by L. C. Warman
“No, I mean, I feel better, really,” Becks said, sounding puzzled. “Ever since that night…I was sick after, really tired, but then since then…I don’t know. It’s like a weight has been lifted off of me.”
“Because Gina died?” Eliza said sharply.
“No. No, I don’t mean that—at least I don’t think I do.” He colored a little. “I wouldn’t—I don’t think I would—anyway.”
“It’s all good, Becks,” Aaron said, a little too cheerfully. “Glad to hear you’re feeling better—just think how good you’ll feel once this whole thing is sorted, eh?”
The door to the house creaked open, and all three of them jumped up from the couch. Eliza recovered first, approaching the bewildered figure of Whitney with her arms outstretched, exclaiming how good it was to see her and how they were just talking about her. Becks and Aaron stayed together, back near the couch, both of them well aware of the strength of a crossed lover’s wrath as they listened in.
“I told you that he wasn’t ready for visitors,” Whitney said coldly, entering the kitchen and depositing two large paper grocery bags onto the kitchen island. “He needs to rest.”
“I know, Whit, but we know you, and you never ask for any help. We just thought we’d pop by—we didn’t even know you wouldn’t be here.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” Whitney said. “You’re going to tire him out.”
“I’m fine,” Becks volunteered, and looked chastened at a glance from Whitney.
Aaron moved to the kitchen, signaling to Eliza that they should go. “Real sorry, Whit,” he said, as Becks’ wife looked up at him. He could have sworn that her eyes swam with tears. “We didn’t mean to bother you.”
“It’s fine,” Whitney said. Her voice was husky. “Really. It’s fine. We’re—I’m—keeping it together.”
Eliza reached out to comfort her, but Aaron shook his head. “If you need anything, you know where to find us,” Aaron said.
Whitney nodded, turning her back to him as she began to unload the first bag into the fridge. Becks hurried over to help her.
Just as Eliza and Aaron reached the front door, Whitney called out to them. “Guys? I’m sorry. I—we really do appreciate it. Appreciate everything. It’s just been a weird week, that’s all.”
“You don’t have to apologize for anything,” Eliza said. Aaron nodded and waved again, and then they were out in the cold air, in the bright sunlight, in the wide world free of that oppressive house.
Eliza shuddered. “Can you imagine? Being trapped in there?”
“Becks?”
“Whitney too. Worried about the press. Worried about what people are saying about her husband. It’s enough to make someone go crazy.”
They both exchanged a look, and Aaron shook his head. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Eliza drove them back towards his condo, fingers tapping nervously through the radio stations. Aaron felt chilled; it came to him, finally, that his friend really was in trouble. Something had happened that weekend, and Becks would not escape from it unscathed. Aaron could handle himself, but Becks…? The man had been through enough. It wasn’t fair.
“What?” Aaron said, when he turned back to Eliza. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Eliza didn’t say anything. She continued to cycle through the stations, hazel eyes fixed on the road.
“They’re not doing well,” she said finally.
“No,” Aaron agreed. “No, they’re not. It’s a serious situation. The police will probably talk to all of us soon.” He paused. “I’m surprised they haven’t already.”
“Especially you, since you slept with her,” Eliza said viciously. But she sighed and reached over to pat Aaron on the leg, dodging his attempt to squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m stressed. I don’t mean to be throwing it back in your face like that.”
Aaron said nothing, jaw tight.
“I’m also…feeling a little guilty,” Eliza continued. Aaron turned to look at her, but she remained focused on the road. Was this why she was telling him this here? Because she didn’t have to make eye contact? “I haven’t told you everything.”
Aaron’s stomach somersaulted. If she told him about…then he’d have to tell her…and he wasn’t sure he was ready…
“You know back when the press first started talking about how Becks maybe had CTE?” Eliza said, her voice catching. “Right after that tackle?”
“Yes.”
