"Custody?" I repeated, my voice sounding odd to my ears.
"For the double homicide," he said, the words breaking through the fog of my brain.
Double homicide.
"That's no..."
"The way we figure it," he cut me off, voice raised, like he was purposely trying to drown me out, like he didn't want me to contradict him with the, well, truth. "Your brother, who is well known to be a bit of a lunatic, snapped, killing the housekeeper and your father before chasing you up into your room. He shot at your door a few times before we got here," he added, mounting the evidence.
"Detec..."
"You are understandably upset. In shock," he added, eyes giving me a firm look, making me feel like I was somehow missing my cue. "You just saw your housekeeper and father murdered," he added, voice pointed.
And I was finally getting it.
He wanted me to lie.
He wanted me to go with his story of the events.
"Can you hold your hands out for me, Helen?" he asked, pulling something out of his coat pocket. A plastic baggie and a sealed set of cotton swabs. He ripped the package open, rubbing a swab over my hands. "If anyone asks," he said, voice doing that thing again, "I swabbed your hands," he said, then took the swab, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Not the baggie. I watched, confused, as he took the other swab, leaning down, pulling down my sock to swab my ankle. Then putting that swab into the plastic bag, sealing it. "We will need your clothes as well," he said, shrugging. "To test for gunshot residue. Which we will find," he added. "Since you were within five feet at the time of the shooting. Correct?"
Well this part wasn't even a lie.
"Right," I agreed.
"But since it is not on your hands," he went on, waving the plastic bag, "that is clearly just from being close to becoming a victim yourself."
He was falsifying evidence for me.
For me, someone he had never met.
Why?
Just because his son was sweet on me?
"Why?" I whispered, head shaking.
Detective Collings took a deep breath, half-turning over his shoulder to check the door before exhaling.
"My son wanted me to take care of you while he was away," he admitted, voice low. "I don't think he would take kindly to me letting you get put away for murder. Besides, your brother isn't a good man, Helen. I figure you know that already."
"You have no idea."
"He's linked to three homicides this year alone. But there's never been enough evidence. He should be in a cage. You? You deserve a chance at freedom. So I am going to give that to you. Once you change, give me your clothes. Then you can be on your way. Do you have somewhere to go?"
Not technically.
But also, absolutely.
"Yes."
"Your bag downstairs," he went on. "You were going to use that to run away." It wasn't a question. "Unfortunately, we need to keep that for evidence," he moved to stand, but leaned forward toward my ear. "But I doubt anyone would know if a watch or two went missing."
He was giving me a way to get money to fund my freedom even though they had to take every cent I had saved.
"Grab some clothes, Helen. I will wait here."
With that, having no choice in the matter, and more indebted to this man than I could ever even realize, I grabbed clothes, went into the bathroom, changed, then handed the old ones over to him.
On the way down the hall, he stopped to 'tie his shoe' as I snuck inside my father's room, grabbing anything of worth, shoving it into a small purse I had grabbed.
"We just need to ask for your official statement at the precinct. Then you are free."
Two hours later, I was.
Free.
But no idea where to go, where Charlie was.
I got in my car, driving out of town with a numb body and even more unreachable mind.
I just drove.
Down the shoreline.
Pulling onto the main drag of a town called Navesink Bank, the buildings mostly empty, the place clearly hitting a lull in the economy.
Practically a ghost town.
Save for a gas station where I stopped to fill up, using the tips I had in my glovebox from the night before.
It was right that moment, the lowest one of my life, that I suddenly realized that fate wasn't just a concept, something that happened to the lucky few.
It happened to us all.
Because once I paid and turned my car back over, my headlights shined into a parking lot of a motel.
And there was Charlie's car.
I didn't even think.
Didn't even wait for my receipt.
I flew out of one lot and into another, barely remembering to cut the engine before barreling out of the door, tripping over the curb, and slamming my fists frantically on the door.
"Charlie! Charlie, please open up. Please," I added, voice cracking as the night finally caught up with me, finally penetrated through the walls I had put around myself.
I was hardly even aware of the crash, stumble, and shuffle. I didn't even hear it as the locks were slid, or the handle turned.
All I knew was the door opened.
And there he was.
Whatever strength was left in me vanished, washing out of my body like a wave, bringing me to my knees with the pressure.
My hands rose, covering my face as though doing so would stifle the loud, hysterical cry that rose from somewhere deep inside me.
Because with him, I could be soft.
He wouldn't take advantage of it.
He wouldn't see it as a weakness.
I felt hands cradling my face, forcing it upward.
Chin lifted, I saw him through the watery depths of my eyes.
Busted.
His beautiful face was wrecked.
His eyes were half swollen shut, but looked worried, almost frantic as he lowered himself downward, wincing the whole time, pulling me forward until I was nestled against his chest, his arms around me.
And I just let it out.
Sobbed it out.
Until all of it was drained from me.
