by Stella Noir
It isn’t until hours later, when I’m reaching the end of the messages, and darkness is falling outside, that I wake from my daydreams. The voice on the recording is all too familiar now.
“Hello, Lola,” Dylan’s deep voice greets me, and I shiver. “I need to talk to you, please.” His voice is strained and it fucking hurts to know I’m part of the reason he’s talking that way. “I need … I need you.”
His voice doesn’t break, but there are a few moments where he stays on the line, breathing softly, like he’s getting ready to say something else. Finally it comes out, like a whisper.
“I didn’t do it,” he says ever so quietly, and then he cuts the connection off.
Chapter 27
I let myself sleep late next day, with Love curled into a ball next to me on the couch. I couldn’t face the bedroom – it has too many memories. Instead, I sleep on the couch, covered with a soft blanket we bought on some weekend trip or other.
I get up grudgingly when the phone starts ringing shrilly. I pick it up and bark a hello down the line, my voice already accusing.
“Mrs. Roberts?”
The unfamiliar greeting still sounds so strange, and most of all, wrong, now that Matt is no longer Mr. Roberts. All wrong. “Yes,” I answer nonetheless.
“I am the late Mr. Roberts’ attorney,” he introduces himself with a heavy sigh. “First of all, I’m very, very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I say without feelings, because I’ve heard the words so many times by now they don’t mean anything anymore. No one can be as sorry and as heartbroken as I am, I think bitterly.
“I’d like to meet with you to discuss your husband’s will,” he informs me in the next second, and I rub my tired eyes, sighing as he explains the process.
“Come over to the house today,” I say abruptly, cutting off his long speech. He’s already explaining how he can’t do that, that it isn’t protocol, but I’ve already slammed the phone down on the receiver.
Take that.
The bell rings soon after, when I’ve only just come out of the shower. My hair is still wet, and I’m wearing a fluffy robe, cursing everything and everyone as I make my way to the door, almost tripping over an excited Love.
I open the door, expecting the attorney, and have to look down to find my visitor.
She is a short, but voluptuous woman. She is absolutely, drop dead gorgeous, and I feel underdressed and disgusting, even though I’ve just washed the hospital smell off of my skin.
“Are you from the media?” I ask, my eyes taking in her gorgeous body, her beautiful silky black hair, and those eyes.
Those eyes look ever so familiar … they’re big, steely grey. It can’t be, can it?
“I see you’re having difficulty placing me,” she says with a smirk, and in that moment, I realize who she is – it’s uncanny.
“Venetia?” I ask doubtfully, not because I’m not sure it’s here, but because I have no idea what Dylan’s sister is doing on my doorstep, thousands of miles away from home.
“Got it,” she says and I can’t help but return her smile, after which I just stare and stare at her.
The last time I saw Venetia Rawlings, she was the ultimate emo kid. She had her hair dyed jet black with raccoon stripes, her eyes lined with enormous amounts of kohl, and she wore Vans slip on shoes and ripped clothes. She was perpetually in a bad mood, would snap at her parents, and regarded me with such hatred one would think I’d killed her pet hamster or something.
The woman in front of me is very far from the emo-Venetia I used to know.
But it seems to be her nonetheless.
“Are you going to invite me in or just stare at me?” she asks cheekily, and I smile nervously, stepping aside so she can come inside the house.
She sees the dog as soon as she walks in, but Love gives her one sniff and retreats from the hall, yelping. I think it might have something to do with Venetia’s perfume, which is definitely … potent, to say the least.
I take her trench coat and lead her into the kitchen, or maybe she just follows me, I can’t be too sure. She sits down on the bar stool like she’s been here a thousand times and I ask her if she’d like some coffee.
“The strongest kind you have,” she requests, and a smile finds its way onto my lips.
“Some things don’t change, do they?” I say, thinking of her obsession with coffee when she was a teenager. I start making the brew as she looks at me thoughtfully, waiting for a moment before she responds.
“They sure don’t,” she says, then clears her throat, and I know it’s time for business. “In this case, my brother’s almost arrest.”
I pale at the thought and busy myself with the coffee cups, but nothing seems to escape this strange, yet familiar woman who is currently seated in my kitchen.
“I’m sorry for you loss, Lola,” she says honestly, and I fight back the tears when I thank her. “I know my brother didn’t do it, though,” she adds, and I can hear the resolution in her voice.
If Venetia thinks so, he didn’t do it. Like her opinion makes the world spin and decides what is true and what isn’t …
I prepare the coffee as random thoughts rush through my mind. I would never admit this to Dylan’s sister, yet there were moments where I doubted Dylan’s involvement in all of this myself. After all, he is a convicted killer …
I wince at the thought, feeling unfair and evil.
In that moment, the doorbell rings again and I set Venetia’s cup down on the counter, rushing to answer it.
It’s the lawyer this time around, and he refuses to give me the news at the door. Instead, I invite him in, offering him the cup of coffee I had initially meant to drink myself.
The lawyer, Mr. Roberts, goes straight to business.
