by Jeremy Pack
That, he realized, was what he wanted now, more than anything---the release of oblivion. If his daughter was lost to him, nothingness was preferable to the lifetime of anguish and unanswered questions that lay ahead.
He couldn't face that pain and loneliness. Who would really care, anyway?
George might shed a tear or two, but he had his practice, his own worries. Chris's death would be a minor affair in the scheme of his life.
Yes, it was better this way, he convinced himself. The world really wouldn't be impacted by the loss of another head case. He was just another drain on the planet's precious resources.
Bullshit. He was taking the coward's way out. He knew it. All these excuses were just the twigs he was using to build his house of straw. Whatever. He'd never claimed to possess any kind of remarkable courage. Aside from that, it was his life, and it was his decision what he did with it.
He traveled down the hallway and paused outside of Michael's office. Everything was still in its place. Even the last file folder that had been on the desk's surface was just where he'd left it. The last jacket he'd worn was draped over the back of the chair. It wasn't sentiment that had caused Chris to leave it this way; he'd just never had the strength to clear it out. Besides, seeing it the way it was when Michael had been around added to the feeling of familiarity. Over the past year, that was about the only thing that had kept him from doing what he planned to do today. When there had still been some hope that they might return or some answers would be forthcoming, he'd held on. Now, that was impossible, and there just wasn't any more reason to stick around.
He continued down the hallway and stopped in his bedroom. The bed was carefully made. Michael's reading glasses still sat beneath the lamp on the end table. He knew that in the closet, Michael's clothes still hung in orderly, color-coordinated rows. He had been careful to keep the shirts rotated and ironed on a weekly basis. On the surface, maybe it looked like a sign of dementia, but he didn't see it that way. He saw it as an act of defiance against the cruelty that fate had visited upon him.
Maybe it was true that Michael was dead and that he was ironing for a ghost. Maybe it was a little deranged. Screw it. It was his psychosis, damn it, and who cared what anyone else thought about it?
He turned slowly to the door at his back. Just across the hall from his bedroom, Brianna's room awaited. This door, unlike the rest, was tightly closed. He'd saved this for last. He hadn't crossed the threshold since that horrible October night. The last people to have entered those hallowed walls were the police, and they assured him that they'd disturbed nothing. There had been no evidence, so everything had been left in its place.
He took a deep breath.
Daily reminders of Michael's existence were one thing, but seeing Brianna's empty bed, or her favorite toys, or her neatly folded clothes on the shelves of the changing table, would have been too much.
He had stood outside the room with his hand on the closed door three times over the past ten months. He'd stood there gasping for breath, willing himself to turn the knob. Each time, he'd collapsed on the floor, sobbing and crying out "why?" to the heavens.
Each time, the door had remained closed.
He braced himself and turned the knob.
The doorbell rang.
He jumped and stumbled backward, startled.
He wasn't expecting anyone. Who could it---?
George.
Of course. He'd promised he'd stop by to check on him.
The pills on the coffee table. He had to put them away.
His heart racing, he dashed down the hallway and skidded to a halt in the living room. His eyes darted to the door and back to the pills. He snatched up the bottle, rushed into the bathroom, and returned the drugs to the medicine cabinet.
By the time he reached the front door, he was panting. He mentally berated himself for the stupidity of his panic. Oh well. The evidence of his intentions was safely hidden away just in case.
He opened the door just as the doorbell rang for a second time.
"George, I...." It wasn't George standing on the front porch.
Backlit by the sanguine glow of the setting sun, a startlingly handsome face stared back at him. The full lips parted in a smile of greeting, flashing bright teeth. There was a sprinkling of stubble upon the sharp jaw, and as he looked up into the man's darkly lashed hazel eyes, he was stunned into speechlessness. Those eyes bored into him with an almost physical force. He just stood there, gaping, disoriented by the effect of that enigmatic stare. It was electric---like something out of a sappy Hollywood love story.
Why could he not tear himself away? Say something? Do something? This discomposure was starkly out of character, particularly given his presence of mind only moments before.
In the tense silence, while he struggled to regain his faculty, while words---a sudden impossibility---refused to coalesce, a strange, thrumming vertigo threatened. He held his breath. What's happening to me?
"Are you... okay?" The stranger stepped quickly across the threshold and reached out a hand to steady him.
Chris couldn't do anything but stare. Heat rose into his cheeks and burned the tops of his ears. It felt like one of those alien critters from the movies was wriggling its way through his innards.
Not again. He swayed on his feet.
Before he knew what was happening, the man was at his side. A strong arm draped loosely across his shoulders, and a hand pressed against his chest. The intimacy of the touch unbalanced him more. The fire in his cheeks blazed red-hot.
"Let's get you to the couch."
He allowed himself to be guided, dumbfounded and unable to muster the slightest resistance. As he moved, he became aware of the warm, spicy scent of the stranger's skin. That and the reassuring pressure of his gentle touch nearly sent him over the edge. It was a small miracle he could focus on the mechanics of walking.
