I drove around aimlessly looking for a front row parking spot until I finally found one. Stupid, I know, but it was a habit of mine—finding the perfect parking spot. Probably some OCD trait passed on from my mother, I assumed. I got out of the minivan, proud of myself for finding a spot on the very front row, and walked into Walmart, temporarily forgetting everything that had happened to me in recent days.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the same non-descript black truck I had seen outside the police station parked two rows down from me. But that couldn’t be right. That was in Nicholasville. I was just being paranoid.
The Richmond Walmart was not much different than the one in my hometown. A hunched-over septuagenarian lady with curly baby blue hair greeted me at the entrance, and people were walking about, some in their pajamas still in the middle of the day. What is it about Walmart that brings out the sloppiness in some people? But I figured today I fit right in, so I was in no place to judge.
Makeup. Deodorant. Toothbrush. Toothpaste—the paste, not the gel. I picked up everything I could think of I would need for at least a couple of days, because God only knew when I’d be able to return to my home—my home—to get my things. Suddenly being in the grocery store made me realize how hungry I was, so I went over to the food side and picked up a few snacks. I knew Mom would make all the meals for me, but I wasn’t a big fan of her organic-only meal plans. I wanted to have a few things to stash under my pillow for later.
I checked out at the self-check stand and headed back to the minivan. I looked, just to be sure, but there was no sign of the black truck. Yes, I was definitely being paranoid.
On the drive back to Mom’s house, my cell phone rang. My phone had not rung once since Friday, and I had only spoken on the phone with Dani when I had called to tell her what had happened. I didn’t recognize the number and feared it might be Detective Dorne, but then I realized it was a landline in Nicholasville, which meant it was probably Dave Rogers.
“Hello?”
“Libby, hi…it’s Dave. Do you have a moment?”
“Yeah, I’m just heading back to the house. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I just spoke with Detective Dorne. Tried to get a feel for what he’s thinking.”
“And?”
“And I’m pretty positive he’s going to charge you, Libby. He doesn’t really have any concrete evidence. There was no murder weapon at the scene; your gunshot residue test came back negative. But he just thinks you wore gloves.”
“He said that to you?”
“Yes, that and he doesn’t buy your story about not remembering anything. He thinks you’re building a defense already, which in his mind makes you seem all the more guilty. I think there’s more he’s not telling me.”
“Just great. Do you believe me?”
Dave sighed on the other end of the line. “Libby,” he began. “It’s not my job to determine whether or not you are guilty. My job is to make sure you don’t get railroaded by the system and to build reasonable doubt in a jury’s mind so you are not convicted of murder.” He sighed again. “But if you really need to know…yes, I believe you. I see no reason for you to have killed your husband.”
That was a relief. I didn’t want him representing me if he didn’t believe in my innocence—even if I wasn’t sure myself. I thanked Dave for the update and hung up the phone. My stomach was in knots. How could this happen to me? First, I woke up to find my husband’s head blown off, and then I’m prosecuted for his murder. I wanted to run and hide. But where could I go? It wasn’t like I was experienced at hiding from police, and I had no money besides what was left in my bank account—a measly two hundred thirty-four dollars. No, it was a stupid idea. But anyone in my position who says they never even considered running is a bald-faced liar.
I returned to Mom’s house in a horrible mood. Mom could read it on my face as soon as I walked through the door. She asked what was wrong and I told her about my update from Dave Rogers—how it was pretty much a given I was going to be charged with Ryan’s murder.
“But that’s ridiculous,” she said with her hands on her hips. “They have no evidence. Not to mention the fact you couldn’t possibly have murdered your husband.” She stepped forward and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry this is happening to you. I hope you know I’ll be there for you every step of the way. I just can’t believe this is happening.”
“Me neither,” I said, pulling back so I could breathe better. Mom’s hugs were usually pretty intense. “But there’s nothing I can do now, except wait. The grand jury meets again this Thursday, so I should know something by then…good or bad.”
