The Starks Trilogy (Book 1 & 2)

by Nesly Clerge

  “Starks was crushed to learn your cheating went all the way back to Bernard Hazely.”

  Kayla swept loose hair behind her ear. “Bernard was another lifetime ago. Starks and I weren’t even together then. He was off doing his thing with other women, if you’ll bother to recall. Gave me a lame excuse about why we needed to not see each other for a while. So I had sex with Bernard. Big deal. I’m sure Starks banged any woman who’d let him.”

  “The big deal was that you lied to him about it. You let him believe all these years that he was the only one.”

  “He called me a used mattress. What a damn hypocrite.”

  Jeffrey rested his elbows on his knees and focused on his linked hands.

  “Try to understand his perspective. He was living a lie that you told him. You knew him well enough to know how learning the truth would affect him.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell him about Bernard. He would have ended our relationship for good if I had, despite anything he was doing or had.” Kayla tapped a finger on the chair arm. “He’d made promises to me and I was going to make sure he kept them.”

  “He believed you were virtuous.”

  Kayla threw her hands up. “I’m so sick of hearing that word! He convinced himself when we met that I was this demure, perfect creature. I played along; let him believe it until he forced me to burst that bubble.”

  “You should have been straight with him from the start.”

  “Why are you putting all of this on me? He’s just as guilty. You’re not innocent, either. Now leave me the hell alone.”

  “Even after he knew everything, he still wanted you back.”

  “He wanted me on my back. All those times he came here for sex after we separated then later called to curse me out. He wanted to use and abuse me. That’s not love. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Jeffrey. You’re coming at this from only one side: his.”

  “He shouldn’t have done that, given you mixed messages. I’m sure it was his way of coping, even if it was misguided. It’s much harder for a man to accept that his wife cheated.”

  “Ugh. I’m also sick of hearing about the male ego. Cheating hurts women, as well.”

  “But you did more than cheat; you trashed him to your friends. And to Ozy. You humiliated him.”

  Kayla shrugged. “If a man doesn’t want his woman to trash him, he shouldn’t give her a reason to do it.”

  “You hurt him in a lot of ways. He told me about your text messages with Ozy.”

  Kayla leaned back and crossed her arms. “I never should have unlocked my phone. He kept bugging me to. I knew he couldn’t handle what he found. He should have left it alone.”

  “You’re still not getting what it did to him. Or you just don’t care. It was like he kept getting bombarded with one hit after another. It sent him over the edge. He lost some of his common sense.”

  “Then he should have backed off. I’m sure his own text messages and conversations with Michelle and all his other women were pure as fucking snow.”

  She stood and began to pace. “That goddamned Jenny couldn’t keep her mouth shut. And her dominating husband. It’s their fault for what Starks did. Up until he attacked Ozy, I believed that after an appropriate amount of time, I could fix it. I always did before.”

  “It’s no one’s fault but yours and Starks’s.”

  “Betrayal’s a bitch.”

  Kayla stopped in front of the French doors opened to the expansive back yard. She crossed her arms and stared at the swimming pool. “I wish I could jump in the water and wash everything away. Cleanse… everything.”

  She faced Jeffrey. “I’m not proud of what happened. But he made me fall out of love with him because of things he said and did.”

  “It was like you two couldn’t or wouldn’t stop punishing the other one. Like watching a battle where both sides are determined to win or die trying.”

  “He punished himself. He punished me. He punished Ozy. Everyone’s trying to put it all on me. It isn’t right.”

  “Jesus. The father of your children is dead, and you’re still concerned about yourself. I just said it was both of you.” Anger from loss filled him. “I’m not going to keep quiet any longer. What is it with you, Kayla? Do you ever sit back and look at yourself? Are you ever wrong? Starks was there for you when it counted. Maybe you’ve forgotten that. He’s always been there for you. Even after he found out about Ozy, he continued to care and take care of you. Who do you think is ever going to care for you the way he did?” He pointed toward the living room. “Bret? Wake up and smell the coffee. Starks tried his best to fix things between you when he was wrong. Instead of pointing your finger at everybody else, you need to aim it at yourself, for once.”

  “Why are you here, Jeffrey? If you’re only here to condemn me, get the hell out of my house.”

  Jeffrey drew in a deep breath, hoping to calm himself. “Actually, I’m here to talk about something else, something specific.” He gestured at the chair. “Please sit.”

  Kayla crossed the room and returned to the chair. “Fine. I’m sitting. What is it?”

  He looked at her then at the floor. “The will and trust.”

  “I know all about it. There’s a copy in a file upstairs.”

  “Those documents are obsolete. Starks changed them before going to prison. I’m afraid what I say may shock you.”

  He covered the changes, aware of how often Kayla’s expression, body language, and skin color changed as he spoke. He ended with, “And he doesn’t want you to attend the funeral. The kids, of course, but not you.”

  “When did he say that?”

  “Before he went to Sands. Said if anything happened to him—”

  “Always had to have the last damn word. I knew he’d grow to hate me; would feel he had to punish me. Didn’t know he’d do it from the grave. About the will and trust, it may surprise you to know Starks brought me up to speed. He meant to rub it in so called me right after he changed it.”

