by Sophia Gray
“No. You didn’t know that, did you? I’m not surprised.” He turns to Christopher. “I hope you haven’t done too much damage to this poor girl already. I’m sure she doesn’t deserve it. Just like Michelle didn’t.”
“Derrick, you need to leave. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Christopher places his hand on Derrick’s arm, only to have the arm yanked away as though his touch burns.
“Don’t ever touch me again. Not if you wanna live another day.” The tension could be cut with a knife. They stand there, staring at each other.
“Is this true, Christopher? Is it all true?”
He breaks the staring contest he’s having with Derrick, looking over at me. He won’t say a word.
“Please. Christopher. Please, I know it’s not true. Or if what he’s saying is true there’s a good explanation. Why don’t you just tell him the whole story? I believe in you.”
“Oh, this has to be a joke!” Derrick laughs at me. “You’re worse than I thought. Like one of those women who writes to convicts because you feel sorry for them. Will you have a jailhouse wedding with him, too? Once he’s thrown inside a cell for everything he’s done?”
I ignore him. “Christopher, all you have to do is tell the truth. I don’t see why you won’t explain all of this.”
“I shouldn’t have to.” Stubborn, pigheaded brat.
“Not for me. For yourself. For him.” I nod my head in Derrick’s direction. “Give him a little peace, at least.”
“I shouldn’t have to do that either. I’ve told him I had nothing to do with it, same as I told you. That’s not good enough for him. I’m starting to wonder if it’s not good enough for you either.”
“Don’t say that. Stop assuming I think the worst of you.”
“Oh, forget this shit.” Derrick throws his hands into the air. “I didn’t come here to watch some bullshit domestic drama.” He turns toward his bike, climbing on. Before he pulls away, he looks at me once more.
“What did you come here for, then, man? To make things even worse?” Christopher follows Derrick to the bike, trying to confront him.
“Christopher, don’t. Please. Let him go.” I’m desperate for him to leave now. I’ve heard enough.
“I hope you get your head screwed on straight. Before it’s too late.” Derrick pulls away, revving his engine before speeding out of sight.
It’s just Christopher and me again. The silence between us is deafening. I’m at a loss, torn between embarrassment for him and confusion.
“Christopher.” I walk toward him, starting down the short flight of stairs leading to the lawn.
“Don’t. Just don’t.” He stalks away toward his bike without another word. I can only watch helplessly as he backs out of the driveway, then pulls down the street.
Now I’m alone. Again. I look around, wondering how many pairs of eyes are watching from behind closed doors and pulled curtains. They sure got an eyeful out here, didn’t they?
I also remember Lucas. For a minute there, I’d forgotten all about him. I guess I can thank Derrick for that much. I wonder if he’s here somewhere. Am I becoming completely paranoid?
No matter what the answer, I turn to head back into the house. Only after the door is locked behind me do I give myself the luxury of trying to think things over.
It’s useless, however. I can’t make sense of the jumbled mess in my head. All I know is I’m terrified—only now it’s not Lucas I’m afraid of.
It’s the idea of losing Christopher forever.
Chapter 25
I sit down in front of my open laptop again, doing another search. This time, I’m looking for any available information on Michelle Barton. Who was she? What sort of things was she into? Was she wrapped up in the club, or just an outsider?
I remember the tattoo I saw on Derrick’s chest, just like the one on Christopher’s. He’s a member of the club, too—or at the very least, he was at one time. Odds are she had something to do with the club, too, outside of being married to Christopher. Maybe it ran in the family. Maybe her father was a member, or an uncle. Or maybe she got involved with the guys in the club after her brother joined.
Maybe she was never involved at all. Just an innocent party. Like me.
I can’t think about that now.
There’s not much on Michelle, or her murder. I was sure there would be a million articles about it, especially seeing as how the town hates the club. From what I’d already read, one of the guys could sneeze and it would make the news. I was certain I’d find all sorts of salacious details on the murder of the wife of a club member—a prominent one, if what Derrick said was true.
Michelle is a mystery, it seems. I think about the way she decorated the house in which Christopher still lives. She was a simple, sweet person, I think. Not fancy. Homey, cozy. She wanted to create a refuge for her man. I can understand the impulse, having had it myself. Why else would I have been driven to bake cookies for Christopher when I hardly knew him?
She didn’t deserve to die the way she did, alone in the woods, left there to rot, going by the way Derrick had described. I remember the pain in his voice when he talked about her. Now that I’ve met him, I get the idea he only let himself go after she died. He’s drinking himself into an early grave.
I understand what pain like that can do to a person. He’s desperate for an answer to how his sister’s life ended. He wants to pin the crime on any convenient person. Christopher is just the most convenient.
