by B. N. Toler
She huffs in offense and walks past us. “I thought I raised you smarter, Demi.”
I want to yell something more at her, call her a name . . . something, but I decide it will only antagonize her more. My gaze moves to Connor, and I immediately hug him. “I’m so sorry. She is such a bitch sometimes.”
Connor backs away from me and shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, like usual. “She’s not wrong, Demi. You could do better.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t give up on this before we’ve even started, Connor. And just so you know, she didn’t like Blake either.”
He gives me a faint smile as he twists his neck and eyes the other people in the aisle with us who are pretending to look at items on the shelf but are really listening to us. Shaking his head, he starts pushing the cart again. “Let’s get out of here.” And gone is the happy and relaxed Connor Stevens. My mother has brought forward the brooder.
We head home and unload the groceries. Connor barely says a word, and when we’re done, he heads outside to the garage. I feel awful. Leave it to Gladys to ruin a perfectly good day with her unwarranted negative opinions.
When the girls arrive, we head out to get pedicures and when we return, Connor is still tinkering in his garage, working on the bike. When dinner is ready, I invite him in to join us, but he refuses saying he has to get something on the bike done. The girls and I eat and watch a movie until bedtime. When they’re settled down, I go outside to check on Connor only to find him getting on his Harley.
He doesn’t see me as he fires it up and takes off. My heart sinks. My mother got to him. I sleep restlessly all night, waiting for the sound of Connor’s motorcycle pulling in the driveway. It isn’t until the next morning that he returns while I eat breakfast with the girls.
“I want to see Mr. Jenson,” Mary-Anne insists.
“Maybe later I’ll take you over there.”
“I can go by myself,” she sasses. “He said I could come over whenever I want, and he’d give me candy.”
“You’re not going over there by yourself, twerp,” McKenzie snaps as she leans toward Mary-Anne and fixes her gaze on hers. “You go over there without Demi, I’ll knock you senseless.” Her tone is deadly serious.
“McKenzie!” I scoff. Where did that come from?
“I’ll tell Mom if you hit me,” Mary-Anne promises.
“No one is going to hit anyone,” I assure Mary-Anne as I give a pointed look to McKenzie. “I’ll take you over there later. I promise.”
“You two get dressed,” I tell them. I was up at dawn, unable to sleep, so I’m already dressed. Once they’re upstairs, I head outside in search of Connor.
He’s in the garage when I find him, throwing tools in drawers. I had to enter through the side door as both bay doors were closed. It was probably his way of saying, leave me alone. Too bad for him, I’m not listening.
“Hi,” I say, quietly. He stills but doesn’t turn to face me.
“Hi,” he replies gruffly.
“Are you . . . okay?” I ask delicately.
“I’m fine, Demi,” he retorts.
“Okay . . .” What do I say here? He’s obviously upset about something and trying his damnedest to give me the cold shoulder. Two nights ago I was sleeping in his arms. Now, he won’t even look at me. Has he changed his mind? Does he not want this anymore?
“It’s okay if you’ve changed your mind. We were drunk and—”
I’m stunned when he whips around and walks up to me, grabbing my face and pulling it to his, our mouths crashing together. My arms weave around his neck, and I cling to him as he walks me backward and pushes me against the wall, pressing his body to mine.
Pulling away, he stares into my eyes. “I want you. I do. But I’m not good for you.”
My eyes narrow. “You are good, Connor. I see it every day.”
Pressing his forehead to mine, he breathes, “You love blindly, Demi. I’m a bad man. I’ve done bad things.”
“What are you saying, Connor? Have you changed your mind? Is this just your way of backing out?” My voice cracks and even I’m surprised by how emotional I sound.
“I think we should think about this,” he says. “I don’t want to ruin our . . . friendship.”
Pushing him away from me, I snort. “Wow.” It’s been two days and he’s already backing out. “I don’t understand. I’m just . . . confused. I mean, weren’t you just kissing me a second ago?” My emotions have taken a turn, and now I’m angry. What is this? How does a man kiss me like that then tell me he’s not sure we should be more?
