And it was Steve who’d turned me in to Charlie. I learned that little tidbit during my time with the investigating officer: Detective Summer-red. Scofield, I would later learn was her name. She was every bit as beautiful as the day I had watched her on my computer.
Evidence had led them to me. Well, actually, it was what I left behind. Needle. Steve had seen my ring once before, and that was all he needed to make the fateful connection. The days after I’d lost our baby were a blur, but I remembered seeing Steve’s face when he joked about the ring.
Garrett never threw Needle into the darkness. I must have been hearing things—half-conscious, barely breathing, my mind lying. After Garrett had motioned a throw, he’d palmed my ring and stuffed it into his pocket. When Steve saw the evidence bag with Needle in it, he knew what I’d done. He knew I’d killed again.
To the investigators, the DA, and the press, the murder would look like a lover’s quarrel, a torrid affair gone horribly wrong. But I imagined Steve would think back to the homeless man, and then to my mother’s confession. I wondered if he’d dig deeper, seek out Nerd and investigate Team Two. There’d be nothing to find, though. Nerd had made sure of that. The next time I’d see my husband—if I ever saw him again—was going to be from inside a prison.
I had Detective Scofield to thank for the rest of the evidence. Steve turned over my name in connection with the ring. Forensics matched skin cells lifted from Garrett’s neck. It was only a matter of time before the could confirm I’d been with Garrett on the night of his death.
So here I was with the DA telling me that the evidence was overwhelming. I’d killed for the wrong reason, so maybe that was why I was sitting here now. There’d be no jail time or trial. There’d only be the cold holding cell, a trip in front of a judge, and a bus ride to prison.
I picked up the pen, smiling. The district attorney tilted his head, curious. It wasn’t the confession that made me laugh. It was the irony of how I’d been caught. Steve had teased and joked about the ring, calling it ugly, and that had been one of the last times we’d laughed together. Actually, it was the last time I could remember feeling warm and in love and wanting to hear more of his stupid humor.
“Mrs. Sholes, do you need a moment to consult with your attorney?”
I shook my head and pressed the pen to the line. A simple signature would complete my confession. Twenty years. I was signing twenty years of my life away. I eased up on the tip of the pen, taking a moment to glance at the corner of the interview room. We were certainly being watched. The men absently followed my eyes. I looked to the camera in the corner, found a faint green glow reflected on the ceiling. The camera was on.
“We record everything,” I heard one of the men say.
“I know,” I answered, continuing to stare. What the men didn’t know was that Nerd was watching us too. With Becky, he could see the station—the city too—maybe more. I raised my hand. The handcuff’s linked chain slithered over the table, following. I gave a short wave. “Just want to say good-bye.”
“It’s . . . it’s only a recording,” my lawyer added, befuddled. “There isn’t anyone watching.”
“Then it doesn’t matter,” I added.
But he was wrong. Brian was watching, and my gut told me he was hurting. The faint glow on the ceiling turned off briefly and then flickered back on. The men didn’t see the interruption, but I did. I wanted to cry and my chin shook, but I held it in. If he could have moved the camera, he would. A quick blink of the light would do. I blew him a kiss, pursing my lips long enough for Brian to know I was saying good-bye.
“Until next time, my friend.” With his software, with Becky, I was sure he’d find a way to reach me on the inside. It was just a matter of time.
“Twenty years,” my lawyer repeated in my ear. I flinched as if stung by a wasp. “But with good behavior, you’ll be out in fifteen.”
“Good behavior?” I scoffed. Then I lurched forward, pressing my chest against him, screaming in a crazed rage. He backed away, his face emptying. “I’m a cop’s wife. What the fuck do you think is going to happen to me in prison?”
“It’s a good deal,” he insisted again, raising his voice and motioning to the confession. “You could risk a trial—risk the death penalty—I wouldn’t. Take the deal.”
Maybe it was my lawyer’s pushy insistence that made me put the pen down. Maybe it was because Nerd was watching, or because I was thinking of Steve and the kids. I couldn’t be sure, but suddenly, twenty years felt worse than a death sentence. Risking a trial didn’t seem all that bad an idea.
And won’t I be facing death in prison anyway?
“Second-degree murder, twenty years with a minimum of fifteen served,” the district attorney explained again. “That means—”
“I know what it means!” I yelled, interrupting. My voice shook, disbelieving. “Parole eligibility at fifteen . . . Snacks will be a young woman, and Michael will be a grown man. But I won’t survive to see them.”
I’d asked about claiming self-defense, explained how I’d been too afraid to come forward. I’d even made up a story about how Garrett pulled up to the house, telling me Steve had been hurt. I explained how I’d gone with him, expecting to go to the hospital only to be taken to a deserted field and attacked. But my claim of self-defense was weak—no evidence, no phone calls to support the story. The offer for second-degree was a way to make the case disappear. After all, a cop’s wife killing another cop was the type of scandalous affair that nobody wanted in the press.
“We’ve talked about this,” the DA chided. He put his finger on the confession and pulled it back, his way of threatening first-degree murder charges and the death penalty.
