Cuts Like Glass

by Dana Feldman

  “Like I told you already, I don’t remember anything,” I say, putting my hand on the back of my head feeling the massive lump. “I was hit in the back of the head.”

  “As I said, if this is a matter of self-defense, now is the time to say something.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I say once more. I can’t tell them the truth. “I was attacked, which the record clearly shows. I have suffered a concussion and had to have my head stitched back together. My blood was all over that boat! How can I be expected to have a clear recollection of what happened out there when I wasn’t even conscious when it happened?” I yell an attempt to redirect their suspicions towards anyone other than myself.

  “Yes, Mrs. Griffin, your blood was all over that boat but so was your husband’s. No one can lose the amount of blood he did and possibly survive without immediate medical intervention.”

  “Like I said, I don’t remember what happened out there. I’m as anxious as you are to find out. Isn’t that your job? Instead of focusing on me because I’m the easiest suspect, why don’t you try and figure out if someone else was on that boat? The water was choppy with that storm coming in. Perhaps this was all a horrible accident?”

  “I suppose that anything is possible,” he says. His look still gives away the fact that he doesn’t believe me.

  “I wish I could remember,” I say. “I wish I knew.”

  “Let us know if you remember anything, Mrs. Griffin. Perhaps something will come back to you,” he says, waiting a beat before finally turning around and leaving. No one would believe me if I tried to tell the truth. Gabe is a master of deception. He put on such a wonderful front to the world.

  I close my eyes and see his face once more. His rage was palpable. That was a look that I will never forget. Most people that see that kind of rage never live to remember or speak of it.

  I certainly know that I wasn’t meant to.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BURNT ORANGE

  I often think about how Gabe and I first met. I remember that day, just three years ago, as if it were yesterday. When I allow myself to get lost in memory, it’s as if no time at all has passed.

  I had walked into the busy offices, excited to get to work. I’d always wanted to decorate an office in Beverly Hills. I knew that I needed the clientele and Rodeo Drive was my biggest break to date. I remember admiring the chic décor of white leather couches and matching love seats.

  “We’re trying to keep the original retro look that the founder of the company loved,” he’d said to my shoulder, my back turned to him. “I just recently went into business with the family,” he explained, adding that the founder’s children hadn’t always liked his input, but they loved his financial contributions, and so they’d allowed for these renovations. “It’s been about a year now, and I’d like to input a bit of myself and my own tastes, as well, if you know what I mean.”

  I wasn’t sure where he had come from. I didn’t even know that he’d be there to be honest. He sort of appeared out of thin air, something he’d do quite often throughout our relationship. Something that I at first found thrilling would soon become something that would terrify me.

  His assistant had called me. She’d seen my newly renovated website with pictures and video from the last three jobs that I’d done and hired me on the spot during our first meeting. Her boss, she’d said, had told her to go with her instincts and we clicked. “Just get it done, Claire,” he’d told her.

  So, there I was, my first official day on the job. “Yes, Claire made sure that I knew to keep the original look and character. I was told to just fix the few things that are no longer working,” I said, turning around to face him. He was even more attractive than I imagined. At least six foot, he stood just enough taller than me, even in heels, that I felt petite. I have always liked to look up at a man. I’ve always found that sexy and safe. I loved his wavy salt and pepper hair, a full and thick head of it. I watched his fingers as they moved through it. As he ran a hand down the side of his head, I wanted to reach up myself and run my fingers through the waves. Warm, deep set hazel eyes met mine, locking for an instant. And a strong, square jaw, with a wide smile of perfectly white straight teeth grinned at me. I took note of his finely tailored charcoal gray suit and could see through the fitted lines that he worked out regularly. Wide shoulders and a trim waist gave his gym habits away. I could see through his jacket sleeves the muscles in his arms as he extended for a handshake. He took my hand in his. His firm grip held onto my hand for just a moment too long. He wasn’t wearing a tie and his white collared shirt remained open with the top few buttons undone. I wanted to touch his chest.

  But it was more than just a physical attraction. It was the way he looked at me, the sound of his voice. It was everything about him. I think a part of me knew it right then. I mean I knew that I was very attracted to him before I even met him in person. Well, of course, I’d looked him up online already. I knew that he was handsome, sexy beyond words, and extremely successful, a self-made man. But you never really know if you’ll be attracted to someone until you meet face-to-face. I knew a lot about Gabe Griffin. I always researched potential clients.

  To be honest, I’d only had four clients since I went out on my own and started my company. Four, including him: all wealthy, single men. Why not? I was single, and I worked all the time, so what better way to meet someone? I’m not ashamed to admit that I searched for clients this way. But I’d never had an attraction to any of them once I met them in person. This time certainly stood out for many reasons.

  He gestured for me sit with him in the lobby. I followed him to a white Formica coffee table, the shape of a perfect oval egg that sat in the middle of two plush couches. A display of the latest fashion magazines, fanned out perfectly, adorned the tabletop. I’d decided to sit in the seat closest to the wall of windows. As I looked out at the perfectly bright blue sky and swaying palm trees I remember feeling lucky to be there. I felt that my life was about to change.