Mom tried to comfort me with a home-cooked meal of roast and potatoes. Even though it was all-organic, it tasted delicious. I hadn’t had much to eat since picking up a pizza the night before Ryan died. Then I remembered something I hadn’t remembered until I thought of the pizza.
The argument.
Ryan and I had a row over what to eat for dinner. I was supposed to be out of town on a weekend deposition, but Mark had changed his mind on taking me at the last minute. I was too tired from working all day to cook, and we were running low on funds for groceries until we got paid again. We decided on a cheap pick-up pizza from the local gas station, but the mood of the evening had been soured. Ryan was in the bathroom, and I was sitting in the bed reading a true crime novel by Anne Rule, drinking the second of Ryan’s beers. He was taking forever. I wanted to make love…as it had been nearly two weeks…so I was hoping he’d end his shower reading session a bit early. I had dropped as many hints as I could earlier in the day, but either he didn’t pick up on them or he wasn’t in the mood again. So when he finally came to bed, I opened my stupid mouth and made a comment about how he’d rather read a book on his phone than have sex with his own wife. It didn’t go over well, as you would guess, and we wound up arguing for a good fifteen minutes. I have a bad habit of always wanting to have the last word. I rolled over, turned off my lamp, and closed my eyes. The last words I said to Ryan were “You don’t love anyone but yourself.” I didn’t mean it—not really. But now I had to live with those last words for the rest of my life.
***
The next couple of days went by slowly. I was glad to be with my mother, but not working and just sitting around waiting for word on the charges against me was a special kind of torture. I had nothing to do all day besides catch up on my soaps and read. So when my best friend Dani called, I had no excuse not to answer.
“How are you holding up?” Dani asked.
“I’m doing okay,” I lied. “How’s Ethan?” Dani’s son, Ethan, had just turned three, and since they lived in Cincinnati, I hadn’t seen the little boy, or Dani, in over six months.
“Oh, girl,” Dani sighed. “He’s driving me bat-shit crazy. He’s into everything. I can’t turn my back for one minute.”
It was always hard for me, listening to Dani complain about how tough it was being a mother, when I would have given anything in the world to be a mother myself. But she was my very best friend, so I always heard her out and ignored my own insecurities.
“I can only imagine,” I said.
“So…do you want to talk about it?”
“About Ryan? I don’t know. There’s not really much to say.”
“Who do you think killed him?”
“Dani, I have no idea. It’s just so random.”
“And you’re lucky you weren’t killed too. My God, I can’t imagine what I’d do if I lost you. Tell you what…I’m going to look at my calendar and find a time to get down there to visit you soon. I know you could use a friend right now. It’ll have to be a weekend when PJ isn’t working, so he can watch Ethan.”
“You know you’re welcome any time, Dani.”
We disconnected the line after saying goodbye. I was relieved to know I had at least one good friend who would stand by me no matter what.
***
Wednesday morning,
I flipped the channel over to Channel 18 News, watched, and waited. The story about Ryan was the third of the day, behind a prison escape in New York and a shark attack in North Carolina. They showed a picture of him they must have gotten from his mother. He was smiling at the camera, but I was nowhere to be seen. I thought I recognized it from a picnic at her house earlier in the summer. Then they showed a video clip of our house surrounded by yellow police tape and those blue and red lights reflecting off the white vinyl siding. The reporter explained that the coroner had finally released the cause of death as a large caliber bullet wound to the head. The manner of death? Homicide. Then she said exactly what I had been afraid to hear for days—that police had a suspect in the shooting and that his wife had already been questioned by local police. It wouldn’t take a Mensa member to put two and two together.
It was less than an hour later that Mark Logan called to explain that the firm just couldn’t handle the negative PR right now and that he was sorry but he had to let me go. I wasn’t all that surprised. Logan and Logan was one of the most widely publicized firms in Kentucky and I knew their image was important to them. But that didn’t take the sting out of being let go for political reasons.
