Hell Hath No Fury

by RC Boldt

  Except him.

  I turn back to face the man who took my family from me. “Number five. That’s him.” More tears fall rapidly down my face, but I briskly swipe at them, steeling my spine. “I know how he got that scar by his temple, near his hairline.”

  Caitlin

  Preliminary Hearing

  TWO AND A HALF WEEKS LATER

  “You’ve got this.” Sara Jane squeezes my hand, offering a comforting smile. But I can tell she’s as nervous as I am.

  She’d been understandably upset that I hadn’t called her from the start. But being friends as long as we have, she knew why even though she still gave me a stern look before hugging me harder than she ever has.

  I nod at her affirmation, but it’s halfhearted, matching my lack of confidence. Although I’m well aware of the risk in following through with this, there’s no way I can back down. Regardless of whether it will put me in harm’s way with the Dixie Mafia.

  After all, what more do I have to live for? Every piece of my soul is gone. My heart obliterated.

  I enter the courtroom with my lawyer, and we take our seats. From my periphery, I notice the other two men with their lawyer a few feet away to our right. My chest constricts, and I focus on the marred wood of our table and try to calm my breathing. The air-conditioning puffs through the vent above us, and goose bumps rise along my arms, making me wish I’d pulled on a cardigan over my short-sleeved, knee-length dress.

  The detectives assured me that, with the aid of my lawyer, the preliminary hearing should proceed smoothly. All I need to do is stand firm on everything I already stated in the reports.

  This is my first mistake because a moment after I take my seat, my lawyer leans in to whisper, “The video footage from the shop went missing.”

  My eyes go impossibly wide, and my breathing stutters. “What?” I hiss in disbelief.

  “There was a glitch, and it was erased from the cloud drive, as well.” He attempts a comforting smile, but it only serves to increase my unease. “But don’t worry. We’ve still got a solid case.”

  Before I can respond, we’re directed to rise as the judge makes his entrance.

  If I thought this was the worst of it, I was terribly wrong. It quickly becomes evident that the lawyer representing Cash Boudroux and the other man by the name of Buford Freeman has an agenda I’m unprepared for.

  “Mrs. Ashford, are you aware of how much you expect to gain from the life insurance policies from your father, husband, and daughter?” He smirks, and it feels as if thousands of ants creep along every inch of my skin. “Surely, you realize that as the beneficiary, you’ll be awarded”—he raises a sheet of paper to read from it—“a sum of approximately $750,000. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Ashford?”

  I part my lips, my eyes darting over to my lawyer, who simply nods for me to answer. “I honestly don’t know the exact amount.”

  “Or,” the man continues like I haven’t even answered, “that your father recently liquidated some assets?”

  What? Utterly baffled, I stare at the man who grins, his bleached white teeth practically blinding me. “I don’t know anything about that.” It’s the truth. I certainly wasn’t aware of it.

  What in the hell was my father doing? But I’m unable to ponder that because the lawyer bulldozes right over me.

  “You’re also due to receive the insurance payout for the damages sustained to the shop your family owned.”

  He saunters across the space separating where his clients sit and heads toward me. “I find it fascinating and awfully convenient that your family is miraculously gone in one fell swoop, and you’re about to receive a lot of money.”

  With a shrug, he offers in a noncommittal tone, “Newly single. No one to tie you down. Hundreds of thousands of dollars soon to be in your bank account.” He glances around the courtroom. “It sounds like a dream come true to me.”

  I grind out the words from between clenched teeth, incensed that he’d try to paint me this way. “I didn’t kill my own family!” I jab my index finger accusingly to where the two men sit, relaxed in their seats as if they don’t have a worry in the world. “I watched those men murder them!”

  “I’ll thank you to lower your voice, Mrs. Ashford,” Judge Milton reprimands. “This is my courtroom, not Jerry Springer.”

