“I was sleeping,” Mrs. Pierce says with her nose in the air.
“Is there anyone who can corroborate your alibi?”
Her face pales, and her eyes widen just slightly. She clears her features just as quickly as the look came.
“Well, no—”
Her lawyer interrupts, “Read her, her rights.”
“She’s not being formally charged. We’re just asking questions,” Smith returns.
“Then, charge her, or we’re done.”
The two hold each other’s eyes for what seems like fucking forever.
“Fine.” Smith turns his attention to Mrs. Pierce and reads her, her rights. He nods toward the room I’m in. “Start the camera. We’ll do the processing after.”
“What is she being arrested for?”
“Reasonable suspicion in the murder of Sharon Anderson.”
Watching through the mirror, I catch her flinch with just a slight jerk back, her eyes widening, but then she clears her features.
“Do you recognize the name?” Smith asks.
She hesitates. “No.”
“So, you had no idea your husband was carrying on an affair with her?” Smith pushes.
Her jaw hardens, and her face scrunches and reddens.
“Did you steal your husband’s key to Ms. Anderson’s house?”
She stays silent, but her face hardens and reddens more.
“What were you burning in your kitchen sink the afternoon of June sixth?”
Her fists clench in her lap, and her body tenses so hard that she’s shaking.
“Were you aware that the affair lasted several months?”
She explodes and leaps to her feet. Her eyes go wild, fucking insane. “She was a succubus!”
“Don’t say another word,” her lawyer warns, his tone low.
“That woman—”
“Stop talking.”
“No! I want everyone to know what a—”
“Stop talking, Erin.”
“I did it for the good of society!” she screeches.
She has lost her goddamn mind, if she had one in the first place.
“That woman lured my—”
“Erin.”
“Husband into—”
“I’d like a moment with my client,” Mr. Gregory says to Smith.
“Bed with her. She was a vile—”
“I’d like that moment now.”
“It had to be done. No woman evil enough to commit adultery—”
“Erin, stop—”
“I had to do it for the good of society—”
“Stop talking!” Mr. Gregory shouts.
“Ever since that stripper—”
“I’ll want a mental evaluation done.” Mr. Gregory flips over the folder and takes out papers.
“Dug her claws into Robert, my poor husband has been damaged.”
Smith leans back in his chair. “What stripper?”
Her mouth screws up. “Elizabeth Bailey,” she spits the words.
My blood surges through my body, sending me to my feet. Red blurs my vision, and I grab a chair and send it flying. I don’t see where it hits, but the sound crashes around the room.
The speakers project the words piercing my ears. “Are you saying you murdered Elizabeth Bailey?”
“Yes,” she hisses, her tone motherfucking deranged. “She was a stripper, and she lured a married man into her bed. The world doesn’t need a woman like her.”
At the word stripper, I freeze. Becca said her mom was a hooker, so it’s possible it was a different woman. My vision clears, my eyes moving around to Matt. His jaw is set in stone, his eyes on the window.
“Matt,” I say quietly. When his eyes meet mine, I tilt my head, motioning him over.
The fury rolls off him as he meanders in my direction.
When he comes to a stop in front of me, I say, “Becca said her mom was a hooker.”
His head jerks back, and his eyes narrow. “She thinks her mom was a hooker?”
My muscles tighten. “Yeah.”
He shakes his head. “Didn’t do the investigation, but report said she was a stripper. They interviewed people at her work. The way her coworkers talked about her was one of the reasons her case was so open-and-shut. Not one person was surprised she committed suicide.”
I drop my head. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Hesston’s voice sounds through the speaker as he asks, “Anything else you’d like to share?”
Glancing at the mirror, I catch fucking Erin Pierce square her shoulders, the crazed look gone, and a proud smile is pasted on her face.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. The spawn of that stripper was sinking her vile claws into my daughter’s fiancé, so I set her apartment on fire.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I whisper. “What the fuck?”
Smith leans back in his chair. “Why not murder her, too?”