I picked up my phone and sent a text to my co-worker, Amy.
Guess you heard I got canned.
She had her read receipts turned on so I could instantly see she had read my text. The little bubbles appeared to show she’d started typing a reply, but then they disappeared. I waited. And waited. No reply ever came. Bad news travels fast, I realized. I knew in that moment I would likely never hear from any of my so-called friends at Logan and Logan again.
Chapter 6
Nearly a week after Ryan’s death, on Thursday afternoon, Dave Rogers called to tell me the grand jury had convened and issued a “true bill,” which meant they found sufficient evidence to charge me with the murder of my husband. I had been indicted.
I sank slowly down onto the rose-patterned sofa and dropped the phone into my lap. I could hear Dave saying my name over and over, but I was in such a state of shock it sounded like he was a million miles away and I was in a vacuum where time and space stood still. I had known this might happen—would probably happen—but knowing something and experiencing them are two totally different things.
Mom walked into the room and saw me sitting in a somewhat catatonic state.
“What’s wrong, Libby?” she asked, but it sounded like a far-away echo. “Elizabeth! What is wrong?”
Finally I started to come around to the present. I ignored Mom, picked up the phone, and held it back to my ear. “What…what do I do now?”
“Well, unfortunately, they’ve issued a warrant for your arrest. Now, I was able to talk with the prosecutor and he’s agreed to give you until tomorrow to turn yourself in, but first thing Saturday morning, if you haven’t, he’s going to let the warrant go out and they’ll come get you. I think it would be best if you came to my office and we walked into the jail together.”
“Jail?” Of course I’d go to the county jail. I knew that. But for some reason, hearing him say those words caught me off guard and frightened me more than I thought it would.
“Jail?” Mom repeated my words. “Libby, what is going on? Please tell me.”
I put my hand over the receiver and said, “I’ve been indicted, Mom. I have to turn myself in.” I just threw the words out there without any emotion, as if I were telling her what I wanted to eat for dinner.
Mom’s hands went to her face and she began to cry. Her shoulders were shaking, and she kept repeating “not again” over and over. Now, on top of the panic and dread, I was overcome with a terrible sense of guilt. My father had put my mother through hell, and now here I was doing the same damn thing. Like father, like daughter.
“I’ll be at your office tomorrow morning first thing,” I informed Dave before hanging up and walking over to my mother. It was now my turn to comfort her. But I had no idea what to say to make her feel better.
“I’ve failed you,” she said, suddenly looking up at me with her hands still on her cheeks.
“What? Mom, how on earth is this possibly your fault?”
“Apparently I’m doing something wrong. First your father, and now you.” Her eyes went wide as moons when she realized what she had said. “Oh, no, I’m not saying you’re guilty like your father. I just mean—oh, I don’t know what I mean.”
I knew exactly what she meant. I was the one who’d had to tell her my father had been arrested. And I was there in his attorney’s office when we learned exactly what he’d been charged with. Immediately after I told her about Randy’s arrest, we’d received a call from his attorney, asking if we could come speak to him.
B. Cecil Hayes was an old man, even then. He leaned over his desk and told us matter-of-factly that the Commonwealth of Kentucky had charged my father with the murders of nine prostitutes. Mom doubled over and cried like a wounded animal. She kept shaking her head and saying “It can’t be true,” over and over again. I never wanted to see her hurting like that ever again, but here I was causing her the same pain she had felt all those years ago.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I told her as I kissed her forehead. “I’ll be okay. You’re right about Randy. He was guilty. But I’m not. Just because they’re prosecuting me doesn’t mean I’ll be found guilty. Like you said, there’s no evidence. I’ve hired a good attorney. He’ll help me. Plus, I have you.”
