During my years as a pharmaceutical rep, just one pill would knock me out for an eight-hour flight. In the beginning, it had been hard for me to sleep with so many distractions, and there were days when the flight was my only chance for sleep. After a while, I learned to sleep without the pills, but I always kept a few on hand for particularly noisy flights.
I twisted off the cap, refusing to let myself think about what I was doing. I had to get myself out of that house. I had to get the police to McKenna. This had to end.
I poured the remaining four pills out of the bottle and placed it back where it had been. I shut the cabinet and picked up the metal soap dispenser, pressing it into the pills until they split, sending powder everywhere. I swept the medicine into my palm and flipped off the light, hurrying down the hall again.
This time, I turned left and rushed into his office. I opened the second drawer quickly, pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. I took a deep breath and lifted my palm to the bottle, dropping the white powder into the drink. I lifted the bottle so it was eye level and swirled it around, watching as the medicine dissolved. There was a tiny bit of white left fizzing to the top, but I doubted very much that he would notice it. Not in his current state.
I pressed my ear to the office door, listening to be sure I didn’t hear him before I opened it. The next step was the scariest, but it had to be done. I went to the back set of stairs that led directly to our kitchen. They were extremely narrow and noisy and we preferred not to use them, but in this instance I had no other choice. I tiptoed down them, pressing my foot into each step carefully to ease the squeaks. I could still hear him in the living room, and I stopped at the edge of the kitchen before passing through the doorway. I could see him, his back to me, on his hands and knees. He was scrubbing the floor, and I was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of bleach. He was cleaning up my blood. I realized it in an instant, and I wondered just how much of a mess I’d made for him. From the way my head throbbed, I’d say quite a bit.
I placed the bottle on the counter, opening the cabinet to see what he had left. I pulled a full bottle down and dumped it down the drain, making the liquid splash against the side of the sink so it wouldn’t make too much noise. When I was done, I placed it in the trashcan and started to put the tainted bottle in its place. I just had to hope my husband made it through the bottle he was drinking and to this one before the night was over. If I knew him at all, he would.
“What are you doing?”
I spun around, nearly dropping the bottle to the ground, but I managed to catch it. I flinched at the sight of my husband. Our eyes locked together, and it was clear we were at a standoff. Which of us would budge first?
The idea came to me as fast as it left my mouth, and I was flying by the seat of my pants as I went. “Oh, Mark, are you okay?” I darted toward him, reaching for his blood-soaked shirt. “What happened?”
He cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“Are you hurt? Where did this blood come from?” I tried my damndest to look innocent, but I’m pretty sure his buzz was the only thing making it work.
“I, um,” he scratched the back of his neck, “you don’t remember?”
I shook my head. “Remember what?”
“You, um, fell earlier,” he said. He wasn’t even trying to make it convincing, the lie clearly forming in his head as he spoke. “On the ground. Hit your head. Bled a lot. It was bad.”
“Oh,” I said, touching a place that wasn’t hurting before I bumped the wound on my head. “Ouch. Yes, I guess I did. Well, no wonder I have such a headache. I don’t remember a thing. Is it bad?” I moved to the left, unwilling to turn my back on him, and glanced at my reflection in the toaster. “Yikes. Should we go to the hospital?”
“Head wounds just bleed a lot,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”
What limited knowledge he had of anything medical I was sure he’d gotten from reruns of House, but I nodded anyway. “Okay, good. Thank you for…for taking care of me. I was…going to pour myself a glass. Do you want some?”
“Sure,” he said, eyeing the bottle suspiciously. I was afraid I’d been caught, but he was at least giving me the benefit of the doubt. He made no mention of the alcohol that was undoubtedly sitting in the living room waiting on him as he took the bottle from me. He lifted it to the light and stared at it for a moment before sniffing it.
I forced a giggle. “What are you doing?”
He shoved it toward me. “You first.”
“What do you think I’ve done to it?” I asked, my lips pressed in a line as I faked a dubious look. He didn’t answer but pushed the bottle toward me again. “I-I don’t know. With my head, maybe I shouldn’t be drinking.”
“Drink it,” he said again, and I saw the vein in his neck throb, causing my lips to quiver. With a whimper, I put the bottle to my lips and chugged, hoping it would be enough to end it all. It burned as it went down and I choked and chortled, but I didn’t stop drinking until the bottle was jerked from my grasp. Much to my dismay, I’d barely made a dent in the amount that I’d left for him. It felt like I’d almost had it gone.
He lifted the bottle to his lips, staring at me out of the corner of his eyes as he drank. When he lowered it, he licked his lips. After a moment, he took another swig. Within minutes, the remainder of the liquid was gone. I watched his movements, waiting to see if he’d grow tired quickly.
As the room began to grow hazy, my eyes feeling heavy, I let out a troubled yawn. It was as if I’d managed to get all of the pills in my teaspoon of alcohol, while my husband had a fourth of the bottle and didn’t seem affected.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Mhm,” I said, rubbing the back of my hand across my forehead. “I-I think I’m going to go to bed now.”