  As I scanned the lobby, I took a mental picture of the bright, inviting room. Men and women, all in exquisitely fashionable clothes, carried laptops and iPads down the hallways as they rushed to various meetings, chatting amongst one another with coffee mugs in hand. I wanted to be one of them, to fit in there. Phones could be heard ringing off the hook in the background. I loved the frenetic energy.

  I listened as various assistants answered the phones of their prospective bosses just down the hallway. A large sign that read Griffin & Adler Investments, Corp. adorned the wall behind the receptionist in the main white marble lobby.

  The din of chatter in the immediate vicinity quieted as employees passed us and saw that the boss was sitting in the lobby chatting with a guest. I would later learn that he never did that. Gabe was much too formal to ever just hang out that way.

  Stares of awe and curiosity plagued me the next two months as I worked on redecorating the offices. Every time that I thought that the job was done, Gabe would decide on something else that needed to be refurbished. I was there until every floor was redone, every wall was painted and every single piece of furniture was either reupholstered or replaced entirely. He dragged the job out until one day when I finally got bold.

  He was suggesting that we reupholster all the chairs in the main conference room. These would be the last things to do, I realized, and so did he. So, I figured that I had nothing to lose.

  “I’m sick of black leather. Perhaps, what’s that color you’d suggested? I think it was a dark shade of orange or something?”

  “Oh, yes, I think that was a burnt orange, or maybe rust?”

  “Yes, that’s it! Maybe we can reupholster them in that tweed fabric that you did the couches in my office with? What do you think?” he asked, and I noted a smidgen of nervousness in his stance and in the tone of his voice.

  “I think that you should just ask me out already. Surely dinner must be less expensive than redoing the entire office?”

  He laughed.
He was the sexiest man that I’d ever seen in that moment.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me, Ella?” he asked, looking me squarely in the eyes, holding me in his stare. Who could resist? Well, certainly not I.

  “Yes, Gabe, I’d really like that,” I replied, attempting to look calm and collected as my heart was thumping wildly in my chest.

  “Good then. Do you have plans this evening?”

  “No, I just so happen to be free tonight,” I replied coyly, flirting.

  “Eight o’clock work?”

  “Perfectly,” I said. I was waiting for this day or night to come. I was prepared with a change of clothes and a bag of makeup in my car.

  As he turned around to leave, I caught a glimpse of his smile. It went from ear to ear. The look on his face was one of exuberance and sheer determination. “Oh, and Ella, about the chairs, I think you had a great idea with the burnt orange. I think it’ll really brighten up the room.”

  “It was actually your idea,” I said to the air as he was already out the door. I still think about what he said to me that night over dinner. He couldn’t imagine a day without seeing me. That was why he’d dragged out the job for so long. As far as I was concerned, he never had to go a single one without me in his life from that night on.

  I had been right; my life was about to change. I figured that we’d have a wild fling for a few months and that would be that. I had absolutely no idea the hold on me this man would have. He came into my world like a hurricane, blowing right through the center of it, leaving nothing as it was.

  Before I knew what had happened, I was so caught up in the storm, there was no turning back for me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ANYONE CAN BE A KILLER

  I arrive a few minutes early for my meeting with Detective Milner. She’s the only one other than Dr. Bryer who actually seems to believe me. I know that she cares about the truth and not just about getting her name in the paper. I dare say that Evelyn has become my friend. She might just be the only one, other than Chris, that I have left. She’s been with the LAPD for fifteen years and has seen a lot. She’s smart enough to know that there’s always more to a story than what’s easily seen on the surface. And she’s wise enough to know that it takes time to get through the muck to find it. At only forty, she’s solved dozens of missing persons and murder cases. Still deciding which type this one is, she’s been there for me on my darkest of days and for this I’ll be forever grateful, forever in her debt.

  I’m sitting at a corner booth by the window, my back to the far wall, in our favorite deli. I’ve ordered us both coffees. She takes hers black; I fill mine with cream and sugar. I see her car pull up in the parking lot just outside and wait anxiously as she pulls into a spot on just the other side of the window in front of the table. I wave at her.

  I watch her as she walks towards the restaurant, idling a bit on the sidewalk, her cell phone cradled between her shoulder and ear. She’s taking notes down, and I watch as her head nods wildly. I can see she’s trying to get off the phone. She signals to me through the glass that she’ll just be a few more minutes.

  Her long, blonde hair blows in the wind. It’s usually perfectly styled straight with a part to the side. I like this wavy, messy look today, like she didn’t have the time to dry and properly style it this morning. She’s always in street clothes, always fashionable. Today she’s wearing a perfectly fitted black and grey pinstriped pantsuit and very high heels. She’s carrying her favorite beige leather designer handbag and looks more like an upscale executive than LAPD detective. She finally gets off the phone and runs in quickly to join me.

  As always, she slides quickly into the seat across from me and grabs her coffee, which is thankfully still steaming hot, and gulps down a large sip. “I swear I’d inject the stuff straight into my vein if I could,” she says, setting the cup down.

