explained before changing subjects. “Dr. Bakshi has also ordered some cognitive and performance testing. Do you think you can walk with me to the testing facility?”
“Everything’s slightly blurry,” I admitted. “Is it far?”
“Only next door … possibly a hundred-yard walk or so,” he said lightly, making the trek sound miniscule.
In my mind, it sounded like an impossibly long journey. But I knew, having been rolled down on my bed, I’d have to either walk or be taken over in a wheelchair.
“Yes, I suppose I can make it that far,” I encouraged my slightly curious self about my ability to walk.
The testing facility might as well have been on Mars. By the time we reached our destination, my bruised ribs were screaming, I was winded, and my blurry vision had me swaying all over the place. Martin had pretty much held me up to keep me from faltering. And unless I missed my guess, I would be taken back in a wheelchair.
“Just have a seat,” Martin advised, helping me slump into a chair. “Someone will be right with you to perform the tests.”
A few moments later, Bill, as he had introduced himself, arrived with a notebook which he splayed open on a desk in front of him for his own notetaking. After introductions, he advised he was going to begin by testing three domains: conceptual, social and practical. A portion of the test would be conducted with the use of an iPad. For the other parts he gave me a pen and some paper. Suddenly it felt as if I had arrived at school and pop quizzes were being issued.
The test began with questions about my language, reading, writing, and math skills, including knowledge acquisition and memory retention. With respect to each question, I felt accomplished, except for remembering anything about the accident.
Next, he moved to social testing where I was propounded varying scenarios to be graded on empathy, social judgment, interpersonal skills, and friendship abilities. I didn’t have any problems there and even broke down and cried like a baby when we discussed Julie’s death.
From this point, he proceeded to the practical part, testing me on self-management areas such as personal care, job responsibilities, money management, hobbies and work tasks. Again, it felt like I passed with flying colors.
Finally, I was asked to identify shapes, colors and depth perception. My blurry vision interfered with every sector and when he tried tossing me a ball, I failed each attempt at catching it. While having felt good about the first part of the testing, my blurry vision was causing a lot of problems and I worried about the possible impact it would have on the rest of my life.
By the time testing was over, I was both mentally and physically exhausted, as well as sweating profusely as if I had greatly exerted myself. When Martin arrived to take me back to the hospital, I was elated to see the presence of a wheelchair. Feeling utterly drained, I plopped in the plastic seat and let him push me back to my bed.
“Bill said you did great,” he assured me as we entered the elevator for him to take me back to the room. “Most people who have suffered a head injury, such as yours, aren’t tested for several days after the trauma. You’ll be fine in the long run.”
“I hope so,” I admitted, simply wishing I could turn back the hands of time and start yesterday over.
* * *
Having returned to my room, I took a few moments in the restroom, utilizing the facilities to give myself a much-needed primping session. While I didn’t have any makeup and could do little with the bandages around my head, I managed to wash my face, brush my teeth and smooth down my wild hair.
After being assisted back into bed, I noticed lunch had been placed on my bedside tray. It was cold, but I was hungry and so I nibbled at it until I had eaten a good chunk of the unidentifiable portions. For the rest of the afternoon I watched a blurry TV and gazed out a blurry window.
It was getting late in the afternoon and the sun was sinking below the horizon. This morning I had called information for the number of Harrington Oil & Gas. After jotting the number down, I had contacted the receptionist to let her know I wouldn’t be coming to work today. She must’ve been aware of what happened because she responded by saying, “No, I wouldn’t have expected you to.” It was my first worry about whether I still had a job, but even so, I didn’t go into anything with her.
As the day came to an end, my fret intensified over still not having my phone. I needed to get in touch with Amy to cancel our shopping trip. My parents also needed to know what was going on. And, too, I could’ve spent the afternoon searching for an attorney to represent me. While I wasn’t rich by any means, I had a decent savings account, hopefully enough to provide me with hired representation as opposed to a court-appointed lawyer.
While I brooded over the loss of my mobile, I looked up to see Dr. Bakshi coming by again, causing me to wonder if he worked all hours of the day. He told me the x-rays looked good, but he wouldn’t know the MRI results until Monday.
“I heard you did well on the cognitive and performance testing.” He gave me an encouraging smile.
“Not all of it,” I corrected. “I had trouble with walking, catching a ball, shapes and a few other areas.”
“Those deficits could be related to your concussion. Don’t work yourself up over it.” He shined a light in my eyes, made a few grunting noises and then tucked the small apparatus back in his pocket. “Have you had any more hallucinations?”
