“I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask Miss Stone,” Tanner’s attorney speaks up. “Miss Stone, is it true that you and Tanner have continued to have a civil relationship, if not more than friendly since the time you broke up?”
“Well, yes, but I wouldn’t say more than friendly—“ I try to explain, but there’s no real way to do it.
“Is it true that you have called him a number of times to see him or make plans with him in recent months?”
“Yes. I have.” He has my texts as proof.
“It seems you obviously needed to lean on Tanner in the past couple of months. He’s been a good friend to you and your family. Someone you have all trusted.” His attorney smirks faintly. I might be the only one who noticed, but he thinks he’s onto something. I don’t. “That’s all,” he says toward the jury.
I’m excused back to my seat, still trying to put together all of the pieces of this nonsensical puzzle.
The judge asks the prosecutor to present his evidence. He walks up to the stand with a box, no expression on his face. “As it’s been determined by the investigation of the fire, it was ignited, then enhanced with an accelerant, which was proven to be brake fluid. The tin pail which Miss Stone had filled with sand for the purpose of putting out her cigarette butt was found empty, which tells us whatever was in that tin burned, too. And sand doesn’t burn at that temperature.” I turn to look at my parents. I’m sure they’re stewing over the fact that I was smoking.
The prosecutor pulls out a large plastic bag with a brake fluid container in it, labeled “Evidence #1.” He pulls out the container of cat litter. “Perfect for soaking up an accelerant, and an odd thing for a person who doesn’t have a cat and is known to be allergic to cats, to have in their home.” He showcases both pieces of evidence to the jury.
Tanner’s attorney yells, “Objection. My client’s allergies do not pertain to this case.”
“Overruled,” the judge responds. “Please continue.”
The prosecutor takes out a plastic bag containing the pill bottles I saw in Tanner’s medicine cabinet. “Sedatives from Blake Stone’s medical records. The coroner determined that there was a high alcohol content as well as an overdose of sedatives found in his system. At no point in Blake’s medical history was he prescribed a sedative. Along with this, we have a text message record proving that Mr. Holt informed Mr. Stone that he would be stopping by with some beers that night. This, of course, proves that Mr. Holt did, in fact, have intentions of stopping by Miss Stones house during the night of the fire.”
I look at Tanner, who’s still straight-faced and calm. He looks back at me, catching my glare and shrugging as if to say he doesn’t know what’s going on. I need to stop looking at him. He’s infuriating me.
“I have two more pieces of evidence, your honor,” the prosecutor says, handing the judge what looks like a handwritten list. “This was also obtained during the search of Tanner Holt’s property.”
The judge reviews the list, scanning it over, his eyes widening. He takes his glasses off and pinches at the bridge of his nose. My heart is pounding. This is the part I was dreading, hoping to not be true. Wishing there was some sort of explanation for all of this. “And what do you believe this list signifies?” the judge asks.
“Sir, all twelve of the women on this list have been romantically involved with Mr. Holt. More than half of these women are dead, thanks to what was deemed accidents…and all had a high blood alcohol content and a large volume of sedatives in their bloodstreams. Except for the two who were on the witness stand today, all the others are MIA.” Finally, I have the truth I’ve been seeking.
Tanner killed Blake.
Tanner tried to kill me, too. Twice.
“It has come to our attention that Mr. Holt has a tendency to engage in revengeful tactics following the end of a relationship. This, of course, highlights the behavior of Mr. Holt seeking revenge against Miss Stone after their relationship ended last year on April 2nd.”
“Thank you.” The judge put his glasses back on. “You have one more piece of evidence? Is that correct?”
“Your honor, members of the jury,” the prosecutor begins, “while I realize this particular piece of evidence doesn’t have to do with the arson directly, I think the jury should see this surveillance video obtained from the day Miss Stone’s balcony wall was tampered with, resulting in her falling two stories and breaking her wrist.”
“Objection!” Tanner’s attorney shouts. “This has nothing to do with this case.”
“Overruled again,” the judge says, gesturing for the prosecutor to continue.
It was him. It was all him. I’ve been with a serial murderer.
Hayes’s hand engulfs mine, squeezing it, making me feel something other than the ache in my chest. He knows what I’m thinking right now. He knows how stupid I feel. How dumb I’ve been. Naïve. Gullible. I should have known better. I wish I had.
“And you,” the judge looks over to Tanner’s attorney. “You have evidence to share with us as well?”
“I do. Thank you, Sir,” the attorney says. He brings the stack of photos over to the jury. “I’d like you to take a look at these stills my client obtained from his home security system, which clearly shows Miss Stone rummaging through his house. Who’s to say she didn’t plant all of those pieces of quote unquote, evidence when she mysteriously stopped by to visit him. These images also clearly show her taking photographs while my client was in the shower.”
They can’t do this, can they? Does it matter? That’s not my handwriting on that list. It’s Tanner’s. It shows he’s guilty. It has to.
“I’d also like to call a witness, your honor.” A witness? “Mr. Thomas Holt.”
Tanner’s dad.