Erin sighs, clearly bothered. “I decided on a warning. It had worked with others who leeched off my dear Robert, so I tried. Unfortunately, it didn’t work.”
My ears start ringing, and I put a hand on the wall next to me.
She goes on to reveal exactly how unhinged she is. “I’m looking further, so don’t you worry. I’m sure I’ll find a way to get rid of that scum.”
“Holy fuck,” Matt whispers next to me.
“Fucking Christ. Holy fucking Christ.” My blood runs cold. My heart hammers. Sweat breaks along my skin, thinking that Becca could be taken from me. “That bitch had better not make bail.”
“Holy fuck,” he repeats, and I glance at him to see his face has gone pale. “That nut job could have murdered Becca.”
Seeing my strong partner pale makes me lose the last shred of my control. I push away from the wall and storm toward the door separating us and that fucking cunt. My muscles are hard, and my vision is filmed in red. My fury radiates out of me so intensely that it feels like a physical thing.
A hand on my shoulder pauses my progress, but I shrug it off.
“Zach.” Matt grabs my shoulder.
I shrug it off again.
He captures my bicep with his hand, making me turn to him. “Don’t—”
With my pulse pounding in my temples, I rip his hand from my arm and shove him.
He stumbles a step before I lose sight of him as I turn.
Nearly to the door, I stop when Matt speaks, “Becca is gonna need you, man. Don’t do this.”
I turn my head to face him, my expression like marble.
“I want to go in there and rip her face off, too, but I need to keep my head together.” He steps toward me. “For the case, for Becca, don’t do something stupid.”
What he’s saying pierces through my anger, and my muscles unwind a little bit.
“We need to hear the rest of what she’s saying and get all the details. You need to get your shit together because when we’re done here, we’re gonna have to lay all this out for Becca.”
Fuck, he’s right.
Letting my chin fall to my chest, I breathe in deeply. For the first time in my life, I hate my job.
Shit.
I Win
I’m standing at the counter, stirring the sauce in the Crock-Pot. I’ve made marinara sauce before, but after we visited Zach’s parents again two weeks ago, I asked his mom for some tips. So, this time, I used my Magic Bullet mini blender that I’d bought a few days ago to grind up fresh oregano and fresh basil. I fried that mixture along with onions and a shit-ton of garlic. I put everything plus the meatballs and sausage, red wine, crushed tomatoes, tomato paste, and water into the Crock-Pot, and I’ve been stirring every half hour or so. I think meatball-and-sausage subs can be added to my food truck menu. Since I’m already planning on frying chicken, chicken parm subs can be added, too. I’m chewing on the idea of adding a dinner special also—lasagna one night, stuffed shells another, and so on.
Today, I painted the inside of the truck. I looked into people who do stenciling,
and I have the job narrowed down to three. I asked them to draw up something, and then I’ll choose from their drawings.
I have a good man at my back, and I’m starting to trust that he wants to stay there. My dreams are unfolding in front of me. I’m happy, truly happy, for the first time in my life.
The sound of the door unlocking makes my heart skip a beat. The click of the door shutting makes a smile spread across my face.
“I’m gonna need your opinion on this sauce. I know your mom makes this shit orgasmic, but…” I trail off when I turn my head and catch sight of Zach’s hard jaw and tense eyes.
My stomach drops, and I turn to face him fully, my pulse kicking up a notch. My eyes are so riveted on Zach’s troubled expression that I didn’t notice Matt until I see movement at Zach’s side. Matt’s lips are pressed so tightly together that they’re nearly white, and his face is so drawn that he looks ten years older.
When my life has been so full of hope and promise lately, their combined looks have my body tightening, my heart mending the surrounding scattered rubble that was once my wall, my security.
“What happened?” My voice holds more steel than it has in weeks.
Zach steps forward, and I take a step back, my lower back hitting the biting edge of the counter. Zach doesn’t falter as he strides in my direction with a look I’ve seen before and seen often. The hardness of his jaw and the glint in his eyes bellow determination, but something is off.
