“But I’m telling you now,” I answered, pushing against his chest, separating us. But he was shaking his head and I could tell by the look on his face that there was more. “What is it?”
“Amy, it doesn’t look like self-defense. Not anymore. It might have started out that way, but the wounds . . .” He stopped talking, and my mind flooded with pictures of the man’s head cocked to one side, half of his neck cut open.
“I cut him,” I said blankly. “When I had the opportunity, I shoved his head into the bricks and took his knife.” By now, I was crying, but I didn’t even know when I’d started. A rasp came into my chest that forced me to take a shaky breath. Steve continued to waver, telling me it was all wrong without saying a word.
“You killed a man when you could have just run away,” he said, his voice as choked up as it had been in the kitchen when he begged to have my blouse. “The buttons torn from your blouse—they were in his hand. They can put you at the scene. I’ve been sitting on them, but Charlie wants the crime lab to try and pull prints.”
My mind raced, searching for a way out. I felt like a mouse in a maze, but there was certainly no cheese reward waiting for me at the end. There was only life, protection from the cat chasing me. I couldn’t get my mind to work fast enough. It felt like the world was closing in on me. I was suffocating.
“My fingerprints?” I said, asking. “I’ve never . . . my fingerprints aren’t . . .”
“The school,” Steve said abruptly. More images swarmed in my mind, image of Snacks and fingerprinting the children in her school. I had been the first to volunteer, showing them that it was safe, that it was like a game.
“Tell me what to do,” I begged, sounding desperate. But not because I was working him, because I was desperate.
“You can’t come forward. It’s way too late for that now, and there is no way to explain it as self-defense, not with wounds like that.”
“But it was!” I nearly yelled. Steve touched my mouth. It was three in the morning and the house was quiet. “Steve, he was going to rape me. Kill me.”
“If you’d run or even cut him just enough to get away, then yes. But now?”
“What do we do?” I begged, but this time I paired him in with me, wanting to see if he was with me or not. It was a huge risk. He said nothing but continued to shake his head. “Steve? Babe?” A dark notion stirred, taking flight in my gut like the thousand blackbirds fleeing the coming night. Sadly, there was no we in this, after all.
Steve came forward, taking my face in his hands as he kissed me. “I don’t know how much I can lie, how much I can hide. I’m not going to say this will pass, because, babe, I really just don’t know.” He began to mumble to himself then, spitting words about keeping the case open and how long it could stay open. There was a mishmash of other detective jargon that I would never even attempt to try and understand. The dark notion felt like a bullet slowly burrowing through me. I needed to scream.
Steve finally came back to me, his eyes clearer than before, as if an epiphany had been discovered like a gold nugget by a desperate miner. “We can do this. We can keep the case open. As long as it stays my case I can leave it alone. It will become another unsolved dust collector. Just don’t ever tell me what happened to the knife. Eventually, we’re going to have to find a way to close the investigation, though—quietly too. I mean close it so that it stays closed forever.”
My eyes welled up, and I clutched Steve, squeezing his body until he groaned uncomfortably. I hardly registered his plans, but I did hear one word. He said we.
THIRTY-TWO
“FLIP IT,” STEVE said, pointing at the stove. My mind had wandered, thinking of Nerd and Katie and what I could do to fix things. Everything had fallen apart. There was a very good chance the plans for law school would become another one of our forgotten talks. But starting over without Nerd seemed daunting. Formidable, even. And I wasn’t at all sure that I wanted to start over with anyone else. Without law school as an option, Steve was going to step into Charlie’s shoes and never look back. “Babe. Flip Snacks’s grilled cheese before it burns.”
“Damn,” I snapped as smoke drifted up, catching my eye with a sting. I choked the pan’s handle and slid the spatula beneath the sandwich. Hot butter spat back and popped, flying out of the pan. “Sorry, I got it. My mind’s elsewhere.”
