by Britney King
He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t have to.
“You’re drunk, Izzy,” he tells me. He can’t know that. Vodka doesn’t smell.
“What is it?” I demand. I feel faint. I feel my pulse in my ears. It could be the music. “What did you give me?”
“Nothing. Go home and sleep it off,” he tells me. Then he laughs and swings his door wide open. “Or better yet, come inside.”
I stand on my tippy-toes and point my finger in his face. “I will fucking murder you.”
“Whoa,” he says, holding his palms up. Everyone is watching now. I know what they’re thinking. Lover’s quarrel. But Tyler is not my lover. Their eyes make me angry. “I HATE YOU,” I scream. I direct all of my bitterness at him. It’s real, too. This is his fault. Grant is supposed to be with me. He fucked up. Now I’m alone. Now I’ll always be alone. I momentarily forget my mission. I forget Grant’s text. I’m fueled by anger.
Tyler sighs long and slow. “It was just a little PCP.”
“PCP? Why?” I close my eyes. I feel myself sway. I might cry. I hate myself. I feel him grip my forearm. “It’s just a bump. It wasn’t for you. It was for me. Anyway, I didn’t think you’d smoke it. And I sure as shit didn’t think you’d get wasted and…get high…you never smoke anymore…” I don’t open my eyes when he speaks. He drags me down the hall. I half go willingly, half drag my feet.
“I hate you Tyler. I FUCKING HATE YOU.”
“Someone’s had a long day,” he says mockingly. “Off to bed you go.”
“I don’t neeeeed to go to bed.” I can hear the slur in my speech. “Grant loves me. He wants ME. I have to go there.”
“Trust me, you don’t want lover boy to see you like this. He’s not that kind of guy.”
I feel rage. Burning hot rage. “You don’t know what kind of guy he is!”
His grip tightens. It hurts. I jerk away. He lets me go. “I know he’s married like the last one.”
My heart sinks. “Josh.”
“Yeah, Izzy. Josh. Josh isn’t dead.”
I swallow hard. He’s knocked the wind out of me. I sink to the floor.
He eyes me with pity and a bit of something else. “I don’t know why you lied,” he says quietly. “And quite frankly, I don’t care. But you need help.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Josie
Physical pain you can block out. Emotional pain is harder to drown. It always finds its way to the surface. I feel the needle tear through my scalp. One stitch, two stitches. Three. I wince. I shouldn’t have acted like nothing happened. I should have told him the truth. I forgot the details. Grant always remembers details.
“Oh, stop being a baby,” he says, pulling. “I numbed you up.”
I think it’s just another of his lies. I feel every tug, every pinch. I feel everything. I stuff it down.
“Why wouldn’t you listen, Josie? Why do you have to make everything hard?”
The gun sits on the table. He found it. First, the text on his phone. Before that, the location log on mine.
“Why did you bring her into this?”
“I wanted answers.” Also, I knew she would come. I wanted her to come. I don’t tell him this though.
“After everything I’ve done for you… after everything I've done for this family. For the church, for my career. Everything. And look at you. You insist on making a mockery of me. You want to make me the bad guy. That was June’s problem, too. She was always so nosy, always sticking her head where it didn’t belong.”
Relax. If he were going to kill me, he certainly wouldn't go through the trouble of stitching me up.
I feel myself going under. I'm slipping back into the darkness. I refuse to fight it.
“You had it so good, Josie. The clothes, the house, the kids. And what did I ever ask of you? To have sex with me when I wanted it? To look nice? To do a bit of manual labor when the going got tough. Was that really so much to ask?”
I want to tell him that he’s abused me for years. I want to tell him that he won't win this. Not even if he kills me. But who am I kidding? He’s already won. He won’t kill me. He likes to see me suffer.
The doorbell chimes then, bringing me back from the darkness.
“Oh, good,” he says slipping the last of the stitching through. I feel him tie it off. His tone is smooth and sarcastic. “Stay here. Our little guest is back.”
