by Stella Noir
But before I can muster up the strength to do that, the news program comes on and the anchor claims they have news that no other station does about the case.
Snuggling in my blanket, I torture myself further by listening to her drone on.
“According to our source,” the blonde anchor begins, a smug smile on her lips, and I want nothing more than to punch it off of her face. What do you know about pain? I want to scream at her.
“There is some breaking news regarding the Matthew Roberts case,” she continues, looking too pleased with herself for my liking. “Indeed it is now clear that it is a murder case.”
My blood freezes in my veins as soon as the words are out of her mouth.
“According to the autopsy, which was performed on the body today, the cause of death is lethal poisoning,” she continues as I stare at the TV screen in shock, too numb to respond or think. Love, sensing my discomfort, whimpers and lays her head in my lap as if trying to console me.
“Matthew Roberts is thought to have consumed the poison two to three hours before his ultimate death, so during his own wedding party,” the anchor continues dramatically. “It is believed the death was not a suicide, as several people have claimed Matthew Roberts was not depressed or mentally troubled in any way possible.”
Footage of my mother-in-law appears on the screen and she looks so gloriously awkward I would laugh if I weren’t in such a state of shock.
“I believe my son was murdered,” she begins curtly, looking so out of place it’s laughable. But she handles the questions fired at her well; I’ll give her that. “Someone poisoned him, he would never do this to himself. And today I’m here to tell you …”
She grips the microphone, bringing it to her lips and staring into the camera with such ferocity it scares me, even though I know I did nothing wrong, and this was probably filmed hours ago.
“I will make sure whoever did this is caught,” my mother-in-law promises the camera. “If you know anything, please come forward to the police. We need all the help we can get.”
The camera switches back to the studio, where they’re already announcing a short commercial segment, which gives me time to think about what I just heard.
So now it’s official. It wasn’t some weird disease that took is life. He ingested poison, put there by someone who wanted to hurt him.
I think back to the day of my wedding, think of Matthew coughing and feeling terrible, the droplets of blood appearing on the back of his hand when he cleared his throat.
Who could have done this to him?
Who hated my husband so much they wanted him dead?
Matthew was such a sweet man, always willing to help anyone in need, to lend a helping hand. In all the time I knew him, I didn’t know a single person who disliked him or even had a single bad thing to say about my husband, then fiancé.
Sure, he had some opponents because of business, old business partners with whom he had to sever a connection, but even those accepted what had happened gracefully.
I rack my brain trying to think of people who would hurt him intentionally, but come up empty handed. In the end, anyone and everyone loved my husband because of his honesty, his big heart and his kindness.
Once again, the tears start welling up in my eyes and I wipe them away, feeling fed up. Before all of this happened, it had been years since I’d cried. I’d dried up my tears when everything with Dylan happened, and because my parents kept convincing me he wasn’t worth my tears, I stopped.
I hadn’t been able to cry since.
Not until Matthew died, which is when I dissolved in tears, letting the sadness take over my body. It was so bad they thought they couldn’t pull me back to reality, as the kind nurse in the psychiatric unit explained. I was heavily medicated and even sedated, without much hope of ever getting better.
They had thought I was too far gone.
But what they didn’t know is that I can be a fighter.
And I intend to fight for justice. I intend to find out who did this to my wonderful, loveable husband. And I will have my revenge.
After my final thought, the program comes back on and I focus on the news anchor that promises she would continue with new developments of the Matthew Roberts story.
I hate the fact that his name signifies a story now, not the handsome, amazing man he was when he was alive. If this were his legacy, he would be disappointed. He would want to be known as a humble man, a man who donated millions to charity, a man who did everything for people he loved and those in need.
And it pains me to know he’s nothing more than a murder victim now.
I vow to make his legacy mean something right there, on the couch in my living room, with my dog curled up in my lap, and a half drunk bottle of wine in my hand.
“We also have some news from the man we believe to be the first suspect in the case,” the news anchor continues triumphantly as a photo of Dylan appears on screen. He’s smirking, and that expression I always loved looks ominous now, like he thinks he’s worth more than the person he’s looking at.
I shiver.
“Dylan Rawlings, a guest at Roberts’s wedding, is thought to be the primary suspect. Rawlings was sentenced to years in juvi as a child, after being convicted of the murder of his older stepbrother, Frank Rawlings. He murdered him in cold blood as he was afraid of having to split his inheritance with the man, and after a controversial trial, many were convinced the younger Rawlings had gotten off too easy.”
My blood feels like ice in my veins as I listen to her go on and on about the trial, planting seeds of doubt in the people who are watching the program.
And it hurts, because I’m one of them. I’m not sure whether or not I believe Dylan didn’t do it, and I hate that her lies are making me believe that.
“Dylan Rawlings comes from a wealthy British family who have built an empire overseas,” the anchor continues, looking like a know-it-all. “But what many don’t know is why he was even at the wedding of Matthew Roberts. What is the connection here? Why would he travel overseas to witness the marriage of two complete strangers?”
