“I specifically asked you to stay away from her. But you are incredibly lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“With no witnesses to the incident and it being her word against yours, they’re not going to pursue charges against you.”
“Oh, thank God.” Assault charges were the last thing I needed at that point. What the hell had I been thinking? I hadn’t been. She knew what she was doing when she said those words, knew it would tear me apart. She got what she deserved but I couldn’t let anything like that ever happen again.
“I’m not even going to ask you what happened. It doesn’t matter. Listen, Libby, I know you’re upset. I know why you’re upset. But at least until the trial, I need you to keep yourself out of trouble. All eyes are on you right now. So please, do us both a favor and stay out of trouble, okay?”
“I promise,” I said with every intention of following through.
“Oh, there’s one more thing I needed to tell you. Your house has been released. It’s no longer a crime scene, so you’re free to return home. That is, if you want to. Your car’s there too.”
“I can go home?”
“Again, if you want to. If I were in your shoes, I’m not sure I’d want to go back there, but that is certainly your call to make.”
“Thank you, Dave.”
“All right. I’ll talk to you soon.”
I ended the call and sank down on the edge of my daybed. So much to think about. My house was no longer a crime scene, but did I want to go back there? Had they cleaned up the mess or was that going to be on me? In the movies, it always falls on the family to clean up after something traumatic like a suicide or murder. I had two choices: go home and face the house I shared with my philandering and now deceased husband, or stay at home with Mom for the foreseeable future. Neither choice seemed all that appealing. Ultimately, I knew what I was going to do. I had always been a homebody. Mom had been great, but I really needed some time alone to process everything that had happened and prepare for the tough road ahead.
There was the small matter of Lindsey. She had tried to make trouble for me and have me arrested for assault, when she knew full well she had baited me into hitting her. This couldn’t go unanswered, despite Dave’s stern admonition to stay clear of her. I pulled out my new prepaid smartphone and clicked on the Facebook app. I went to Messenger and typed in her name.
Libby: Nice try, whore. As if you haven’t ruined my life enough already. Now you’re trying to have me arrested? Sorry that didn’t work out the way you planned. You are one desperate cunt, you know that? It’s bad enough you were fucking my husband, KNOWING he was married to me. But for all I know, you killed him in some crazy jealous rage and you’re having me framed for his murder. What happened? Did you beg him to leave me like most pathetic mistresses do? Did he tell you he would never leave me? So you got pissed off and decided if you couldn’t have him, neither could I? How cliché. Well, I’m not going to let you win this one, bitch. And I’m not going down without a fight. If you killed Ryan, I will make sure you pay for the rest of your life. Kentucky has the death penalty, you know. Sleep on that you desperate cunt.
I clicked “send” and felt much better. I was pretty sure she’d respond, but from now on, I wasn’t going to let her get the upper hand. I was going to make sure she suffered for what she had done to me. She wasn’t going to get away with it.
***
It took some convincing with Mom, but I was finally able to make her understand why I just had to go home. We took the back roads from Richmond to Nicholasville, at my suggestion. I didn’t tell her it was because I was trying to shake someone who had been following me. I just told her I liked the scenery. No need to worry her any more than I already had.
We pulled into my driveway on Elm Fork Road a little after noon and sat there for a moment. There was my Sorento right where I’d left it. I assumed the police had probably searched it, but I knew there was nothing to be found in my car. After gathering my nerves for a few moments, I opened the door and headed toward the house.
“Want me to come in with you?” Mom said as she hung her head out the driver’s side window.
“No, thanks, Mom. I’ll be fine. I just need to be alone for a while.”
“Okay, then. Call me if you need me.”
I waved goodbye as I climbed the cracked concrete steps to the front porch.
“Oh, and Libby?” Mom said as she stopped at the end of my driveway. “Don’t forget. You promised you’d go see your father.”
“Yeah, I know I did. And I will. I promise. Just let me get my house in order. I’ll try to make it this week.”