“You’re going to your mother’s today?” Steve asked, grabbing his coat to leave. But I didn’t answer, choosing instead to ignore him as cheese oozed from between the bread and seared on the hot pan. I left the cheese to burn, letting the sound be my answer. He stopped and waited. I could already sense his vibe whenever it came to discussing my mother. “Amy, she’s your mother. You should spend some time and talk to her about Katie—”
“She already knows about Katie,” I interrupted. “I called her the morning after it happened.”
“But you should go see her. I’m sure she’d appreciate it. Michael and Snacks can go with you.”
“They just got home from your mother’s yesterday,” I added, feeling selfish, feeling justified. “Plus, I was just there.” I kept my head down, eager to give the grilled cheese more attention than our conversation. But when I heard Steve drape his coat over the door handle and come back into the kitchen, I knew I’d already lost.
“For Katie and you, not just the kids,” he said softly, holding me. He’d said we last night, and I was only now beginning to understand what that really meant. We knew about the homeless man. We knew there was incriminating evidence. And we knew that I’d murdered someone. Yet Steve was with me and wanted to protect our family.
But what if he knew about the rest? What if he knew who killed Todd Wilts and triggered the events that led to Katie’s death?
I overheard Steve giving Charlie an updated status—he was planning to interview Nerd, bring him into the station, intimidate him. Would Nerd hold up? Would he tell Steve anything? I thought of the flash drive and of Nerd’s confession. “Digitally signed,” he’d said.
But what did that mean exactly? And could it actually help me if I needed it to?
“Earth to Amy. Better flip it again.”
“Seems like I was just there,” I added, turning the sandwich over one more time before taking it off the burner. My mouth watered at the smell of the butter and melted cheese and the toasted bread. I cooked it in extra butter, after all, just the way Snacks liked it. I’d been losing weight since Katie’s death but would steal a bite before she dug into it.
“Babe, that was a few weeks ago.”
“You keeping tabs on me?” I scolded, but shrugged it off jokingly. “It’s sad being there, Steve. You should see it. All of Dad’s things are boxed away. She even had his oak tree chopped down. Said it would open up the yard and help with the resale value.”
Steve leaned over my shoulder, sneaking a bite of our baby girl’s sandwich. He devoured a corner, a moan slipping from his mouth. “Damn, that’s good. But hot!” he said, waving at his mouth. “I’m not taking sides, but your mom is probably right. I mean, she’s got to be lonely and probably wants to find folks her own age. Maybe an over-sixty-five community?” And as he finished, he stole another bite.
“Babe!” I yelled, but eagerly joined him, eating up the other corner. “I can make her another one.” We shared the rest of our daughter’s sandwich, saying nothing about my confession. I’d been preparing to answer any of his questions, expecting him to have been in detective mode from the moment I heard the shower come on. Instead, I found Steve—the father of our children, the husband I married, the man who asked what music I liked and then scoffed when I had danced to a country tune. Maybe my confession had changed something, and maybe it changed everything.
God, I hope so.
What Steve was doing was illegal. I knew that. Exactly which laws were being broken, I didn’t know.
Obstruction of justice, maybe? Or tampering with the evidence? What exactly could he be charged with? What if Charlie discovered Steve wa
s sitting on my buttons, stalling the case until it was forgotten? And if we were both arrested, what then?
As I fed the last bite of grilled cheese to Steve, he parted his lips in a boyish expression, and a feeling of angst came to me. What I’d done, what I’d selfishly done, was risk having Michael and Snacks taken from us, taken away by child services in the event of being caught. We only needed to be suspected of something to have that agency pay us a visit. I wanted to say something to Steve, felt compelled to say something, but held onto my worries.
“Love you,” Steve said, still chewing. “So you’ll go? Take the kids?”
“Yes,” I said, but without the endearing tone he’d wanted to hear. He stopped chewing and pouted his lips, staying like that until I kissed him good-bye.
“Good,” he answered. “I bet that it’ll do more for you than you know.”
“Get out of here so I can make Snacks another sandwich,” I said, nudging him.
