by A. J. Pryor
“And then he killed her,” Greg blurts.
I suck in a breath.
No matter how hard I try to block it, I feel a wedge of doubt creep in.
“Can you share with me what proof there is that Derek killed her?”
“The detectives told us Lily’s murderer was left-handed,” she says.
“Excuse my bluntness, Lydia, but there are many left-handed people in this world.”
“There are. But only one who wrote poetic love letters to Lily.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not following.”
Greg clears his throat and takes over. “Derek wrote to Lily frequently. Love letters written in red ink. Poems. Songs. Ramblings about his day. Hundreds of letters. The last one he wrote was the day she died. It was a confession.”
A jolt of ice freezes my lungs. Fear. Jealousy. Doubt. Emotions too obscure to understand squeeze my heart and constrict my throat. “Can I see them?” I ask.
“We handed everything over to the police, but I kept one.” She pulls open a drawer in the end table and hands over an old white piece of paper.
I’ve never seen Derek’s handwriting and can’t confirm if this is his, but the words . . . they’re poetic outpourings of love, detailing a relationship cherished by two people. It’s filled with precise events and strong emotions, a teenage love story, a young tragedy.
Jealousy grips my gut. It’s out of place and doesn’t belong amongst the memories of this family and their lost daughter. But reading the love Derek shared with another woman, even though it’s from eleven years ago, feels like a sucker punch. I can’t speak and am grateful when I don’t have to.
“The night he killed her, he’d written a final goodbye. A detailed description of how she’d die and why it was necessary was left on her bed like a suicide note,” Lydia says.
“Whoever wrote the note wanted you to find it.”
“Don’t fool yourself, Hannah. Derek killed our daughter.”
“How do you know it was Derek’s letter? Did you have the handwriting analyzed with the other? What about a fingerprint?”
“The letter was clean.”
“I heard there was a fingerprint on the murder weapon.”
They both nod. “It was a partial print, nothing they could use to convict anyone.”
How convenient.
“The note left the night of Lily’s death was almost identical to the letters we found in her drawer. Similar sayings, similar references. There was one author and it had to be Derek.”
“What did the police do with the letters? Do they still have them?”
“We don’t know. They collected the evidence and then any speculation surrounding Derek’s part in her murder disappeared.”
My mind is firing off questions faster than my lips can keep up. Disappeared? Why? Is it possible the person who killed Lily knew about the letters? That they set Derek up? I ask them all, but in the minds of the Harolds, everything leads back to Derek. The letter accused Lily of loving another. That he killed her in a jealous rage.
“Then why write a letter? It seems only a premeditated murderer would leave a note.”
“He’s a sociopath, Hannah. There’s no explanation for why they behave as they do.”
“I wish I could see that letter. Are you sure the police don’t have a copy of it?”
Greg shakes his head. “You can ask, but even our attorneys hit a dead end. They won’t release any of the evidence without a suspect in custody. It’s too risky that any information will be leaked and then their suspect has the knowledge to be freed.”
Lydia snorts. “Isn’t that what already happened?”
It all adds up and yet nothing makes sense. There’s a motive, there’s evidence, there’s a broken boy, and there’s a sweet, trusting girl. But there was never enough evidence for a conviction.
“So the police still have the other letters?”
“No.”
“No? Why not?” I ask in disbelief.
“We think Tom Cage paid someone to get rid of all the evidence. The only remaining link to Derek in the police report is that he was the last person to see Lily alive. And that he’s left-handed.”
“They have nothing,” Lydia adds. But she’s already convicted him in her mind. She mentioned Reggie and Derek’s dad as if they were all involved somehow. But why?
An uncomfortable silence fills the room, doubt and guilt passing between us. “He still comes to the house,” Lydia says. “I’ll catch him staring up at her bedroom window in the middle of the night. Standing beside his truck, looking lost and broken. Only a guilty man returns to the scene of the crime, Ms. Black. He came just the other night, his face lined with pain. He knows I see him, and yet he still comes.”