  Snickers sound throughout, and I scowl. Judge Milton is young compared to his colleagues. Newly appointed and in his early thirties, many consider him attractive, with sandy blond hair, brown eyes, and a fit body.

  “Mrs. Ashford, you informed the detectives that first the glass windows of your family’s pawn shop shattered before something was thrown inside. Is that correct?” the lawyer asks.

  “Yes.”

  “And according to your statement given to police, there was flashing and loud banging that immediately followed the shattering of the glass windows, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  He holds up a photograph for me to see, his eyes darting back and forth between me and Judge Milton. “These were found at the scene. They’re called flash grenades, Mrs. Ashford. Are you familiar with what these devices are used for?”

  When I glance toward my lawyer, he nods discreetly, directing me to answer, and I have to fight against the growing unease spreading through me. “Yes.”

  “So this means you are well aware that flash grenades are used to temporarily disorient with the flashes of light and the loud noise?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And somehow, somehow, you managed to focus enough to identify the alleged shooters?”

  My skin prickles as a menacing air descends over me as I answer, “Yes, I did.”

  He mashes his lips together in a firm line, nodding slowly, and it strikes me as utterly condescending. “I see. So within the shop, amidst the loud noise and flashes of light from these grenades, you managed to catch sight of two individuals and identify them with one hundred percent certainty?”

  My stomach feels as though a thousand-pound weight has plummeted to the bottom of it, filling me with dread. “I did. I saw them.”

  Fixing a plastic smile on me, he responds with, “I’m sure that’s what you believe, Mrs. Ashford. However, the flash in these grenades can render individuals blind for a few seconds. Not only that, but their loud sounds can plague an individual with temporary deafness. I find it challenging to believe that you managed to clearly and accurately identify my clients despite those conditions and effects rendered on you. Furthermore, I—”

  “I saw these men kill my family! They killed my daughter! My six-year-old daughter!” I cry out. “They shot me!” I push back my hair to show the area that’s still red and raw from where the bullet abraded my scalp. “They’re murderers!”

  The slamming of the judge’s gavel barely registers through my haze of fury, and Judge Milton’s icy tone cuts me off. “You will conduct yourself accordingly, Mrs. Ashford.”

  The churning in the pit of my stomach becomes incessant now, and the sense of foreboding hanging over me is nearly stifling.

  Pure panic flows through my veins, and I turn to the judge. “You have to listen to me! These men killed my family! I saw them do it!” I dart to my feet and grip the thick wood that separates us, nearly white-knuckling it in desperation for him to listen to me. “Please!”

  My pleading does nothing to break his irritated façade; he continues eyeing me with utter disdain.

  “You have to believe me!” I reach over the wooden divide, my outstretched hand seeking his arm in hopes that he’ll finally hear my pleas. That he’ll realize I’m telling the truth. “I saw them! I saw—”

  He shirks away from me with such violent movement that the fabric of his black robe flaps audibly. “Mrs. Ashford!” he thunders. “Perhaps the court should recess so that you might get yourself under control.” Turning from me, he commands, “Bailiff! Escort Mrs. Ashford to her seat.”

  The large uniformed man with a potbelly to rival Santa escorts me none too gently back to my seat. I
slump into the wooden chair just in time to see my lawyer slide a file folder over his legal pad, but not before I catch a glimpse of his doodling.

  Mouth bracketed with lines, Judge Milton glares at my lawyer. “Mr. Maldeman, please see to it that your client controls herself better once we resume.” The judge addresses the courtroom, his authoritative tone practically echoing as he announces, “We’ll take a five-minute recess.” He slams his gavel down with such force that my body jolts in response.

  We all rise, and I watch with detachment, defeat pummeling me. Judge Milton steps down from his bench, and I stare after him, willing this to be a nightmare that I’ll wake up from.

  This is when I hear it.

  The judge’s footsteps as he retreats to the door leading to his chambers… Oh my God. I know those footsteps. My eyes dart down to his feet, and I’m unable to look away from the sight.