The anxiety about visiting my mother made the time pass quickly, and before I knew it, she was greeting us at the door. There was love in her eyes for Snacks and Michael, and a flash of derision for me. I’d come to accept this as a part of our “normal.”
I searched the lawn for the stump from the big oak tree but only found green—lots of green that had been stitched together. She’d had the stump removed and put new grass in its place. It looked sad like that.
He’s all gone now, I thought sadly. It was as though the roots of my father’s life had been yanked out too, disappearing forever from this world.
“Water the roots, not the petals.” I suddenly heard his voice in my head and bent over, tears coming to my eyes. “Understand, Amy? If you water the petals, what will happen?” my father asked me.
“They’ll burn in the sunlight, Daddy,” I’d answered him.
“That’s right. So what do we do?”
“We only water the roots, not the petals.”
“Good girl. Remember that. Make the roots good and strong—then they’ll survive anything.”
I cried, remembering the words we’d shared when he showed me how to tend his garden. And without warning, I felt my mother’s hand on my back, comforting me. The emotion of missing my father was overwhelming and zapped what little strength I had. Michael and Snacks came to my side too.
“What is it?” my mother asked, but I couldn’t get the words out and motioned to where the oak tree had been. “That old thing? Again?”
“It was the last of him,” I said. “Of Daddy.”
“Nonsense,” she countered. “There is plenty of him right here. There will always be plenty of him.” But I shook my head, disagreeing with her more out of rehearsed instinct than anything thoughtful.
“He’s gone,” I repeated sharply.
“He’s here,” she said, patting her hand on Snacks’s little heart. “And here,” she repeated, tapping Michael’s heart. The kids smiled and nodded the way kids do when they’re not quite sure about what grown-ups are saying.
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, understanding and drying my eyes.
“And,” my mom said, tearing up with me, “he’s here with you Amy, always will be.” She laid her hand on my chest.
THIRTY-THREE
“THIS IS BITTER,” I said, sipping and cringing but wanting to laugh at the sharp taste in my mouth. As my mother explained it, her international tea club was on a monthly exchange, trading and sharing the delights from their respective hometowns. And for this cold, wintery month, she had received a tidy little bag of Asian tea she couldn’t remember the name of, let alone pronounce. “Mom, not sure what country that came from, but I swear that looks like pot.”
“Amy!” she blurted and motioned to Snacks and Michael. Michael’s head was down, but it lifted a moment and then dipped again, his attention locked on his phone. Snacks was adrift in a sea of couch pillows, rolling around on the floor. I waved off what I said, laughing. I really needed to laugh. And we rarely ever shared anything funny. The corner of her mouth curled as she fingered the plastic baggie, tugging on a leafy green bud. “Who knows? Could be good.” She giggled and gulped a mouthful. When she cringed and shook her head wildly, we both laughed until we couldn’t breathe. I needed that.
“Maybe you grabbed the wrong baggie?” I joked, trying to keep the humor going, keep our spirits up.
My mother swung her chin toward the wall of open moving boxes and said in a discouraging tone, “Your father collected so much stuff . . . it’s been overwhelming. I loved the man but had no idea how much baggage he really had.” We both let out a light laugh at the humor, but the sight of all the boxes made me sad. It wasn’t the home I’d grown up in. Not anymore.
I dared another sip, partly curious and partly earnest, wondering if it was a bag of dope. Loose tea leaves floated high in my cup—a tall, slender cup. “Because that’s how best to steep this particular type,” my mother had said. A curled leaf slowly rolled open in the hot water like a young butterfly drying its papery wings before their first flight. Disappointing. I could tell by the shape that we were drinking nothing but tea. I decided to keep that to myself and slurped to avoid the heat. More leaves opened up and a few fell away, sinking toward the bottom, having a lazy swim in the hot water. I rubbed my eyelids, feeling the exhaustion of the last days catching up again. I was in a no-win race to try and stay ahead of my grief. One moment I’d be ahead in a sprint, and then the next I’d feel like I was coming in last with a dog biting at my heels.