She blew me a kiss goodbye and I blew one right back at her.
I had to pull down the yellow police tape that had been strung between the pillars of my front porch in order to get to the front door. I dug into my purse to retrieve my keys, flipped through them until I found my purple house key, and slid it into the lock.
The smell was unmistakable, like copper mixed with old trash. So they obviously hadn’t cleaned up Ryan’s blood. I knew it before I even turned the corner to the bedroom. When I did, I was overcome with the sight and smell of it. It was like I was really seeing it for the first time. The sheet, comforter, pillow and mattress were all coated in blood on Ryan’s side. The headboard was salvageable, I deduced. Just some splatter, which could probably be scrubbed off and painted over. The wall above the bed and to the right of where Ryan slept had blood spatter too, which almost looked fake. The walls would have to be scrubbed and repainted too. Luckily, I remembered I had saved the excess paint in the basement from when we painted the walls grey just this past spring.
No time like the present, I told myself. Steeling myself for the task ahead, I went to the basement and grabbed a bucket and some sponges and rags, filled them with soapy water in the kitchen sink, and returned to the bedroom. You can do this. People do it all the time.
But first, the smell. I opened all the windows, lit every Yankee Candle I had, and sprayed some Febreze all around the house. It certainly didn’t smell like Mom’s garden, but it was a start.
It took me several hours to scrub the headboard and the walls clean of my husband’s dried and congealed blood. The water in the bucket looked like some horrible red, bubbly brew, and when I was finally done, I carried it out the back door and dumped it out into the field.
The mattress would definitely have to be replaced. I made a mental note to order one. But for the time being, I decided I would sleep on the sofa in the living room. I had sometimes slept there in the past, when Ryan and I would have a row over some little thing or another, so I was used to it. I hauled the mattress out to the curb and prayed Rumpke would pick it up the next day, since Tuesdays were trash collection days.
When I was done, I stood in the doorway to the bedroom and assessed my work. I would definitely have to use that excess paint on the walls, but other than the faint red spots on the wall, you could no longer tell someone had been brutally murdered in that very room.
I plopped down on the sofa right around five. That’s when it all came crashing down. Somehow I had managed to do what needed to be done without really thinking about it. But as soon as I quit moving and realized how alone I was in our house, I could no longer keep the emotions at bay. It started with a few tears trickling down my cheeks and then turned into horrible, ugly sobs as I sat on the couch with my arms wrapped around my knees, which were pulled up to my chest. I cried into my knees for nearly half an hour, thinking the whole time about everything I had lost the past couple of weeks. Mostly, I thought of Ryan and his bigger-than-life personality. He was always making me laugh and bringing a smile to my face. Yes, we had our ups and downs, and yes, I now knew he’d been cheating on me for the past year. But I still loved him. I would always love him. I would always miss him. In that moment, it felt like I would never be able to stop crying.
But then, some sort of alert went off that I didn’t recognize on my new phone. I clicked the �
��home” button and saw that I had a new Facebook message. Of course, it was from Lindsey. I clicked on her name and read the message.
Lindsey: You say I’M desperate? Look at your fat ass. You couldn’t even keep your man satisfied. Ryan said all you ever did was sit around on your ass and read books. You couldn’t please him, so of course he had to find it somewhere else. And yes, I knew you were married. And I didn’t give a fuck. Someone like you deserves what happens to them. Lonely, desperate wives who let themselves go and stop pleasing their men are begging for someone younger, prettier, and more fun to come along and take their man right out from under them. And no, I didn’t kill Ryan. I would never kill someone I loved…unlike you, you crazy murdering psycho bitch! I’ll be in the courtroom during your trial and I’ll testify against you. You’re going down for killing the man I loved. No one believes your stupid amnesia story anyway. Yes, Kentucky has the death penalty and it’s about time they used it again…on you. Never contact me again.