He nodded, watching me suspiciously as I walked from the room. I hit the stairs quickly, my movements feeling sluggish as my eyes began to droop. I made it to the top of the stairs before my knees gave out and I dropped to the ground. If he found me there, he’d know something was wrong. I knew that. I knew I was setting myself up for trouble, yet I couldn’t move. I couldn’t make my muscles do what I needed them to, couldn’t make my mind care.
As I faded off into a deep slumber, I remember hearing the front door slam. Was someone coming or going? I had no idea. I had no idea about anything anymore.
The next thing I remember, the front doorbell was ringing. I opened my eyes slowly, surprised to see so much light around me. It was morning and I was still alive, though I didn’t know how or why.
The doorbell rang again, and I edged myself down the stairs, groaning with each bump. I tried to piece together my memories of the night, wondering what day or time it was. When I reached the living room, I glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. Mark’s jacket and keys were missing from their places.
I pulled open the door, still utterly confused and trying to force my sleep-coated mind to clear. The police officers stood in front of me, and I lunged for them, everything coming back to me all at once. I was screaming something about my husband and how he was trying to kill me. I don’t think the words made any sense as they mixed with tears and snot. I may have thrown up, too. I can’t even remember, truth be told.
What I do remember, though, is one of the officers grabbing my arms. His voice was loud and deep, like the man from the old Allstate commercials. He placed his face in front of mine and managed to cut through all the fog of my brain as he spoke.
“You’re safe, Mrs. Oliver. You’re safe. Your husband can’t hurt you.”
“You don’t know that,” I argued, struggling against his grip as I tried to look behind me, sure Mark would be coming out from wherever he was soon. “He has a gun. He’s going to kill me!”
“Ma’am, your husband can’t kill anyone,” he said firmly. “Do you hear me? Mark’s dead. Your husband is dead.”
I collapsed then, my knees buckling so quickly I slammed onto the porch. “W-what?”
“Mark is…”
“That’s right,” he told me. “He’s dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Her
PRESENT DAY
“If what you’re telling me is true, Mrs. Oliver—”
“Hannah, please,” I correct him, unsure why he’s choosing to call me Mrs. Oliver now. “I’ll be changing my name soon enough.”
“Hannah,” my lawyer says, dipping his head down with respect. “If what you’re telling me is true, you didn’t kill your husband. Not enough to convict you of murder anyway. It was manslaughter at best, and with your testimony—”
“I don’t want to testify,” I say. “I deserve to go to prison.”
“Why do you say that?” he asks, laying down his pen. “You were trying to protect yourself. You believed your husband was going to kill you.”
“I jumped to conclusions. My husband was a violent man, an angry man, but I killed him. His actions don’t justify mine.”
“That’s not your job to decide. The jury will—”
“I don’t want a jury.”
“We may not even need a jury. If we can explain what’s happened, they may let you plea down anyway.”
“All due respect, counselor, I want to take the plea deal the prosecutor has already offered. I want to serve my time and move on with my life.”
His gray brows furrow. “Now, your parents didn’t hire me so I could get you a basic plea deal like the one they’re offering. Any cut-rate legal defender could do that.”
“Then perhaps I need to get one of those.” I fold my hands on the table in front of me.
“Why are you so dead set on going to jail?” he asks. “I don’t understand.”
“Because I made a mistake. I’m no better than Mark.”
“Your husband raped McKenna Logan, he beat you nearly to death—”
“And I murdered him.”
“You didn’t hold a gun to his head, Hannah.”
“I may as well have. He told me he wasn’t going to kill me. I could’ve waited and left once things had calmed down.”
“You didn’t know that!”
“I didn’t know half of what I thought I did, and now we both know that.”
He leans away from me in his chair, one arm thrown over the back. “So what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to do your job, Mr. Cavendish, and at the moment that job is to do what I’ve asked you to do. So, bring me the papers and let me sign whatever deal they’ve offered, and let’s get this over with, shall we?”
He sighs at me, and I can see the years of age his troublesome clients have added to his face. “You’re making a mistake.”
I wrinkle my nose at him, picking at a piece of skin near my nail. “I’ve done that before.”
“You couldn’t have known!”
“I should have. I should have known,” I say, feeling my eyes brim with fresh tears. “There’s one last thing I haven’t told you, and…it changes everything.”
Chapter Thirty
Her
THE DAY OF MARK’S DEATH
I lied before when I told you the only place I went the morning I left the house was to the grocery store where I ran into McKenna. I did a few things before that. I was suspicious. I’d let it go, but I kept thinking back to that letter I’d found on Mark’s computer. The one I’d dismissed as being for a client. With all the new things I was finding out about him, about his past and the secrets it held, and then all the new allegations, it felt like my duty to get to know the man I’d married before he became the man I’d married.
I needed to know the truth about everything.
My first stop was to head to the bar where Mark and I first met. I knew from the day of his first accident that he was still a regular customer. I wasn’t sure exactly what I hoped to find there, but it seemed like if anyone knew my husband better than I did, it would be his old bar family.