Once he’s close enough, he cages me in against the counter with his muscled long arms on either side of me. He’s done this before, and it has freaked me out. Then, other times when he’s done this, I’ve felt a tingle between my legs. Yet, other times, I’ve just felt safe. This cage he’s creating seems both protective but restraining.
While my heart is still working overtime to build up my wall again, my body tenses, bracing for news. What news I have no fucking clue, but I struggle to fight the icicles of fear from seeping into my veins.
“What happened?” My voice is high-pitched.
Zach buries his face in my neck, and he inhales deeply. What he doesn’t do is answer my goddamn question.
Matt slides in next to Zach, making our huddle close. My throat clogs, and I struggle for air when Matt’s eyes shimmer.
I swallow hard. “The girls?”
He shakes his head, and I release the breath I was holding since I asked my question.
“What—”
Matt puts a hand on Zach’s shoulder. “Let’s get her in the living room and sitting down, yeah?”
Zach pulls in another gulp of air before letting it out and taking a step back. He blanks his features, which makes me freeze because Zach rarely shields his emotions from me.
Zach snags my hand and tugs me forward. My heart trips over itself before lodging firmly in my airway.
“Are you okay?” My words come out croaked. My eyes sting as I think the worst. “Are you sick?”
Zach stops and glances over his shoulder before he pulls me into his arms, hugging me fiercely. Tears fill my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.
“Sweets, I’m fine. Promise.”
I let out a shaky breath and force my pulse to slow. Zach leads me into the living room and sits me in the middle of the couch before taking a seat next to me. Matt sits on my other side.
Matt and Zach look at each other, exchanging some sort of manly communication, but I don’t have the patience for it. My head is racing with possibilities, ranging from really bad to catastrophic to life-ending.
Looking back and forth between the two guys who mean the most to me, the hairs on my arms rise. “Would you guys just spit it the fuck out already? My anxiety is hitting dangerous levels.”
Zach breathes deeply. I think he’s about to spill, and I keep my eyes locked on his face, so I don’t miss a nuance of his expression.
“We had some information come in today.” His voice is low, careful.
“Okay…” I draw the word out.
“About your mom.”
My jaw drops, and my lungs seize, making speech an impossibility.
Zach’s eyes skitter across my face. I doubt he sees anything but a frozen expression. Matt takes my hand, and I close my mouth, swallow hard, and shift my focus to him.
“Something I didn’t tell you before, and I’ll explain why later if you want, but until today, Elizabeth Bailey’s death was ruled a suicide.”
I jerk as if he backhanded me across the face with all his strength, and when my eyes come back to him, they instantly fill with tears. My mama, whom I’ve mourned for over fifteen goddamn years, took herself from me. That knowledge cuts through me like a rusty blade, reopening previous wounds. My breath comes in and out of my lungs at a desperate, fevered pace, but I still can’t pull in enough oxygen. It’s like losing her all over again, only worse because it wasn’t an accident.
Then, her suicide hits me like a fireball to the chest.
I didn’t do anything.
I did nothing to help her.
I just let her drown in whatever demons she had until she couldn’t even take the pain for me.
“Becca.” Matt snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Jesus, Becca. Fuck, come back to reality.”
My vision and thoughts clear, and I focus on Matt’s drawn face as I realize I passed over part of his sentence.
Until today.
“What happened today?”
Matt’s eyes drift shut, and his chest expands as he pulls in air. Zach slides an arm around my shoulders. I tense just slightly before settling into the crook of his arm. Matt’s eyelids clench, clearly not ready to open anytime soon. A buzz thumping through my veins, I slide my teary eyes to Zach. His expression is still blank, but he does the tongue-under-the-lip thing.
I lock eyes with him and whisper, “Tell me.”
His eyes narrow briefly in a flinch before he pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Erin Pierce confessed to her murder today.”
I’m in shock, Novocain threading through my veins and numbing every cell of my body. “What?”
