Burned Bridges: Oliana Mercer Series Prequel (Crossing Series)

by Marguerite Ashton

  I took a deep breath.

  “No. I can beat this,” I said to myself.

  I ran into my room for my purse, dumped its contents out on my side of the bed, and frantically searched for Jessie’s card.

  Found it.

  I fumbled with the phone and dialed her home number.

  Ring... Ring...

  I went into the living room so as not to wake Marc. “Please still be at home.”

  Jessie’s voicemail cut in. I hung up and punched in the number to her cell.

  Again, no answer.

  I slammed the phone down, buried my face into the couch pillows and screamed. As I clutched my gown in my hands, the screams washed over into tears.

  My phone rang.

  Thinking it was Jessie, I answered.

  “What have you gotten yourself into with this girl on television? I saw a glimpse of you standing in your house with two men.”

  The bile in my stomach boiled at my mother’s familiar tone of reprimand. What could she possibly want?

  “Hello, Karin.”

  “Karin? You call me Mom. What have you done?”

  “I was attending her birthday party, Mother.”

  “Leave it to you to make a stupid decision such as that.”

  I squeezed my eyes tightly as if I could make everything toxic in my life disappear, including my mother. Especially my mother. “I have to go.”

  “Wait, don’t hang up.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m at the age now where anything could happen to me, and you’d never know it. Why don’t you call to check on me?”

  “Fine, Mother. If that is what you want, I’ll call more often.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Mother, let’s not pretend this phone call is some sort of long, awaited reunion. Our past is still present in my mind.”

  “You’re still harping on the accident?”

  “It’s not just the accident. It’s how you treated me. Then and now. You never found anything nice to say and on the rare occasion that you did, it was followed with a not so nice compliment.”

  “Your sperm donor left a week after you were born. I’m sorry you were burdened with an imperfect mother. I did my best with what I had. I realize that you’re always going to hold my mistakes over my head. You think having me for a mother is your cross to bear. Well, having an ungrateful daughter is mine.”

  The sharp click in my ear stirred up old reminders of rejection. Karin always made it clear that her low opinion of me was my fault.

  I felt as if I was being sucked into a whirlpool filled with wasps that stung me repeatedly as I was pulled under in slow motion.

  I placed the cordless on its base.

  Karin’s world revolved around her. In that world there was no room left for me, her only daughter.

  Hot anger seethed through me. Without any conscious effort on my part, my feet carried me toward the freezer.

  Just what I needed to cool me down.

  Just what I needed.

  The pop the cap made as I opened the bottle was the sweetest sound I’d heard in weeks.

  Chapter 11

  My body ached. I awoke, bleary-eyed, sprawled out across the bed. The view from my window hinted at early morning. If I was going to make it on time to work, I knew I had to push my limits to get out the door.

  Oh, my God. What had I done? I knew it! Just knew it: I was going to be a terrible mom.

  I rose and wrapped my arms around my belly. I had failed my child. Upset, I called Jessie. She told me work could wait. Told me to stay put; she was on her way.

  Long, slow, guilt-ridden minutes passed. My thinking process was sluggish. I barely had enough energy to make my way to the couch before the doorbell rang.

  “Oh, Jessie,” I cried, letting her in.

  She gave me a good squeeze and said, “It’s okay, sweetie. Let’s go to the kitchen and make some coffee.”

  Jessie sat me down, hurled her purse with a thud onto the table, and continued to comfort me as I cried uncontrollably. For a while, neither of us said much. When she finished making the coffee, she joined me at the kitchen table.

  “So, you fell off the wagon?”

  How could she be so nonchalant about the whole thing?

  “No worries, dear. You are not the first this has happened to, and you will not be the last.”

  “I feel so stupid. How could I put my baby at such a risk? All those days of sobriety wasted. Gone down the tubes.”

  “First off, you’re not the first woman who has had a drink during pregnancy. Talk with your doctor and see what he says. You’ve had a bad slip; don’t beat yourself up over this.”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Then dust yourself off and soldier on,” she said. “Here, take this.”

  She handed me a sobriety ribbon. It read: Day 1.

  I had to reset my sober count, starting at the beginning again. In a way, the ribbon was my punishment for disappointing the one who needed me the most. I felt as if I had scraped the skin of my soul against a wall of sharp edged rocks and the blood that seeped from my wounds was a cry from my unborn. In another way, however, that ribbon was my lifeline. Today, and every day for the rest of my life, was a new day full of possibilities. I could choose to make it a good one or choose to self-destruct. It was up to me.

  Day 1. Starting now.

  Chapter 12

  The transition of not having Olivia in our lives was like having someone extracted from our family, leaving us scrambling to put the pieces together again.

  I was confused and concerned and had a lot more questions than I did answers. Olivia and I talked twice on the phone, but knowing that jail calls were recorded, I kept what I wanted to say to myself. Olivia did tell me that she told the police she had gotten the gun weeks back for personal protection.