Standing beside his truck, looking lost and broken. Are those the actions of an innocent man? I came here to prove the world wrong, but what if I’m the one who is wrong? Is Derek Cage the monster everyone believes him to be?
My offensive team is in the weight room, grunting, sweating, and grinding out a few more moments of precious muscle building.
“Yo, Rage! Is your fine-ass reporter coming to Dallas this weekend?” Maverick Gonzalez asks with a wink.
“Why the fuck are you talking about Cage’s girl like that?” Coxy is in Maverick’s face, sweat flying, spit spraying, two enormous black dudes about to go head-to-head.
I shoot off the weight bench and slide between them, shoving them apart. “Coxy, chill the fuck out and let me handle this.” I give him a gentle push and flip around to deal with Maverick. “Why the fuck are you talking about Hannah like that? She’s not my reporter, and she’s not my girl, but give the woman some respect, asshole.”
The entire room falls silent, and Maverick’s looking at me like I’m crazy.
“Do you think I’m stupid, Rage? You tried to kiss that chick on national TV and she isn’t your woman? Only a fool’d think you aren’t banging that.”
I pin him against the wall with one arm, catching him by surprise. “Respect, asshole. Learn the word and learn it quick.”
“Derek. Let him go.” I hear Reggie’s voice. Why is he here? “Derek.” I’m pulled off Maverick and hustled away.
I shrug Reggie off. The room quiets, all eyes on me as though I’m the center of the universe, the last place I want to be.
“Fucking idiots,” I mumble. Grabbing my towel, I head to the lockers, Reggie on my tail.
“She’s not your girl?” Reggie follows me. “Cage, you been walking around with a shit-eating grin and a kick to your step all day. Whole team knows you been getting laid, and there’s a damn good chance we can guess who with.”
Ignoring him, I turn my back and walk into the showers. He doesn’t take the hint.
“It’s okay to like her, Cage. Hiding her is what’s going to make people search for more.” He doesn’t let up. “You’re happy. I see it. We all see it. Don’t keep Hannah a secret. It’s going to bite you in the ass.”
Of all people, I thought Reggie would have gotten it. He knows my history, knows my father. Knows everything.
Our relationship changed the day Lily died. I became a loner. Football and school were my priorities. Reggie’s antics never changed: drink, party, and fuck. He found a new group of friends to hang with, people who would tear the town to pieces right along with him. But even though we took different paths, if I needed him, he was there. Our friendship is the only relationship I’ve ever allowed.
“It’s casual,” I say.
“Bullshit. You don’t do this kind of casual. Don’t fucking lie to me.”
“Why are you here, Reggie? Do we have plans today?”
“Thought I’d check on you. You’ve been all over the place with this girl. Not acting like yourself. Good thing I did, too. You want to get suspended for kicking Maverick’s ass? Not smart, D. Not smart.”
“Yo, Cage. I got no clue what you think you’re hiding with this chick, but you aren’t doing a good job of it,” Coxy chimes in.
> I close my eyes and push my fingers against the lids, willing this moment to go away, wishing everyone would leave me alone.
SNAP.
“What the fuck?” I jump when Coxy whips his towel on my ass.
“Look, man, we’ve all got our females. Lord knows we couldn’t last long in this business without a nice warm pussy to go home to, but reporters? Nuh-uh, no way. They’re off limits.”
Clenching my hands into fists, I resist the urge to smash his face. Hannah isn’t just a warm bed. She’s a light in a lifetime full of darkness.
“Gonna take a shower. You want to discuss where you put your dick at night, have at it. I’m not interested.”
Coxy whistles low and long. “I’ve seen the way you look at her, man. Everyone sees the way you eye her. She’s got you, and there isn’t anything good coming out of that situation.” He walks off, his dreads swinging down his back.