“Demi—”
“Don’t.” I hold up my hand, stopping him. “Just . . . give me some space.” With that, I walk out of the garage just as Dusty pulls up on his motorcycle and parks.
“Hey there, Demi,” he calls as he cuts the engine off. I’ve just reached my steps, but not wanting to be rude to him, no matter how angry I am with Connor, I turn and muster up my friendliest smile for him.
“Hi, Dusty. Connor is in the garage.” I jab my thumb toward the garage and turn to take my first step when I hear Mary-Anne cry my name. “Demi!”
Whipping around, I follow her voice.
“Demi!”
She’s running up the driveway, her mouth covered in chocolate, her eyes brimming with tears. “What’s wrong?” I ask, frantic, searching her head to toe for injuries. “Are you hurt?”
“McKenzie and Mr. Jenson,” she cries, breathless, hiccupping with emotion. I have no idea what’s happened or what she means, but my heart catapults to my throat.
Grabbing her arm, I bend down and meet her gaze. “Stay right here. Do you understand?”
She nods yes and I sprint across the street, hoping to God McKenzie hasn’t done anything to poor Mr. Jenson.
When I was fifteen, I hit my head on a diving board and knocked myself unconscious. I was extremely lucky I didn’t break my neck. But I was unconscious for almost twenty-four hours. I remember when I woke up, in a haze of thick confusion, my mother explained to me what happened. But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember anything. It was like one minute, I was walking the length of the board, and the next, I was waking up in a hospital bed.
And that’s how it is right now. One minute I was walking toward the Jenson’s house and the next, I wake up, or come to rather, strapped to a gurney beside an ambulance. Immediately, I begin fighting the restraints, wincing at the throbbing pain on the right side of my head.
What the hell?
“Ma’am, please stay still,” someone says, but I can’t stop myself. I struggle, pulling my arms out from under the straps until one is free, then I release the restraints, fumbling.
“Ma’am,” the voice yells and hands grip my shoulders as I sit up and tear off the neck brace.
“Get off of me,” I growl, my eyes roaming the area. The chaotic scene hits me hard, and I can’t breathe for a moment.
Police cars are everywhere down my street. If my heart wasn’t already in panic mode just seeing so many in my neighborhood, it certainly is when I realize they’re all in front of the Jenson’s and my house. Nosey neighbors stand in the street whispering to one another, trying to find out what’s going on as their eyes glance at me and back to the Jenson’s house. I slide off of the ambulance bumper, but someone grabs my arm.
“Ma’am, please sit back down. You’re hurt, and you’re in shock.” The young paramedic tugs my arm, gently urging me to follow his orders. Jerking my arm free, I run as fast as I can, holding my head, and make it to the bottom of my driveway just in time to see Connor handcuffed and being led to one of the police vehicles. My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. What the hell is going on?
He’s wrestling them, yelling, “Just tell me if she’s awake goddammit!”
I have no idea what is going on, but I’m coherent enough to remember resisting arrest is a bad thing. I need to get Connor to calm down. Rushing up the driveway, I’m almost to Connor when a strong arm reaches out and grabs me by th
e waist, stopping me. It’s an officer, and lost in my panic, my fear for Connor, I shove him away and sneer, “Get off of me.” Then I move toward Connor again, only to be stopped by the same officer again.
“This is my house! Let me go!” I yell.
“Ma’am,” the officer drawls. “I need you to calm down.”
“Connor,” I yell, and when his gaze flicks up and meets mine, his dark eyes seem beyond relieved. He closes his eyes and mouths what I think is, “Thank God.” When he raises his gaze to mine again, he gives me a stern look. Then he mouths, “Say nothing.”
I want desperately to run to him, to cling to him, but the officer’s hold on me stops me.
“What happened Connor?” I shout.
His eyes narrow as he looks at me, his expression reading confusion. After a moment, he clenches his eyes closed.
“Connor,” I shout again. “What happened?”
But before he can answer, the large cop that’s been leading him to the car, shoves his head down and forces him in the backseat.
“Connor!” Looking at the cop that’s blocking me, I’m wild with worry. Then I notice my hands and stumble back.