“Just let me talk to her,” she says. Her voice comes out garbled. I think I have a concussion. My brain is fuzzy. Like her words. “I’ll make her understand.”
“Isobel—please.” He’s trying to calm her. He hasn’t yet resorted to using his hands to silence her. “Just listen. It was a mistake, you coming here. Josie is very upset, and she’s gone to bed. I told you that the first time.”
More garbled speech.
I strain to hear. My husband’s voice is clear. It’s survival that lets me hear. “If you hang on a minute, I’ll get my keys and drive you home.”
I can’t hear nor understand what she says. Grant is looking for his keys. I can hear that. I recall him throwing them earlier. He’s hidden mine. I won’t be driving for a while. Not with a concussion and not after he realized I followed him. Instalook has gone by the way of my cell phone. I used our family plan to text her from his number. I wanted her to come.
I force myself to stand and open the door. I want her to know he’s a liar. I don’t want that text to have been sent in vain. I also want him to leave without locking me in. He does that sometimes. He knows I won’t run. I’ve made that mistake before. But only once.
If he’s going to kill me, better to have a witness. Plus, I invited her here for a reason. She needs to see what she’s caused. She needs to know what she’s walking into.
I round the corner. She gasps. “Oh my God.”
I don’t know how my face looks. But I’m guessing not good.
“He’ll do this to you, too,” I say.
“Come on, Josie. Don’t scare the girl.” Grant laughs nervously. “My wife was attacked today.”
I don’t say anything. I watch her face. She believes him. Also, it’s apparent she’s drunk.
He looks at me before turning to her. “Would you mind waiting outside?”
My stomach turns when she nods and heads toward the front door.
I vomit on myself when I hear it open and close.
“What in the fuck, Josie? Now—not only will she not leave me alone, she’ll talk. She’ll have something to use against us.”
“She’s not stalking you, Grant. You’re having an affair. There’s a difference.”
“You see, that’s where you’re wrong. I want nothing to do with her. She has dozens of photos of you, of our entire family, on her phone. I tried to tell you.” He backhands me. “You never listen.”
“Why can’t you listen?” I taste blood.
“Grant.” This time he goes for my hair. He wants to put a stop to any scene I might cause. He wants to shut me up.
I smell it before I realize what’s happened. Of course, I see it, it happens in slow motion, although it happens fast. Gunpowder fills my nose. Then blood, but the fear came first. I thought it was mine. But it wasn’t mine alone. Now, I hear nothing but screams.
“Oh my God! No. No. Noooooo.” She screams and she screams and she screams. “I didn’t mean—”
Chapter Thirty
Izzy
I only wanted to return the gun to Tyler. Mostly, I didn’t want to have to cough up the money to “Big Sean.” I didn’t have it to cough up. That’s why I picked it up. That I remember, that much I’m sure of. The rest is a bit hazy. It will come later, I’m sure of it. I shouldn’t have gone there. I should have waited outside. I shouldn’t have been so nosey.
I don’t remember pulling the trigger. I don’t remember much of what happened afterward. What I do remember is her face. I remember Grant’s lifeless body lying on the floor.
“Now look what you’ve done.” I remember she said that.
>
I remember the way he looked, lying there. Aside from all the blood, the pained expression, and wide-eyed stare, he could have just been sleeping. I don’t think I ever saw him sleep, come to think of it. So I told myself it could have been true.
I don’t even remember the screaming. I don’t remember my admission of guilt. They tell me it was all there in the screams. They told me I said at the scene of the crime, I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t.
Yet, Grant Dunn is dead.
And they say it’s my fault.
Chapter Thirty-One
Josie
It started with a white lie. I guess you could say I learned from the best. It was easy really. They wanted a certain story; I let them lead the witness.
“I know you’re tired Mrs. Dunn,” the detective tells me. Classic projection. “Forgive me,” he says glancing at my statement. “I just want to make sure we have this straight.”