Tommy approaches the stand, looking ashamed, embarrassed, and like this is his last chance to help his asshole son. But what dad wouldn’t defend their son? Should he even be allowed as a witness?
The judge doesn’t appear to be paying much attention as Tanner’s attorney questions Tommy. “Mr. Holt, did you or did you not claim to be with your son on the night in which he’s being accused of starting the fire at Miss Stone’s house?”
Tommy clears his throat and his cheeks redden. “There’s a chance I may have confused the nights,” he says.
“Sir, were you or were you not with your son on the night of April 2nd?”
“I was not,” Tommy answers simply. Unbelievable. Or, as it is now, it’s become a little too believable.
When Tommy’s relieved from the stand, the Judge perks back up. “Do you have any other witnesses?” he asks Tanner’s attorney.
“No, Sir.” His attorney is looking like he came up a little short-handed this time. There isn’t much he can do to hide it.
“Very well. Mr. Prosecutor, please proceed with your closing statement,” the judge says. After the prosecutor’s statement, Tanner’s lawyer gives his summary. As he finishes his statement, the judge stands up and announces, “The jury will now deliberate. The court is in recess.”
Is that it? Not that I want to sit here any longer, but I feel like there should be more.
Now, I wait.
* * *
I let my body fall heavily against the stone wall in the lobby, trying to put everything together—recalling each piece of absurdity I learned over the past several hours. But the list…it’s comprised of the twelve women Tanner has dated. All of them are either dead or in hiding. Except Kayla and me. I’m number twelve, and my name was the only one not crossed out. He burned down my house. He cut the railing of my balcony. He wanted me dead. Blake said he had a bad track record with women, but he must not have known how bad it really was.
Hayes hands me a cup of water. “Here, you’re white as a ghost.”
“You didn’t tell me about these other women.” I’m not angry because I wouldn’t want to tell someone this either, but I do feel like I should have known before today.
“I doesn’t matter, because this
stops with you,” he says.
We can only hope.
* * *
The jury ended up taking the rest of the afternoon. We were sent home for the night and asked to return in the morning. I’d like to say I feel better, but I feel worse, especially after no sleep. I kept replaying everything in my head, wondering how someone could be so deranged that they’d want people dead. How did I survive?
When we’re called back into the courtroom, the minutes we wait feel like hours before the judge walks back in and sits down slowly, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
I want to know what he’s thinking, what his lack of expression means. I need to know right now. But I realize he doesn’t know anything until the jury tells him.
It’s several more minutes before the jury enters through a side door. They all walk in like zombies, avoiding eye contact and looking as if they didn’t sleep either. They all take a seat except for the jury foreperson who hands the bailiff the verdict on a slip of paper. The bailiff passes it to the judge.
“Mr. Holt, please rise,” the judge says as he passes the verdict back to the bailiff, who in turn gives it back to the jury foreperson. “Madam Foreperson, have you reached a verdict?”
“Yes, your honor,” she says.
“On the count of arson, how do you find the defendant, Tanner Holt?” he asks, removing his glasses and placing them down.
Without a blink of an eye, she says, “We find the defendant guilty.”
“On the count of attempted murder, how do you find the defendant?”
“We find the defendant guilty,” she replies.
“And on the final count of murder in the first degree, how do you, the jury, find the defendant?”
“We find the defendant guilty.” Each time I hear the word guilty, a small sense of relief washes over me. He’s guilty. I’m safe. Please, let me be safe from him.
“Madam Foreperson,” the judge says, “ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your time.” With that, the jury stands up and walks in single file back out the door they entered through, allowing the judge to continue on with sentencing.
Once the door closes, leaving the focus solely on the judge, he places his glasses back over the bridge of his nose and crosses his hands over his desk. “Arson is a very serious crime. However, murder in the first degree and attempted murder are much larger crimes.” The judge looks from Tanner to those of us sitting behind the prosecutor, and then back to Tanner again. “Mr. Holt,” the judge takes a brief pause. I take the moment to look at Tanner once more, even though I told myself to stop. He appears bored, like whatever the outcome is, won’t matter to him. How can someone not care this much? I don’t get it. “In the state of Rhode Island, the charge of murder in the first degree carries with it a mandatory life sentence. Considering you were found guilty of arson, attempted murder, and murder in the first degree, you’re being sentenced to life in prison, but with the possibility of parole after twenty-five years.”
Tanner’s attorney has his head bowed toward his chest and his hands squeezing around the back of his neck.
The bailiff grabs Tanner by the arm, pulling him up from his seat. Tanner’s eyes are settled on mine, a smile pulling at his lips as he says loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I still love you, Liss. And I will until the day you die.” The Bailiff promptly shoves Tanner out the door and tells him not to say another word.
Multiple sets of arms wrap around me, but I can’t focus. I can’t comprehend this. It’s too big. It’s too much. Muffled words are spoken into my ears, but I can’t make out what anyone’s saying. All I can hear is Tanner saying, I still love you, Liss. And I will until the day you die.
Shit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SINCE MY APARTMENT is under repair, they offered to move me to another unit, which I’ve done. Life is falling back into place, slowly. Very slowly.
