by W. Winters
I make the mistake of looking down and seeing how far I’d drop and how there’s nothing to break my fall if the wind were to blow too hard. Or if my grip gives out, or if something else happens and I fail. I don’t want to die.
A few moments pass and I simply can’t move. The wind whips my hair around my face and I shut my eyes tight, frozen by the vision of me plummeting to my death.
This is taking too much time. I need to get going. My left foot moves first, all the way to the edge of the sill and as far as I can get with both of my hands still gripping the window frame.
I have to let go in order to lean over, and I do it so quickly and with so much force that I nearly push myself off. My head spins from the height, but I keep moving. My right hand grips the window and my left reaches for the brick closest to the pillar. My nails scratch at the rough stone, but my grip is solid.
I feel stuck for the longest time. The cold makes my hands numb and the wind is coming and going so frequently that I’m afraid the second I move, it will violently rip me away from the pillar, but I manage the motion in a single leap.
A scream is torn from my throat as I fall an inch or two until my sneaker hits the decorative carving on the pillar and I’m able to wrap my arms around it. Adrenaline roars inside of me and I pray Mason didn’t hear. And then I make another silent prayer: that this foolish plan will work.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I climb down inch by inch. The only places I dare to look are directly in front of me and up to the open window. I watch the curtains sway inside of the bedroom as I slip down the pillar at a snail’s pace, relying on the tread of my sneakers against the carved marble pillar for purchase.
I don’t even realize I’ve made it safely until I try to slide farther down and can’t. There’s ground beneath my feet.
Astonished and still very much consumed by fear, I note my sweater is torn with pulls everywhere, and I’m so cold I can hardly move my limbs. I look up once more at the open window and realize it’s only a matter of time before he realizes I’m gone.
Run. I don’t hesitate one more second. My sore limbs come to life as I take off down Mason’s driveway and I don’t look back.
Mason
I need to make two things clear to her.
I love her, and I always will.
She’s not leaving me.
We’re going to work through this one way or another. Even if I have to drug her. I know the chances of a roofie working at this point are slim to none, but depending on her reaction, it’s the only thing I can think of and the only easy out to make things right again. If only she would forget.
As I draw closer to the top of the stairs, a cold draft wraps itself around me. At first, I’m confused, then furious. She didn’t. She wouldn’t… my denial is pointless. I already know she did.
My pace picks up and I bang on the bedroom door. My knuckles slam against the hard wood door and I yell out, “Jules!”
How long has it been, maybe a half hour at most since I locked her in there? My heart hammers in my chest. She’s gone. She’s left me.
It’s no use. I can already feel the cold air seeping into the hall from under the door. The keys are already in my hand as I pound my fist against the door again like a fucking fool, nearly breaking down the door. They rattle as I find the right one and shove it into the lock before throwing open the door. I’m greeted with an empty bed and the biting cold blowing in through a torn window screen.
I stare at the window for only a second before taking long strides across the room, pulling the curtain back to look down at the ground outside. I half expect to see her lying dead on the grass.
She’d rather risk this than deal with me.
My throat closes at the bitter thought, and the harsh wind whispers, taunting me that she simply jumped to end it all. Relief is unexpected but welcome when I peer out and trace the footsteps in the snow. She hasn’t been gone long judging by how clean and clear the prints are.
My lungs threaten to fail me as I take off out the room and down the stairs, and I don’t stop moving as I snatch my car keys and phone off the front hall table. She’s out there with a head start and I only have so much time to catch her. My coat’s in the living room, but I don’t bother with it. I don’t bother with anything other than climbing into my Mercedes and reversing out of the driveway as quickly as I can.
A thin layer of sweat covers my skin and only adds to the freezing effect of the air.
If she tells anyone… I’m fucked.
“She can’t,” I say under my breath and curse, the vision of her testifying against me flashing in front of my eyes. There’s hardly any snow on the asphalt, and her footprints disappear in less than a quarter mile. With my hands gripping and twisting the leather steering wheel, I continue to drive ahead. I glance down every small gap I pass, although the main road is vacant. It’s early morning and I know there are plenty of cars that drive by here on their way to work. She could have flagged someone down.
She’s gone. My throat tightens with the realization and I pound my fist against the window.
She doesn’t have any evidence. My thoughts take over. She has no proof, and there’s nothing the police would ever find. She couldn’t possibly go to them. There’s no fucking way. But if not to the police, then where?
My heart’s racing as I pull over, and I don’t know what the hell she’s thinking.
That you’re a murderer. That you’ll hurt her.
I ignore the damning truth and keep pushing down the ache that takes over.
It doesn’t take long before I decide my next move should be to search her home. If not there, then I need to find her friend’s addresses. My tires squeal as I pull back onto the road, intent on finding her and bringing her back here. I don’t need anyone else trying to keep her away from me.
I lean over and click the radio off, only just now realizing it’s on and then turn the heat all the way up. I’m numb from the combination of the wintry air and the thoughts that won’t quit yelling in my head that I’m fucked. Turning on my blinker to head onto a busier street, I struggle to take in an easy breath.