I was so pissed I almost threw my phone. But I caught myself. She was just trying to get under my skin, just like she did at the park.
I typed out a short and simple response.
Libby: You’re going to pay, whore.
***
But if I was being totally honest with myself, it wasn’t just the fact that she had been screwing my husband that had me so worked up. She had used my biggest insecurity against me: the fact that even I wasn’t sure I hadn’t killed Ryan. I hadn’t thought about it in days; I had been so focused on Lindsey and her affair with my husband, I hadn’t had time to stop and really think. But I still wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to believe I was capable of murdering the man I loved. At the time, I truly had no idea he was having an affair. But then, why could I not remember anything? How could I have slept through the gunshot?
No. I knew I didn’t do it. There was no way. Now was not the time to second guess myself. I decided right then and there not only was I not going to let that whore get under my skin anymore, but I was no longer going to doubt my own innocence in my husband’s death. I couldn’t expect Dave or anyone to fight for me if I didn’t believe in myself.
But then, if I didn’t kill Ryan, who did? It had to be Lindsey, right? No one else made sense. It wasn’t a robbery. Ryan had no enemies. Just like they say on CSI and Law & Order, it’s almost always someone who knows the victim. That left me, and it left Lindsey. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Lindsey had definitely killed Ryan. Or had someone kill him. It did look like some kind of hit job. One bullet straight through his brain. So who had she hired to kill Ryan?
I thought about Mike Thompson, her heroin dealer and Ryan’s friend from high school. It did seem like something a heroin dealer might do, especially if Lindsey had promised to pay him. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before,
I called Dave but got his voicemail.
“Listen, Dave, I know it’s after hours, but I was just thinking. We need to look into Mike Thompson. He lives over on Wichita. He’s Lindsey’s heroin dealer, and I bet you anything she hired him to kill Ryan. Or perhaps Ryan even got back into drugs and owed Mike money. If he was having an affair with a heroin addict, maybe he did fall back into drugs. It makes sense. Just…look into it. Okay?”
I sat back on the brown sectional sofa, the one given to us by Ryan’s mother when we first bought her house, and kicked my feet up on the glass coffee table. I looked around the living room and thought how strange it was that everything else seemed exactly the same. In front of me was the flat screen TV Ryan and I had bought several years ago. On either side stood white wooden bookshelves stocked full with all of my favorite books. At the bottom of the bookshelf on the right were boxes of photos I’d been meaning to put into photo albums for years. There was a box for every year Ryan and I had been together.
The house felt so empty. Truth be told, it had always felt a bit empty without the pitter-patter of little feet, but now that Ryan was gone, it seemed unbearably quiet. Usually, the TV was left on, but now the DirecTV logo bounced from corner to corner of the black screen. In the early days, Ryan and I would sit on that couch and watch television together—all our favorite primetime shows like Dexter and Big Love. Over the last year, we stopped watching TV together. I’d sit on the well-worn sofa and read while he sat in the bathroom, ostensibly reading an e-book on his phone. Now, however, I knew he was probably taking that time to text back and forth with his whore.
I turned on the tube and clicked through the recordings until I found last week’s episode of The Bachelorette. Ryan always made fun of it, but then he’d stick around to find out which contestants received Kaitlyn’s roses. It made me smile at first, but I quickly lost interest in the ridiculousness of my once-favorite reality smut. It seemed so unimportant considering everything I was going through. So I turned the TV back off and laid down on the couch, pulling a quilt my mother had made me up over my shoulders. I was asleep within minutes.
***
It wasn’t until late morning Tuesday that I heard back from Dave. He agreed with me that Mike Thompson was as good a suspect as any. So much so that he had contacted the prosecutor, Brian Gaines, and asked if they had looked into him. Mr. Gaines told Dave that they had, in fact, spoken with Mike and, although he had no real alibi to speak of, they had cleared him as a suspect. There was no evidence, Dave said, that Ryan owed him any money or that Lindsey had hired him to kill Ryan.