“Well…Whitney just wouldn’t listen to any of it. She said that it was an accident, that Becks didn’t mean to do it. I told her to get Becks checked out, just in case, but she refused. For weeks. There was no talking sense into her.”
“Eliza…”
“No, wait. I have to tell you this. So by then about six weeks had gone by, and the stories were dying off, and Whitney was still refusing to do anything but sit in that stupid house and try to call up their friends and figure out the ‘next move’ for Becks. Meanwhile, the only time I ever saw Becks, he was almost definitely depressed. Maybe more, I don’t know. I keep telling her she has to address this thing, and she just ignores me. So I tried to help.”
Aaron took in a long, slow breath.
“I called the press,” Eliza said, voice breaking. “I just gave them a few anonymous quotes…stoked the fire a little bit, so that someone would have to check on him.”
“Jeez, Lize,” Aaron said. “Didn’t you try the head coach first? Heck, you could have called me, or any of his teammates.”
“You wouldn’t have talked to him,” Eliza said hotly. “He was still a liability to everyone at that point. No one wanted to speak to him. The coach would have had some junior associate come over and do a home check, and nothing would have happened. But when there was more media attention, Whit finally took him. They started seeing a doctor after that.”
“After you made their lives more of a hell and forced their hand.”
“I had to do something! I care about them.”
“I do, too.”
“But you would have let them rot in that house and done nothing,” Eliza said. A tear spilled down the corner of her cheek. “Never mind. I don’t mean that. Think whatever you want of me—I would do it again.”
Aaron stared stonily out the front window. He thought to himself that this was far from the secret about the Tillers that he thought Becks was alluding to, back in the house. He thought that maybe that’s what Becks had meant after all: that he knew Eliza had ratted on him to the press, and that he was getting her back. Was the sweet Becks capable of something like that? Maybe not the man Aaron had known, but this new version, this one hardened by exile and injury and shaped by bitterness…could he say for sure?
It’s fine, Aaron thought to himself, crossing his arms as they drove back in silence. Because Eliza isn’t the only one who can keep a secret about the Tillers. If Aaron was worried at all about the police questioning him, his one-night stand with Gina was the least of his concerns.
Chapter 26
Becks was sleeping deeply.
His dreams were not unpleasant, for once: usually they involved some combination of being followed by something he could never see, going to football practice only to find the stadium empty and his head coach scowling at him with a look of hatred across his face, or (for reasons Becks didn’t know) entering a deep, dark water and being pulled down, down, down.
But now his dreams were light and cheerful. He was playing football again—anything happy involved playing football—and he was eagerly anticipating the acceptance letter from a business school that, in real life, he would never get to attend. Somehow the Gina Tiller thing had been neatly cleared up in this dream: Becks remembered someone mentioning something about the case being solved, and that Gina Tiller was actually alive, and the whole thing had been a rather unfortunate misunderstanding.
Slowly, though, the dream began to shift. Becks felt restless, even in his sleep. He had sleepwalked a few times before—had since college—a
lmost always accompanied by more vivid dreams. The world he was in grew sharper; Becks suddenly felt uneasy. “You’re lying to me,” he told his head coach, his voice dreamy and faraway. “Gina Tiller is dead. She died.”
The coach made a face. “That’s your problem,” his head coach said. “No one believes you when you tell the truth, so no one is going to believe one of your lies.”
“It’s not a lie!” Becks protested. And then suddenly he was in another location entirely. Whitney was next to him, crying. “Whit?” Becks said, voice shaking.
“Becks!” Whitney cried. “Becks! Please, Becks! Go to bed. Just go back to bed.”
“What?”
His mind stuttered; he was yanked out of the dream and blinked, feeling unsteady, like the world was slipping sideways from him. He blinked again and saw that Whitney was indeed in front of him, clutching her arms about her loose nightgown, tears streaming down her face. “Whitney,” Becks said, taking a step towards her. Whitney flinched and took a step back. “Whitney, what’s wrong?”
“Are you awake?” Whitney said tentatively. “Becks?”