Act normal. Come up with a plan.
There was a nasty rumor going around that Jules has had issues with alcohol ever since Jace’s death. I’d never talk about her as if she were a drunk, but I have to use something that would make people question why she’d accuse me of murder.
I tap my thumb against the steering wheel.
I don’t know if it would work. It’d be her word against mine. And there’s no real evidence.
But if I went down that route, I’d definitely lose her and everyone in this city would question if there was any truth to what she claimed.
My family name would be called into question.
My business reputation would be ruined.
More than that, the only person I ever loved would be my downfall.
A bitter huff of a humorless laugh leaves me as I look to my left and turn down the street.
I could go away for life if the police do believe her and look into it. If they find something, or if the person who sent that note comes forward with their proof. I don’t give a fuck about that, though. I haven’t known what love is since my mother died. But I know it’s what I feel for Jules.
I’ve given her the power to ruin me. That’s what true love is.
If I let her get away, she’ll do it.
She’ll destroy every piece of me.
As I struggle to come to terms with the realization, my phone rings from the passenger seat where I’d thrown it earlier. I lean over and pick it up, answering without looking to see who it is while I drive down Jules’s street.
“Hello,” I answer, hoping it’s her. Hoping she’s only asking for time or space. I won’t give her either, but at least then I’ll know we have a chance.
“Mason,” my father says.
“Father,” I say, feeling disappointment that it’s not her, followed by distrust. We haven’t spoken since I kno
cked him out in his office. What the hell does he want?
His voice is full of confidence but more than that, imperiousness. “I have a little something I think you want.” I pull up alongside Jules’s street but the only parking space available is a few doors down from her place, and I slow down to lean forward and look out the windshield. It’s starting to get light outside, but not so much that I wouldn’t see lights on inside her house. I scan the windows as I absently say, “And what would that be?”
“I got a call from Commissioner Haynes.” My body stills as my father continues.
His words snap my attention to him. Commissioner. “It seems your recent love interest has something urgent to confess.”
If my father thinks she’s a threat, that’s a much more concerning issue.
“She doesn’t know anything.” I’m quick to respond. I speed down the street, cutting someone off and they lean on their horn. I have to weave through the few cars out this early in the morning to get down to Fourth Street. I need to get to her. “Don’t touch her,” I say.
“I wouldn’t dare,” my father says, and I can practically see the smug smile on his face. Jules. I grit my teeth in anger.
“I imagine you’ll be here soon?” he asks with a thin veil of arrogance.
“I’m ten minutes from the station,” I answer grudgingly. I hate that he’s involved and interfering, but if he wasn’t, she would have talked. She has no idea what she’s done. She’s put herself in danger.
My foot presses down harder on the gas pedal with each passing thought. I need to get to Jules before she says a fucking word.
Jules
I’ve been picking at the same snarled thread on my sweater for nearly fifteen minutes now.
My sneaker taps nervously against the leg of the simple wooden table; they’re still damp from the snow. Something feels off and wrong. Crossing my arms, I look away from the mirror. Anywhere but the mirror.
The stranger in the car kept asking me over and over what was wrong, but I could barely speak. I was so cold, and nothing would come out except that I needed the police. I was lucky he pulled over and offered me a ride. The concern in his pale blue eyes was comforting but only so much that it allowed me to get in the car. His checkered sweater slid down his bony arms as he drove, and he kept looking over at me in the passenger seat. He had to be in his fifties, or maybe sixties. The wrinkles around his eyes told me he was at least my father’s age.
That comfort is long gone and a different sensation took over the second he stopped in front of the station. I have no proof, no evidence. I don’t know if anyone is going to believe me. I need to tell someone, though. I swallow thickly, realizing I don’t know where to begin or if a soul will believe me or do anything at all.
The old man stayed with me while a young officer gave me a blanket and told me it was all right. Whatever it is, you’re safe now. Dressed in his blues, the man was maybe in his mid-twenties and didn’t have a clue what I was there for. It was such a spectacle, but even though they were kind and open I still couldn’t spit out the words.
Then I was handed over to Detective Myer.
He’s much too young for someone in his position, clean-shaven and tall with dark brown eyes. He has to be around the same age as the officer who greeted me warmly. There’s no warmth to Myer, though; he’s all corded muscle, although he doesn’t have the broad shoulders or height to him to balance out his body. Even with his badge and prying stare, he doesn’t have an air around him that commands authority.
There’s something else as well, something about the way he looks at me that makes me feel as though I’m not safe. Like I should have changed my mind and headed back out into the snow and never stopped running. I don’t trust the detective. I didn’t when he told me to sit in here and twenty minutes later, what little hope and faith I had has faded.
Maybe I’m being paranoid and it’s all in my head, but it seems wrong he never asked any questions. He simply told me to follow him back here and sat me down while he went to talk to the commissioner. I’m alone and left wondering what the hell I’m doing here at all.