“Today,” Zach explains, keeping his voice soft, “Erin Pierce confessed to murdering your mom and two others because her husband cheated on her with them.”
The numbness recedes, and white-hot fire oozes in, winding through my body and eating up every piece of me.
I lurch to my feet and scream, “That stupid motherfucking bitch killed my mama for doing her job?”
Zach stands. “Becca—”
I pace, throwing my arms around. “I cannot believe this.”
“Bee, honey—”
Tears hit my eyes. “Fuck!”
An arm comes around my waist, and from the woodsy smell, I know it’s Zach, but I bat at him. “Not now, Zach.”
He releases me, and I continue to pace.
My breathing is short and rapid because my lungs feel like an iron fist is squeezing them. “I…can’t…God!”
“Bee—”
Tears well, but the heat coursing through my body won’t let me give into them. “Who fucking does that?”
“Becca—” Zach starts.
I spin around, wipe my tears off with the backs of my hands, and dart my eyes back and forth between Zach and Matt. “How?”
“Sweets, come sit down.”
“Tell me how that cunt killed my mom.” My tone is hard.
“Sit—” Matt starts.
“Tell me!”
“Sweets, sit down, and we’ll tell you.”
I plant my feet like they’ve taken root and shoot fire from my eyes.
“Right.” Zach sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “She said she stole a key to your place from her husband’s key chain and copied it. Then, she broke in and poured crushed pills down your mom’s throat. She said your mom was so drunk that she just swallowed it.”
Each word shoves the new reality home, and my mind stumbles to get itself sorted, erasing what it knows. My head goes light and foggy, entering a dreamlike
state. My jumbled mind turns over and over until something doesn’t fit, and my mind clears.
“How did her husband have a key?”
Matt pulls in an audible breath, and my gaze flies to him.
“They were dating.”
I rock back. “What?”
“Your mom and her husband were dating, and it sounds like they were doing it for a while.”
I look to the floor, swallowing, as I struggle with this. How did she do her job and date on the side?
“Sweets, look at me.”
I close my eyes and pull in air and courage with it before lifting my tense, watery eyes to him.
“Your mom was a stripper.”
I sway back on a foot, my eyes growing huge, as my mouth drops. My eyes dart to Matt, and he nods.
“But…I thought she was a prostitute.”
Matt pulls in his bottom lip. “Why did you think that?”
“Well…” Looking to the ceiling, I pull up the painful memories of my childhood, but I’m fighting to just remember what happened and not bring back the pain. “Everyone said she was. She would leave the house looking like all the other hookers on the street…” I trail off.
“Who’s everyone?” Matt asks quietly.
I bite my top lip. “Well…” I start, my skin itching at the topic of conversation. “Kids at school.”
“Anyone else?” Matt pushed.
I shook my head. “I didn’t really interact with anyone besides kids at school, and even then, I only had a friend or two but never anyone close. Kim started saying—” My mouth pops open, and my palms get sweaty before I whisper, “Holy fuck.”
Zach’s brows furrow. “What?”
“Holy fuck.” My voice is just loud enough to be heard.
“Jesus, fuck. What?”
I burst out laughing hysterically, cackling, as I bend over at the waist, struggling to breathe. My laughter eventually brings me down to a knee. The hilarity lasts so long that I get a stitch in my side, and I go down to my hands and both knees. The painful reality gouges through me, slicing me open with unimaginable heartache, and it makes my hysterics turn into sobs. Heartrending, throat-burning cries are torn from deep inside my gut, leaving me gasping for a whisper of a breath.
Everything that I think I am, what I thought my mom was, is a lie. My mom wasn’t a prostitute but a stripper. Truthfully, I understand prostitution is the oldest profession, and I get that women are driven to it, but the label that comes with it, the label that was slapped on me, beat me down. It beat me down so much that I spent my life trying to prove it wasn’t me. Being a stripper isn’t great on the morality line, but at least it’s legal.
Screw It Page 21