“Yes. Was I sleepwalking?”
Whitney shuddered, the movement shaking her entire body. “Yes,” she whispered. “Come back to bed.”
They went together, padding away from the kitchen (how had he gotten to the kitchen?) and back to the bedroom. Becks noticed that Whitney climbed into bed as far away from him as possible, scooting to the edge of the mattress, surreptitiously sliding a pillow between them.
Becks’ heart thumped in his chest. Maybe he was still dreaming. Why would his wife be afraid of him? He tried to say something, but Whitney, reaching out to squeeze his hand, said, “Go to bed, honey.”
When he woke up in the morning, Whitney had already leapt out of bed to make breakfast and tea. She brought him a cup as he yawned and stretched, and perched on the corner of the bed. She was in a smart turtleneck and khakis today, and looked somehow younger, eyes too bright.
“Do you remember last night?” she said carefully, plucking at a loose thread on the comforter.
“I was sleepwalking, wasn’t I?”
Whitney hesitated. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry. Did I disturb anything? Break something?”
“No, honey.”
Becks waited. The tea began to grow cold in his hands. “Then what?” he burst. “Just tell me, Whit.”
Whitney took a deep breath. “You—you threatened me a bit, Becks.”
“Threatened you?”
“Yes.” Her voice was small and distant. “It wasn’t—I mean, I knew you weren’t—” Whitney swallowed. “It’s not a big deal, hon. I just think, for now, maybe we sleep in different bedrooms. Until you’ve seen a doctor.”
“I am seeing a doctor.”
“Another doctor, then.”
Becks felt a wave of cold rush through him. His immediate response was to deny: threaten Whitney? He would never. He had been having a pleasant dream, hadn’t he? Nothing violent. Nothing that would suggest…
“Did I hurt you?” Becks said.
Whitney hesitated a fraction before saying quickly, “No. No, sweetheart, of course not.”
“Show me your arms.”
Whitney dutifully rolled up her sleeves, showing him the pale flesh. Becks grabbed her left forearm before she could draw down the sleeves and flipped it over, pushing the fabric up until he saw the soft trace of a fingerprint bruise on her skin, a deep blue. Whitney pulled her arm back.
“Your neck,” Becks croaked.
“Honey, it’s nothing.”
“Whit. Please.”
Whitney sighed and drew done one corner of her turtleneck. Becks only saw the bruises for a flash, but it was enough. More dark fingerprints. Fresh bruises.
Whitney seemed embarrassed as she pulled her turtleneck back up. “You were sleepwalking,” she said. “We’re going to see a doctor and maybe get a new prescription. You’ll just have to be more careful. Maybe…maybe take some melatonin or something, to help you sleep better.”
He didn’t know what to say. Again a part of him wanted to reject what she had told him. He wanted to shout at Whitney that it wasn’t him, that why was she lying to him, why was she doing this to him? He felt rage bubble at the back of his skull. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. And he had been feeling so good…
Becks collapsed back onto the bed. “Call Evan,” he said.
Whitney watched him, still hesitating.
“Go,” Becks said. “Call him. You shouldn’t be dealing with this alone.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Becks.”
“I’m not! Whit, please,” he said, exhaling through his teeth. “I’m worried.”
Whitney reached out and squeezed his hand. “I love you,” she said. “We’ll get through this.” But her voice broke on the last word, and she moved out of the room and to the kitchen. Becks heard her dialing as he buried his face in his hands.
“Evan?” Whitney said. Her voice was tremulous. “Yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Listen, Becks and I are going to visit a new doctor soon. Yup, everything is all right…it’s just…” She had the respect to at least not try to lower her voice, to act like she was talking behind Becks’ back. “We had a little sleepwalking incident last night. So we’re going to see a psychologist, get on a new treatment.” She paused. “Exactly. No, no need. I can handle it. Becks and I just wanted to update you.” A pause again. “Are you sure? I think—well, that’s fine, then. Thank you, Evan.”