“So as you can see, you’ve inherited this house, along with your lake house, and a vast sum of money,” he finishes up, as I nod numbly. I know this only means another battle with Barbara Roberts, who will be fuming at the thought of me getting something that belonged to Matt.
What she doesn’t know is that I don’t even want it, none of it.
I have a hefty trust fund of my own.
But the thought of someone else living in our picture perfect house pains me beyond belief.
I walk the lawyer out and return to the kitchen to a thoughtful Venetia, who has just taken her first sip of coffee. She witnessed the entire conversation, and I’m immensely grateful to her for not bringing the topic up.
Though I’m not sure the subject she chooses instead is that much better.
“I came here to help Dylan,” she explains to me. “I want justice. And I need to know whether I can count on your help.”
She looks at me imploringly and I have no idea what she wants from me, so I decide to stall. “What did you have in mind?” I ask thoughtfully.
“I need to know whether you think he’s guilty,” she says sternly, looking me right in the eye. “Do you think my brother killed your husband?”
I look her straight in the eye, having no idea what to tell her.
I stay quiet, and she sighs heavily when she realizes I’m not going to answer her question. “Lola,” she begins, and I tense. “I need to help him. He’s been in trouble once before …”
She looks away, but my eyes seem glued to hers.
“You know it was because of you the first time around, Lola,” she says, her words weighing heavily on my chest. It’s hard to breathe with all this guilt she’s placing on me, yet can I blame her? She is absolutely right.
“I need to know whether there was a reason … any reason why Dylan would do this,” she finished, and I look at her questioningly.
“What do you mean?” I ask, feeling confused.
“Lola, I mean,” she begins, looking me straight in the eyes this time. “Is there any way Dylan could have thought he would be protecting you if he did something to Matthew?”
I realize what she’s implying, and my cheeks flush violently, as I s
tare hard at her. What she’s suggesting is completely absurd. Matthew had never hurt me, wouldn’t dream of laying a hand on a woman, let alone me. He told me I was the love of his life daily, and as opposed to Dylan, I actually believed him.
I want to throw all this and more in Venetia’s face, but when I see her expression, I realize she’s hurting just as much as I am. Of course, she didn’t know Matthew, couldn’t have an idea of what he was really like. She just assumed Dylan tried helping me, like he had done in the past.
“Never,” I mutter, keeping my eyes level with hers.
“Okay,” she says, trying to be placating, and I can see she appreciates my calmness, as I do hers. “But Lola,” she continues. “Please answer me. Do you think my brother is innocent this time around?”
I take my time thinking about it, not knowing what I’ll say until the words leave my mouth.
“I think he …” I begin, as my voice starts breaking. “I believe he didn’t do it. But I think he might have,” I admit, my words breaking my heart in half.
Chapter 28
Another day passes and Love and I lock ourselves in the house, too frightened by the media to venture outside. They’ve set up camp in front of the house and I know them to be like vultures. I’ve been staying away from the TV and magazines for as long as I could, but I did catch a few glimpses when I wanted to watch a movie.
Killer on the loose.
Rich kid strikes again – first kill at 18, second one at 25!
Heiress keeping dark secrets!
Who is Lola Lexington?
Up until now, they haven’t discovered who I am yet. They don’t know my family is just as rich as Dylan’s and Matthew’s. They have no idea, because I’m sure my family is trying to keep it as hush hush as possible, too.
But I know I’m running out of time, and sooner or later, all of the sordid details will make it into the papers. And I need to be prepared for that day, which I’m definitely not … yet.
I’m watching a Mexican soap opera, which has become a habit, when I hear a commotion in the kitchen area.
I get up slowly, sighing heavily, thinking it’s probably Love again. She’s been trying to get into the pantry and I even caught her once red-handed – she had dug a hole in her bag of doggy biscuits and was doing everything she could to get some out.
I head into the kitchen, ready to tackle her, and have to grip the counter to steady myself when I round the corner and come face to face with …
Dylan.
And even though this is not something new – he’s been in my home several times – I suddenly feel incredibly threatened, even though I’m not sure why.
“What do you want?” I ask with a shaky voice, getting a good look at him.
He looks disheveled. His shirt is crumpled, and his leather jacket has a mud stain on it. His hair is too long and falling in his eyes, and he has bags under them for days.
Nonetheless, he still looks handsome. Something about this grungy, tired look makes him even more attractive, which makes me incredibly angry for some strange reason.
Maybe it’s because he gets to be handsome, gets to be grungy, and gets to live.
All of it, when Matthew doesn’t.
And I’m not sure which one of them I’d rather see alive.
I grit my teeth.
“Well?” I ask again impatiently, and he looks at me with such sadness I regret the harsh tone of my voice. He shakes his head and buries his face in his hands, as if the mere thought of looking at me is too much to handle at the moment.
“I need to talk you,” he says softly, looking anywhere but in my eyes. “I left you a message on your voicemail … I wasn’t sure if you got it-”
“I did,” I interrupt cruelly, then breathe a sigh myself, and motion to the screen door leading outside. “Let’s talk out there.”
He looks at me, surprised. “You don’t want me in your house?” he asks incredulously, and I blush, which I’m sure answers his question in itself.