He sat on the couch, and only when the other man stepped back and appraised him anxiously did he finally begin to gather his wits. He dared not stare too long. The stranger's brows knitted in concern. "I saw what happened at the station earlier today---looks like you're still a little unsteady on your feet." The man pointed toward a chair opposite the sofa.
"Mind if I sit?"
"Who are you?" Chris finally found some semblance of a voice, but it was barely audible. It was the best he could manage. This loss of control was absurd. He'd never experienced anything like it.
"Of course, how rude of me. Jason Kingsley. I'd offer to shake your hand, except...." There was a twinkle in the other's eyes that said he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on Chris. "Well, I'm a little worried about what might happen. A simple smile nearly dropped you." The twinkle resolved into a self-satisfied grin. There was a hint of smug assurance behind it that raised the heat in Chris's cheeks into a full-fledged conflagration. He was completely transparent to this man.
Oh, how he wished the sofa would turn into a deep black pit and swallow him whole.
"What do you want?" he croaked.
"Can I sit?"
The prickling flared into anger. Jason Kingsley had some nerve.
"No."
"Now you're being rude."
"What do you want?"
"To help. I have some information you might be interested to hear."
"I doubt it." His outrage finally gave him something to work with.
Contempt cleared his head. Egotism always irked him, and this man was positively dripping with it. The conceit had worked its way under his skin and dulled the edge of the instant and insistent attraction. He might be handsome, but Jason Kingsley was obviously full of himself.
Kingsley sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. "I had a feeling you weren't going to make this easy on me."
"Then save yourself the trouble. Leave."
"You know, I don't think I like you very much."
Despite his growing disdain, for some reason Chris felt a flash of shame, and that caught him off guard. Why the
hell should he care what Jason Kingsley thought? He had known him for a span of heartbeats and, under normal circumstances, wouldn't have allowed the relationship to progress that far. Even through the fog of schoolboy befuddlement, he could tell that Jason Kingsley was the worst kind of jerk. He knew the type.
So why could he not control the rapid staccato of his heart? Why did his breath continue to catch in his throat when his eyes took in that bewitching face? Why did there still linger a pleasurable warmth across his shoulders and upon his chest where the man's hands had touched him only moments ago?
He shook his head to clear it. It had to be stress. This was the breakdown Dr. Resnick had promised him was coming. Great, just great.
Of all the times to lose it.
Kingsley hadn't moved. He just stood there by the chair, staring down at Chris. His smug grin had faded, and he looked annoyed.
"Well?"
Chris wanted to scream at him, wanted to be furious, but all he could summon was a defeated sigh. "Please, just leave. I've had a difficult day."
Kingsley was silent, and his expression softened. With something akin to compassion, he said, "You've had a difficult year, actually."
"Please---"
"Give me five minutes. If you don't agree that I can help you, I'll leave and you'll never have to see me again."
"I can't deal with this right now---"
Ignoring his protests, Kingsley rushed ahead. "I understand the police have suspended investigation on your case."
"I mean it. Please leave." He started to rise from his seat to show Kingsley to the door.
"I know that must seem very final to you, like there's no reason to have hope anymore, like you've been let down by the system."
The truth in Kingsley's words brought him up short, and he dropped back onto the sofa. Chris hung his head. He couldn't deny it.
Without fully understanding what compelled him to speak, he said, "My attorney, George, thinks this is a positive development. He thinks it's going to help me move on. Maybe if they had found something. Anything."
"In defense of law enforcement, they're usually admirably competent---far more competent than one would expect, considering that the odds are almost always stacked against them. Unfortunately for you, our friend Callahan doesn't fit into the category I've just described."
"He's despicable," Chris agreed.
"You have to admit, it would have been much easier to trump up some motive, slap you with a murder charge, and forego a long drawn-out investigation." As if sensing he'd gotten his foot in the door, Kingsley sat down in the chair. He leaned back and rested his arms on the overstuffed sides of the seat.
"I had nothing to do with it," Chris said, searching the other man's expression for any sign of disbelief.
Kingsley raised his hands in defense. "You don't have to convince me."
"You have no idea what it's like to lose everything and then be accused of murder on top of it." Chris stopped short. Why was he babbling like this? Why did he feel the need to pour his heart out to this conceited bastard? Who had invited himself to sit down, by the way, when Chris had clearly told him to leave several times?
This was all too much. Anxiety and emotion were spiraling out of his control. Wild eyes sought out and found the entrance to the bathroom.
He needed Kingsley to leave. Why had he answered the door? If he'd just ignored it, by now he'd be swallowing pills and well on his way to release from the unending nightmare his life had become.
Kingsley said, "People are sick. Trust me. I've seen it all."
"But why them? What did they do to deserve this?"
Kingsley's brows drew together, and he tilted his head to one side.
"You've got to be kidding me. You have no idea who Michael Blake really was, do you?"