I lean in closer to the TV, clutching the blanket between my fingers so my knuckles become white. This is the moment of truth, and in seconds, I will know whether they’ve discovered my secret.
“According to our source, there is indeed a reason which no one thought of. Dylan Rawlings was not attending the wedding of two strangers, because he knew one of the newlyweds very, very well.”
My heart drops miles and buries itself in the floor. The room starts to spin as the blonde news anchor launches into another tirade triumphantly, and all I can do is stare at the TV screen.
“Dylan Rawlings knew the bride, very well indeed. And who exactly is Lola Lexington?”
A photo of me appears on the screen, from my wedding day, before everything happened. I look beautiful, but worried at the same time, a strange look in my eyes. I’m sure it will serve to paint me in whatever bad light suits their fancy.
“Lola Lexington is an unknown. She appeared in the city years ago and got a job in an art gallery. She soon met Matthew Roberts and became engaged to him. But here are some things you didn’t know. Lola Lexington is indeed the daughter of Clinton and Priscilla Lexington; the heads of an enormous conglomerate situated only a few states away. The Lexingtons suffered a scandal and kept their daughter so guarded everyone seemed to forget about her.”
“The truth is, Lola Lexington was the girlfriend of Dylan Rawlings. The parents cut off their relationship when Dylan murdered his brother. Since then, no one has heard of Miss Lexington, who quietly completed schooling and moved away from her hometown, trust fund in tow.”
“Lola Lexington became Lola Roberts, and we strongly believe she was the reason Matthew Roberts was murdered. When her old boyfriend found out she was getting married, jealousy took over and he decided to poison her husband. He traveled overseas and prepared all the arrangements. He killed her husband in cold blood.”
“H-hello?” I whisper in the phone, my voice breaking over one simple word.
“Lola,” Dylan begins desperately, and I want to slam the phone down, but feel too vulnerable to do so. Instead, I stare numbly at the television where they’re still going on about the story.
My story.
“Lola, I didn’t do it,” Dylan desperately tries to convince me. “They’re saying I poisoned him, but I couldn’t have, Lola. I can’t get that kind of poison, I’m still on probation and they would never sell that to me! I can’t afford to do anything like that; I could go to jail if I did. You have to believe me … you know I didn’t do it, don’t you, Lola?”
He sounds desperate, yet defeated at the same time, like he knows I won’t trust him. And I don’t, not anymore. I don’t know whom to trust.
“Leave me alone, Dylan!” I yell down the line, slamming the phone down and curling up in a ball next to my dog, who whimpers worriedly.
Chapter 30
The next day, I wake up early, and a look at my cell phone tells me it’s only 6.30 in the morning. Instead of getting up, I lie in the bed as long as I can, too weak to face the day ahead of me.
I know what awaits me is a slew of media and phone calls, probably even some threats from the beloved mother-in-law. And with the combination of losing my husband, I just can’t handle it.
Love and I cuddle in the bed for hours, and it’s past ten when we head downstairs. I prepare a coffee for myself, clutching the cup like it’s my lifeline. I feed the dog and am about to spend the rest of the day curled up on the couch, trying to forget what’s going on, when the doorbell rings again.
I choose to ignore it, figuring I’d rather not speak to whoever is at the door. But the person seems relentless, ringing the doorbell again and again until the sound is driving me crazy.
I stomp towards the entrance and open the door violently, scowling at my visitor.
“Aren’t you a lovely hostess,” Venetia smirks at me, and my expression turns to one of surprise. I had thought her visit to my house was solitary, but she seems like she wants to come in. I take her in, seeing several paper bags in her hands.
“Can I come in or what?” she teases, and once again, the scene from before repeats itself as I step aside to let her in. She does so, leaning down to pet my dog, but once again, the puppy runs off whimpering.
It really must be her perfume, which is even stronger today.
Clean white florals, gardenia and tuberose.
It’s creamy, yet strangely sexy, and it suits her perfectly.
I follow her inside like I’m the guest and she’s the one living here. She goes straight into the kitchen and starts unloading the paper bags she’s carrying. She produces some fresh croissants and Danishes and prepares a coffee for herself, and then we sit down at the dining table.
“I wanted to see how you were doing,” she admits. “Has anyone been here in the last few days?”
I shake my head no and she looks at me disappointedly. “You need to take care of yourself, Lola,” she scolds me, and I scowl at her words until she lets out a hearty laugh.
It takes me by surprise that anyone could laugh, given the situation, but within seconds, it becomes infectious, and a small smile appears on my lips, too. In the next moment, a small chuckle escapes my lips, and I feel the guilt.
How can I laugh when Matthew is gone?
How can I feel okay when my world is shattered?
“Lola, you have to let yourself have these moments,” Venetia says sternly. “Of course you need to grieve, but you have to be happy, too. Wouldn’t Matthew want that?”
I nod hesitantly, realizing she’s right.
“I want to help you,” Venetia says. “I know you don’t want any contact with … my brother. We don’t even have to talk about him. You may not know this, but I always liked you, Lola.”