I wasn't sure how long that took, but his shirt was wet through by the time I finished.
"Baby, what happened?" he asked, voice dripping with concern, a sound that made my eyes swim again, but this time for an entirely different reason.
I blinked the tears back, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
"We need to talk inside," I said, words heavy with meaning.
Luckily, Charlie had been in the criminal underbelly long enough to understand my meaning.
I rose to my feet, looking down as Charlie paused.
"It's gonna take me a minute, babe," he told me, sucking in a steadying breath. "My ribs are bruised," he added. "Makes the whole standing up and sitting down thing hard."
"Can I help?" I asked, reaching down toward him, snagging him around his bicep.
"Between you and the doorjamb, I should make it," he agreed, grabbing the wood as he started to move his legs beneath him, hissing and cursing as he did.
"I'm sorry," I said, leaning my forehead into his arm when he finally got to his feet.
"You have nothing to apologize for."
"I'm the reason you're hurting," I reminded him.
"No. I'm the reason I'm hurting. I knew what I was getting into, Helen, what the possible outcomes were. This included. Now, fuck my baby pains," he brushed it off, even though it looked like every breath was hurting him. And a man like him, used to pain, that meant that there was nothing babyish about his injuries. "What happened?"
Where the hell did I even begin?
I guess at the beginning.
"Vicky told me to get out of town," I told him, pulling him with me gently toward the bed, pushing him down slowly off the end while I stood, pacing a little, brushing my damp hair out of my face. "But... I don't know. I went home to confront my father."
"Helen..."
There was fear in his voice.
"He... they were waiting for me."
"Fuck."
"He killed Helga," I said, the words wrenched from my soul, the pain sharp and unbearable, making me press my hand to my heart.
I hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.
To tell her I loved her.
To thank her for being a mother when I was left without one.
"Helen," Charlie said, voice soft, reaching out to me.
Maybe thinking that was the end of the story, that was the reason I broke.
It was a big part.
But not everything.
"I snapped, Charlie," I admitted, voice cracking. "I snapped and I threw the lion at him. And he dropped the gun... and... and..."
"Fuck," he hissed, arm flying out, snagging my arm, stilling my pacing, forcing me to face him. "Okay. Alright. We'll handle it. I'll handle it."
"I killed him," I admitted in a raw whisper.
"That's okay. It's alright. I will deal with it."
My head lifted, gaze finding his, those piercing blue eyes assuring me that he would do whatever it took to keep me safe, keep me free.
And I couldn't help but wonder what the hell I had ever done in my life to deserve that.
From him.
From Connor.
From Detective Collings.
I felt so unworthy of all their goodness.
"You don't need to," I assured him, shaking my head.
"Baby..."
"Detective Collings handled it," I blurted out, making his head jerk back.
"Connor Collings's old man?"
"He... Michael was shooting at my door," I added, knowing my story sounded crazy and convoluted, the fever dream of a hysterical woman, but I rushed into it, begging him with my conviction to believe me as I told him about the swabs, the story, the trip downtown where I, well, framed my brother for murder.
"Jesus Christ," Charlie said when I was done, feeling like everything had been drained from me, like I was a washrag wrung dry. "Baby," he said, watching as I worried my lower lip with my teeth. "That's it," he declared.
"What?"
"That's it. You're free."
Free.
It was such a foreign concept.
Even when I dreamed of running away, I think there was always a part of me that knew I would never be free. Not really. I would be running my entire life, looking over my shoulder, worrying when I thought I heard my name called.
There was no freedom in running away.
Not when there was always a trail to be sniffed out.
Not when someone with a bloodhound nose could follow it and find you at any time.
That kind of freedom still had a cage of sorts.
But this... this was the only way I could truly be free.
Through death and detainment.
"If he gets convicted."
"Oh, he'll get convicted."
"Will I have to testify?" To lie under oath. I wasn't sure that I was in the good graces of a higher power as it stood now, but I couldn't imagine I'd make it any better after swearing on a Bible, then lying through my teeth.
"Probably. Unless he cops a plea deal to get some time shaved off."
The weight of that pressed down, taking what little strength I had as I stumbled toward the bed, crawling up it on all fours, dropping down on the scratchy material of the pillowcases.
"Helen," Charlie's voice called, followed by a hiss as he tried to turn to face me, his hand landing on my thigh, giving it a squeeze.
"I killed someone," I told him, voice small. "I watched him while he choked on blood and a bullet. And then die."
"Helen, you had no choice."
"There's always a choice," I objected.
Maybe if I had chosen differently, Helga would still be alive.
"What was the other option, babe? You being held down on a bed, raped every day and night for years? Is that really what you think you'd prefer?"
"I'd be innocent."
"No one is innocent. Not a single adult walking the face of this earth. We all do ugly things, say ugly things, put ugly back into this world. The way I see it, you are guilty of killing, but by doing so, you took some ugly out of the world. Do you fault a cop when they put a bullet between the eyes of an armed robber? Or a woman who poisons the man who had been abusing their daughter?"