“But that’s bullshit!” I cried into the phone.
“I agree. But all we can do now is use Mike Thompson to help bolster our defense. Not only will we tell the jury you loved Ryan and had no motive to kill him, but we’ll show them that there is a much more plausible suspect with a shadier reputation.”
It made sense, in a way. But I was convinced, now more than ever, that Lindsey had orchestrated Ryan’s death and had hired Mike to carry out her dirty work. I didn’t want to have to wait until trial to defend myself. I wanted the cops to arrest them both—now. I resolved to do everything I could to get Lindsey to confess to Ryan’s murder and made a mental note to message her again later. If she was half as stupid as I thought she was, she’d take the bait and say something incriminating that I could use to clear my name.
Chapter 13
Wednesday morning, after yet another reminder call from my mother about my promise to visit Randy in prison, I got dressed and locked up the house behind me.
Big Sandy Federal Penitentiary was about two and a half hours east of Nicholasville near Inez, Kentucky. I spent the whole drive listening to my Miss Saigon soundtrack. I had always loved Broadway musicals. Mom and I had seen Phantom of the Opera, Miss Saigon, and Les Miserables when I was a teenager. But Miss Saigon had been my favorite by far; I knew all the words by heart.
The federal prison, which sprawled over several acres of former farmland, was made of sand-colored concrete and boasted several intimidating watch towers. It was surrounded by a ten-foot-tall chain link fence with razor sharp loops of wire on top. I parked in the visitors’ parking lot at the north-facing corner of the building.
I joined the flow of visitors streaming into the prison and took my place in line. Being an all-male prison, most of the visitors were women, half of whom had children in tow. I watched the Hispanic woman in front of me as she tried to wrangle two small children, a boy and a girl, while balancing a toddler with a mop of dark hair on her hip. It was a very sad picture.
When I finally made it inside, I was frisked and a correctional officer waved a wand over my body, head to toe, making sure I wasn’t carrying any contraband. The woman in front of me with the three children was standing there as another officer rummaged through her large purse.
“I’ve got something here,” I heard an officer announce as he held up a pack of cigarettes.
The other guards gathered around to see what he had found. I stepped a bit closer to see what all the fuss was about. Then the guard emptied the cigarette pack and produced a little plastic
baggie with what appeared to be full of tiny white pills.
“Por favor, no,” said the Hispanic woman desperately as she shifted the toddler from one hip to another.
“Trying to smuggle contraband into the prison is a federal offense, ma’am,” the tallest of the officers advised her with a stern look on his face.
“No, they are mine! For my back! Por favor!”
I looked at the two older children, neither of whom could have been older than six, and they began crying.
“Mama!” they cried in unison.
“Take her over to Interview A,” said the fat officer, who appeared to be in charge.
“No, por favor, no!”
I felt sorry for this woman, even though she was clearly stupid enough to try to smuggle pills in to her children’s father. I wondered what would happen to her—if they would charge her and then she’d go to jail too. What would happen to those poor little kids?
With the distraction now over, the fat guard curled his finger at me, indicating I should step through the metal detector.
“Place your purse here,” he said, pointing at the conveyor belt that was covered by what I guessed was a tiny x-ray machine. I did as I was told.
A female guard ushered me forward and patted me down again after I cleared the metal detector. The tall guard dug through my purse thoroughly and then nodded his head at the female guard. She handed me my purse and a badge that read ‘Visitor’ and told me to clip it to my shirt.
Next, I was ushered into a room filled with tiny tables and surrounded with more correctional officers. Other visitors stepped in behind me, and then an officer with a short, military-style haircut and big muscles bulging out of his uniform sleeves called for everyone’s attention.
“You will have one hour to visit with your loved one. There will be no kissing, no hugging, and no touching of any nature. You will not pass anything to the inmates without express permission from one of us. Anyone who breaks these rules will immediately be ejected from the visiting room. Does everyone understand?”
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