by S W Vaughn
The thought galvanizes me, and I manage to calm down. “I wasn’t there. I was shopping with my daughter,” I say again. “That should be easy enough to prove.” I rattle off a list of the stores we went to, including the McDonald’s we stopped at for lunch. “We got home around 7:30, and I ordered pizza from DiStephano’s,” I say. “I can probably find most of the receipts.”
A laden silence follows my little speech, broken only by Garfield’s pen scratching across the paper. Finally, Detective Chambers grunts and stands up, and his partner follows suit. “If you can get us copies of those receipts, we’d appreciate it,” he says as he reaches into his pocket again. This time he pulls out a business card and hands it to me. “Ms. Bauman, do you know anyone who’d want to harm Rosalie Phillips?”
“No. No one,” I say, shaking my head as I take the card. It’s printed with his name and phone number, and the address of the police station. His first name is Oliver. I’m not sure why they’re backing off, but I suspect it’s because they were bluffing. They can’t actually get a location for where my cell phone was over a week ago. And it wouldn’t matter if they could, because I didn’t do it.
“Well, if you think of anything that might help, please call me. And find those receipts,” he says.
Somehow I manage to stand and follow them to the door, and then close it behind them. As the shock wears off, I realize how shattered I feel. I was brought up to trust police officers, to believe they were here to protect and serve. That they actually wanted justice. And I’ve raised my daughter the same way, to understand that people with badges are friendly. They’re supposed to be safe. But those two detectives just tried to steamroll me into confessing a crime I didn’t commit.
If I hadn’t been shopping, if I’d just spent the day at home with my daughter, I was almost certain I’d be in handcuffs right now. They would’ve arrested me for murder.
I resist the urge to take the business card to the kitchen and burn it on the stove, tucking it into my pocket instead. I’ll have to find those receipts — but I’ll just deliver them to the station, and I won’t call first.
I never want to see Detective Garfield or Detective Chambers again.
Chapter 12
I hold it together for longer than I think I’ll be able to, faking my way through the rest of the day as I turn the house upside down to find the receipts, drop them off at the police station, and pick up my daughter from school. I pretend so hard that everything is fine, I actually believe it for a while. Through the afternoon, and when Jill comes over for dinner and afterward the three of us hang out and play board games and watch cartoons until Alyssa’s bedtime, I’m still okay. I’m fine when I tuck my daughter in and kiss her goodnight.
Then I walk back into the living room and Jill asks me what’s wrong, and I fall apart.
I sit on the couch with her, choking back sobs as I tell her everything from the problem with my license to Sabrina stealing my commission, to the horror of the detectives’ visit. The awful truth of Rosalie being murdered is really hitting me now, and I can’t help but think about the death that was my fault. I almost confess that to her, but I can’t drag the words out.
When I’m finished, she hugs me tight. “I can’t believe those asshole cops,” she says in a thick, scraping voice. “I mean, that’s insane! Do you want me to tell them I was with you when you were shopping? Because I will.”
“No, it’s fine. I gave them the receipts.” I lean back with a watery smile and swipe at my face. “It was just awful dealing with them. They were so … nasty.”
“We should sue them,” Jill pronounces. “I’m serious. They can’t get away with this.”
I actually laugh, and it surprises me. “Well, you’re the legal expert, but I’m pretty sure you can’t sue people for doing their jobs,” I say. “Even if they do them badly.”
“It’d be for harassment. They shouldn’t have come into your house,” she says, her eyes blazing with righteous anger. “They need a warrant for that.”
A stab of guilt lances me, and I can’t bring myself to say that I let them in — or at least, I didn’t stop them. “Really, I just want this to be over,” I say. “But thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything. But seriously, I will if you want me to. Just say the word.” Jill smirks and flops back against the couch with a sigh. “Do you think somebody really killed your friend?” she says. “That’s so crazy. A murder in Wolfsbrook. This place is supposed to be nicer than the city, you know?”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I lace my hands together to keep them from shaking. My emotions have a tendency to come on fast but take their time leaving, so I’m still feeling a little unsteady. “I don’t know, honestly. The police seem pretty convinced.”