Whitney strode back into the room. “Evan’s going to come visit,” she said, with false cheer. “Won’t that be nice?”
“Yes,” Becks said dully. It was funny: the moment his football career had ended, Becks thought his life was over. Now he knew that the feeling was false, a mere shadow.
Now he knew what it really felt like.
Chapter 27
Rick waited until he saw Whitney’s car pull out of the drive before he walked up and knocked on the door. For a few minutes, no one answered. Rick knocked again, louder this time. Just when he was about to give up, the door swung open, and a changed Becks appeared before him.
“Jeez,” Rick said. “What happened?”
Becks looked dazed. He was still in pajamas, his hair tousled and his eyes heavy. “I don’t have anything to say.”
“What happened?” Rick repeated again. When he had last seen the ex-footballer, he had seemed fine—at least, not like this. Was the weight of the murder weighing on him? Had he finally decided to confess? A shudder ran through Rick. He reminded himself again that there was no reason to believe yet that Becks did it. That he didn’t want to believe that Becks did it—no matter how much he fought against the impulse.
“Let me come in for a minute,” Rick said. “You look terrible, man. I’ll fix you a coffee.”
“I can do that,” Becks said, seeming confused as Rick pushed his way in. He felt a stab of guilt but reassured himself that he wouldn’t abuse the footballer’s head problems. He wasn’t here to extract a quote; he was here to help, as much as a man like him could.
Rick followed Becks to the kitchen. The house was immaculate; Rick never felt at home in houses like this, which felt more to him like museums than actual homes. His eyes skirted over the weekly vitamin pill dispenser places neatly on the counter, over the glass jars of grains neatly stacked in one of the open shelves, over the television, still on, blaring some sports news program.
“Sucker for torture, huh?” Rick said.
“What?”
“Never mind. Where’s the coffee? I’ll make us a cup. You sit down.”
Becks looked confused at this and rubbed his hair with one hand. “Sorry,” he said, almost to himself. “I-I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m going to—Whit is setting up another doctor’s appointment.”
“That’s good,” Rick said, a little too cheerily. “Get some sleeping pills if you need them, I guess?”
“I guess.”
Becks ambled o
ver to the couch; Rick set to work making coffee from the fancy, immaculately scrubbed machine in one corner. It involved feeding the blasted thing some sort of metallic pod in a star-shaped cutout and pulling a lever that made a disturbing gurgling and giggling sound. Finally, he managed to get a rather watery stream of coffee out of the machine and ended up splitting the batch between two cups, not trusting himself to wrestle with the contraption a second time. He brought the cups over to where Becks sat on the couch and turned the television off. Becks blinked at him.
“Seriously,” Rick said, his stomach twisting. “Something happened, didn’t it? You can tell me. Off the record, and all that. I’m not here to get a story.”
He wasn’t sure if Becks heard him, at least fully. The ex-footballer rubbed the back of his neck. “I always wanted a dog,” Becks said. “Liven up the house, you know.”
“Okay.”
“Whitney doesn’t want one. Says it’s a lot of responsibility. I guess I can’t really have that many, right now.”
“I’m sure you’re responsible enough to take care of a dog, Becks.”
Becks smiled bitterly. “No,” he said. And then, in a near whisper, “I hurt Whitney. When I was sleeping.”
Rick felt another rush of cold go through him. “Hurt her how?”
“I…I don’t know. Bruised her.”
“Rolled over, or something?”
“No.”
Becks didn’t offer any more details, and Rick was too afraid to press. He was a fool, he knew he was, for wanting to think anything different than the obvious. He had seen the tackle: he had made himself watch it again on the way over, to prove to himself that the soft-spoken Daniel Becker was indeed capable of enormous, vicious violence when he wanted to be.
“Well, never mind that,” Rick said. “I’m sure your wife is sorting it for you. In the meantime, I wanted to talk to you about your business partner. Evan Miller.”