by L. C. Warman
When Becks replayed the past year, he still had trouble figuring out where it had all gone wrong. The tackle, certainly—but then, he hadn’t been trying to hurt the guy. The only way he would have avoided the tackle and its aftermath was if he wasn’t playing during those minutes, if he had been injured or otherwise indisposed, if his coach had moved him at the last moment, or the play had changed at the last second. But it hadn’t, and Becks had moved inexorably towards his fate. He thought often of the man he had injured, thought often of sending something—flowers? A card? Money?—thought about how strange it was to suddenly be the object of someone’s intense hatred, and to be deserving of it, too. Becks had ruined one life, so he supposed it was fair that his own should be ruined, too. He could accept some karma in that.
If only he hadn’t murdered Gina Tiller.
That’s what bothered Becks the most about the headaches: they made it so hard for him to try to pull up any memories from that fateful night. Sometimes he swore he remembered seeing Gina in the bedroom, standing on the balcony, smiling over her shoulder at him. Other times the night was a complete black box. Becks had no idea whether his brain was supplying the memories, doing its best to offer him something to prove it wasn’t the useless organ that it had, in actuality, become.
He could, however, easily pinpoint a motive for his rage. He only had to think back about Gina Tiller’s little speech, her laughter, her mocking of the entire event and of Becks’ staggered, hopeful emergence into Life After Football. She had insulted Evan. She had insulted Becks. Worst of all, she had insulted Whitney. And why? Because she was the spoiled daughter of a rotten, rich man, who thought it a spectacle to attend the fallen star’s launch party and watch his world continue to burn. Becks shook when he thought of it. How careless her sadism was, how willing she was to wound just for a little bit of amusement. Never had Gina Tiller experienced anything like strife in her life, and so a woman like Gina Tiller could not even fathom what it was like to be on the receiving end of it. She would never know what it was like to watch your loved one, who had been through so much for you, be maligned in front of a crowd, all for a laugh. Becks squeezed his eyes shut.
In all, it would be better for Whitney, Becks thought. Better for him to go away, even if it had been an accident. He would be cut off from her life, allowing her to move on without him, without his cancerous being seeping into hers and destroying her life with his. It had been utter selfishness not to divorce her from the start. When he had come home that day, that awful day, and found Whitney waiting for him…. She had been so stoic, so calm. She had called his agent, his publicist, his banker. She had told him to rest, had reassured him that everything would be okay, even if he never played another day of football again. And of course, he hadn’t.
Now Whitney had gone out again, on some trivial errand that gave her an excuse to leave Becks. He knew she didn’t need to go to the grocery store, or the post office, or the hardware store, half as often as she told him she did. He did know that she needed a break from Becks and his temper and his rotting mind, and needed that break more and more often recently. Becks thought about getting a beer from the fridge, only to be rebellious, only because he could—he hadn’t touched alcohol since that day, afraid of becoming someone like Sam O’Nally (how cruel and fitting that Sam O’Nally was one of the two people willing to still show up to Becks’ event!). But what did anything matter now? What was his life worth?
A knock came at the door.
Becks glanced lazily over. He wasn’t in the mood for company, nor did he think he would be of any use to whatever friend, detective, or spectacle-seeker was there. But when the knock came again, loud and insistent, Becks sighed, head pounding, and walked over.
Rick Fales stood at the front door, smiling quickly and nervously as Becks opened it. “May I come in for a moment?” he said. “Your wife isn’t home, I take it.”
“She’s out.”
“Lovely. Can I come in?”
Becks wanted to form the word ‘no,’ but his head felt murky. Indeed, he was starting to feel a bit nauseous again. He moved aside and made for the bathroom; Rick followed him in and shut the door behind him.
When Becks emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, Rick was sitting in the little-used dining room of the house. He had a glass of water before him, which he offered to Becks.
“No, thank you,” Becks said. His head was still pounding, but he could at least see straight now, and he didn’t feel like his insides were about to spill out of him.
“Drink it. It’ll do you some good, maybe,” Rick said. Becks weighed the options, decided it was less work to avoid the argument, and downed half the glass in one swig. He did, indeed, feel a little better. “Okay,” Rick said. “I wanted to break it to you first.”
“Break what?”
Rick looked uneasy. “I—I have to be honest. I was kind of hoping that Sam O’Nally had something to do with what happened to Gina. It just—it just kind of made sense, and then you don’t seem like the type—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I know,” Rick said, coloring. “I don’t, either. But listen. You should know. Get yourself a good lawyer. Sam was caught on video when Gina fell. He didn’t do it; he was outside. But he might’ve seen who did.”
Becks’ heart stuttered. “He saw me?”
Rick was studying Becks closely. “Possibly. If you were the one who pushed her.”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s fine. That’s all right. What I’m saying is, Sam saw something. So now you know—and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell the detectives exactly where you found that out. But talk to a lawyer, figure out a strategy.”
“A strategy.”
“Yes. A defense strategy. You’ve talked to one already, haven’t you?”