Jill shakes her head. “Maybe they’re wrong.”
I’m not so sure about that. If they only suspected the possibility that Rosalie’s death wasn’t an accident, they wouldn’t have pushed me so hard.
Before I can voice my thoughts, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and frown at the screen. “It’s Hannah,” I say. “I’d better take this.”
When I answer, she says, “Hi, Celine. It’s Hannah Byers.” Once again, like I don’t know who’s calling. Doesn’t she understand what caller ID is?
I raise an eyebrow at Jill and say, “Yes, I know. Is everything okay?”
“Well, I have the house keys and I’m moving in,” she says. “But you weren’t at the office today. What happened?”
My brain stutters and I stand up, pacing away from the couch. She knows what happened. Maxine told her. “Er. I couldn’t do the closing, legally,” I say. “You told Maxine you didn’t want to wait, remember? She must’ve mentioned my license expiring.”
“What? No, I didn’t speak to anyone named Maxine,” Hannah says. “I went there at one, like you said, and there was this Sabrina woman instead of you. And I asked where you were, and they said you didn’t have to be there. But I thought you would be anyway.”
“Celine, what is it?” Jill says from behind me.
I wince and wave her off. It’s hard to concentrate, because I don’t believe what I’m hearing. “Maxine said she called you,” I repeat like an idiot, stubbornly clinging to the idea that she couldn’t have flat-out lied to me. “There was an issue with my real estate license. I was going to ask if you wanted to wait a few days until I got it sorted out, but Maxine told me she’d already asked, and you wanted to go ahead with today.”
Hannah lets out a hearty sigh. “She must have spoken with Julie, then,” she says. “I’m so sorry about this, Celine. I didn’t know any of it.”
My head starts pounding. I almost ask who Julie is, but I decide I’d rather end this call. Whatever happened, it’s over now and I’m stuck with a halved commission and a smug bitch of a co-worker. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there,” I say. “But I hope you enjoy the house.”
I expect to say goodbye and hang up, but Hannah says, “Oh, that’s the other reason I called! I’m having a housewarming party on Saturday, and I’d really like you and Jill to come.”
A housewarming party at the mansion I got screwed on selling is pretty much the last thing I want to attend, but I’m too polite to refuse her outright. “That sounds interesting,” I say. “I might stop by for a few minutes.”
“You mean you wouldn’t stay?” Hannah sounds crestfallen, and my conscience twinges.
I bite my lip, and mutter, “Maybe I could stay a while.”
“I do hope you will,” she says. “It starts at seven. Please come — you and Jill both.”
I mumble something about trying and hang up on a heavy breath. “So, what are you doing Saturday?” I say as I turn back to Jill with a smirk. “Because Hannah’s having a party, and we’re invited.”
“Oh, boy. That chick is really weird,” Jill laughs, and then cocks her head. “Wait, are you actually thinking about going?”
“I don’t know.” I make my way back to the couch and
plop down wearily. “You know me. I’m the queen of not saying no,” I sigh. “And I do kind of feel sorry for her. She doesn’t seem to have any friends.”
Jill flaps a hand dismissively. “Please. She’s got plenty of friends,” she says. “Lots of Jacksons, Grants, and Benjamins. She could buy all the friends she wanted.”
It does seem strange that she’s rich and friendless. But maybe that’s just because there are no other ultra-rich people in Wolfsbrook. Maybe she has friends, but they’re scattered, and she goes to visit them in her private jet or something. I have no idea how wealthy people operate.
“Tell you what. If you go, I’ll go with you. But I won’t have any fun,” Jill says, and sticks out her tongue.
A giggle escapes me. “Neither will I, so I’ll try not to inflict that on either of us.”
“Thank you, dahling. No pish-posh for me,” she drawls. “Unless there’s a cute pool boy I can pick up.”