It doesn’t help the bullet matched the gun he carried. I can understand why Derrick would jump to conclusions when that’s the case.
I can’t believe it, though. I won’t believe it. Christopher is innocent.
No, he’s not. He’s not innocent. Maybe of his wife’s murder. But not of other things.
I accept that. A person can make mistakes. They can also move on from them. They deserve the chance to.
I have to talk this out with somebody. If I hang around the house like this, I’ll go crazy. Just going over and over it in my head until I lose it. I’m still nervous about leaving the house, but I need to take the chance.
Minutes later, I’m at the coffee shop. It’s lunchtime as a handful of employees of the little shops up and down Main Street start coming in for a cup of coffee or dessert on their break. I walk in, saying hi to everyone.
“I thought you were sick!” Carly’s behind the counter, busy as a bee. I notice her voice sounds higher-pitched than usual. Unnatural.
Shit. Everybody knows Christopher was at my house, and I conveniently happened to call out sick. I’m sure people have been jumping to conclusions all morning. How much whispering has been going on right here in my own shop?
“I’m feeling better, so I thought I’d come in for a while. You know how it is, you wake up feeling lousy, but once you get moving, it’s not so bad anymore.” I wash my hands and tie on an apron, diving in alongside my friend as though there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Anything to take my mind off the mess for a while. If Lucas’s out there somewhere, he wouldn’t dare try something now. Not while I’m surrounded by people. Would he?
Once things quiet down, I lean against the counter, facing Carly. “I have to ask you something.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
I take her by the elbow, leading her to a quiet corner where I can still keep an eye on things in the shop. “Do you know anything else about the murder of Christopher’s wife? You know, something you heard people gossiping about, maybe?”
“What happened? Why are you asking me this?”
I wonder if I can trust her. I love her and she’s become my closest friend even though she started out as an employee. But she’s a talker, very social and bubbly. No, I need to trust my gut. At the end of the day, she’s also reliable. “I know I can trust you. I have to tell you what happened earlier today.” I give her the brief rundown, explaining what went on with Derrick. I’ve been glancing over at the customers every once in a while as
I speak, and I can’t miss their eyes on me. I remember now what Derrick said, about people talking when Christopher’s motorcycle was seen outside my house. Are they whispering about me now?
“Wow, Amanda. I can’t believe it.”
I nod my head. “I wanted to see if there was anything else online about Michelle’s murder, but there’s nothing. I mean not a single thing! Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“We’re still a small town. News flares up, but it dies down quickly.”
“Not gossip, though. That’s why I was wondering if you knew anything I wouldn’t otherwise be able to find.”
She looks uncomfortable.
“You can tell me, Carly. It won’t hurt me. Not knowing the truth hurts more than anything else, I think.”
“I guess you’re right.” She looks around—there are only two people still drinking coffee and reading their papers. “Well, I’ll tell you this first: people try to make Michelle out to be a saint now that she’s dead. I don’t think that was the case, not really.”
“No? I remember hearing people talking about what a nice girl she was, how they didn’t know why she would have married Christopher in the first place.”
“She might have started out like that. Who’s to say? I didn’t know her back then, or very well after they were married. But from what I hear…” she looks around again, “…she was into drugs. Both before and after they were married.”
“Drugs? Oh, no.” Derrick hadn’t said anything about that, but then why would he? No family member wants to admit things like that about a deceased loved one, especially if the death tore them up inside the way Michelle’s clearly had.
“Yeah, lightweight stuff at first. Kid stuff. Pot, pills. She stopped for a while when they were first married—I heard he insisted—but she started up again at some point. The word heroin was used.”
“No way. I guess people blame Christopher for it.”
“Are you kidding? She could have been hit by lightning and they’d blame him.”
I imagine how awful it must have been for Christopher, watching his wife fall deeper into drugs. I’ve never personally known a heroin addict, but I know how increasingly common it’s becoming.
“Then there was the whole scandal that went on with the Wicked Angels around that time.”
“What scandal?”
“Illegal weapons. Gun running, specifically. They were under suspicion. The cops were watching their every move. It was a crazy time. Every day, the rest of the town wondered when the club would be taken down, and whether there would be some big shoot-out when they were. We held our breath every day. It felt like living in a war zone just waiting for the first shot to be fired.” She shivers, rubbing her arms.
“Did anything ever happen?”
“No. There was never enough evidence to arrest them. Those guys are smart. Imagine what they could have done with their lives if they hadn’t turned to crime. Anyway, another theory around that time was that a rival gun runner was responsible for Michelle’s murder.”
“I guess that makes sense. Like a message, or payback or something?”
“Right.” She shrugs. “That’s all the news that’s fit to print, my love. I don’t know anything else.”