“You look tired,” my mother reminded me, though her tone was supportive—like it had been about the oak tree. “When is Katie’s funeral? I called her parents to offer my condolences but they didn’t pick up.”
I shook my head and realized I hadn’t heard from Jerry’s sister or Katie’s parents. “I’m not sure,” I answered. “But I’d think it would be soon?”
“So sad. And such a nice family Katie had,” my mom said. An immature pang of jealousy hit me.
Had I ever heard her say anything like that about me?
But this was Katie, this was expected. I tried to be better than my jealousy. My mother loved Katie like a daughter, and this had to be just as painful for her as it was for me. Her hands remained steady as she sipped the tea, but I could see the loss on her face and in the saddened way she smiled when trying to talk fondly about Katie.
“It’s hard,” I agreed and stood to go to her, to hug her. I knelt down and put my arms around my mother. I closed my eyes. “I know you loved Katie. It is sad.”
“Thank you, Amy,” she answered and broke from my embrace. “Women in this family are strong. Have to show strength for them . . .” Mom motioned to the kids and then turned back to face her tea. The abruptness hurt, but that was something else I’d gotten used to over the years.
“There’s no Internet here,” Michael’s voice chirped in my ear. I leaned away, irritated by the complaint. A quick scan of the room showed me the television, unplugged and sitting on the floor. Next to it was the old radio, packed up and taped. And then I found the faded wallpaper and the silhouette of old picture frames. The kids were going to bore quickly without anything to keep them occupied.
“Nonsense,” my mother said. She stood and went to the stout moving box labeled books. She hunted through a pile of dingy black and brown and green hardbacks until she came upon what she was looking for. I recognized the book, and a warm recollection came to me. It was one of my father’s favorite books. We’d read it together, page by page, cover to cover, every night for a month when I was just beginning to discover books. My mom gave me a look. “You remember this one: Robinson Crusoe.”
“I loved that story,” I answered.
My mother approached Michael, the old book in one hand, her wagging finger in the other. “There is no need for the Internet in this house,” she said, twisting her wrist, joking with him. He glanced over at me with uncertainty, and I dipped my chin with a nod, encouraging him to take the book. My mom knelt, her knees popping as she did, and plac
ed Michael’s hand on the book’s spine. “Your granddaddy loved this book. It was his oldest and it was his favorite, and it is time that you have it.”
“To read?” he asked in a mock-amused tone, but with the innocence of not knowing what it held. I opened my eyes wide then, telling him to say thank you. “Thank you, Grandma.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, stretching up to peck him on the forehead. “You’re getting so tall. Gonna be a man soon. Now go on over to that chair. Your grandaddy liked to read there, saying how the light in that window was perfect for old pages.” Michael reluctantly made his way to the chair. He begrudgingly slunk down beneath the window and opened to the first pages of Robinson Crusoe. Seeing him settle into the giant reading chair, his knees bent, the book pushed up to his chin, renewed some of my sentiment about the yard and what had become of the old oak tree.
My father is here, I told myself. He’s right over there.
As if Michael heard me, he looked up, a reflection of sunlight off the pages brightening his handsome face. I tilted my head, telling him I loved him. He smiled and then went back to reading the book.
“And me, me, me?” Snacks insisted, having come up from squirreling around on the floor. “What’s for me?”
I filled my mouth with more of the bitter tea, finding an odd liking for it after all. Stretching my arm behind me, I fished through one of the open moving boxes, but this one had no label, no designation written on the side of it.
My old toys? I wondered, hoping to find something to keep Snacks busy.
My hand fell blindly into a pit of leathery snakes. When I touched the familiar squarish buckle, a terrible, deathly cold filled me. I came to understand what I held in my hand. I didn’t move. I didn’t say a word. I let my fingers scream for me. I traced the outline of the belt buckle, finding a metal wing, and then on the other side, I traced the matching wing. I shook my head, telling myself that this couldn’t be, that my dreams were just dreams, nightmares brought on by what I’d done to the homeless man.
Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) Page 20