“He’s not wrong,” Reggie says. “Make sure you know what you’re doing.”
Silently, I walk away. I’ve never opened up about my life to anyone. My demons are tucked close inside. My father ingrained in me the importance of privacy before I could speak, our name a target, our lives ripe for controversy. His marriage to my mother was a regret. My life a bigger waste of his time.
Keeping up the impeccable image was all he cared about. The only refuge I’d found was in my mother’s arms, and when she died, I took my comfort in Lily. The night I was accused of murder, my father sat up and took notice. But there had been a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes the night he told me he’d taken care of everything, a hint of pride that he was there for me, that he’d finally proven to be a father.
He’d hugged me, and I’d let him. It was the last time I let someone wrap their arms around me for comfort’s sake. Until I spent the night with Hannah, I hadn’t held another human or been held in return for eleven years. But now, that’s all I crave, Hannah’s arms wrapped around me, her face nestled in my chest, her breath warm on my skin.
Turning the shower on hot, I let the water pelt my head and stream down my back. I think my father loved my mother, and I believe he loves me, but he doesn’t know how to show it. He had no idea how to be a husband and less how to be a father. It’s too late for him to try. It’s too late for forgiveness. But maybe it’s not too late for me.
We don’t have plans. I haven’t spoken to her all day. But I need to see her. I need to know if this is real or if I’ve concocted an image of a woman who doesn’t exist.
I’ve rung her apartment, but there was no answer. I wait outside her building, wondering who I’m becoming and why. After all these years, how can one woman change me?
I see her first. She’s been running. Tight black leggings hug her curves, a long sleeve top drapes to her thighs. Her eyes are lowered, and her pace brisk as she approaches. Excitement grows in my chest. A euphoric feeling that’s foreign, that doesn’t belong, but I can’t control it. This woman has shifted me. It’s terrifying.
She stops, realizing I’m here, and a frown mars her beautiful face.
“Derek. I wasn’t expecting you.” There’s accusation in her tone, caution I didn’t expect after last night.
Her skin is flushed. Sweat is dripping down the sides of her face. I want to reach out and touch her, run the back of a finger along the smooth skin of her cheek, kiss her, and erase that frown from her lips.
“I skipped the second workout, thought I would take you to dinner.” I go to her and kiss the top of her head. “If you’re free.”
She hesitates, her body tense. I step back and search her eyes for answers. I’ve never seen Hannah unsure. There’s doubt and trepidation racing across her expression. Almost as though she’s afraid of something . . . possibly me.
“What’s running around in that brain, Hannah?” I run my index finger across her cheek and get a sick satisfaction when her eyes close and her body slightly shivers.
She exhales, and the hesitancy softens. “Nothing too important. You just surprised me. I was about to make something to eat. Want to come upstairs? I’ll cook for you.”
“Yeah, that sounds great.”
Her ponytail swings from side to side while she bounces ahead of me and opens the door to her building. “I didn’t know you were a runner,” I say.
“I’m not. Gwen’s been making me go with her, but trust me, I’d much rather be inside a gym.”
We reach for the elevator button at the same time. Our hands collide. I curl my fingers around hers and gently squeeze.
“You can use the one in my building. I’ll get you a key.”
One side of her lip tilts up. I don’t let go of her hand as we enter the elevator. After our night, I thought this would be easier. Assumed any awkward feelings of a first reunion would fade. But the newness is still there. I need to erase the tension and get back to being us. The doors slide shut, and I press her against the wall, hover my lips over hers. “How was your day?”
“It was good.” I hear the desire in her tone, the slight pant of her breath. She looks up at me under her long dark lashes. Her cold hands slide under my shirt, and I shiver from the touch I’ve craved since this morning.
Placing both hands beside her face, I cage her. “I’ve thought about this all day.”
“What?” A shallow breath escapes her lungs.
“Kissing you.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
I lean forward, and her soft moan obliterates any doubt.