Had he? Becks’ head was throbbing. He couldn’t remember. There had been talk of it, certainly, perhaps a few phone calls, but he didn’t think they’d gone to any offices to meet with someone, not yet. “I—I don’t know.”
“Well, I’d push Whitney to take you to someone. Right away. And when the police come, you don’t talk to them, right?”
“Why are you saying this to me?”
Rick looked embarrassed. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s fair, somehow. You can barely defend yourself, so someone has to look out for you.”
“Whitney is,” Becks said automatically. And what wasn’t fair was Gina Tiller dying. No matter how much Becks disliked her, he couldn’t get around that. No insult was worth a murder. How could he ever atone for taking a life?
“Yeah, she is,” Rick said. “But maybe she doesn’t realize how serious this is. Maybe she still thinks…hopes that maybe you…”
“Didn’t do it?” Becks said bitterly. “Yeah, I hoped that, too.”
Rick was quiet for some minutes. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I was really hoping it would end another way.”
Through his fear and pain, Becks felt strangely touched. It had been a long time since anyone had seemed to believe in him like the little reporter, even if he ultimately hadn’t deserved that belief.
“Thanks anyway,” Becks managed.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s just—I can’t believe it, really. That night. I wish it just made more sense.”
“There’s not much more to know,” Becks said. But the reporter did not rise and leave, only sat there waiting. Becks felt another surge of rage—the man was curious, was he? Then let him understand just how depraved his pet ex-footballer was. “Maybe I sleepwalked—did Whitney tell you I do that sometimes? Used to freak my college roommates out. And I—I can get violent, I guess, when I do.” He told Rick briefly about the most recent sleepwalking incident, watching for the horror and disgust on Rick’s face as he told him about his wife’s bruises. Rick only looked confused, and a little frightened.
“Sleepwalking,” Rick repeated. “Is that a CTE thing?”
“Don’t kno
w.”
“So you just went to take a nap that night? Right after Gina’s speech? Was that it?”
Becks sighed. He didn’t want to go over it again, when they had discussed it so many times before. “Yes,” he said. “I was feeling tired. So I just left.”
“Did you tell anyone where you were going?”
“No. I went alone.”
“Did anyone see you go?”
Becks racked his brain. “No. I don’t think so. I was talking to Evan and Whitney right after the speech. Whitney wanted us to go. Evan said we had to talk to a few more people, or something. So we said a few more minutes.”
“Who said a few more minutes?”
“Whitney. She agreed we’d stay a little longer.”
“And you did?”
“Yes. Didn’t I tell you this? I—I was starting to feel really sick. I looked over and I saw you talking—you were speaking to Sam. You guys were looking at me. I started to feel like everyone was talking about me and looking at me, and I just didn’t want to be there anymore. So I took off. I think I said I was getting some water. Whitney saw me go, I guess,” Becks finished, defeated. “I don’t know. It’s all muddled.”
“Where did you go?”
Becks’ voice grew quiet. “Towards the rooms. And then I woke up on the staircase. That’s all I remember.”
“Right,” Rick said. His voice was strained, but he seemed to be trying to sound somewhat cheerful. “Well—that’s. Nothing to glean from any of that. Could’ve been anything, really. An accident, like you said, or maybe…maybe…”
“Just stop,” Becks said. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know. It’s over.”
Rick grew quiet. They sat alone in the darkened dining room as the clock chimed 8:30. Becks breathed slowly, trying to let his mind float off, trying to disassociate himself from the world that had turned so cruel, from the dark person that he had somehow become.
“I’m going to turn myself in,” Becks said, and he knew it was bad when the journalist said nothing, only nodded slowly. There. The truth was in front of them, naked and ugly. But Becks would face it. Just like he had faced everything before. He had committed a crime, and he would take his punishment. There might not be fairness in the world, but there was justice.
“Wait,” Rick said, as Becks moved to rise.
“I’ll get an attorney,” Becks said, a little annoyed. He didn’t want to kill his momentum, knowing that his window of courage was small. If Whitney walked through the doors and begged him to stop, he knew he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. “Eventually. I’ll just—”
“No, wait!” Rick cried. “Wait.” He leaped up and sprinted across to the kitchen. Becks followed him, confused. Rick gave a strangled gasp as he picked something up off the counter, and then began digging through the drawers.
“What are you doing?”
Rick froze in front of one of the cabinets, hand shaking. “Call the police, please,” he said to Becks, in a strangely calm voice.
“I told you, I was going to turn myself in—”
The door to the house opened again, and a woman’s voice floated into the kitchen. “Daniel? Daniel, who’s inside?” Whitney walked into the kitchen, saw Rick, and froze. Becks looked from his wife to the journalist, not sure what to say, head spinning at the look of careful calculation suddenly passing between the two of them.
“I’m calling the police unless you get out right now,” Whitney said.
“I’m calling them for you,” Rick replied, and dialed.
Chapter 41
“Wait!” Whitney cried, pulling at Rick’s arm. “Why? What are you doing?”
“Whitney?” Becks said, confused. Rick pulled his arm away from Whitney and came to a stop a few feet from her. When he looked up at Whitney, he knew that she knew that he knew. His heart picked up.