I did not have any hallucinations.
“No,” I answered, figuring the argument wasn’t worth the waste of breath.
“That’s a good sign,” he said while he removed the bandages from my head and then bragged, “Good job I did. You’re going to heal nicely.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate all you did for me,” I praised.
“Well get some rest,” he said in closing, putting the bandages back in place. “And let me know if
you have any headaches, dizziness, or any more hallucinations.”
“Will do,” I agreed wondering if anyone was going to attempt killing me again tonight … because I did not have any hallucinations. As soon as the thought passed my mind, I stressed over how long I could remain awake. After no sleep last night or any today, and the grueling effects from all the testing, I was exhausted, totally and completely. But even the tempting reward of only shutting my eyes for a moment would most certainly result in my falling into a deep slumber.
A rapping on the door jarred me away from my blissful thoughts of sleep. A uniformed police officer stuck his head in the doorway. “Ma’am, hello … uh, I’m Officer Fred Sinclair. I’m here to keep you company for a while.”
So, those two detectives didn’t trust me not to go on the run.
“Yes, well okay,” I muttered. “Not in my room … right?” My less than accurate eyes took in a tall, skinny man with red hair and freckles. As he approached to shake my hand, I noted he looked too young to be carrying a gun. A kid almost had been sent to guard me.
“No, no. I’ll be stationed outside the door,” he quickly assured me.
“Wonderful,” I cooed, suddenly realizing I had a night of sleep ahead of me because surely my would-be killer wouldn’t consider entry with a guard at my door.
After a few moments of awkward silence, he shuffled his feet and muttered, “I’ll just be outside the door then.”
“Okay,” I responded, watching him take one of my two chairs out with him. I supposed I wouldn’t have any visitors until I was able to contact my parents and Amy. How stupid was it that I had never thought to memorize those few contacts? People used to store a multitude of phone numbers in their brains back in the day. But nowadays it seemed pointless when it was only necessary to do a search of my favorites. All it took was the press of my finger on my dad’s icon, a picture of him grinning wide as he held up a three-pound bass he had caught on our last fishing trip together. Or the slight tap over my mom’s photo with her graying hair piled high on her head in good ole Texas fashion. And then there was a snapshot of Amy with her tongue sticking out at me and making a face behind her black-rimmed glasses. I’d even assigned specific ringtones for each of them. That I had thought to do.
As the officer fumbled in the doorway, twisting the chair first one way and then the other, the reality of having been arrested became so very real. A guard … someone to make sure I didn’t escape. Replays of my interview with the detectives circled over and over in my head. You’re under arrest for the murder of Julie Mitchell. How was I going to break this news to my parents? Would Amy even stick by me? Had a simple walk down a stairwell brought an end to everything I cherished? Nothing looked promising right now and this was given the current circumstances. While the detectives hadn’t thought to ask me what Julie and I were discussing in the stairwell, after word got out, which it surely would, all fingers would certainly be pointed at me. Because you see, Julie and I were having a heated discussion in that stairwell.
Chapter Eight
“Knock, knock,” I heard.
Expectant of the noise being Officer Sinclair, I swiveled my head in the direction of the door. Instead, I was rewarded with the welcome sight of my knight in shining armor. Paul stuck his head in. “Are you decent?” he asked in a lighthearted tone.
“Yes, of course. Come in,” I said, thankful of having taken the time to make myself semi-presentable.
He entered with a bright smile and a vase of daisies to which I was very appreciative … but no purse. “I brought you a little something,” he said, presenting me with the delicate white flowers with yellow cores, a blurry vision I barely made out. While the petals presented a dainty appearance, the room took on an earthy smell.
Shifting in my bed, I pushed past the pain in my bruised ribs and worked my way into a more upright position. “They’re beautiful,” I gushed. “Thank you so much.”
“I’ll just put them here,” he said, finding a spot on my bedside table next to my worthless hospital phone. “How are you feeling?” he addressed after fluffing the stems around.
“I’m fine,” I simply answered because I didn’t think he really wanted to hear about my aches and pains, or my lack of sleep in too many hours to count.
After twisting the clear vase around a bit, he stood back to admire his flower arranging. Satisfied with his floral skills, he turned his attention to me. “Well good. You sure took a nasty fall, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” I answered, watching him pull up the remaining chair beside my bed. He removed his jacket in the same manner as Detective Sutton had and he too draped it around the chair. And like Detective Sutton, he was wearing a dark suit, paired with a crisp white shirt and a dark gray tie. Both were brown-haired, brown-eyed, handsome men. Even about the same height. I blinked several times wondering once again if my eyes were playing tricks on me. For a moment, I wondered if he was a hallucination.