In place of answering, I start walking outside, feeling relieved when the cool, fresh air hits my fervent skin. Dylan follows until we’re both standing awkwardly on the veranda in our back yard.
As if wanting to relieve the pressure, Love rushes around the corner in that exact moment and nearly topples Dylan over. She barks excitedly, and I realize she must’ve missed him too.
I stop in my tracks, because I just admitted to myself that I missed this man, who could be the murderer of my husband. I shake my head to get the thought out.
Dylan laughs softly as he playfully tackles the dog.
I realize she missed him a lot, and in the same moment, think that she always had closeness with Dylan she never achieved with Matthew. Even though he disliked her at first, he came around in a week or so, but it seemed like the dog sensed his initial dislike of her, keeping her distance.
With Dylan, it’s completely different. Her tail is wagging like crazy, and she looks even happier than when I came home from the hospital. It makes me smile bitterly.
They have enough and Love settles at Dylan’s feet on the wooden floor warmed by the sun. She sets her head on her paws and is fast asleep with seconds. What amazes me is how comfortable she is with him, when I’m so wary of his presence.
Maybe I could learn a thing or two from Love …
“Let’s talk,” I say to Dylan. “Say what you want to tell me, let’s get this over with.” The harshness is back in my voice, and I can tell I’ve hurt him from his expression. But not as much as I’ve just hurt myself.
“Lola,” he begins, and it pains me to hear my name on his lips.
Not because I’m afraid of him.
Because it feels so damn good for him to say it.
“I’m so, so sorry for your loss,” he begins, and I look away. I can tell what he’s saying is genuine, but that doesn’t prove anything.
“Thank you,” I reply curtly.
“I want you to know I’ll be here every step of the way, if you need me. I’m staying for a while,” he explains quickly as if to comfort me.
“I’m sure you are,” I add bitterly. “Are the police making you stay?”
He looks taken aback by my cruelty and I regret my words. I have no idea why I’m being like this, why I’m treating him so badly. All I can think of is the lifeless body that used to be my husband.
And if Dylan is in any way to blame for that, I will kill him with my bare hands.
“Don’t be like that,” he mutters. “Do you really blame me for what happened?”
“I’m not blaming you for anything until the police let us know what’s happening,” I tell him softly, softening a little after seeing how much of an impact my words are having on him.
“What did they question you about, anyway?” I want to know, next.
He shrugs uncomfortably. “Same old,” he admits. “Lots of questions about … the past. My treatment, if I knew Matthew, why I came to town.
“They’re going to realize who you are sooner or later, Lola,” he warns me, but I just wave a hand in the air dismissively, refusing to believe that to be true.
“Your sister showed up here,” I offer instead, and he shifts from one foot to another uncomfortably. From his reaction, I gather he already knows she’s in town – and he seems none too pleased about it.
“Hope she didn’t bother you too much,” he says, implying that he’s doing so now. I choose to ignore his teasing, and shake my head lightly.
“It was nice seeing her … after all this time. She wanted to know what I thought,” I explain, the last sentence just slipping out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I wish I could take it back, because I’m sure questions will follow.
And so they do.
“About what?” Dylan’s brow is furrowed as he poses the question, and now it’s my turn to shift uncomfortably as I think of ways to avoid the answer. “About what, Lola?” he repeats, and I hate myself for answering.
“She wants to know whether I thin
k you did it,” I whisper softly.
He’s still as a statue for a few moments, but I know he’ll want answers soon enough.
“What did you say?” he wants to know.
I’m quiet.
He should take that as an answer, but he won’t let go of the subject. “What did you say, Lola?” he repeats, his voice breaking over the words.
“I said I hoped you didn’t do it,” I try to lie smoothly, but he can see right through me. He always could. He smirks and runs his hands through his hair.
“You did, huh?” he asks sarcastically. “You hope, but you don’t believe me?”
I’m quiet and he mutters something under his breath, before looking at me so angrily I’m honestly afraid for a moment. But as soon as the rage came into his eyes, it disappears, and there’s only sadness and hurt left.
And I know perfectly well I put them there, which is why it hurts twice as much.
“Goodbye, Lola,” he says curtly, making to leave across the lawn as Love raises her head sleepily.
And I hate myself because I don’t run after him. I don’t even try to stop him.
I just stare at his retreating figure, stare at my dog whimpering when she realizes he’s gone again.
And I feel sorry for myself, even though I know there’s no reason to do so.
Chapter 29
After Dylan leaves, I settle in the living room with a bottle of Pinot. It hurts so much knowing I did this to him – admitted I didn’t trust him anymore. But in the end, I couldn’t lie, and he did nothing to defend himself … which only has me questioning his true motives, and does nothing to reassure my faith in him.
The soap opera finished as I open the bottle and drink straight out of it, and a news reporter announces the recap of the day happening in a few moments. I reach for the remote, trying to switch channels, when Matthew’s photo appears on the TV screen.
I stop in my tracks and just stare at his handsome, loved face. It burns to know I’ll never be able to touch and see him again and I want to crack the TV screen for reminding me of that.