  I wanted her to explain why she had taken the gun after giving it to me. I also wanted to know if she knew Reginald was going to be at the party, and if so, why she attended.

  I was so angry with her for using me. To my knowledge, I was the only one who knew about the gun; the only one who knew how badly she had wanted to see Reginald hurt the way he had hurt her.

  On Sunday, almost two weeks after Reginald was killed, Kevin, Norman, and I made a trip to Duran’s before our meeting with Jessie.

  My cravings for alcohol were so intense its taste was on the tip of my tongue. I had no intention of repeating my mistake again while pregnant. I envisioned my addiction as a virus that fed on my energy; the only way for me to survive its attack was to find things that would keep me busy.

  Jessie suggested attending as many group sessions as I could a week instead of one. I hoped she was right.

  We sat in our usual spot, and the three of us kept looking at the empty chair where Olivia would sit twirling her dream catcher as if she wanted it to stop not just nightmares, but whatever had haunted her during the day.

  “I miss her,” Kevin said.

  Norman closed his tablet. “She’s a gal who’s suffered a lot.”

  “I’m just hoping her attorney can prove that,” I said.

  “Philip is one of the most prominent lawyers in Colorado.”

  How Norman managed to get Philip V. Jenkins, Esq., to take on Olivia’s case was beyond me, but I was grateful that he’d pulled whatever strings he had. Her pretrial was set for next week. “Didn’t he get those Harrison twins, the ones who were indicted for killing their girlfriends, found not guilty?”

  “That’s him.”

  The three of us finished our drinks and left for our meeting.

  By the time we started the session with The Lord’s Prayer, I already wished it was over. Even with my confusion and unanswered questions, I didn’t care to partake in any of the discussions.

  Dismal thoughts crowded my brain. Most depressing of all was the realization that the one thing I wanted most seemed to be crumbling in front of my eyes. Marc’s trip with
Stephanie was a slap in the face. Even if their relationship was only work related and totally platonic, I could feel the distance between us widening enough to see the long stretch of the Front Range.

  When I left the meeting at Jessie’s, there was a message on my phone from a detective who was working on Olivia’s case. She wanted to know when I was available for an interview.

  I returned her call and arranged to meet with her at the house.

  When I got home, my neglected mailbox overflowed with mail while flowers and a gift basket sat on the porch. I brought everything in and opened the first piece of mail addressed to me. I was shocked to find it was a letter to Olivia.

  I scanned the note. It was from someone showing her support toward Olivia. Quickly, I read the others. One was from another backer, and the other one spewed hate.

  Then I remembered the flowers and basket, plucked the card from the pick cardholder, and read it.

  They were for her as well.

  How did these people find out where I lived? Was my friendship with Olivia putting my baby and me in danger?

  As I tried to flush out any doubts that plagued me, I kept going back to the one question that I had yet to answer.

  What was I going to tell the detective?

  Even though my frustrations with Olivia centered on the gun, it was the one piece of evidence that could send her to prison, and after knowing what she’d been through, I didn’t think I wanted to be responsible for doing that.

  Olivia never had anyone she could trust. I’d betrayed her confidence once by telling Norman her story without her permission. I promised to be there for her. I wanted to keep that promise, but how could I stay in her camp if she had purposely brought the gun intending to harm her brother?

  At the party, Reginald had said she’d threatened him before but didn’t go through with it. What stopped her?

  The more I thought about it, the more I saw Reginald’s smug, remorseless grin, the more I was determined to do the right thing for Olivia so that she could get the help she needed and try to start anew.

  A knock at the door interrupted my mental traffic jam; I hurried to let the detective in.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Ms. Collins,” she said, flashing her identification. “As I told you on the phone, my name is Detective Delgado and I’m with the Denver Police. I have some questions I’m hoping you could answer to help clear things up.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Please sit,” I offered, pointing to the couch.

  I watched as she scoped out my things around her. Her eyes even stared at the linen closet for a few seconds too long. The detective’s eyes finally dropped back on me. She smiled. “Nice home you have.”

  “It was my grandmother’s. Ranch style homes were her favorite.”

  “Really? My grandfather owns one over on Eagle Street.”

  I smiled, pretending to care. “I love it here.”

  “So, how are things going for you since that night?” She pulled out a notepad.

  “It’s been hectic.”

  “I can understand. Did you know Reginald Durning?”

  “No. I only knew of him through Olivia.”

  “How did you come to know Olivia?”

  “We met at Alcoholics Crisis Center. I’ve known her for almost two months.”

  Detective Delgado jotted notes quickly onto her pad. “Were you aware of her past concerning her brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she act in the days before the party?”

  Her question gave me pause. I worried about giving the wrong answer. “She was moody.”

  “Did you spend a lot of time with her?”

  “Lately, yes.”

  “Was there a reason for the increased time being spent together?”

  “Not that I can think of. We would have our Thursday dinners with the others—”

  “Others? May I have their names?”