No, I was not hallucinating. The men simply had similar features.
“Paul Williams?” I asked calling out his name, somehow seeking reassurances to verify I wasn’t seeing things and he really was there.
“Yes, Paige,” he responded. “And call me Paul.”
For a moment I couldn’t think of anything to say, until finally I caved. “Paul, did you see anyone in the hallway yesterday … you know, with a bat?”
For a moment, it seemed his face took on a sad, pitying look and then he shifted in his chair and looked directly at me. “No, I didn’t. But everything was very chaotic, and my adrenaline was bouncing all over the place. Just because I didn’t see someone, it doesn’t mean someone wasn’t there.”
His belief in me came as a breath of fresh air. “I did see someone,” I responded firmly. “The doctor said my head injury could cause hallucinations,” I admitted, feeling like he deserved knowing I might not be banging on all cylinders.
“Yes, I’m aware. I stayed last night until you were out of surgery. The doctor spoke with me about the possible long-term and short-term effects.” He kept his gaze on mine. “I believe you though. If you saw someone, then someone was there.” He paused for a long moment and then asked, “Paige, what happened in the stairwell?”
A long sigh escaped my mouth and I grabbed at my sore ribs. “I don’t know. My memory of the event has either been medically prevented or I’ve blocked out the horror. In my mind, I think I was pushed, but it doesn’t explain a hundred other things. Detectives came by earlier today and pointed out every inconsistency … like my head was hit in the back when it should have been a frontal injury. I don’t recall either of us screaming. There’s no recollection of why my DNA would’ve been found under Julie’s nails. And I have no remembrance of the presence of another person, other than I thought I heard a grunt.”
“There must be some explanation though. Have the police checked the video?”
“That’s another thing. They said no one went into the stairwell, other than me and Julie. The way they see it, Julie and I got into an argument because I was upset over her getting a position in our firm over me, and it set me off to the point I pushed her to her death.”
“Is that true?” he asked nonjudgmentally.
“Julie was recently advanced to CFO. I had applied for the job.” I let out a breath of air. “I knew I wouldn’t be selected. It was stupid of me to have even put my name in the pot.”
“How so?” he asked.
“I had expected Mr. Harrington would hire Lidia Gentry since she was already familiar with the position. Her mother had been the CFO ever since the company started and everyone just assumed Lidia would someday take her place, especially since Lidia had already assumed the duties after her mother’s car accident.”
“But you applied … and Lidia wasn’t hired. Were you upset over Julie being appointed instead of you?”
“No. No I wasn’t at all. Not only is it a demanding position, Julie had to put up with a world of angst from Lidia. Lidia’s the one
who was angry over Julie getting the position. Not me.”
“Do you know where Lidia was when all this happened?”
“She was still at work when Julie and I left. According to the detectives – Detective Sutton – he said she left for home shortly after Julie and I departed. He also said the videos showed Lidia exiting the building via the elevator. Then he emphasized it was only me and Julie in the stairwell.”
“I see.” His tone gave me the impression he was losing faith in my innocence and might be turning against me.
“I didn’t push Julie,” I said looking straight into his dark brown eyes. “I wouldn’t have done such a thing.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” he said, but I couldn’t tell if he thought I was being truthful, or he was simply placating me. Then again, why should he believe me? He didn’t know me. I could be one giant angry bitch, or a soft pushover. How would he know?
“The police believe I killed her.” I chewed at my bottom lip, trying to work out the frog suddenly jumping into my throat. Then finally it dislodged. “I’ve been arrested.”
He nodded. “Yes, I gathered as much when I saw the guard outside your door. Also, the police called and told me I had to bring in your purse and all of the contents.”
I frowned. “I wondered if that might be the case when you entered without it. They were miffed when they found out you took it.” I rubbed a hand across my forlorn face. “It’s just that I need to call my parents and I have a friend I was supposed to go shopping with tomorrow. I never memorized their numbers, so I don’t have any way to contact them to let them know what happened.”
“I have another gift for you.” He fumbled a hand into his coat pocket and brought out a basic prepaid cell phone and handed it to me.
“A burner phone?” I asked, now truly feeling like a criminal. “Thank you so much for the thought. But, like I just said, I never committed anyone’s number to memory.”
A Deadly Promotion Page 4