"No."
"Exactly. Some shit is for the greater good. You taking out your father, that was for the greater good. Because, Helen, you don't know the half of what that man was guilty of. If you did, you would wish you'd made him suffer a little more first. You did what you had to do to get out of a shitty situation that was only going to get worse if you didn't fight. It's your God-given fucking right to defend yourself, babe. I don't give a fuck what the law says."
Not quite agreeing with him, but too drained for an argument, I changed tactics. "What am I supposed to do now?"
"We."
"What?"
"What are we supposed to do now is the question. And right now, baby, I think we both need some sleep," he told me, grunting as he pushed to his feet, moved across the room, checked outside the door, then slid all the locks into place before coming back to the bed, lowering himself down onto his back, the only position that seemed to offer him any kind of relief. His arm slid under my pillow, curling me tight to his side, but just far enough that I didn't jostle his ribs.
"There is plenty of time to overthink tomorrow. Tonight, let's sleep."
So that was what we did.
SEVEN
Charlie
Helen slept.
I never thought she would.
She lay there biting her cheek, grinding her teeth, working through some shit without sharing it for hours before her eyes finally got too heavy to be ignored, and slid closed.
Her breathing evened out into a blessedly dreamless sleep.
She slept.
I stayed awake, staring at the popcorn ceiling, noting a brown half-circle in the corner where there must have been a leak in the roof that no one cared to fix because this wasn't the kind of place that prided itself on appearances.
It had simply been the furthest I could get from Alberry Park before the pain threatened to black out my vision.
I had barely been able to drag myself inside, throwing up the contents of my stomach into the toilet before I managed to wipe away the worst of the blood on my face, swish some water around my mouth to try to keep the missing tooth site clean. I needed salt water or at the very least a little mouthwash, but I was in no condition to drive to get more supplies.
I was sure once I got myself flat on my back on the bed that I wouldn't be able to get up for a full day.
But then I heard it.
Heard her.
Begging me to let her in.
I would like to say pain was forgotten, or dulled. But that would be a lie. Every fucking inch of my body screamed as I pushed up, nearly doubled over, shuffled my way to the door.
And then I opened it.
And she shattered.
She had always been stronger than she thought, stronger than anyone gave her credit for.
She'd have to be to spend her life surrounded by ugly, and still manage to be good, soft, but also determined to get away, to start again.
There had simply never been a test to her strength before.
But at the first one, she did what needed to be done.
Right up to and through death.
See, I had been right about her that afternoon in her father's office.
A creature could only take so much abuse.
Before it snapped.
Before it ripped out your throat.
In Helen's case... literally.
There was something poetic about that, something I didn't say to her, knowing she was plagued with uncertainty, fear, and guilt.
Even if not only me, but a member of the local police force, thought she had done what she needed to do, that she wasn't guilty in the traditional sense.
Quit
e frankly, as I sat alone in my shitty motel room in pain, I had already made a decision to handle it. In a permanent way. In a way that ended with guns, bullets, and gaping wounds that could never be repaired.
As soon as I was well enough.
Because there would be no freedom for either of us while Christopher and Michael Eames breathed.
Michael was still breathing, sure, but I doubted they were going to let him back out on the streets. Not when they had been wanting to take him down for years, way back since when he beat a man into a coma when he was just seventeen, but no one had been able to make any kind of charge stick.
A double homicide with evidence that was irrefutable to any jury and judge, yeah, that meant he was likely going to spend the next fifty years behind bars.
Save for a prison break, she would never have to worry again.
We would never have to worry again.
We could finally move forward, start something, something without any fear or worry surrounding it.
Something real.
Lasting.
It would take some work.
Aside from the watches she stole, Helen had nothing to her name but clothes.
I had an alright savings, but a fair chunk of the money I got from Eames went toward the suits he demanded we wear, lodging, car repair.
I could put down first, last, and insurance deposits. And that was about it.
Maybe the watches could get us some furniture, food to hold us over until I got a job.
I hated the idea that we'd have to start with so little. But, I reminded myself, the big house aside, Helen wasn't spoiled like her brother. The struggle wouldn't affect her the same way it might some spoiled princess used to designer clothes and yearly vacations, huge presents every holiday.
Someday, I would give her all that.
And more.
She'd never want for anything.
She wouldn't have to work if she didn't want to.
She could stay home raising those babies she told me she wanted, that I wanted too. In a big house we owned outright. Full of the love that she had never known, that I craved as well.
I would bust my fucking ass day and night to give her that.
To give it to myself as well.
Because, quite frankly, I couldn't think of anything better than coming home after a day of work to see her in the kitchen waiting for me. I'd bend her backward, kiss her like I'd just returned from a war, then head upstairs to kiss my kids goodnight.
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