Blood.
They’re covered in blood. My heart drops to the ground.
Whose blood is this?
Oh God. Where are McKenzie and Mary-Anne? Please don’t let this be their blood.
“There were two young girls staying with me,” I manage. “Where are the girls?”
“They’re fine, but as a precaution, they’ve been taken to the hospital to be checked out. Their mother and father have been notified.” The officer, Officer Morrell, as his nametag states, informs me.
Pressing a hand to my forehead, trying to make sense of everything, I yell to no one in particular, “What the hell is going on?”
“You’re convict in-law murdered my husband!” A voice cracked with emotion responds. Whipping around, I find Mrs. Jenson with a pained expression on her face, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. “He murdered my husband,” she moans as she collapses to her knees. I’m speechless. I can’t move even as two policeman move toward her and try to help her to her feet.
I blink a few times, numb with shock and disbelief. Connor wouldn’t . . . he just . . . wouldn’t. Would he?
As they drag Mrs. Jenson away, she howls like a hurt animal begging to be put out of its misery, managing to shout one more time that Connor killed her husband. Officer Morrell approaches me, attempting to question me. Instinct kicks in even though I’m in shock, and I tell him I won’t discuss anything until I speak with my attorney.
I waste no time contacting Jim Burgess, the attorney Blake used for everything and have him rush to the jail immediately to make sure Connor didn’t do or say anything to get himself further in trouble. After arguing with the police some more, at their insistence, I’m taken to the hospital. The next few hours are a blur as the police question me. After a cat scan shows I have a mild concussion, finally, I’m diagnosed with dissociative amnesia; amnesia brought on by stress—that’s the only explanation for it. Why else can’t I remember what happened between me walking across the street to the Jenson’s house and waking up in the back of the ambulance? What the hell happened to my head? I must have seen something? But what? Isn’t that the million dollar question? What happened?
When the police realize their questioning is in vain, they take my clothing and swab my hands to test the blood. I’m told I am a suspect at this time and not to leave town. I called Wendy and Jeff, but they wouldn’t let me speak with the girls until after the police were finished, worried they’d become even more emotional after speaking to me in my frenzied state. I tried not to take it personally when they seemed short with me, telling myself they were just worried, but deep down I felt their anger with me. Something terrible happened while their daughters were in my care. But what exactly happened? That’s what I want to know. Why can’t I remember? How could this have happened in thirty minutes? No matter who I’ve asked, no one seems to have any answers for me. Well . . . there’s one answer. One very definite answer.
Mr. Jenson is dead.
The world seems to be spinning at high speed right in front of my face, and I can’t get my bearings. Why is Connor being pinned for murder and what did the girls have to do with it? Why do I have blood on my hands, but can’t remember how it got there?
After the police collect all the evidence they need off my person, Jim leaves me to talk with Connor. An hour later, a husky female officer came to tell me I was free to go. Finally, after hours of waiting, sipping disgusting coffee and jumping every time I heard a set of doors open, Jim emerges from the back of the building where they’ve been questioning Connor. His expression reveals nothing, but his dark hair is a little disheveled as if he’s just run his hand through it. Otherwise, his suit looks clean and crisp as if he’s just dressed and even though it’s evening his face reveals no signs of a five o’clock shadow. He looks good. I look like I feel. Like shit. After they had taken my clothing, they gave me a T-shirt that’s way too big for me and a pair of basketball shorts I had to roll at the waist five times. I stand, but he gestures telling me to sit, then he takes a seat beside me, the old wooden bench creaking with the addition of his weight.
“Is he okay?” I ask, fighting the tremble in my voice.
Jim tugs hard at his tie, loosening it as he lets out something between a sigh and a groan. “He’s in a lot of trouble, Demi. They’re charging him.”
“Already?” I gasp.
Jim releases a deep breath. “It’s bullshit.”
With a deep breath, I blink back the tears burning my eyes. “Did he tell you what happened?”
“He did,” he answers with a nod, then he looks at me peculiarly. “You really don’t remember anything?”
