Right away, I know something’s wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and my chest is suddenly hollow. I swallow, trying to bring back a bit of moisture to my suddenly dry mouth.
“Okay,” I say. I rub my eyes and sit up.
Martin’s face twists, and he shakes his head.
“I’m sorry. I just want you to know that from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.”
My heart hammers, and panic starts to claw at my throat. An hour ago, he was telling me he loved me. And now…? I blink, pulling my hand away from his chest. He turns towards me and I see the same pain in his eyes that I saw the day he tried to kiss me at my apartment.
“Did you sleep with someone else or something? I mean, we weren’t together, so…”
He shakes his head, snorting.
“Sleep with someone else? God, I tried. Many times. I could never go through with it. Ever since you stole my parking space, it’s always been you. Only you.”
I consider making a comment about it not being his parking space to lighten the mood, but I bite my tongue. It’s not the time. This feels significant. It feels scary.
He takes a deep, rattling breath.
“Do you remember how I told you my wife died?”
“She had to have an emergency C-section, right?”
He nods, turning back towards the ceiling. His eyes go hazy, as if he’s being transported back to that time. “We’d been trying to have a kid for years,” he says. His voice sounds hollow. “She was going through IVF treatments, and finally, finally, we had a baby.”
He inhales again, squeezing his eyes shut. A tear rolls down the side of his face, and I wipe it away with the backs of my fingers.
“It was the happiest time of my life. And then, when I was over in Golden for a case, she started bleeding. A lot. I couldn’t get back fast enough, because Carmen had sent me to the fucking mountains, so Jaime took her to the hospital. They couldn’t save the baby, and—” he sobs. My heart shatters for him. I put my hand on his shoulder, stroking him softly. A lump forms in my throat as I see this man—this beautiful, stoic man—break down.
I wish I could take some of his pain away and shoulder it myself. I wish I could mend his heart, soothe him and love him until he was whole again.
“By the time they took the baby out, she’d lost so much blood. She was unconscious, and they tried to revive her. They gave her blood. They tried, and she hung on for a long time—almost a week.”
He stops talking, and I squeeze his shoulder. This is the most he’s told me about his wife’s death. Tears run down my cheeks and I let them fall off my chin onto the blanket.
Martin takes a deep breath. “On the day that it happened, I was in Golden.”
“For work.”
He nods. “Jaime called me from the hospital, and I started panicking. I got back as quickly as I could but I…” He takes a deep breath. “I got in an accident on the way home.”
My heart starts beating. I think I know what he’s going to say, but I don’t want to hear it. My mind starts heading for the abyss, and the darkness begins sucking me in.
No.
No, no, no.
It’s not true.
“I was driving on the I-70,” he says, turning his head towards me. In his eyes, I see pain, and something else. I see guilt. “I hit a car. I side-swiped it. I saw it spin into the other lane, and I thought they would be okay. I needed to get back to Brianne. I…”
His face crumples and he starts to cry.
“I’m so sorry, Nicole. I’m so fucking sorry. I should have stopped.”
I shake my head. “No.” I back away from him, shaking my head faster. “No, no, no, no, no.”
Scrambling up from the bed, I back up until I hit the far wall. My fingernails scratch on the wall behind me as I try to make sense of what he’s just told me. He stares at me, his eyes hollow. He extends his hands towards me and I wrap my own arms around my naked body.
“I’m so sorry, Nicole. I thought someone would see you. I was a mess. I knew Brianne was in trouble, I—”
“Do not try to garner sympathy by using your fucking dead wife,” I spit. The darkness swallows me whole. “You liar. You monster. You murderer!”
He’s crying, but I don’t care. I feel dirty and foolish. My heart implodes, and shards of it embed themselves in my flesh. My whole body hurts. I’m in agony. I scramble to pick up my clothes, shaking. Martin stands up, and I just point my trembling finger at him.
“Take one step towards me and I’m calling the police.”
“Nic—”
“Get away from me!” My voice is guttural and animalistic. It’s not my voice, it’s all my pain and my grief and my horror ripping through my vocal cords. I grab my throat, struggling for a breath.
His face twists some more, and he sits down on the bed with his head in his hands. I get dressed as I hyperventilate. By the time I’ve gathered my things, my whole world has tilted on its axis. I pause in the doorway to the bedroom and turn around.
Martin is still sitting on his bed—the bed where we just had sex—with his head in his hands. He’s naked, and pathetic, and weak.
“How long have you known?”
He turns to look at me, and I don’t recognize the shell of a man that meets my eye. I stand up straighter, willing my lower lip not to tremble.
“Since you showed me the scene of the accident.”
I stare at the ceiling to try to stop my tears, but they pour out of my eyes. “And you still had sex with me? You still took that DUI case? You told me you loved me?!”
“Nicole, I—”
I put up my hand, shaking my head. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear the voice that I’ve been missing for the past month. I don’t want to hear his story of heartbreak and grief. I don’t want to think that the man that I thought I was falling in love with is the man who killed my husband.
I look at him once more. He opens his mouth to speak, but we just stare at each other in silence. Tears flow down my cheeks, but I hold my chin up high.