  “Norman Mercer and Kevin Walsh.”

  “Were they at the party too?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have an address or a number where they can be reached?”

  I zeroed in on a scratch sheet of paper on the coffee table, wrote down the guys’ numbers and handed it to her. She took it and slid it between the pages of her notepad.

  “Okay. Sorry for interrupting, go on.”

  “Um, there were the dinners and as time neared for the party, she seemed more comfortable spending a night here at times.”

  “Did you know that she was in possession of an unregistered handgun?”

  There it was. The question I had been dreading. I leaned forward and balled my fist in my lap. My stomach knotted up. Did Olivia tell them that I knew? I shifted in my seat.

  “Ms. Collins?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry. This is my first pregnancy and the morning sickness tends to come around in the night also.”

  She laughed. “No problem.”

  “No. I didn’t know about the gun.”

  “Where you present when she pulled out the gun at the party?”

  “Not the first time. I was in the bathroom,” I said, pointing at my belly.

  “I understand.”

  Detective Delgado made more notes and slid the pad inside her pocket. She handed me her card. “If there is anything you can think of, call me at this number.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  When I opened the door to let her out, flashes from cameras snapped simultaneously. Journalists. Hungry for an exclusive scoop of dirt. I closed the door and leaned against it.

  What have I done?

  Panic threatened. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. Maybe it was my motherly instinct kicking in, but for some reason, I felt compelled to help her. Because more than anything, I wanted to protect Olivia.

  Chapter 13

  When the latest issue of the Denver County Daily landed on my porch, I was taken aback by an interview that Linda had given, confirming earlier reports that Olivia was a troubled teen with mental health problems. Why would she talk to the reporters?

  I was drowning in questions and doubt. I had a sudden flashback to the time I was twenty-six, sitting before the computer screen and had to answer two-hundred multiple questions for my PACE exam.

  Later that evening, when I was getting ready for a group session at the church, I glanced out of my living room window and saw members of the media standing around out in front of my home.

  I grabbed my purse and cane and locked the door behind me. Before I could get to my car, reporters shoved microphones in my face.

  “Ms. Collins, how do you know the defendant?” one reporter asked.

  “She’s a friend,” I said, pushing through the mob of reporters.

  “Did you know she had the gun?” another pressed.

  “Please, I’m going to be late.”

  I found an opening, got into my car and started the engine. I backed out of the driveway, chirping the tires as I sped away.

  I shook my head.

  If the media were convinced I was connected to Olivia, everything I said and did would be under a microscope. I would be as much a prisoner as she was – contained within my house and my car, with reporters for guards.

  Chapter 14

  On the day of Olivia’s pretrial hearing, both Kevin and Norman had to work. I was the only one who could attend.

  In room 130 at the district courthouse, I sat in the first row of the gallery, behind Olivia and her attorney. A few suits with their clients sat scattered on the oak benches.

  Our presence did nothing to warm the icy atmosphere of the courtroom. I tried to imagine what it must be like for my friend to have to return to the steel-gray chamber with a bunk bed barely wide enough for a railroad car sleeping birth.

  Her hair was in a ballerina-sleek bun. Dressed as she was, in a pair of slacks and a lemon curd tunic top with a handkerchief hem, she looked as dangerous as a marshmallow.

  “Your Honor, it has been established through psychological
assessments and the professional opinions of Dr. James Halverson that my client was not able to distinguish between right and wrong during the time the act occurred and that the victim, Reginald Durning, was, up until that fatal day, regularly mentally abusing his sister.

  “The original cause of my client’s distress stemmed from sexual and mental abuse throughout her youth and his attendance at her birthday party was a trigger for her. If it pleases the court, I would like to have the mental health evidence entered and have it presented directly before a judge.”

  “Was Ms. During found competent to stand trial?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Ms. Durning, do you understand that you’re waiving your rights to a fair trial?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Does the State contest?”

  “No, Your Honor. We’re working on a plea bargain with the defense, but would like to request more time to review all of the evidence.”

  “Granted. We’ll set a date for a sentencing hearing, and the defendant will be remanded into the custody of Denver County Jail. This court is adjourned.”

  Olivia turned to me and waved as the bailiff unlatched the silver handcuffs from his case.

  “Place your hands behind your back,” he said.

  The officer put the cuffs around her wrists and locked them in place.

  My heart wrenched as Olivia was escorted through the side door and sent back to the smothering of general population.

  Chapter 15

  As I got ready to head into the law firm, I took a quick look out the peephole. The press had set up mobile offices near my lawn and at the end of the block on Albion Street. People exited their news vans with cup carriers and bags of food while chatting on their phones.

  Not wanting to get caught I went through the back door, got in my car and backed out of the driveway. But before I could straighten out the wheel, a young reporter, who looked like an intern fresh off campus ran towards me.

  “Please give me a minute of your time?” the reporter said. “Where did you meet Olivia?”