  Her makeup, per usual, is done perfectly and her manicured burgundy nails wave wildly as she talks with her hands. She’s always going a hundred miles an hour. After a few moments of telling me about her hectic morning, she stills herself. Now resting on her elbows, which are on the table with her hands held tightly together in front of her, she looks at me. Her eyes are the bluest I’ve ever seen. She’s truly stunning. High-cheek boned, defined chin now resting on her hands, she takes in a lungful of air and holds it for a moment. Whenever she pauses like this I know that she has something to tell me, something that I’m not going to like one bit. Her eyes widen slightly before she speaks. She takes another long gulp of her coffee.

  We both remain quiet as the waitress comes over to refill our now empty cups. I watch as the steam rises. The chatter amongst other diners and the clinking of silverware against plates comforts me somehow. This is normal life happening around me. Nothing about my life is normal so I allow myself to absorb the sounds for a few moments.

  Evelyn looks up at me now, no more putting off the inevitable. As soon as things start to resemble normalcy, I get hit with something new. I sit and I wait. She looks around from side to side making sure that no one is close enough to hear us. She then looks behind her making sure there isn’t anyone that either of us knows.

  “We’re good, right?” she asks, meaning that there isn’t anyone that even looks remotely familiar to me.

  “We’re good,” I tell her anxiously, awaiting the news. I’ve already told her that Gabe had been married before and that he has a son and that I’ve met with him. So that can’t be the big news that she has for me. She insisted on having this conversation in person so I’d agreed to drive all the way out here from Santa Barbara.

  We never meet in Los Angeles, always somewhere at least thirty or so miles out, so this place in Camarillo has become our regular meeting place. And it’s not too far from where I’m staying so I didn’t mind.

  “You once described Gabe as a man who would get what he wanted when he wanted it. I think you also said that he never took no for an answer.”

  “Yes,” I say, nodding my head. I did say these things. Forcing myself to get used to people speaking of my husband in the past tense, I don’t bother correcting her. I feel like saying, “Yes, he always gets what he wants, when he wants it. And no, Gabe doesn’t take no for an answer.” But I don’t see the point in further stressing myself out nor do I wish to be looked at like I’m crazy.

  “What do you think he’d have done if he didn’t want something anymore?” she asks, carefully gauging my reaction.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Ella, I’m not sure how to say this to you. After you told me that Gabe had been married before and that he has a son, I did a little digging,” she says, speaking at a normal pace, which is slow for her.

  “Yes,” I reply calmly, though my head is spinning. I’m not sure how much more she, or anyone for that matter, can tell me about Gabe that could possibly shock me more than the news that he’d twice been married before and had a son that he never told me about.

  She takes my hand briefly to calm me. She knows how I get, and more importantly, she understands what I’ve been through already.

  “His first wife Peggy, did you ever hear what happened to her?”

  “No, I mean Peter told me that she died when he was four years-old. He actually used the word ‘died’ and then corrected it with ‘killed’ but I haven’t had the chance to ask him yet. I’m thinking that it must’ve been some sort of an accident or something, probably a car accident? I plan to ask him when I see him again tomorrow.”

  “She wasn’t killed in an accident, Ella,” she says. “She was murdered.”

  “I wish that I could say that I’m shocked, but I think I guessed that already. Can you tell me how?”

  “I was able to dig up the file on her. Peggy Martin was found dead in her home in Malibu in 1988. Her neck had been broken. There were oddly no prints found in her home, not even her own, nor her son’s. I mean there were literally no fingerprints found anywhere in the house. The place had been wiped c
lean. The case went ice cold, no leads. This was a professional job.”

  “What are you saying, Evelyn? That Gabe killed her? He was, is, many things, but I don’t think killer is on the list.”

  “I think that Gabe killed a lot of people. I think that he tried to kill you that day on the boat. And I don’t think that I’m telling you anything that you don’t already know. What I can’t figure out is why you’re protecting him?”

  “I’m not protecting him. I’m protecting myself.”

  “Ella, you’re not in trouble if you did something in self-defense. You know that,” she consoles, her stare impenetrable.

  “What if it wasn’t in self-defense?” I ask, readying myself to explain what I’m getting at.

  “Well then we’d be having a very different conversation, wouldn’t we?”

  “I suppose we would. What if it wasn’t self-defense but there wasn’t any other choice?”

  “We’d be talking about murder. But I know you Ella and you’re no killer.”

  “Under the right circumstances anyone can be a killer,” I say, preparing myself for what’s about to come.

  “Good thing that we’re speaking hypothetically then,” she says, slapping money down on the table and getting up to leave. She’s ending the meeting, an attempt to shut me up.

  I get up and follow her out. When we’re outside near her car and I’m sure that no one is around, I stop her.

  “I’m still so confused about what happened. I’ve only had little slices of memories but I think that I can put it together.”

  “Yes, you’re still confused so we should probably stop talking now,” she says, speaking in hushed tones.

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that I think that I might have hurt or even killed my husband,” I say before she abruptly stops me.

  “You’re confused, Ella. You don’t have clear memories of that night. Don’t say something that you might regret,” she’s firm, protecting me from myself.