I may be emotional, but I am not weak. I turn my back to him and walk out of his apartment.
I walk for ten, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I’m not sure how long. There are no taxis in sight, and the crushing weight of Martin’s confession hits me like a speeding train. I sit down on the curb and I cry.
When a cab finally comes into view, I stand up and wave it down. I wipe my eyes and nose on my sleeve, and take a deep breath before getting in and giving him my address.
“Everything okay?” The cabbie asks as he glances at me through the rear-view mirror.
“Yeah,” I say. “Everything’s fine.”
30
Martin
I don’t know how long I sit there. I hear the door close and it rattles my bones. Then, I just sit on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands and let all the emotion drain from my body until I’m empty. Finally, when my body starts shivering, I realize that I’m cold.
My skin is covered in goosebumps, and my cock has shriveled up to the size of my thumb. My muscles creak as I stand up, and I shuffle to the shower. The water hits my body and warms it up, and I just stand there, unfeeling.
Mechanically, I turn the water off and dry myself. I slip into some sweat pants and lie on my bed, but then I turn to the side and realize that Nicole was there. The imprint of her body is still on the sheets, and I can smell the scent of her shampoo on the pillow.
My chest squeezes. I grab my pillow and head for the couch. I take a couple sleeping pills and collapse on the cushions.
Dawn is breaking when I wake up. The sun is shining on a beautiful summer’s day. I groan. The fact that the world is still turning is a slap in the face.
Just like when Brianne died, I feel like the world is spinning around me. My world is falling to pieces, but somehow, unaware, life for everyone else goes on.
Everything aches when I sit up on the couch. I stare at the pillow, and then at the rug, and
finally push myself up to get a cup of coffee. I groan as I stand, as if my body’s aged fifty years overnight. Even the soles of my feet hurt. I hobble to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee, and then I stand at the counter and drink it.
Somehow, I make it to work. I head for my office and close the door, sitting behind my desk and staring at my blank screen. My eyes drift to the couch in the corner, where I made Nicole orgasm the very first time. My chest feels like it has a bloody axe embedded in it, and the ugly truth starts to creep up on me.
She’s right. I’m a piece of shit. I lied to her—lied by omission. I should have told her when we stopped at that damn tree. I should have broken down and begged for her forgiveness. I should have turned myself in, and then gotten down on my knees and begged her not to hate me.
But I didn’t.
I said nothing. I let her believe that the loss of her husband reminded me of my wife, when all it did was remind me of my guilt.
Kelly pokes her head in the door with a list of messages. Her eyes widen when she sees my face, and I wonder how bad I really look. It’s not like I looked at myself in the mirror this morning. I can’t face myself.
She slides through the doorway and pads towards me. She places the messages on my desk, along with an envelope with our firm’s name emblazoned on it.
I nod. “Thanks, Kelly.”
She hesitates. “Martin… Are you okay?”
I must look pretty fucking bad.
“I’m fine. Cancel my appointments this morning and don’t bother me with anything.”
She nods and walks out without saying anything. As soon as the door closes, I exhale. I stare at my blank screen again, and the stack of papers on the edge of my desk. I can’t bring myself to even turn on my computer right now.
Instead, I reach for the envelope. The page inside is made with thick, expensive-feeling paper. I already know what the letter says—I’ve gotten a number of them in the past year. I read it, and my heart sinks.
It’s a bonus for winning the DUI case. For our high-profile clients, the firm reserves part of the fees as incentives if we win the cases. Usually, a letter like this would fill me with pride, and I’d buy myself something nice. The first time, it was a new car. The second time, I bought a new entertainment system for my apartment.
But now?
Now I toss the letter aside and drop my head in my hands. I feel dirty. That letter just reinforces that I’m a liar, and a piece of shit. I don’t deserve a bonus. I should be in jail.
A tear drops onto the letter, and that’s when I realize I’m crying. Once I start, I can’t stop. Tears keep coming and coming and coming and I sob. My shoulders shake and I rock back and forth. I’m not sure how long I cry, but eventually the tears slow down. My throat feels raw, and my body feels like an empty husk.
I stare at the letter. My eyes drift down to Carmen’s signature at the bottom, and my heart hardens. I know what I need to do.
I pick up the letter with the tips of my fingers as I stand up. Running my fingers through my hair, I take a deep breath and head for the door. I ignore the shocked looks and whispers as I walk across the office. I just keep my eyes on my destination.
When I open Carmen’s door, she looks up. Her eyebrows arch, and she slides her glasses off her face. She stands up, walking around her desk.
“Marty,” she says. “What’s going on?”
I close the door and look her in the eye. She takes a tentative step towards me. She looks concerned—she probably should. I’m on the verge of a fucking mental breakdown. She’s my boss, my mentor, the woman who gave me all my opportunities in this career. She’s a tough, strong woman, but now, she takes another step towards me and slides her hand over my arm.
“Marty,” she says. Her voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. She leads me to a chair, her eyes not leaving my face.
I hand her the letter and struggle to swallow. I take a deep breath. Her eyes don’t leave my face.