“Hold on,” Whitney said, her voice lower, firmer. She didn’t loosen her grip on Rick’s arm, but he transferred the phone to his other hand and shrugged, swiping at the screen. “You don’t need to call anyone. Just hold on a second.”
“What’s wrong, Whitney?” Becks said. The ex-footballer sounded both stern and confused. “Did something happen?”
“Let’s talk, then,” Rick said, and he saw the light leap in Whitney’s eyes. He used her momentary distraction to take a step back and switch hands again. He waved her towards the couches. “After you.”
“Come on, Daniel,” Whitney said. “We’re going to see what this gentleman wants before he leaves.”
She sounded so calm, Rick thought. He typed quickly on his phone and pocketed it, so that when he came to sit across from Whitney and Becks, it was out of sight, no longer a present, looming threat. He felt a rush of cold as he again came under Whitney’s gaze.
“So,” Whitney said. “You were going to call the police? Care to explain why?”
Rick spread his hands. “I was hoping you could clarify things a little for me, actually.”
“I wasn’t the one about to call the authorities.”
Becks crossed his arms, looking troubled. Rick glanced at him and then away. It all just seemed so outlandish. But then, the bottle had confirmed it, hadn’t it? The whole house of cards had fallen. If Rick was right…if his depraved mind had wandered to the correct dark places…
He had to show some cards, Rick thought. So Whitney knew he had something, without knowing all of it. If he didn’t say anything, she would think she had misread him, that he was merely bluffing.
“Was it you or Evan who killed her?” Rick said.
Becks’ eyes popped. He seemed to be about to rise from the couch when Whitney said, “Utter nonsense. Neither of us did anything to her.”
“If you’re not honest with me, I will call the police. And show them the pill bottle I found in the kitchen.”
Whitney’s eyes sparked. “Whitney,” Becks said. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, Becks. Why don’t you go take a nap? Mr. Fales and I have something to discuss. And I did tell you,” she added viciously, “to not let him in the house anymore.”
Becks blinked. Rick guessed he was trying to reconcile this hostile woman with his wife; Rick, with much less background on Whitney, was trying to do the same.
“Go,” Whitney said. “Nap, Daniel. We’ll talk when you’re up.”
He rose, teetering a little. But he walked only a few steps before he sank down into the armchair perpendicular to Rick. “I want to stay,” he said. And then, stronger, “I’m staying. I want to hear this.”
“Daniel,” Whitney hissed.
“No, go on,” Rick said. “I think it’s good for everyone. Get things out in the open. Start from the beginning, then. The night of the party.”
“You think that’s the beginning?” Whitney said, her steely eyes shifting back towards him. She glanced at her husband again, assessing. “Last chance,” she warned.
And Becks did think about it. Rick saw him assessing, calculating. In his shoes, Rick didn’t know what he would have done—the temptation would certainly have been high to disappear into some back room, to sleep while his head was throbbing, to wake up to the kinder wife that he knew, with his world still intact (or mostly intact).
But Becks just shrugged a little and said, “I’m staying.”
Whitney shrugged back. “Fine. Your choice.” Whitney checked her watch. “I have some time to tell you the story.”
“Good. I have time to listen.”
Whitney smiled at him. The expression held no warmth. “It wouldn’t have gone down like this,” she said, “if Daniel hadn’t hurt that man.”
Chapter 42
Whitney cleared her throat. She could feel both men watching her, waiting. Part of her derived a certain pleasure from their attention, from the knowledge that soon their minds would twist and expand with the truth, and they would see her as she really was, not as they always wanted and expected her to be. Daniel, poor, helpless Daniel, who trusted her so much, who wanted her
to be everything for him even as he simultaneously acted noble and told her that she should never have married him. She shouldn’t have, that was clear now, but what was done was done, and Whitney would make the best of it, as she always had.
And that journalist? He would see, too. He would see with an unsullied mind and a clear head, and he would understand—at least, understand what little he could before the end of the night. Before—well.
“It was my idea to start the company,” Whitney said, directing her gaze at Rick. It was easier to tell him, somehow, to not look into Daniel’s gaping eyes and tell him something he should have been able to guess months, if not years, before. “Once Daniel’s football career was over, we needed a way to make income. It seemed like a good idea—especially since we had Evan, who was good with numbers, and who could help.
“Evan and I talked about ways to make sure that we had control of it, of course, in case things ever went south. That’s where the contract came in—we would go into business together and invest the money, and that way it would be safe. It would grow over time, and Daniel, whatever happened to him, would benefit. He just wouldn’t control it.”
“So you made the contract of the company knowing that you’d cut Becks out of it,” Rick said.
“Naturally,” Whitney said. She still didn’t look at Daniel. “It made the most sense. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be able to contribute, you see.”
“Sure. So far so good. So you decide to throw a party last weekend—”
“Evan’s idea. I thought it was stupid. But he convinced me that we needed the marketing, that we had to start with a bang.” Whitney rolled her eyes. “I suppose there’s a joke in there somewhere. So I went along with it. Daniel was having a horrible time, of course.”
“That was by design, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You wanted people to see how sick Daniel was.”