We stood there for I don’t know how long, crying and holding one another. Finally, Mom broke free from our embrace and looked at me. “Well,” she said as she swiftly wiped her tears away with both hands. “If you have to go to jail tomorrow, that means today is your last day of freedom until we can get you out of there. So, instead of cooking tonight, I’m taking you out to your favorite restaurant.”
“Malone’s?” She knew how much I loved Malone’s but it was one of the fanciest restaurants in the Central Kentucky area, and Ryan and I rarely had the extra funds to go out to eat. So, it was usually Mom who took me—on my birthday and other special occasions. I almost laughed when I thought that this must qualify as a “special occasion.” My last night of freedom. “Sounds great, Mom. Thank you.”
***
We sat in a booth in the back corner of Malone’s, afraid someone might recognize me. Luckily, the lighting in the restaurant was dim. Either no one recognized me, or no one had the courage to approach me. I ordered the twin filets, cooked medium, with béarnaise sauce and the potato croquets. Mom ordered “Coach Cal’s” Chicken with lobster mac n’ cheese and we both split the very popular Lexingtonian salad with homemade ranch dressing. We ate in silence as we gorged ourselves on the delicious fare.
“Are you nervous?” Mom asked when we both pushed our plates away.
“A little, yeah,” I admitted.
“Maybe you won’t be there for long. Maybe Dave will be able to get you an affordable bail. I’ll certainly pay whatever it takes to get you out of there. I’ll mortgage the house, if I have to.”
“Mom, no,” I said. “I don’t want you to do that. Let’s just see what they say and go from there. I’ll be okay.”
We split the World’s Best Dessert, which was a three-layered ice cream cake covered in whipped cream, chocolate, and caramel. By the time we were done, we could barely walk to the minivan.
Later that night, I lay in my old daybed, staring at the ceiling, too nervous to sleep. Mom’s ceiling was white and textured with patterns that looked like little starbursts from wall to wall. Then I thought of my ceiling and how the peeling paint was the first thing I noticed when I woke up that dreadful morning. What had woken me? I had tried to recall this a million times, but never came up with anything, no matter how hard I strained my mind. Why couldn’t I remember anything at all? Why the headache? Why so dizzy? Was there something I was missing? Obviously I had somehow slept through the sound of a large-caliber gunshot. But how was that even possible? I took antidepressants at night, true. But none of them
had a strong sedative effect. I’d been on them for years, and I’d never slept that soundly before.
I recalled our argument. Recalled my last words to Ryan. It wasn’t true. He didn’t only love himself. I knew he loved me. I just said that hoping he’d take me in his arms and tell me he loved me more than anything, and then we’d make love like we had in the beginning of our relationship. In the beginning, we made love nearly every day. And that lasted for many years. But somehow, gradually, over the past year or so, we’d gotten to where we only had sex once every few weeks. And even then it was me who initiated it. I just couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Sure, I’d put on that extra twenty pounds or so, but that had happened over the course of about a year, thanks to that stupid medication. It wasn’t like it just happened all of a sudden. And maybe, if I’m being honest, I didn’t pay quite as much attention to my looks as I used to in the beginning. But that’s normal, right? You get comfortable.
What made me sad was remembering what I had thought after I’d said those nasty words to him. As I lay there next to him, turned over so I was facing the wall with my back to him just to prove my point, I was actually thinking that, starting the next day, I was going to put an effort into our relationship. I was going to come up with fun things for us to do. Buy some lingerie. Make love in the park. Get the spark back in our humdrum relationship. But now I would never get that chance. Ryan was dead. Murdered right there next to me…or by me.
I could see where the police would suspect me; I really did. Hell, even I was still unsure what had happened that morning. Number one, I was the wife—always the natural first suspect, no matter what. Number two, I had no memory of anything between the time we went to bed and when I woke up around six a.m. to find Ryan dead beside me. Very suspicious. Number three, Ryan had no other known enemies, so no one else had a motive to murder him. But then again, neither did I.
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