With the help of a therapist, I’m trying to forgive myself for not being able to help Blake. Regardless of not knowing he was home, I still feel responsible. He was right next door. I could have woken him up and dragged him out with me. Instead, I let the fire ravage his unconscious body. The therapist tells me I have control over the red hue in the sky. That’s a little harder to wrap my head around, though. She said when I forgive myself and accept that Tanner and only Tanner is to blame for Blake’s death, it’ll disappear. But I think the reason I still see red is because part of me is afraid to let it go. I feel like I’ll be moving on and away, leaving Blake behind in the fire.
“Ready to go?” Hayes asks, holding my purse out to me.
I can’t wait to get this cast off my arm. Along with my emotional traumas, I also have an itch I haven’t been able to scratch in weeks. “Yeah.” I want every reminder of Tanner, gone. Every time I look down at my wrist, I know he did this to me. Maybe after this, I can try to move forward. I have to.
“I’ll go grab our coats in case it’s cold,” Hayes says, walking into the bedroom.
“After the appointment, I want to go thank Detective Earnst. I have a card for him.” I sent one to Mr. Michaels last week, too. It’s the least I can do for them.
“Sure thing,” Hayes says, eyeing me warily as he returns from the bedroom. “This isn’t a little ploy to get me back into the station is it?” He’s asking because, over the past few weeks, I’ve been urging him to go back to work. He’s damn good at what he does, and I think he’d be happy moving on from the murder case he was on and getting back into the swing of things. Plus, I may or may not have asked Earnst and a couple of the other guys to try their hand at persuading him, too. They want him back, especially after everything he did for the case against Tanner.
“Ummmm,” I sing. “I do really have a card for him. But don’t you miss it there a little?”
“Felicity, dammit. No.” He throws my bag down on the couch. “I don’t fucking miss it. Okay? Why won’t you let this go? You promised you’d stop bringing it up.”
I swallow hard and hug my arms around myself. I didn’t mean to upset him like this. I’m just trying to help. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t get it,” he says.
“You haven’t told me a goddamn thing, so how could I possibly get it?” I take my purse from the couch and walk toward the door. “You know every single thing about me, and I know very, very little about you. And I haven’t said a word about it, but I often find myself asking who exactly I’m in love with.”
By the look on his face, I can see that hit him hard. I don’t want to be the person in his life who pushes and tries to control him, but I want to help him like he’s helped me. It just seems like he doesn’t want to be helped.
“A kid died because of me. How am I just supposed to get over that and move on with my job?” I don’t know what kind of answer he wants from me. I don’t even know how to respond, especially since I don’t know how to move on from anything.
“You know what I don’t understand, Hayes? You told me your daughter died from an illness, and that you’re okay now, that you’ve come to terms with it. So why can’t move past this? That child’s death was a part of your job.” I know that was harsh. Mean, even. Shit. I really, really shouldn’t have said that. “I’m so sorry. That was wrong.” I should leave. Holy shit. I can’t believe that just came out of my mouth. I didn’t mean it like that.
I reach for the door and open it, but he’s behind me in an instant, slamming the door closed. “I never told you my daughter died from an illness.” I must have assumed.
“Again, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about something I know nothing about.”
I try to open the door again, but his full weight is against it. “Don’t go,” he whispers.
I turn around, finding his eyes filled with tears. Oh my God. I’m making him cry. What kind of horrible person am I? Haven’t I been a part of enough pain and discontent over the past few months? Now I’m hurting him, too.
Wrapping my arms around him, I lean my head against his chest,
listening to his pounding heartbeat. “I’m sorry,” I whisper again.
“Stop saying that,” he groans. “Ella is the kid—the little girl who was murdered. Ella died in my arms because I didn’t get to her fast enough. I lost my baby girl, Felicity.” His body shudders against mine, his voice broken and weak. “She was my world. My life. My everything.” He releases me and pounds his fists into the door. “It was my fault. My fucking fault. And the asshole that killed her is still on the loose. I left my job so I could hunt him down, kill him with my bare hands, and watch him suffer the way I watched my little girl suffer. The way I’ve been suffering.”
All I can do is look him in the eyes and say nothing. Nothing I can say will come close to explaining how I feel right now. I don’t know what it’s like to have a child ripped from my arms. The thought nauseates me. “What happened?” Whether or not it’s the right thing to ask, I don’t know. But I can’t help myself. And I want him to know I’m here and ready to listen if he wants to talk.
He leads me by the hand and pulls me down onto the couch. He wipes the few teardrops under his shimmering eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Cassie, Ella’s mom, left me when Ella was two. I did the best I could, tried to spend every second I could with her. I thought that hurt like hell, not being able to come home from work at night and have my princess running toward me with her bouncing pigtails, screaming ‘Daddy!’ It was hard enough only getting to see her on the weekends.” He leans his head back onto the couch, swallowing hard. “But nothing could have prepared me for the phone call I got from Cassie telling me someone had taken Ella from the park. She’d only turned around for a second and Ella was gone. And when I finally found her, I wasn’t prepared for the stone cold look in Ella’s big green eyes when her heart stopped beating. I have never felt that much agony. Life isn’t fucking fair.”
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