“That,” I say. I kiss her deeply, moving my body against hers until she whimpers. I love that sound. I love all her sounds.
The doors ding open, and I back off, keeping my eyes on hers. I take her hand, and lead her home.
When we enter her apartment, every light is on, and I see all things Hannah. Her place is nice, well put together. Everything matches in dark blues and whites. There’s a little clutter, but it’s not messy, just lived in. I feel comfortable, like I could spend a lot of time here, hiding from the world.
She drops my hand and heads to the kitchen. I want her back by my side, a possessiveness ruling my thoughts.
“ESPN had a story on you today,” she calls from the kitchen.
“When did you start watching sports broadcasting?”
“About two months ago,” she says, laughing.
“Of course.” Her apartment is an open floor plan, and I watch as she reaches for something in the fridge, sticking her ass out, taunting me.
“I’m doing an interview with them this weekend. In Dallas,” I say.
Hannah straightens, a wine bottle in her hand. “I forgot you’re away this weekend.” She pours a glass and grabs a bottle of water then walks toward me.
“Thanks,” I say into her ear, sliding my hand onto her hip and resting my lips on her cheek when she gives me the water bottle. I have an urge to be near her, my hands on some part of her body at all times. She’s become a drug to me, a high I can’t get enough of.
“I met with the Harolds today.”
That one statement changes everything.
I release my grip from her hip and turn, my knees feeling as though they might give way, my stomach turning sour. There’s a sofa and a chair in this room. I sit in the chair; there’s no chance of any physical contact if I’m in a seat for one. Her hesitancy at my arrival now makes a lot of sense.
A light sweat breaks out on my body, and I rub my face in my hands. For all these years the Harold name has been a dagger in my heart. I loved them all, prayed one day they’d save me. Instead, they disowned me, leaving me to fight on my own.
A seat for one quickly becomes made for two when Hannah removes my hands from my face, grabs my wrists, and pulls them aside. She slides onto my lap, straddling me, her hands coming to rest on my chest.
I want her to get off, sit somewhere else and let me process, but instead I pull her closer, slide my palms up the back of her shirt, and feel her bare skin.
She gets comfortable, shoulders relaxing, dark e
yes pleading with me to help her understand what’s going on. I nod at her, giving her permission to tell me what she learned.
“They invited me into their home. Told me nothing’s changed since Lily’s death. The furniture is the same, wallpaper, wood floors; everything is as it was.”
My heart feels as though it’s splitting in two. One side is moving to the past with Lily, protecting her from what happened that day, and from whoever wanted to hurt her. The other half is right here with this beautiful, brave woman who is going to make me listen to every word she’s about say.
“There are photos of you everywhere. A cocky, young football player who looked at Lily like she alone held the key to his heart.”
“She did,” I say. “She did, and I failed her.”
“They’re confused, Derek. They lost their daughter, and all clues pointed to you. They loved you like a son. The day Lily died, they told me they felt that they’d lost two children. They never took your photos down. If they truly believed you killed their daughter, don’t you think they’d have burned those by now?”
Her hands stroke my chest, the touch soft and calming, but my heart is racing too quickly for comfort. I can’t sit here feeling like I’m going to suffocate. Picking her up, I place her feet on the ground and stand, pacing her apartment.
“They told me about the letters.”
My eyes shoot to hers. “What letters?”
His genuine response startles me.
“Hannah, what letters?”
“The love letters. The notes you wrote to Lily.”
Confusion clouds his expression. “I never wrote Lily any letters.”
“No poems?”
He shakes his head.
“Songs. Love letters all in red ink.”
He remains clueless. If Derek didn’t write those letters, who did? Each new detail gets stranger than the next and leads me further away from the truth. He comes to me and places his hands on my shoulders. “I’ve never written a love letter in my life.”
“But there were so many of them.” I’m speaking into his chest, attempting to understand what’s happening.
“Did you see them?”