SORRY CAN'T SAVE YOU: A Mystery Novel

by Willow Rose

  You can do it, Laurie.

  I take a deep breath and decide now is as good a time as any. I get out of the comfort of my car, then walk up toward the house. I check the driveway to make sure Ryan’s truck isn’t there. I’ve been trying to track him via the app the past few days, but he must have turned the location tracking off or deleted the app because his icon is gone. This means I have no way of finding out where he is or what he is doing. It scares me.

  I ring the doorbell, then wait.

  I touch my nose gently. It isn’t swollen anymore, and neither is my lip. I still have a crack in it, and my nose is still sore like crazy, but I no longer look like a monster, which pleases me.

  The door opens, and a face appears. My heart drops for a second as I prepare myself for facing this woman again.

  “Laurie?”

  I smile, trying to seem genuinely happy to see her. “Hello, Lotty.”

  “W-what brings you here? We haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “I would like to speak to your husband, actually. Is he here?”

  She nods. “Yes. Yes, of course. Come on in.”

  She steps aside and lets me in, then closes the door behind me. I can tell she is puzzled and slightly uncomfortable about me being here, but I choose to ignore it. She smiles; it comes off as awkward and forced.

  “He’s in the backyard, mowing the lawn. I’ll get him for you.”

  I follow her out to the back patio. Their backyard is fenced in, unlike most of the houses on base. Base housing is managed by a private company, and they run things pretty much the same as most rental property management companies, including taking care of your lawn—except when you have a fenced-in backyard like Chip and Lotty do. Then, you have to mow it yourself.

  The sound of the mowing tractor that Chip is riding drowns out everything else, and he doesn’t see Lotty till she is up close. I can hear her yell, and Chip finally stops the machine. They talk, and she points in my direction. Chip gets off the machine, then walks toward me.

  “Laurie?” he says as he approaches me.

  I smile and nod. There’s an uncomfortable silence. I know they’re waiting for me to say something, but the words don’t come yet.

  “I’ll get us some iced tea,” Lotty says and disappears inside.

  We sit down on the soft patio furniture. Chip is sweaty, and his forehead is glistening. He wipes it off on a towel, then grunts tiredly. His wife returns with a tray between her hands. She smiles nervously and serves me a glass of iced tea. I take it and drink.

  “How have you been, Laurie?” Chip asks after downing an entire glass for himself. He is crunching the ice while he speaks.

  “Yeah, how have you been?” Lotty says. She sits with her hands in her lap. “It’s been a while. How are the kids; are they okay?”

  I nod. “They’re okay, given the circumstances.”

  Lotty nods, looking down. “Of course. They must miss their dad.”

  I scoff. “Of course, they do. But he’s not himself. And that is actually why I have come.”

  “Oh,” Lotty exclaims, then shifts in her seat.

  I focus on Chip. He’s the guy I need to tell this to. He’s the guy who should know. I put my glass down. Chip grabs a small silver case he always carries in his pocket and pulls out a long black e-cigarette, then starts to vape. The smoke filling my nostrils is nauseatingly sweet.

  “We need to do something about Ryan,” I say. “Now, I hate to come here, going behind his back, but we need to stop him.”

  “What are you talking about, Laurie?” Chip asks, looking at me like he’s already determined that what I am going to tell him will be ridiculous—that he is above having to listen to all this nonsense. He doesn’t have the time for it.

  The way he looks at me makes me nervous, and the words are more difficult to find now.

  “I think…I believe…I don’t think Sandra killed herself.”

  Chip rolls his eyes. “Not this again. We’ve all heard how you tried to incriminate Ryan for this to the OSI. Please, don’t humiliate yourself again.”

  “But it’s not just her,” I say, losing confidence by the second now. “It’s also Ted and the other night…Duke.”

  Chip shakes his head at me. “All suicides. I really don’t appreciate you coming here and using these tragic deaths to…”

  “Look at my face,” I say and point at my lip and nose. “He did that to me. Ryan did all that.” I fumble with my phone and find the picture of me that I took on the day after my meeting with Ryan in Duke’s bathroom. “Look. This is what I looked like right after. Ryan did this, Chip. In Duke’s house. I was there. He was trying to kill him when I tried to stop him. I am not making this up, Chip. You’re the leader of this squadron; you’re his leader. You can do something.”

  Chip stares at the photo, then at my face. He hands it back to me, still shaking his head.

  “Listen, Laurie. I know things aren’t well with Ryan. I have known this for quite some time. He comes here now and then; he sleeps on the couch, and I hear him scream at night. I can see in his eyes that something is wrong. And I am sorry if he did this to you; it’s truly awful.”

  My eyes light up. Finally, we’re getting somewhere. “So, you know I’m right?”

  “Let me finish,” he says and leans forward. “With that being said, yes, I know Ryan has PTSD. I have seen this a lot, and I even struggle with it myself after what happened. We were in the same truck on the day that Ryan saved my life. So, of course, Ryan struggles. It’s only natural. But for you to take that, and in your desire for vengeance for him hurting you, or whatever it is you want to achieve, to accuse him of having…killed someone. That is just taking it too far, Laurie. Even for you.”