  “He’s a—was—a good person. Not a saint, but look at how generous he was with everyone, all the philanthropic things he did in the community. He deserves credit for that.”

  “Yes, we’ve all seen the civic awards cluttering the walls of his office here and at headquarters. Starks never did anything generous without an agenda. True generosity doesn’t come with strings. He’s all about the strings. If he ever did anything generous just to do it, no one would be more surprised than me.”

  “You’re being unfair.”

  “You’re being loyal. And naïve.”

  “You’re wrong about what he did and why.”

  Jeffrey stood with his usual fluid movement. “I need to go, need to try to get some sleep. Have to go to the office tomorrow and break the news, plus, see about helping with final arrangements. If or when you or the children ever need anything, please call me.”

  Kayla went to him and placed a hand on his arm, flashing the same innocent expression she’d used since their high school days. “I will. And, Jeffrey… don’t be a stranger.”

  CHAPTER 62

  DEMORY FACED OUT in the doorway of the hospital room. He stretched and looked both directions then slogged to the end of the hall where, beneath the large window, a folding table was set up with coffee and cups. Torn-open packets of sweeteners with grains of spilled powder, used plastic stirrers, and dried coffee splatters littered the surface. His throat grew tight when he imagined Starks scowling and commenting about the mess, if not cleaning it up himself.

  Window glass reflected a disheveled man with mussed hair and clothes that looked like he’d slept in them. He had. For two nights. It was a rough vigil but he was still glad he’d told his ex-wife to stay in Switzerland with their daughter, assuring her everything was fine and that he wouldn’t leave their son’s side. He’d just hung up with her again. He’d stop counting her calls after the twelfth one.

  He pushed the thermos nozzle and watched coffee dregs dribble
into the last clean Styrofoam cup. He sipped; the brew was cold and bitter. He’d ask someone to keep up with making a fresh pot throughout the day and night, because he’d need it; a request he’d remind himself to make before he went down to the cafeteria to get better coffee and breakfast to go. It was okay now to be away for the short time this errand would take. His son was sleeping soundly.

  Demory placed the cup on the window ledge and pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his rumpled suit jacket.

  A number on speed-dial was hit, and the calls on his prison office voicemail startled him. All the messages were from people who’d called about Starks. This was a man who’d said he had only one real friend.

  Three messages in particular stood out: Two from an Emma Guyson and one from a Cathy Lorton, who’d obviously been distraught—both women’s messages were interrupted by bouts of loud weeping and unintelligible words. The third message was from Jeffrey Davis, asking—shouting—what the hell was going on, and what kind of a fucked-up system went on at that prison, and why the hell wasn’t Demory returning his calls.

  Every person who’d called wanted answers about some aspect of the incident. Why from him? Why hadn’t the person from the prison who contacted whomever, provided this, and then that person pass on the information?

  One more thing to be concerned about.

  Demory saved each message. Despite his own current situation, guilt flowed through him. Circumstances had caused him to be remiss about finding out details about the attack on Starks. He may not be able to do anything about what had happened, but he could make a call to the prison.

  Even though the attack had occurred two days ago, his callers might still expect to hear back from him. And, even if in his absence they’d learned the facts they needed, he had to return their calls. It was the right thing to do.

  He wanted more information before he called anyone back. Jack Wilson, senior doctor in the prison infirmary, would have examined Starks and signed off on the death certificate. He was the person to call first.

  “Infirmary. Dr. Wilson speaking.”

  “It’s Demory.”

  “You poor bastard. Sorry about your troubles.”

  “I appreciate it. I called to get cause of death for Frederick Starks.”

  Silence was followed by, “You want what?”

  “Frederick Starks. I know he was stabbed multiple times. I just want your official word on cause of death.”

  “Who said he’s dead?”

  Demory hesitated then said, “A guard told me that… What’s going on, Wilson?”

  “He’s not dead, he’s in a coma.”

  Demory placed a hand on the wall for support. “Holy mother of God.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re relieved or upset.”

  Demory blew out a ragged breath then asked quietly, “What’s the prognosis?”

  “Poor. Significant blood loss, of course. I heard surgery was a bitch. And there’s some brain swelling from direct trauma.”

  “I wasn’t told about a head injury. What are his chances?”

  “Slim. But the trauma unit at Grace is exceptional. They’ll do their best.”

  Shaking his head back and forth in disbelief, Demory muttered, “Thanks, Wilson.”

  “Sure thing. When are you coming back?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Maybe it’s none of my business… maybe I shouldn’t ask…”

  “Ask what? It’s not like you to hesitate.”

  “You know how the rumor mill spins around here. Anyway, someone told me a guard heard you screaming in your office before you left. And—”

  “Yes, I was yelling. For good reason.”

  “As I was saying—”

  “For God’s sake, spit it out.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t true, but… word is you’re losing your license because you slept with one of your patients here.”

  “That’s a damn lie. There is an issue with my license. A typical system screw-up. I’ll get it taken care of.”