We both laugh at that. I push Hannah’s party out of my head for now and toy with my phone, remembering another call I made that day. The one to the hospital. “I’m going to call Brad tomorrow,” I say quietly. “I found out that his mother won’t be there until at least ten, so I’ll be able to talk to him if I call earlier.”
“Oh, honey.” Jill flashes me a dismayed look. I’d already told her what happened the first time I tried to call, and she knows I’m more terrified of Willa than ever. In fact, she knows more about me and Brad than anyone else. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
I swallow and nod. “I have to.”
“No, you don’t,” she says in a determined tone. “After the way he treated you that night … you don’t deserve that. And neither does Alyssa. He never has to know.”
The reminder jolts me hard. It was an awful argument. But it’s not like he hit me, or even threatened me. He just freaked out and left me at the restaurant.
And then nearly killed himself by driving into a concrete barrier wall at forty miles an hour.
“I’m not sure that’s fair,” I say, trying to be diplomatic. “He was so young, and scared. We both were. I think if it wasn’t for the accident, he would’ve calmed down in a few days, and we could’ve talked about it rationally. And Alyssa … I really should tell him.”
Jill purses her lips, and then reaches out to pat my hand. “Maybe don’t tell him right away,” she says. “Talk to him first, and see if you can feel him out. And if he’s still the same old shallow asshole, well …” She makes a tipping gesture.
“Yeah. You’re probably right,” I say, and maybe I won’t tell him. Not tomorrow, anyway.
But keeping it from him doesn’t feel right.
Chapter 13
I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’m driving to the hospital. I’m going to talk to Brad in person.
Last night I tossed and turned for hours, agonizing over what to do. I finally decided that calling him would only prolong the inevitable. I need to see him. I want to see him.
I never stopped loving him.
We didn’t have the perfect relationship, of course, but no one does in college. And it wasn’t love at first sight, either. We’d been friends since the beginning, nothing more, and I watched him go through girlfriend after girlfriend with a kind of bemused disbelief that anyone could have enough strength to be with that many girls, let alone go through the fallouts when he inevitably broke it off. But he was upfront with everyone about not looking for a commitment. Flings only for Brad Dowling the Football King.
That’s why I stayed on the sidelines for so long. That’s why I told him about Joan, and she ended up dead.
But then one night, a bunch of us were at Monkey Shines — a super-popular college bar just off campus — and Brad asked me to come outside with him for a minute. So I went, not thinking much of anything about it. Until he kissed me.
“What was that for?” I’d asked him.
He’d shrugged, and looked at me with those deep green eyes that had charmed the panties off dozens of co-eds. The same eyes I still see every time I look at my daughter.
“I’ve never kissed you before,” he’d said. “I just wanted to see what it was like.”
“Well … what was it like?”
He’d smiled. “Amazing,” he said, and kissed me again.
That time, I’d kissed him back. And I went to his frat house room with him, knowing I’d fallen under his spell, not caring, even though I knew I’d care in the morning. I stayed all night. When I woke up, I was prepared to do the walk of shame back to the dorms and endure the teasing.
But he woke up too, and asked me to stay for breakfast. Then he held my hand and walked me over to the dorms while everyone stared at us. And he asked for a proper date that night, just him and me.
I spent an entire year with him, the whole time thinking I had to be dreaming. But it wasn’t a dream — it was a nightmare waiting to begin, when I asked him about our future together and he flipped out, stormed away, and ended up might-as-well-be-dead.
I didn’t know I was pregnant until a week after the accident, when it was far too late to tell him.
Hayhurst Memorial Hospital looms into view, a spangling-clean modern structure of blue glass and white cement. This place is actually the premiere regional trauma center in the northeast, despite its location in humble little Wolfsbrook. I have no doubt that if there was a better hospital within five hundred miles of here, Mr. and Mrs. Dowling would’ve whisked Brad away from this town without looking back. He definitely would’ve been out of my life forever then, and at the moment I’m still not sure whether that would have been better. But I’m about to find out.