Chris stiffened. "What kind of question is that? We lived together for five years. I think if anyone knew him, it would be me."
"No, I mean, I assumed you knew. I had no idea you didn't know."
There was a look of bewilderment on the stranger's face.
"Didn't know what?"
"No wonder you're so messed up."
Chris's confusion was growing by the second. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Chris, Michael was slime. He was into some heavy stuff."
Kingsley made a slashing gesture with his hand across his forehead. "Up to his eyebrows."
"What?" It came out as squeak.
"Drugs," he said. "I can't believe you didn't know."
Chris gasped. His head reeled as the picture slowly came into focus.
The strange inconsistencies he'd discovered during the police investigation leapt out at him. The bank accounts had been nearly empty.
Of course, the police had tried to pin that on him as a motive for the murders, but there were records of Michael's multiple withdrawals so that tactic had failed. And there were the mood swings---Michael had always been a little moody, but in the months leading up to the murders, it seemed like he was set off more easily than usual. He worked later than he ever had in the past, and the frequency of his business trips had increased.
He'd told all of these things to the police during the investigation, but George had an explanation. He confirmed that Michael's caseload had been unusually heavy and even supported the extra time and frequent trips with expense reports and billable hours statements.
Could George have been lying? Could he have fabricated all of the evidence he'd given to the police? No, Chris thought, that was impossible. He refused to believe it. If Michael did have a drug problem and George knew about it, he would have said something. Surely he would have said something.
As Chris mulled over the implications of what he'd just learned, he began to tremble. His stomach lurched. This had to be some kind of a cruel joke. He eyed Kingsley with suspicion.
Kingsley said, "I'm really sorry. I never would have guessed that you didn't know. I mean, someone must have said something. MacQuery should have told you, at least."
"He would have." Chris was surprised to hear doubt in his own voice. "If he knew, he would have told me. He would have told the police."
"But... but MacQuery did know. I'm the one who told him. I owed him a favor. If Michael's problems ever got out, think of what it would have done to his firm's reputation."
"He would have told me," Chris responded. His voice was raised, and a stubborn set to his jaw broadcast his refusal to believe that he had been hoodwinked by the two people he trusted most in the world.
"I'm telling you, all of this is true."
Chris shook his head. "George could never lie to me. I'd have known if he was."
Kingsley grunted in exasperation. "Why don't you just pay him a visit and ask him?"
This was too much, too fast. He couldn't imagine George withholding this kind of information from him, from the police. Still, Michael's behavior, the unexplained changes in his routines, the inconsistencies uncovered during the investigation---these all seemed to be answered by the disturbing revelation that he had secretly become addicted to drugs.
Chris couldn't process it fast enough. He needed time and space to think.
"Your five minutes are up. Leave," he said quite forcefully, shocked at the strength of the barked command.
Kingsley's mouth compressed into a tight line. He stood abruptly and walked toward the front door. Before he left, he turned back and focused on Chris. His eyes were hard. "You know what I think? I think you're afraid of the truth. You don't really want answers. You just want to hold onto the lie because it's safe."
Chris came to his feet and gestured toward the door. "I told you to get out."
"You're a coward."
These words bit deeply---perhaps because he knew them to be true.
The stinging barb staggered him back a step. His mouth clamped tightly closed. Through gritted teeth, he said, "And you're an insufferable jerk."
Emboldened by anger, he took a determined step in Kingsley's direction.
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"You come in here flashing your pretty smile and making eyes at me, start spouting garbage about my dead partner, and expect me to swoon and fall at your feet. Maybe that works on some people, Jason Kingsley, but not me. I don't know why you decided to come over here and start rubbing salt in my wounds, but I've had enough." He pointed toward the door again. "Get the hell out of my house, and don't ever come back."
His hands were balled into fists, and his whole body was shaking.
Adrenaline surged through his veins. He fought an urge to both scream and cry at the same time. This was too much, too much.
Kingsley stared at him for one moment longer and then stormed out the door.
For a long time after Kingsley left, Chris just stood there, fuming.
His heart was pounding, his ears were ringing, and he was sure he was going to throw up. He was too livid, too confused to do anything but smolder.
Finally, as the anger drained away, it was replaced by a torrent of emotion that had been building since his collapse in the police station. It ripped through the crack in his resolve, and the flood escaped his control.
He sat on the couch, wrapped his arms around his body, and, wracked with miserable sobs, he keened his grief to the uncaring world.
As though in sympathy with the tears he cried, a heavy rain began to fall outside. As the storm raged, day passed into night. The pent-up anguish leeched away his remaining strength. He fell into a deep, exhausted slumber. Perhaps because of the release, his sleep was free, for the first time in as long as he could remember, from troubled dreams.
Chapter 3
CHRIS awoke on the couch to the sounds of morning from the world outside. Blinking bleary eyes against the bright sunlight, he rose and looked out the window.
As though in apology for the inundation of the night before, the morning sky had cleared, and a cheerful sun painted the world in a panorama of watercolor brilliance.