  It’s the exact moment I realize I’ve lost. When it becomes glaringly evident that I never even had a fighting chance.

  A horrifically dawning realization strikes me as my brain replays moments which had somehow been forgotten or dismissed from the night I was attacked in my home. I recall hearing the same click of each step, as those smooth, hard-soled boots the man wore made contact with the floor.

  And in that small beam of moonlight, the last thing I’d seen that night were black alligator skin boots.

  The same boots Judge Milton is wearing.

  “You!” My cry sounds feral as it rises from deep within me. “It was you! You were there that night! You attacked me!” A deluge of staggering outrage floods my veins. “How do you sleep at night?! How could you?! They killed my family!”

  Judge Milton turns and his eyes narrow on mine. Fury and disgust swirl deep within me, and I hurl out the words, “It was you.”

  His eyes cut to my lawyer, voice brimming with menace. “Maldeman. Control your client.” Then he steps through the wooden door, and it closes behind him with a heavy thud.

  I shrug off my lawyer’s touch when he whispers, “You really need to…” His voice fades as my heartbeat echoes in my ears, nearly deafening me. I practically stare a hole in the door Judge Milton will return through shortly.

  The man tasked with seeing that justice is served is the same man involved with those responsible for the murder of my family. The man who was in my house the night of my attack.

  I nearly collapse in my seat, my breathing labored, and my lawyer leans toward me. “Just stay calm. It’ll be fine.” Far too dazed, with shock reverberating through me, I don’t bother to respond.

  Once Judge Milton returns and takes his position at the bench, his voice booms throughout the space. “There is insufficient evidence to require the defendants to stand trial. I rule that this case be dismissed and require Mrs. Ashford to undergo a full psychiatric evaluation.”

  Slanting a dark, steely look my way, he adds, “To ensure she doesn’t allow her ‘visions’ to convince her to accuse any other innocent citizens of murder.”

  The bailiff approaches me. “Ma’am, you need to come with me.”

  I shake my head furiously. “No. No.” Panic claws at me, gnashing deep.

  The bailiff’s thick fingers cinch my upper arm in an unforgiving grip. “Let’s go.”

  I turn to my lawyer, barely grasping on to my last thread of hope that maybe he’ll help me, but he simply shakes his head. When he mumbles, “Win some, lose some,” my entire body gives way, slumping to the floor, nearly jerking my right shoulder from its socket where the bailiff still holds tight. My vision narrows, and all noise fades as shock takes over.

  I’m barely cognizant enough to register being escorted from the courtroom.

  7

  Caitlin

  Arriving at the realization that you’re alone in the world is one thing. Being alone to the point where you have no idea who you can trust is a whole other scenario.

  After I’m removed from the courtroom, the detectives approach, and I’m handed off to them, now in their custody.

  “Mrs. Ashford, since we’re familiar with your case, they thought it would be best to assign us to escort you to see Dr. Winifried at New Hanover Behavioral Health Center.”

  The meaning is clear: since these men have become familiar faces to me while working on the case, it’s assumed I won’t cause more trouble.

  It’s a miracle that I’m holding on to even a thread of sanity right now. I suppose I’m simply in shock. I don’t respond because nothing I can possibly say would make a difference.

  I know this with as much certainty as the sun will rise in the east tomorrow.

  Detective Clairborne shifts anxiously from one foot to the other. “Judge Milton is requesting you undergo a, uh, mental health assessment.”

  I can’t help it. I fix him with a cold glare. “Do you think I’m crazy? That I made this all up? That I wanted my family dead?” My voice cracks on the last word.

  He shakes his head and rakes a hand through his short hair. “No, ma’am. But when the judge orders something…” Detective Clairborne lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. As much as I want to be angry with him, I can’t fault him or his partner. This is out of their hands.

  “The important thing is that you pass the evaluation,” Detective Warren tells me.