I follow the signs to the hospital parking garage, ease my car into one of the too-narrow parking spots, and try to remember where I parked as I follow more signs to an elevator, across an elevated, glassed-in walkway, and into the hospital. There’s no desk or reception area here, just a lot of hallways and closed doors, so I hunt around for an elevator and ride to the fifth floor.
It’s just after nine when I walk into a brightly lit corridor and spot a desk with a sign that reads NURSE’S STATION. There are two women in scrubs behind the desk, one who’s forty-something and looks irritated with the world, and the other about my age who’s just familiar enough to make me smile as I approach.
I haven’t seen her in years, but I recognize Teryn.
She catches sight of me, and her face lights up as she skirts around the desk. “Celine, you made it!” she calls, reaching out for a hug. I’m glad to hug her back. Familiar faces are hard to come by in a hospital. “You should have plenty of time before the battleship docks,” she says under her breath, snorting laughter. “Do you know which room he’s in?”
I nod. “548, right?” I say, as if I haven’t held that number in my mind since the moment the receptionist gave it to me.
“That’s the one. Turn left at the end of this hall, and it’s the third room on the right,” she says, pointing past the nurse’s station. “You know, I think he’s going to be very glad to see you.”
“I hope so,” I say, and then bite my lip. “Is he … really messed up?”
Teryn smiles. “Considering what he’s been through, he’s in amazing shape,” she says. “He’s already taking a few steps every day. Dr. Salinas — that’s his doctor — calls him a blue-eyed miracle. I guess it’s supposed to be a joke, because of his green eyes. But nobody thinks it’s very funny,” she adds with a wink.
Well, at least there’s some good news. She doesn’t mention brain damage, so I’m hoping that means there isn’t any. “Thank you,” I say. “I’d better get down there, before the HMS Willa steams in.”
“Good idea,” Teryn laughs. “Hey, stop by on your way out. Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee and catch up for a few minutes.”
“Sounds good to me.”
My resolve almost fails me as I walk down the hall. The closer I get to the left turn that will take me to Brad, the harder my heart beats, until I’m sure it�
�s going to explode. At least I’m in a hospital, so they can save me if I have a heart attack.
Soon enough, I find room 548. The door is open just enough to peek inside, giving a glimpse of white walls and part of a window. I’m not sure whether I should knock. Maybe I should just walk in, since it’s open. But as I reach for the door, I think maybe he’s sleeping. He could be trying to get some rest while his mother isn’t here to harangue him.
I finally realize that I’m making excuses to keep from facing this. I let out a long breath, and push the door open.
The room is good-sized, but there’s only one bed, and Brad is in it. His eyes are closed. That’s all I notice as I step inside carefully, looking around at everything but him before I have to really see him, because I know how much that’s going to hurt.
There’s a large, room-length window on the far side, and the wide windowsill is completely covered with flowers, cards, balloons, and stuffed animals. A big-screen TV is mounted on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. Under the television and slightly off to the side, there’s a brown door that probably leads to a bathroom. There are monitors, IV stands, a blood pressure machine, a privacy curtain, a folded wheelchair in a corner. The normal trappings of a hospital.
And there is Brad.
When I focus on him, all the breath leaks out of me in slow motion. I have awful, vivid memories of him after the accident — his face a pulpy mass of blood and bruises and black stitches with a thick plastic tube shoved down his throat, both arms and one leg in stiff white casts with every protruding finger and toe swollen and purple-black. The way his chest jerked up suddenly with every hiss of the mechanical ventilator and went down gradually, like a deflating balloon.
But now the stitches are out, the casts are off, the blood and bruises are gone. He’s slimmed down, but not gaunt — probably because he was so muscled before the accident. Both eyes are marked with dark half-circles of exhaustion, and his lips are dry and cracked, the color of them too dark. There’s a sheet pulled to his waist, and his arms rest on top of it with IV needles taped to the backs of his hands and a large bruise on his upper arm. A small, bloody blister rests at the center of the bruise like a bullseye.