  I stare at him, mouth gaping. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe him. “He shot Isabella, Chip. For crying out loud. He shot his own daughter.”

  Chip slams his fist onto the table, and it makes me jump. “It was an accident, Laurie. A tragic and terrible one, yes. But he didn’t intend to hurt her. And you know this. Ryan didn’t hurt her on purpose. Don’t you understand? Do you have any idea how hard it is on Ryan? He’s a mess. He loves his kids as much as any dad. And now he can’t see them. I’m this close to placing him under suicide watch.”

  “But…Chip, even you must see that with three suicide attempts within a unit, that something is awfully wrong here.”

  “Suicide clusters are actually very common after coming back,” he says, rubbing his hair. “They say they sort of inspire one another. And it is so darn hard to stop once it has started. I’m struggling, seeing my close friends take their own lives like this, and frankly, I can’t have you coming here and accusing my best friend, the man who saved my life, of murdering them. It’s just too much, Laurie. You need to stop this.”

  “You even went and got a protective order on him, Laurie,” Lotty chimes in. “You need to stop. All these accusations, all this nonsense, it’s driving him over the edge. It’s like you don’t even care about him.”

  I stare at them. I’m getting desperate now. “He was there. Before Sandra died, he met with her. He was in her house. Same goes with Ted. Ryan was there, drunk and out of his mind. I saw him come out of Ted’s house myself, then walked up to the window and saw Ted’s feet dangling in the living room. I was there when he attacked Duke. I saw him drag him up the stairs and place the knife on his wrists right before he attacked me.”

  They’re both shaking their heads now simultaneously. Their eyes are avoiding mine. They won’t even look at me. I am that embarrassing to them. I stare at them for a few more seconds, then get up.

  “Fine. Let him kill everyone in his unit if that’s what you want. What do I care?”

  I’m looking down at both of them. I still hope to get at least a reaction from one of them, but none comes. I can’t believe those two had once been among our closest friends. Lotty used to be so sweet to me when we moved here, and she’d tell me she’d help with any need I might have.<
br />
  Well, now I have one. I need you to believe me!

  “Maybe it’s what happened to Clarice as well. Maybe he killed her over there, and you all refuse to see it.”

  Chip gets to his feet now too, anger springs to his eyes, and his fists are clenched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe you should leave now,” Lotty says, speaking with a small, still voice. She reaches out a hand to hold back her husband. I send him one last look of defiance to let him know I don’t let myself intimidate that easily, then turn around and leave.

  Chapter 36

  As I drive back to the condo and let myself in, I feel defeated. I am so tired of having to fight these people, and I am sick of not being able to tell the truth. That’s when it occurs to me. I do have a weapon. I really do. I have a way, an outlet to let the world know—one that doesn’t involve talking to the police.

  I grab my laptop and open the document I started a few weeks earlier. It’s almost done; it just needs a few more paragraphs that I can easily add. So, I write it. I write the story about the Air Force covering up a possible murder as suicide. The story of Clarice’s family searching for justice for their daughter, making sure you can feel their pain dripping off the pages. It’s the story of the many closed doors they are met with when asking simple questions, and how the forensic evidence speaks to their case. I write the rest of the entire article the way I initially wanted it but then tie in the stories of Sandra, Ted, and Duke as well. I don’t mention Ryan, but just place a question mark to the conclusions made in the death reports. The fact that Sandra’s wrists were slit deeper on one side than the other when she wasn’t left-handed. The fact that Ted had drugs in his blood and that he was most likely already dead when he was hung up. I raise all the questions that Frank, Vera, and I have asked one another. I don’t mention any names, so they won’t get into trouble. I end the article by letting the reader know that there is a witness who has seen a man run from Ted’s house and seen a person inside Duke’s house, dragging him up the stairs. I don’t mention that the witness is me.

  Is the Air Force covering up all these deaths? I ask. If so, it leads us to several other questions. Like why? Is it because they’re afraid of a scandal? Are they protecting someone? And then the inevitable: How many murders have been covered up as suicides in the past several years?

  I read through it after I’m done, then send it to Frank. He emails me back a little later and tells me he thinks it’s great. He sends me two things he thinks should be corrected, two technical forensic things, and then I decide it is done. I look at it and feel proud. Then I pick up the phone and call my former editor at USA Today. She says she’ll take a look at it. That’s all she can promise, and I send it to her, then go to the kitchen and make myself a snack. Damian comes back from spending the day with my mom and dad, and he is all sunshine and happy tales about all the sandcastles he has built and all the waves he has ridden on his boogieboard. His nose is slightly sunburned, but it looks cute, and he seems so happy, which I am thrilled about. He has been missing his dad a lot lately and crying for him at night before bedtime, asking if he’ll come and tuck him in soon, or play ball with him. I don’t really know what to tell him. I don’t intend to let Ryan see either of the children anytime soon, if ever. How do I tell a six-year-old child that? He idolizes his daddy. He doesn’t understand why he can’t see him. He’ll think it’s my fault. He’ll end up resenting me for keeping them apart. I’m kind of hoping he’ll be able to understand better once he grows a little older, but I fear he won’t.