“Nothing,” I confirm. I wait a moment, hoping he’ll continue, elaborate on what Connor told him, but when he doesn’t I ask, “And? What happened, Jim?”
“He asked me not to discuss it with you.”
In an instant, the tears clear and my mouth drops open. I blink a few times, digesting his words. “Why?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Jim replies stiffly. “What I can tell you is his bail hearing is tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.”
“Do you think he can make bail?”
“Doubtful,” Jim admits. “Sometimes small towns have small minds; once a felon, always a felon.”
I pinch my lips together, hating that he’s right. No matter what evidence there is, Connor is as good as done. His past coupled with his bad boy looks won’t do him any favors.
“You have to get him bail,” I insist.
“And if he does . . . it’s going to be hefty.”
“I don’t care how much it is,” I say. “I’ll pay it. Just make it happen, Jim. And I’ll send a retainer to you as soon as possible.”
Jim turns his head and meets my gaze. If he’s trying to hide his opinion, the one that says I’m a fool, he isn’t doing a great job at it. When he gets a good look at me, his demeanor seems to soften some. I know my eyes are puffy and swollen. I’m exhausted. He pats my back and nods once. If you were anyone else, I’d tell you not to waste your money, Demi.”
My stomach twists with his words. “What does that mean?”
“It means Blake wouldn’t have wanted you to give up, so you shouldn’t.” I swallow the knot in my throat. Jim and Blake had become close in his last few months. Blake had built himself a pretty successful freelance business and in addition to handling Blake’s will, Jim also assisted in the sale of Blake’s business.
He flips open his briefcase and pulls out a card from a pocket inside, then hands it to me. “This is a good bondsman. I’d advise you to call tonight, let them get your information. Might make things go smoother after the hearing. But Demi,” he pauses, “don’t get your hopes up. There’s a very good chance he won’t make bail.”
Ignoring him and his pessimistic warning, I murmur, “Let’s hope you’re worth you
r pay, Jim.”
His head rears back ever so slightly in offense, but he stops himself with a shrug, probably deeming me an emotional woman and not worth justifying with a response. It was a shitty thing to say, but I need positive thoughts right now, not dismal predictions.
Closing his briefcase he stands and replies, “I’ll see you in the morning. If you remember anything, call me. Talk to no one before you contact me.” Then he leaves me sitting on the hard wooden bench, wondering how I’m going to make myself move.
After taking the hottest shower I’ve ever taken in my life and scrubbing my skin raw to remove all traces of blood, I tossed and turned all night, anxious for the morning. But standing behind Jim as the Judge walks in with his furry gray brows and anal retentive stature he wears as well as his black robe, I don’t feel tired at all. I’m fueled by fear right now. This guy looks like he loves nothing more than to say the words: Bail denied. After the judge takes his seat, we all sit and shortly after, Connor is brought in. He’s wearing an orange jumpsuit, and with his canvas of tattoos, he looks every bit of the stereotypical convict. I try to ignore the murmurs and whispers that fill the courtroom, but it’s hard. I want to scream at everyone to shut up and tell them Connor is innocent. I don’t know how I know this. Especially since I can’t remember anything, but I just do. Connor didn’t kill Mr. Jenson. I know it as sure as I know myself. As he’s led in, his wrists cuffed in front of him, a guard on each side, I stare at him, willing him to look up and meet my gaze. I want him to know I’m here, that no matter what, I have his back.
But he doesn’t look at me.
In fact¸ I think he’s intentionally looking at anything but me. Choking back the hurt I feel, I focus on the most important issue at hand.
When he’s in front of his chair, the guards undo his cuffs, and he takes a seat next to Jim, who begins whispering to him. The courtroom door creaks as it’s opened, and I glance back to see Lexi hightailing in, her heels click-clacking and echoing through the room. Her eye makeup is slightly smeared, but not as bad as usual, which means she probably licked a takeout napkin from her glove box and tried to clean up a bit before she came in. Not much can be said for her outfit; jean mini-skirt and flowy silk top. I left her a million voicemails last night and never heard from her. I guess she finally got them.