The green reflection on the ceiling blinked rapidly. Nerd was listening and was telling me to sign.
“Wait,” my attorney blurted, jumping as though he’d been kicked beneath the table. “This was a done deal.”
“It was, but she has to sign the confession,” the DA said. The smug tone in his voice turned my gut. He sighed and lifted his hand, adding: “Look, we all want this to go away. It’s ugly all around, and nobody wants a trial.”
I cringed, my stomach turning sour at the notion of what everyone believed to be true. “It wasn’t exactly like that,” I blurted, hating that I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.
The green light flashed—Nerd’s warning for me to say nothing.
“Please!” my attorney yelled, stamping his palm onto the confession, holding it as if it’d save my life. “As your attorney, I’m advising you to sign. Advising you to take the deal.”
Beady Eyes glanced briefly over his glasses. “Force my hand . . .” he began as he placed his hand above the paper. “Force my hand on this, and I’ll get you on first-degree. I don’t give a fuck what the mayor and everyone else wants. I’ll invite the press . . . scratch that, I’ll insist on the press. And who knows, with some ‘creative investigation,’ we’ll see if your husband didn’t also ‘know’ about the affair. What do you think the press will do with a saucy love triangle?”
Steve! I screamed in my head. I wanted to die, to wither into nothing and disappear. I was playing with dynamite. One misplaced word could turn the investigation toward Steve. I knew it was an impatient threat.
But how deep would the DA go? Question an affair that never happened? Review Steve’s case files? What about the homeless man and the evidence that never made it to forensics?
“Think of your kids,” my attorney urged. “You’d still have a life with them . . . with their children!”
My insides cramped and for a moment I thought I’d vomit. The sound of the chain rattled against the table, slithering again like a snake, my hand shaking while I struggled to pick up the pen. I wasn’t willing to risk anything when it came to my husband. Michael and Snacks needed their father.
I perched the pen on the faint black line, putting just enough pressure on it to drive the tip into a loop, and then to chase the empty paper with blue ink until
my signature confessed to Garrett’s murder. A tear fell from my cheek, ticking off the surface like an exclamation mark, ending what I’d started.
At least Steve was safe and our children would have him. Any risk of further questions would get lost as I served time behind bars. By dying, my mother protected me, protected the secret of what we did. And by going to prison, I’d be forgotten and time would protect my family.
Sometimes you have to lose your life to hide the truth.
THANK YOU
Thank you for reading the second book in my series, Affair with Murder. Want to read more? Pick up book three, Grave Mistakes, and don’t forget to tell me what you think about it!
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Brian
ALSO BY BRIAN SPANGLER
Crime Thriller Series
Affair with Murder—Having an affair with murder is easy. It’s what happens afterward that’s deadly.
Deadly Tide—The exciting adventures of Jericho Quinn. An officer with the Marine Patrol on the beautiful coast of North Carolina. A missing child. A serial killer on the loose, and a murder mystery.
A Cozy Mystery
An Order of Coffee and Tears—Friendships, romance, secrets, and forgiveness come together in this cozy mystery.
Supernatural Suspense
Superman’s Cape—A grim tale of a boy lost in a forest that holds all of his fears.
Short Stories
Naked Moon—For one young traveler, a naked moon may mean the difference between life and death.
Some Sci-Fi and Dystopian Thrillers
From the Caustic Series—An Apocalyptic and Dystopian series:
Fallen—Book One
Endure—Book Two
Deceit—Book Three
Reveal—Book Four
From Hugh Howey’s World of Wool
Silo Saga: Lottery—What happens when you have one too many mouths to feed?
For more, visit my site and subscribe to my newsletter, WrittenByBrian.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?
I’M A WALRUS!
Brian Johnson—The Breakfast Club
Who am I?
I’m a resident of Virginia. I live there with my wife and children, along with four cats—sometimes more—a mouse, a parrot, a lizard, and the funniest chinchilla on the East Coast.
Although I live in Virginia, my heart is still in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where I was raised. And I hope that, one day, I’ll be able to call Philadelphia home again.
Growing up, I liked to read short stories, but struggled with the words. You see, I had a secret, a sad little secret. Ashamed and embarrassed, I was the little kid in the back row of the schoolroom quietly moving my lips along with the class while everyone read aloud. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t write. I hoped nobody would notice, but they did. They always did.
By the time I reached the fourth grade, my secret wasn’t a secret anymore. The teachers knew something was wrong. Dyslexia. Maybe that’s why I liked science fiction so much? All those crazy-looking glyphs on the screen, glowing, flashing.
The fix? Back to the third grade for me, and then special classes three days a week. But it worked. Once I started reading, I never stopped. Stephen King, Piers Anthony, Dean Koontz, and even the Judy Blume books my sisters discarded.
I’m still one of the slowest readers I know, but school was never a problem again. I finally graduated from the third grade, and then kept on going until I finished my master’s.
These days, I work as an engineer and spend my nights writing, editing, and thinking up the next great story.
Happy reading,
Brian
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