  I pin the men with a sharp glare. “And you really think they’ll find me competent after that?”

  The detectives exchange a concerned look before Detective Warren murmurs, “Just stay calm and pass the eval.”

  Except I know that if I step foot in that hospital, I’ll be locked up forever. Today was a glaring indication that nothing’s quite right around here.

  It’s as though the mask has been ripped off this place, much like in The Wizard of Oz when the curtain is peeled back to reveal the truth. I’m now seeing Seaside Cove for what it really is.

  Corrupt.

  Infected.

  And the Dixie Mafia is responsible.

  “Are you planning to appeal?”

  “Did you have your family murdered?”

  “Did you kill them for the insurance money?”

  The press converges as soon as the detectives escort me out of the courthouse. I do my best to ignore their accusatory questions, but they still slice deep.

  Sara Jane rushes up to me, her expression part stunned, part horrified.

  “Sweetie, I’m so sorry…” She trails off, unsure of what else to say, and I’m in the same boat; at a complete loss.

  Then the news reporters swarm her. Detective Warren shouts for officers to help with crowd control and push them back.

  “Did Caitlin confess to you about her plan?”

  “Did you help her commit murder?”

  I pinch my eyes closed in regret that my best friend is being drawn into this god-awful mess.

  “Go!” I hiss. Her startled gaze cuts to mine, and I add, “Please. You don’t need this affecting your business.”

  Sara Jane’s lips part, likely to offer a protest, when officers arrive and begin commanding everyone to back away.

  “Go,” I repeat. “Please.”

  Her expression is tortured, and I will away the urge to cry because I refuse to give these reporters any satisfaction that their nasty accusations hit home.

  She finally nods. “I’ll see what I can do. Get you a better lawyer.”

  “Thank you.” I force the words through a vise-tight throat.

  Sara Jane backs away, turning and rushing through the throng of people before disappearing from sight.

  The detectives escort me to their vehicle, and Doc Hogue appears just as Detective Warren tugs open the back door.

  I can’t suppress the cringe that Doc has likely already heard the gossip of what happened inside that courtroom. More mortifying than that is the possibility he believes the worst of me.

  I open my mouth to tell him to go and not be associated with me, but his hard glare shuts me up. As if reading my mind, he scowls. “Don’t even think of pulling whatever you did
with Sara Jane. I’m established enough that I don’t give a hoot about these”—he waves a hand indicating the mass of reporters—“busybodies.”

  Not giving me any time to form a response, he turns to address the detectives. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but I was wondering if you’d be inclined to stop by the house to let Caitlin at least grab some toiletries and a change of clothes.” I avert my eyes when Doc Hogue’s expression says everything he doesn’t.

  Because she’ll be staying put at that hospital.

  The detectives hesitate, and an ominous shiver skitters down my spine at the prospect of being locked away with mentally unstable patients.

  “Come on, now, boys,” Doc chides in a kind but prodding tone. “She’s been a model citizen and cooperative every step of the way for you. There’s no reason we can’t allow for this, is there?” With a pointed look, he adds, “Even my friends up at the Marshals office allow for that under circumstances like this.”

  My spine tenses with Doc’s mention of his friends at the U.S. Marshals office in Raleigh. I hate that he’s getting involved in this mess because of me.

  Detective Clairborne exhales loudly. “I suppose we can do that.” My shoulders relax a fraction even as he flashes us with a stern expression. “But we need to make it quick.”

  Doc immediately agrees. “Of course.”

  I lift my gaze to the detectives. “Thank you.” My voice is muted. Frail.

  Defeated.

  “Would it be all right if I accompany Caitlin at the house?” Doc asks. “For moral support, of course.”

  Detective Warren dips his chin in a curt nod before addressing me. “Let’s go.”

  I finally dart a glance at Doc Hogue, and I’m surprised by his expression. His eyes will me to understand what he isn’t saying, but I’m clueless as to what that might be.