Guilt worms its way through every bone in my body. Every tick of the clock tempts me to get up from this table. I’m going to choke on my words. I can’t do this. They’ll never believe me and I can’t say the truth out loud.
Just as the notion hits me, the door opens and I stand mostly out of instinct, but also possibly fear. The need to run is overwhelming, but when my eyes catch sight of the imposing man walking in behind Detective Myer and another man who I assume is the commissioner, my knees go weak.
I don’t need to be told he’s Mason’s father. I don’t need to be introduced. His gray eyes and sharp cheekbones give it away. He even clears his throat like Mason as he unbuttons his suit jacket and sits in the empty chair across from me.
My eyes flicker to Detective Myer’s, who simply crosses his arms and leans against the wall in the far left corner. His dark eyes bore into me and send a chill down my spine. The commissioner makes a show of closing the door and then taking a seat at the far end of the table.
“Sit, sit,” Mason’s father insists. “Jules, isn’t it?” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
My knees are so weak that I obey him, falling into my seat and staring at the commissioner who isn’t looking at me at all. He casually picks at his nails instead. I glance back to the mirror and pray there’s a camera recording or someone behind it watching this. Someone else. God, please help me.
I’m not safe here. That’s the only thing I’m sure of. What have I gotten myself into?
“Good girl,” Mason’s father says approvingly, and it sickens me to my core. There’s something about the air of ownership he projects. Something about the way his words roll off his tongue. The fear is only partially brushed aside by my disgust, but I’m at least able to look him in the eye.
“Where’s Mason?” I ask evenly, although I don’t know how I got the courage to speak.
His father’s eyes twinkle with something that brightens the gray. Something that makes my stomach churn.
“Don’t worry, he’s coming shortly.” Mr. Thatcher looks over his shoulder at the detective. As his mouth parts to say something his straight white teeth peek out from behind his thin lips, but he’s interrupted by the door banging open.
“I’m sorry, Detective Myer,” a young woman says from the hallway as Mason stands in the doorway, hovering in the opening with an authority that’s incomparable.
And he’s pissed.
The way his steel gray eyes seem to turn a sharp silver and pierce through me makes every tiny hair on my body stand on end. Every inch of my skin chills and then heats so quickly I can’t move. All I can do is stare into his eyes, caught in his gaze.
He breaks it before I can relax, and only then can I breathe.
My eyes drop to the floor as the shock withdraws, and my reality strikes me across the face. The emotions that swarm me are confusing to say the least. I’m relieved to see the very man I fled from only hours ago.
“Jules,” he says and Mason’s voice isn’t cold like I imagined it would be. I lift my eyes to his, and my heart beats in rhythm with the seconds that tick by ever so slowly. Tick, tick, tick. The room is silent as the other men wait for my reaction. I can’t give them anything, though. I’m numb and useless with exhaustion and a thread of fear so easily broken. My throat is dry, and I can barely manage to make eye contact with Mason. I pick at my sleeve and look back at the table, feeling defeated, foolish and guilty.
How is it possible that guilt is what consumes me most?
“Sweetheart, what are you doing here?” Mason asks me with sympathy in his voice as he pulls out the chair next to me. The legs scrape on the floor and Mason wraps his arm around the back of my chair as he sits close to me, but not an inch of him touches me. Not his arm, not his knee to mine. He’s so close I can feel the heat of his body, but he’s distant all the same.
“Is somet
hing wrong?” he asks me, and I immediately shake my head no.
I’m retreating like a coward. “I want to go home,” I say, whispering the plea just above a murmur, still not looking any of the men in the eye.
“What’s that?” Detective Myer says from the corner of the room, pushing off the wall and uncrossing his arms for the first time since he’s been in here. He starts to walk over.
I clear my throat and ignore how scratchy my voice is as I repeat myself. “I want to go home.”
The detective leans against the table, his palms flat as he waits for me to look up at him. His voice is strong and hard, filled with contempt as he says, “Issuing a false report and taking up the time—”
“What false report?” Mason asks at the same time that I refute the detective.
“No one has taken a statement from me. I haven’t said anything,” I say and my voice is stronger than I imagined it would be.
Mason rises from his chair abruptly, leaning over the table and bracing his forearms in front of me as he gets in Myer’s face. “Don’t you dare,” Mason says, speaking with a tone of malice that makes me flinch. “Don’t you dare threaten her.”
Mason’s chiseled jaw is covered with stubble and the way it clenches while his hands fist on the table takes the commissioner by surprise. He visibly balks, and it’s then that Mason’s father pipes up.
“Now, now. Miss Summers had something she wanted to say, Mason.” Mason’s head tilts slowly, daring his father to speak again and the old man does just that, the glint in his eye ever present.
He looks past Mason and asks me, “What was it that brought you here, Julia?”
“Nothing,” I say and my voice croaks.
“Oh, come now,” he says. Mr. Thatcher’s voice is lighthearted, but it’s never been more apparent how dark the situation has become. Do they already know? They must.