I stare at the cold, hard metal table. You always read about these kinds of rooms in police stations. You never realize the descriptions are quite so accurate. “So—just to get the timeline straight. Your husband texts Izzy Lewis and says he needs to speak to her. This occurs at approximately 7:02 p.m.” He proceeds to go through the events once again. This is the third time. Please let it be the charm. I twist my wedding rings and nod. I do not look at him. My tears fall against the table. I feel something soft graze my arm. I look up. Tissues.
“Yes,” I say. “I mean, I didn’t see the text. But I assume that’s right.” I make a point to be careful in my admissions.
He rattles on listing out the details. “And before Ms. Lewis fired the weapon, can you tell me what she said.”
“She didn’t say anything.”
“And the deceased—I’m sorry—your husband,” he pauses, he looks genuinely sorry. “What did he say?”
“He said that he wasn’t having an affair. That Ms. Lewis was stalking him. That she wouldn’t leave him alone.”
“Do you think that Ms. Lewis was, in fact, stalking him? Had he mentioned it?”
I start crying.
“Had she shown up at your home before?” I think of the two of them in our kitchen. I think of her with our daughter.
“Yes.” I cry some more.
He nods as though he expected me to say this. “Ms. Lewis has a history of stalking, I’m afraid.”
I place my face in my hands and rub.
“How did she seem when she showed up?”
He wants to know if she came there to murder my husband. I’ve seen enough television.
“Drunk.”
“Well, we’ll know about that soon enough.”
“Did she seem angry?”
“She refused to leave.”
“Earlier in the evening a similar incident occurred with a neighbor of hers. She threatened to murder him.”
My eyes grow wide. Sometimes you get lucky. Me, I am the luckiest. I hit the jackpot.
I have to explain to my children their father’s murder. This in and of itself is bad enough. Do I want them to know the kind of man their father was? Not really. Why inflict that kind of pain on them if I don’t have to? So far, they know their dad made a mistake. A chance encounter in a coffee shop led to us being stalked and ultimately to him making a bad decision. He had an affair. That part is clear. Izzy Lewis has a history of stalking married men. So when I met her at Lucky’s, and I saw the way she looked at my husband, it made her an easy target. I hadn’t thought her pretty enough to get him to stray. I only hoped. A bit of digging, and I found out she had charges filed against her. I knew the hand my husband would play. I knew he was tracking my every move. I knew if I visited Lucky’s again, he would, too. He saw the way the girl acted. She was perfect for New Hope. Young, gullible and lonely. Easy prey. The worker bee type.
What can I say? I wanted out. I didn’t care if she took my husband, not at first. Not until I saw the way people pitied June. Not until I saw another woman fitted into her life like the final missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle now solved. I didn’t want that for my children. Grant didn’t deserve a clean slate. Also, I couldn’t be certain I wouldn’t end up like June.
So I lied. I lied and I lied, and I kept on lying. I didn’t want to admit Grant was abusive. That he wanted out. I didn’t want to admit Izzy Lewis acted in self-defense, that she was trying to save my life. I could have told the truth about why Izzy shot my husband and why. But what’s the point? She was hell-bent on destroying my family, whether or not I wanted it destroyed. She dug her own grave, stalking me on Instalook. Later, during the trial, I would learn, it was in fact her who sent me pictures of shellfish and got my daughter expelled from school. She hired her friend to rob and rough me up. Those things were on her. She had to pay for her mistakes. Everyone does. It’s not my fault a jury of her peers sentenced her to death. How am I to know she wasn’t going to shoot me that night? Who’s to say? It’s not like she can be trusted. She proved that when she slept with a married man. And a dozen times since.
Facts are facts. And the fact is, my husband is dead, and everyone loves a good story.
It’s not all bad, though. I got out from under the church, turns out they’re the only ones who don’t want a good scandal on their hands. Although, that will come soon enough, I’m sure. There’s something to be said about a woman scorned. I think of June and her missed opportunity. I could have turned out like that. Me, I have a reputation to protect. People can take a lot from you, I have learned. Your husband, your wealth, even your life. But your reputation, you must never let them take that.