  “Can I have a popsicle; can I, Mom?” he asks.

  “Go ahead, buddy,” I say and ruffle his sun-kissed hair.

  “Thank you again,” I say, addressed to my mom. My dad has walked into the kitchen with Damian and is grabbing a popsicle for himself. He helps Damian with the wrapping.

  “He needed this cheering up,” I say, speaking with a low voice so the boy won’t hear me. “Last night, he kept asking for Ryan, and I don’t know what to tell him. He was crying so badly that I had to take one of the bunnies out of the cage and let him pet it till he calmed down.”

  “Kids cry,” my mom says. “They’ll get through it.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I say. “I fear this will end up haunting him for the rest of his life.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” my mom says, almost laughing at me. We never did agree much on children or how to raise them, so this was no surprise to me.

  “He is, after all, just a child.”

  Damian grabs the popsicle from his grandfather’s hands, then runs to his toys on the floor that he left out from the day before.

  “See?” she says and points at him while he is playing, forcing the cars to crash into one another with a loud noise. “He has already forgotten. Besides, he didn’t mention anything about his dad all day today. I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”

  Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who needs to comfort him tonight when he cries because he misses his daddy, and you simply aren’t enough.

  My dad approaches us and stops to look closer at my face. I can tell he is wondering about my bruises. We haven’t talked about it, but of course, they have noticed. I look away, but it’s too late.

  “So, when are you going to tell us how you got those bruises?” he asks.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t…” my mom says, but my dad isn’t giving up now.

  “Was it Ryan?” my dad asks.

  I don’t answer; instead, I pull away. I know they resent him already for all he has put us through, not to mention shooting Isabella, even if it was an accident. But for some reason, I don’t want them to hate him. Maybe I just don’t want them to worry. My dad has high blood pressure, and I don’t want it to go through the roof because of me. My dad is clenching his fists, and his eyes grow darker, angrier.

  “Dad. It’s fine,” I say. “I’ve got a restraining order out on him. If he comes near us, he’ll be arrested.”

  “But surely you told the police what he did to you?” my mom asks. “He should be arrested for that, for bruising you like this, shouldn’t he?”

  I look away. I know this won’t go over well.

  “I didn’t report it.”

  My mom’s eyes grow wide and big. She looks appalled like when I told her I only wash my hair twice a week because it’s better for the hair and the environment.

  She puffs herself up and snorts as she speaks, “Why on Earth didn’t you report it?”

  I sigh. I don’t want to have to explain myself. “Because I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see his face when it happened. I can’t prove it was him.”

  “But surely, you could…they must take your word for it; I mean, look at that face. Is your nose broken? Did you even see a doctor about it?”

  I want to direct the conversation onto something else. I don’t want them to ask more questions about how it happened. I don’t want to have to lie to them. I need a distraction, fast.

  As if she had read my thoughts, my editor, Selena calls. I grab the phone and walk out on the balcony.

  “We’ll run it,” she says.

  “Really?” I ask, surprised. I was prepared to have to fight for this. I had an entire speech ready to convince her to publish it. Not many newspapers want to run negative stories on the military.

  “Don’t be so surprised,” she says. “It’s a well-written piece. It’s an even better story. I think it might shake up some people around here, and you know I love that. I’m sending you the few corrections I have, and then we’ll put it in Monday’s paper.”

  She hangs up, and I stand back, looking out over the ocean, feeling slightly overwhelmed, knowing I have crossed a line now.

  After this, there is no way back.

  Frank comes over when he’s done at work, and we drink a glass of white wine on the balcony. Damian is getting ready for bed, and I have promised he’ll be allowed to play with his cars for a few more minutes after he has put on his PJs, whil
e Isabella is busy in her room, doing her schoolwork. I feel terrible for her, having to do all this extra work with what she’s been through, but this is what she wants. And I have to admit I am proud of her for fighting and not just giving up.

  Frank puts his arm around me as we sit on the patio swing together. The sun is about to set, and the shadows are growing long on the beach. I like to feel his arm around me and to feel him close. But I don’t know why. Am I in love with him, or am I just glad to have him here because I’m scared to be alone?

  “I think you did great today,” he says with a soft smile. “I’m really proud of you for writing the article. I know my parents are going to be very pleased too.”

  “It’s not gonna get Ryan, though,” I say and sip my cool wine. “He’s still out there, roaming, planning God knows what. And to be honest, I’m kind of scared of what he might do once he sees this article. He’s not gonna be happy about it.”

  Frank pulls me closer. My head is touching his cheek now, and it makes me feel safer. “He still doesn’t know where you live, does he?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Yet, I fear he’ll find out somehow. That’s why I lie awake at night, listening to every darn sound this place makes, worrying it’s him trying to get in somehow. I even bought a new gun, so I can protect us all in case he does show up.”

  Frank nods. “I can’t blame you. That’s why I don’t understand why you didn’t mention Ryan’s name in the article.”