“Believe me, you’ve told me plenty. I needed a little bit of context. It’s hard knowing what to believe sometimes.”
Carly’s hand touches my arm. “Listen. No matter what the real, full story is, there’s one thing that applies no matter what version you’re listening to.”
“What’s that?”
“The club had something to do with it. Either Christopher did it, or somebody related to the club business. And let’s be honest, if she were on drugs, where do you think they came from?”
She’s right. I can’t deny it.
“I say this to warn you, is all. Don’t get too involved with the club, especially now that they’re back in town. Nothing good comes from it. These are not good people. You’re a good person. You deserve better.”
I know she cares, which is why I give her a hug. I can’t take her advice, though. Maybe I’m being naïve, but it’s not the club I’m getting involved with. It’s Christopher. It’s clear to me he wants to put space between himself and the rest of them. I’m not afraid.
At least, not of The Wicked Angels. Or their enemies.
The shop is empty now, save for Carly and me. She starts cleaning up the tables while I take my phone from my purse to call Christopher. I have to get through to him somehow.
Before I go to the back for a little privacy, I turn to where Carly’s wiping down tabletops.
“Hey, was there any talk about me in here? This morning, I mean?”
She doesn’t know what to say, which is all the answer I need. I nod, understanding, then go through the door leading to the pantry. I’ll have to tackle the gossip issue somehow, but now’s not the time. The town deserves to know what a good man Christopher is, and Christopher deserves to be treated better.
I call him, hoping he’s home and in a better mood. The phone rings five…six…seven times before the voicemail picks up.
“Hi, this is Christopher. Leave a message.” Short, to the point. So typical.
“Christopher, it’s me. I wish you’d answer your phone. Now I know how you felt when I wouldn’t answer for you. Anyway…I want to talk to you. I want you to understand I wasn’t blaming you for anything today. I’m on your side, always. I swear it. I know you didn’t kill her. Nothing Derrick said made a difference in what I think or how I feel about you. Please call me back.”
I hang up, leaning my back against the rack and the phone pressed to my forehead.
He has to call me back.
I can’t imagine living without him now.
Chapter 26
I stand outside the shop, in the back, catching a breath of fresh air. Christopher hasn’t called me back, though I don’t expect him to. Not right away, that is.
What bothers me the most is the feeling that I hurt him.
I tried to explain as best I could via voicemail, telling him I’m on his side. That I don’t believe the terrible things people have said or thought about him. I’m on his side.
I remember Derrick. The way he looked when he stood on the lawn. The way I thought he reminded me of a broken man. That’s what he is. A broken man, looking for answers. Why was his sister killed? Could he have done anything to stop it? I know that’s how I’d feel. I’d want to know those things, too. I might even turn to drinking, which he clearly has done. He looked terrible.
People who are grieving don’t think clearly. They don’t reason. He’s not reasoning, that’s all there is to it. He wants to blame his sister’s death on Christopher, as everyone else has. Pin it on the person closest to the victim. That’s fairly typical. After all, don’t police always look for the person closest? Usually the spouse or significant other? It didn’t help when the gun used to kill the victim is the same type the spouse carries.
I run my hands through my hair, leaving traces of flour. Okay. I know I’m rationalizing. I know it looks bad for him. I have to keep reminding myself of the person I know. They person I see inside him. That person wouldn’t do something so horrible. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
Why am I shaking, then? Because he won’t call me back, that’s all. I don’t know how he feels right now, whether he’s angry with me or just sad because he thinks I didn’t believe him. Has he even listened to his voicemail?
Carly calls to me from inside. I go in, needing to warm up. It’s freezing outside. I had to clear my head.
“You okay? I thought you froze to death out there.” She’s smiling at me, accepting me. She’s the only person I know who isn’t full of judgment. She cares, but she knows I can make my own choices.
“Just needed to think, is all,” I say. I pour myself a cup of coffee if only to warm my cold hands.
“We’ve got plenty of room to think in here, sister,” she says with a smirk.
“I like
fresh air with my thinking,” I reply quietly. But with a smile.
“I thought maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe he came, and you met him out there.”
I sigh. “He wouldn’t come. Especially after the raft of shit he got from his brother-in-law earlier today about being in town. He wouldn’t come again so soon.”
“Brother-in-law? Not anymore, right?”
“I guess so? What do you call a brother-in-law once the spouse dies?” We both shrug. It seems as good a name as any.
“So what kind of things was he saying? Why can’t Christopher come to town?” Carly sits in one of the chairs. The place is empty, night falling. Not many people are interested in coffee at this time of day, but we stay open for the occasional straggler in need of a jolt, or maybe a cup of hot chocolate.