So, no, I don’t feel sorry for Izzy Lewis. I don’t feel sorry for my husband. Their mistakes should serve as a warning to every person out there considering an affair. Be careful who you get tangled up with…you just never know.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Izzy
Mountain View Prison Unit, Gatesville, Texas
Right out of the gate, there’s something you should know. I am not a good person. So don’t go feeling sorry for me. If anything, let my story serve as a cautionary tale. Love is blind. That you should remember. As for the rest, well, it’s complex, and quite frankly, a jury of my peers have already made their decision.
As it turns out, whether it was the right one is irrelevant once it’s been made. This is what I’m guilty of: I searched these people out. I wanted in, and in that respect I got what I wanted. It just so happened to be more than I bargained for. Real life doesn’t work like it does on television. If a crime is committed, someone has to pay. And the law, as much as we’d like to believe, isn’t that black and white. Add the fact that you have real people, fallible people, with their own experiences, judgments, and beliefs they bring to the table, judging your fate, and well, it’s not as simple as they want you to believe. Less so, when you’re ‘the other woman’ with a long history of making bad decisions. In that case, you’d better be prepared to pay when your number is called.
“Inmate,” I hear the guard say. His voice is deep, thick with false bravado. Still, I flinch when I hear my number called, even after all this time. “Let’s get a move on. They ain’t gonna wait all day.”
Stalling, I stare at the clothes that were delivered to me. I don’t want to disturb them; they’re almost too pretty to touch. Play with fire, get burned, I hear my mother say. A woman should be reserved in all things. I remember Grant saying that once. This has always been my problem. I never set out to be a troublemaker, quite the opposite actually. It’s just I never could resist doing something I wasn’t supposed to do.
Running my fingers over the soft material, I feel the hurt bubble up, and I do my best to stuff it back down into its rightful place. You have to do that in here. If only you’d been better at doing it on the outside. It’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve felt something this nice, this soft, this real. It’s just a blouse and a pencil skirt, a little reminder from the old days, but it feels like I’ve won. Small victories. Sometimes that’s all a person
can ask for.
I wonder if they’ll let me keep them when this is all said and done. Probably not. I make a mental note to ask— it’s little things like this that keep you sane, that remind you that you’re still alive. In the end, I probably won’t ask after all. Stupid questions get stupid answers.
I check the tags; they’re new, a condition of the terms I agreed to in exchange for the interview. It’s nice to have a bit of leverage, and nice clothes was one of my requests. For this, in the off chance that she might be watching, I want to be seen in something other than bright orange scrubs. I want to be seen as human. I don’t know if that’s still a possibility. Once you’re in here, it’s easy to be forgotten. Thankfully, I have something they want. Something that sells. That something is a story.
Here’s what they want to know: Had I known I was going to be sentenced to die for my crimes, would I have done things differently?
It’s probably the one question that matters more than anything. Even now, I’m not sure how I’ll answer. It’s a tough question, and while I have a lot of time on my hands to mull it over, I’d propose that it’s not that simple. What I want to say is this: The reality of who someone is online and the reality of who that person is in real life are often two different things. When it comes to saving their own ass, people will always turn on you. Friends. Lovers. Everyone. Remember that.
This makes me think of Tyler. He got off easy. He didn’t admit to the drugs in my system being his. He didn’t admit to the gun I used coming from anyone named ‘Big Sean.’ He said I made it all up. What he did admit to was witnessing me stalk the Dunns online. Two lies, one truth.
Everyone knows drug users are unreliable.
The guard bangs on the door with his fist. “Coming,” I say and I deftly slip the orange prison uniform shirt over my head. It's stamped with Death Row Unit in big black letters as though I could forget. I unclasp the granny bra and slide the new one on. I check myself in the small plastic mirror and I smile. You can’t imagine what a good fitting bra will do for one’s self-esteem. In here, everything is issued, everything is mostly the same. Nothing is my own anymore. I've been reduced to having basic necessities dished out to me as though I'm an animal, caged and on display.