Vic was wiping down the counter when I walked in. She was the last person I was hoping to talk to, honestly. I was hoping to see the waiter from before.
“Can I help you?” Vic asked. “We aren’t open yet.” I could tell by her determined expression she was trying to figure out where she knew me from.
“Oh, I know. Sorry,” I rushed toward the counter so I wasn’t having to yell across the room. “I, um, I’m Hannah. Ol—”
“Oliver,” she finished for me. “I knew you looked familiar.”
“Yes, well—”
“How’s Mark? He here with you?” She looked over my shoulder with wide, hopeful eyes.
“No, he’s not, it’s just me. Actually, I was hoping to ask someone a few questions about him.”
She picked up a glass, shining it with the same rag she’d just used on the counter. “Ask away.”
“I’m hoping this can stay between us. I mean, I know you’re friends…”
“I hardly know Mark, except for when he comes in here for drinks. Truth be told, some of the guys love him, but he’s never been a very good tipper. That kind of makes him just a customer, you know? No offense. I know he’s your husband.” She shrugged. “He’s hot. I get it. But still…kind of a jerk.”
I smirked. “No offense taken. So, you didn’t know him from college?”
“No, just here. Why?”
I shook my head. “I was hoping to find someone who knew him from college. For a…birthday surprise.”
She wiggled her eyebrows. “Oooh, a threesome?”
My eyes grew wide, and I shook my head sharply. “No!”
She laughed and offered me a wink. “Hey, I didn’t go to college, but even I can tell you that would be the best birthday gift you could give him. Anyway, just a sec.” She disappeared behind the bar, leaving me to stare at the words and names carved into its wood. I ran my fingers along a set of initials, thinking of all the possibilities that started here.
When Vic came back, she was holding a business card. “Here. You should contact Arizona Ferris. She manages the bank on the corner of Fifth and Elm. She’s come in here a few times to meet with Mark. They seem like just friends, but I remember Mark always introduced her as an old college buddy. Maybe she can help you with whatever it is you’re looking for.”
I stared at the business card, wondering why I’d never heard of Arizona Ferris. “Thank you,” I told her, glancing up at her. “This helps a ton. Do you…I mean, should I take a photo of it?”
“Keep it,” she said with a wave of her hand. “She leaves stacks of them every time she’s in. Our patrons aren’t exactly the money market crowd, anyway.”
“Thank you, Vic,” I said again. “And if you could please just remember to keep this—”
She held up two fingers. “Just between us. You have my word.”
With that, I dashed out of the bar and back out onto the crowded street. I looked at the address on the business card, searching for a street sign that matched. Finally, I saw a blue logo on a building that matched the one on the card in my hand. I crossed the street and headed a block up until I reached my destination.
The bank was small; they had just a limited amount of space on the first floor. The layout was different than I expected. It had been years since I’d actually had to go inside a bank, though. I guess the banking industry had changed a bit. The row of tellers I was used to was down to just two smiling faces, and there was an ATM in the middle of the lobby.
“Hello there,” one teller said, offering up a smile. “I can help you over here. What can I do for you?” She patted the window in front of her, and I approached her station.
“I’m looking for your manager…Arizona?” I held up the business card.
“Of course,” she said. “If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll let her know you’re waiting. Is she expecting you?”
I shook my head.
“No worries,” she said, picking up the phone. “Just have a seat. Help yourself to a bottle of water or a cup of coffee.”
No sooner had I sat down, than a door to an office on my right opened and out glided a redheaded woman, her heels clicking loudly on the floor.
“Hi!” she said, her voice too cheery. “I’m Arizona.” I stood as she stretched her arm out to shake my hand. “How can I help you?”
“My name’s Hannah Oliver, I think you know my husband, Mark.”
I tried to see if her eyes grew dark or fearful, but to my relief, they didn’t. “I do, yes. Is everything okay?”
“Could we…um, go in your office? It’s kind of private.”
“Of course,” she said, stepping back and holding out her arm for me to lead the way. She was trying to decide why I was there, but I didn’t sense any true worry. Perhaps she and Mark truly had been just friends after all. I would expect an old girlfriend to hold more resentment than she was exhibiting.
Once we were in her office, she shut the door and took a seat across from me. “Now, then, Mrs. Oliver, what can I do for you?” She was pretty in a traditional way, porcelain skin and dark brown eyes that stood out against her bright red hair.
“Just, just Hannah, please. I, um, I’m trying to find out some information about my husband’s past. I checked the bar where he used to work, and they said you guys go there together sometimes.”
“We do,” she said, then shrugged. “Only once or twice, though; it’s certainly not a regular thing. I’ve been trying to get his firm’s accounts since he started there. I can assure you we’re just friends, if that’s what this is about.” She wagged her fingers in the air, showing off a large diamond ring set before she turned a picture on her desk around so I could see her family. A husband and two children—they were a picture-perfect crew.
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