I raise an eyebrow doubtfully, thinking of all the time, or lack thereof, that we spent together as children. Venetia always kept to herself and refused to spend time with me and Dylan, as much as we tried to convince her we were good company. She just preferred being by herself.
She was always a loner.
She ignores my skepticism and instead pushes a plate with a croissant on it towards me.
“Take it,” she encourages me. “It’s chocolate. Plus, you need to eat. You look like hell.”
When another woman tells me I look bad, I know something is up, so I reach for the plate and bite into the pastry thoughtfully.
I’m slowly realizing that it really isn’t doing anyone any good if I neglect myself. I need to take care of my mind and body; otherwise I really am going to fall apart.
“It’s good,” I admit reluctantly, and am rewarded by Venetia’s smile. In that moment, I’m almost convinced things will get better; we will solve this problem and lead a semi-normal life when everything is sorted.
I know nothing can fix my broken heart at this point, but having justice would make me feel so much better. So right there, at my dining table, I tell Venetia I want to solve the case. I want to know what really happened.
“We can do this together,” she reassures me, patting my hand. “I’m sure we’ll get through it together.”
I look up at her, a small smile playing on my lips, and we eat breakfast in companionable silence while thoughts plague my mind. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about the past, about the crime Dylan was put in juvi for. I never once talked to Venetia after it all happened, and I want to know her opinion on it.
“Venetia …” I start hesitantly, and her eyes shoot up to mine, imploring me to go on. I hesitate, but in the end I decide I really do want to know.
“Do you … do you ever blame Dylan for what happened that summer? Do you think he did it?” Nervously, I pick up my mug of coffee, bringing it to my lips and looking at her, partially shielded by the ceramic cup.
She looks thoughtful for a moment, and then an expression of such pain crosses her face I set my mug down with a loud sound. Immediately, the expression disappears and she sighs so heavily I have to wonder how hard this must be for her.
Her little brother has been accused of murder for the second time around, and she has to face the facts as well. She’s very brave, though I wouldn’t think that upon first sight.
“I never blamed him,” she admits quietly. “I never thought it was his fault.”
She looks up at me and I see tears glistening in her eyes, realizing this must be hurting her more than I thought. I almost regret asking her the question, but I was dying to know her answer.
“I don’t know exactly what happened,” she continues. “Dylan never told me all the details.”
I thank Dylan in my mind for not sharing my secrets. I never wanted to be the victim or dragged through the media – and it’s probably the one thing I can thank my parents for, as they whisked me away from the crime scene.
The rest of it, they messed up royally.
“But I know my brother wouldn’t hurt someone without reason,” she says softly, a small smile on her lips. “Whether that reason was bad or good … that is subjective.”
We’re quiet for a few moments, and then she sighs one more, but this time, it sounds like a huge weight has been lifted off her shoulders. She’s happy, chirpy Venetia once again, which I still haven’t quite gotten used to.
“Well, the past is in the past,” she says cheerfully, and I’m quick to agree.
It’s a motto I’ve been living by for years, and I plan on keeping that up. I’ve realized there’s no reason to dwell on the past.
I will allow myself one exception, though.
I will find Matthew’s killer.
Chapter 31
Dylan has been calling relentlessly. I don’t think an hour goes by without his name flashing on my receiver, and every single time, I slam the phone down, refusing to talk to him.
I
have no idea why I’m acting this way. Don’t know why I’m condemning him for something he probably didn’t do – actually, I’m sure he didn’t do it.
But something is preventing me from taking his calls, from actually talking to him. Deep down inside, I’m afraid of knowing what the truth is.
It might be too terrifying to handle.
The phone begins to ring relentlessly once again at 8 a.m. sharp, waking me from a fitful sleep. I’m strangely glad to be free of the nightmares that have plagued my dreams for weeks now, and on an impulse, I pick up the phone.
“Hello?” I say softly, knowing full well who will be on the other side.
“Hi, Lola,” Dylan’s tired voice greets me. It’s like it’s only been hours since we last spoke, and he doesn’t mention the fact that he’s been desperate to reach me with a single word. I respect that about him, and in turn feel ashamed for my actions.
“Good morning,” I reply stiffly, feeling strange, but somehow ready.
“Can we talk?” he asks hesitantly, and I hate that he has to ask me for permission.
“Come over,” I say, surprising myself with the words that are coming out of my mouth.
“Okay,” he replies simply. “I’ll be there soon.”
He cuts the connection; as if afraid I’ll change my mind and call the whole thing off. I stare at my phone in confusion, not sure whether I’ve done the right thing, but then Love nuzzles it with her snout as if she knows her favorite person in the world was on the other end of the line.
That seals the deal for me, and with a small sigh, I get up from the couch and take a quick shower. As soon as I’ve applied a minimal amount of makeup and dried my hair, the doorbell rings, and Love and I approach it. Me, hesitantly, and her, barking her head off as if she senses who is on the other side of the door.
“Calm down,” I tell her, a smile playing on my lips. I’m nervous, yet excited, and I figure it’s about time for a reunion. This is Dylan after all – the boy who saved me from years of therapy and a traumatic experience … He would do anything for me.