  “That’s a relief. Hope to see you soon. Gotta run. A patient just walked in.”

  The line disengaged.

  Demory rested his hands on the window ledge and leaned forward to study the pewter sky. Gusts blew tree tops back and forth below him. The wind picked up speed.

  What term had Starks used? Cluster-fuck. It certainly fit this situation.

  As soon as the guard had told him Starks was dead, and as soon as he’d ended the call with Jeffrey Davis, the desk on his phone had rung with more bad news: His son’s appendix had burst. The boy had been rushed to emergency and was being prepped for surgery.

  After he’d quickly locked away his next patient’s file, and as he was picking up the phone to let administrative staff know he had an emergency, he learned the bad news wasn’t over: An inmate who worked in the mailroom dropped an envelope onto his desk; urgent was stamped in red on the front. Inside was a letter about the license issue. After a few moments of yelling in frustration, he’d stuffed the envelope in his jacket, made his call announcing he’d be out and would have to let them know when he’d return then sprinted to his car.

  His son had developed peritonitis and was getting a strong antibiotic, along with several other meds, pumped into a vein in his arm.

  Demory had been awake now for a little over forty-two hours.

  He shook his head in exhaustion and frustration, pulled out the small notebook and pen in his pocket then hit the same number on speed-dial for his office voicemail.

  Names and phone numbers on the notebook pages taunted him. Demory dragged a hand through his hair. God help him. He should have checked with the infirmary before making that disastrous call to Jeffrey.

  After stepping into his son’s room to check that he was still asleep and all was okay, he dialed the first number.

  No hello from Jeffrey, just “Why the hell has it taken you so long to call me back? What the fuck is wrong with everyone? No one’s heard from anyone. At least the media hasn’t made a circus out of this. That’s something to be grateful about.”

  “There’s something else you can feel grateful for.”

  “Yeah, you finally called back.”

  Demory stayed silent.

  “Listen, Demory, I’m sorry I yelled. I’m a wreck.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, sorrier than you know. The most succinct way to say it is I screwed up. I should have checked the facts before I called you. There’s really no excuse. Right after I spoke with you, I had a family emergency—my son. I’ve been at the hospital since then. It wasn’t until a few minutes ago that I found out what really happened.”

  Jeffrey hesitated for a moment. “You’ve lost me, Demory. What facts? What did you just find out?”

  Demory raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know who knows what anymore.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “I’m talking about the fact that Starks isn’t dead.”

  “What the hell?”

  “I just learned he was gravely injured and is in a coma. I was told by a guard that Starks was dead. I was trying to take the news in when I got the call about my son. I called you then zoomed out of there.”

  Demory rubbed his right hand over his forehead. “They moved Starks to the trauma unit at Grace. No visitors, though. That’s their policy for a prisoner in his condition.” He heard Jeffrey hit his fist against something hard.

  “I don’t fucking believe this.” After a moment of silence, Jeffrey said, “Look, I’m sorry about your son, but you’re goddamned right you should have checked. Jesus! You have any idea what all of us have been through? Family, friends, staff, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I haven’t stopped imagining it since I heard.”

  “What exactly is his condition?”

  Demory repeated what Wilson had told him. “I’m truly sorry for the confusion. I should have checked—would have checked—at the infirmary before I called you.”

  Jeffrey exhaled a ragged breath
. “At least I know he’s still alive. That’s something. I hope to God he pulls through.”

  “So do I.”

  “I gotta go. I’ve got a shitload of calls and visits to make, and fast.”

  The last thing Jeffrey said before hanging up was, “And I’m giving them your cell phone number!”

  Demory checked once again on his son then hurried to the elevator. He needed several moments to think, so shut off his phone. He would enter what was sure to be a viper’s pit after he got some food into him.

  Demory turned his phone on and found message after message from a number of people who’d been on his original call-back list. A new but familiar name was added to the list: Kayla.

  He called her first and let her rant for a while, believing she had a right to: Her children had been traumatized “yet again,” which she repeated often, at full volume. He apologized to her several times for his error in judgment, as he later did with all the others, before asking her what it was, specifically, that she wanted.

  Kayla, Cathy, Emma, and Starks’s mother all wanted the same thing: Visitation with Starks in the trauma unit. By rote, he explained to each person why the hospital wouldn’t allow it, at least, not until Starks’s condition stabilized or he regained consciousness—if they’d allow visitors at all, since he was an inmate. He explained the prison policy that required strict vetting for visitor approval, even for this situation, and assured each of them that family could call the hospital for updates.

  He shut off his phone and plugged it in to recharge. A hand placed on his son’s forehead indicated the fever was dropping.

  Demory slumped in the chair next to the bed and drifted to sleep, unable to stop the voices in his head from chastising him.

  CHAPTER 63

  THE TRAUMA NURSE replaced Starks’s empty saline bag and checked his I.V. The monitor next to his bed indicated his oxygen level, heart rate, and temperature were improving each day. As she had every day over the last two weeks when she was on shift, she spoke to him in a cheerful voice, telling him about the weather, her family, the latest romance novel she was reading—anything to possibly trigger a response from him. She even sang to him.