“Carmen, I need to tell you something.”
“Okay,” she says evenly.
I thought telling the story a second time would be easier. It’s not. With another deep breath, I straighten my shoulders and for the first time, I face my past and my future head-on.
“A year and a half ago, I was involved in a hit and run.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God,” she sighs. “Did they ever find the guy?”
I shake my head. “I’m the guy. I hit a car, and I didn’t stop. Brianne had just been taken to the hospital, and—” My voice cracks, and I take a deep breath to steady it. “I found out that the driver of the other car died.”
“Fuck,” she breathes, dropping her head. “Fuck, Marty.”
“I’m going to turn myself in.”
“What?”
“I can’t handle it anymore. I can’t do it.”
“Marty…”
“I need to do it, Carmen.”
She puts a hand on my knee. “Just take a deep breath, Martin.”
Frustration flares up inside me. She’s not listening to me! I didn’t come here to be placated, or to be convinced otherwise. I just came here to confess. I came here to come clean.
“Look at me.” Her voice is hard, and I find myself doing as she says. “We are going to deal with this. You have a bright future ahead of you, and I don’t want you to throw it all away.”
“It was wrong, Carmen. I killed someone.”
“Your wife was dying.”
“And I killed a man.”
“Stop it.”
My lip trembles, and I hate the fact that I’m falling to pieces in front of my boss.
“Just give me a week, Marty,” she says. I don’t want to, but I feel weak. I want to relinquish control of the situation. I want someone else to tell me what the right thing to do is. I don’t want to wrestle with my conscience anymore.
I’m tired.
I’m weak.
I’m alone.
Carmen squeezes my knee and stares me straight in the eye. “Don’t do anything stupid, Henderson. You hear me?”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Take the rest of the day off.”
“I don’t need to—”
“Do it.” She puts up a hand to stop my protest. “I’ll come up with a plan.”
“Carmen, you’re not listening. I don’t want a plan. I want to turn myself in.”
“Don’t let one mistake ruin your life, Martin.”
My chest heaves. I look at my boss, shaking my head. The guilt and sadness open up inside me like a bottomless void. I stand on the edge of the abyss, and I hear myself chuckle bitterly.
“It already has.”
31
Nicole
One month later…
Stella was right, having a routine helped. I took a day off after that awful night at Martin’s house. That evening, Stella nearly knocked down my door to find out what was wrong. She got me into the shower and made me dinner. She picked me up the next morning and stayed with me for the first couple nights.
She said she needed somewhere to stay because of the renovations at her house, but I know it was because she was afraid to leave me alone.
It took me ten days to tell her what happened. She was so angry her whole face went red, and she started shaking. She crumpled a bunch of papers and shouted about suing the bastard, but that only made me cry.
The rest of the time has been a blur. I’ve gotten up, gone to work, eaten, and slept. Last week, I even started swimming again.
Martin tried calling me a couple times, but I blocked his number and redirected all his emails to my spam folder. I deleted him on social media, but I was still reminded of him everywhere I went. My heart still skips a beat every time a black BMW passes me in the street.
The days are okay. The worst time is nighttime. I try to tire myself out enough that I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow, but it doesn’t always work.
Tonight, I’m staring at the ceiling again as my thoughts swirl
around me. It’s almost too easy to give in to the anger, the outrage, the deep, unending sadness.
So, I try to fight it. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. I count my inhales up to five, and then exhale up to five. I do this over and over until my mind clears.
I open my eyes when my phone dings. I turn to my nightstand and check my phone, frowning at the notification. It’s an app I use to track my menstrual cycle.
Your period is 7 days late, it says.
I frown. It’s been giving me these notifications every day. For some reason, tonight’s notification makes me pause. My period hasn’t been late since I was in my teens. I put my hand on my stomach and take a deep breath.
I won’t let my mind go there. I won’t let myself think about what it means for my period to be late.
I’m on the pill! I get up and check my pill package. I’m on the sugar pills, so I should be bleeding by now. My period week is nearly over. I flip the package over and frown.
Then, my eyes widen. Stamped in the bottom corner of the packaging is a faint expiration date… from two years ago. I take three quick, staggered breaths. Maybe it’s some weird European date format that’s all out of order—but the year is still two years ago. Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe…
I pull up the internet on my phone and search for an explanation. With every new search result, my heart sinks further and further down. Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant.
Shaking, panting, with panic rising inside me, I throw my phone aside.
It’s not true.
It can’t be.
It’s impossible.
I squeeze my eyes shut and count my breaths again until my heart slows down. Then, I stare at the expired package of pills again and try not to cry.
The next morning, the first thing I do is go to the bathroom. My eyes prickle when there’s still no sign of Aunt Flo. I sit on the toilet, taking deep breaths and staring at the ceiling.
When I get dressed, I wince as I put my bra on. My breasts feel swollen and sensitive, just like they have been for the past two weeks. How did I not notice that before? I poke them and cup them, frowning. They feel heavier than usual, and my nipples are so sensitive even the soft fabric of my bra feels rough.
Guilty: Confessions Series: Book 1 Page 14
