The Consequences Series Box Set

by Aleatha Romig

  Claire was lost in her thoughts of the photos when Amber entered the condominium. Claire looked up at her roommate and said, “Hi, I didn’t expect you this early.”

  “The day’s too nice to spend cooped up in my office. What’re you doing in here?”

  Claire explained her less than conventional pile system. First, she had the stack of Rawls information. She was surprised how easy it was to obtain supporting documentation that Nathanial Rawls not only existed, but was married to a woman named Sharron, and they had one son named Samuel. Samuel married a woman named Amanda, and they had one son, Anton. The information was all available through public records from New Jersey. She’d even been able to access the appropriate websites online while in prison. The birth records confirmed Anton Rawls was born February 12, 1965: not surprisingly, the same day as Anthony Rawlings. His change of name didn’t include a change of birth date. Claire wondered why he didn’t change that too. It seemed like a serious piece of evidence to overlook. He mustn’t have deemed it necessary. Claire doubted he ever considered his identity would be discovered. Truthfully, without his box of secrets, it would have remained hidden.

  As Claire and Amber discussed some of the information, Claire picked up a police report from the Santa Monica Police Department. Claire asked, “How did Harry get these reports about Samuel and Amanda’s deaths?”

  “Since it occurred in California, I think he called in a few favors from some investigators he used to work with.”

  Claire scanned the report. “I haven’t seen this before. It reveals details about the scene and even has statements from neighbors and…” She flipped another page. “Oh, my, here’s the statement from their son.” Claire pulled out a chair and sat. She imagined a young Tony finding his parents dead in their Santa Monica bungalow. Being only twenty-four, she shuddered at his endured horror. Imagining wasn’t difficult; the report gave a very detailed description of the crime scene. Thankfully, there weren’t pictures.

  Claire’s parents’ death at only twenty-one was tragic, but she wasn’t the one to find them. Suddenly, thoughts triggered. Could Tony be responsible for the death of her parents? Could he be responsible for the death of his own parents?

  In the information she read about Nathanial Rawls’ trial, there were actually three people responsible for Nathanial’s conviction. Besides the security officer and FBI agent, there was Samuel Rawls, Tony’s father. Samuel testified for the state. The articles said his testimony played a significant role in the conviction. After all, being the son of the defendant and present during most of the business dealings, he knew details. Samuel testified he was against the avenues his father pursued to increase their income, and although he voiced his objections, his father was very strong-willed. Claire recognized that familiar trait.

  As she learned more and more about Nathaniel Rawls, Claire felt as though she knew him. She knew someone who took after him in more ways than just dark eyes.

  Claire checked the dates; Samuel and Amanda were found by their son in September of 1989. Nathanial died while incarcerated May of 1989. She continued to read the police report:

  Anton Rawls recalled entering the home via an unlocked door at approximately 8:30 PM. He stated the television was on, and he called for his parents. When they didn’t answer, he walked in and found his mother on the floor of the kitchen. He ran to her. She was unresponsive. He noticed blood and yelled for his father. He found his father lying on the bed in the master bedroom. The suspected weapon, a Weston revolver, was found beside Mr. Rawls’ body. After discovering his father, Anton left the house and used the neighbor’s phone to call the police.

  Patrick Chester, neighbor, stated he heard loud voices at the Rawls’ home earlier in the day in question. Mr. Chester saw a small blue Honda, but he didn’t see the license plate. He believed the car belonged to Samuel’s sister whom he’d seen once before. He recalled Mrs. Rawls saying the woman was Samuel’s sister. He didn’t know her name.

  Claire quit reading and went back to her computer. The website she accessed months before was entered into the search engine. She used the web address from the bottom of the printed pages holding the information regarding Nathanial and Sharron’s records. While she waited for the site to load, she went back to the police report:

  Mr. Chester stated the sister left during the afternoon. He remembered, because he was outside working in his yard and saw her leave. He heard voices from within the Rawls’ bungalow after she left. He was unable to confirm if the voices were of the Rawls or the television. He didn’t see Anton Rawls until he knocked on his door to call the police.

  While scanning the computer screen, Claire called to Amber, “Did you read this police report?”

  Amber came through the archway from the kitchen. “I did. It didn’t mean a lot to me. Why? Do you see something interesting?”

  “I didn’t remember Nathanial having two children, yet there’s a statement about Samuel’s sister.” Claire typed the necessary information into the New Jersey public record’s website. “I’m trying to see if I can find any record of her under Nathanial’s information.”

  Amber stood behind Claire as she typed. The information popped up: Children: 01. Samuel Rawls. Claire tried another avenue; she typed in Sharron Rawls and waited. The screen read: Children: 01. Samuel Rawls. She looked up at Amber and shook her head.

  Amber exhaled. “Is there a name listed?”

  “No, not on this report.” She scanned the pages. “I wonder if they pursued this angle. The article I read before said the crime scene looked like murder/suicide. Why would they decide that, if someone else was there?” She hoped Tony wasn’t truly responsible for his parents’ death. Maybe he included the article because he felt their deaths were a product of the work of the securities officer and FBI agent who testified at Nathanial’s trial.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they decided that person wasn’t connected,” Amber offered.

  Claire shrugged and went back to the report. It contained the dialogue of the 911 call. She read, thinking of Tony calling about his own parents. No doubt, this kind of trauma would have long-lasting effects. His grandfather died as well as his parents shortly after. She knew she shouldn’t, but Claire’s heart ached for the young dark-eyed man. No wonder he had issues with relationships and control.

  Amber went back into the kitchen as Claire settled into the high backed dining room chair. The dialogue on the printed page incited goose bumps on her arms. She read:

  21:02:36: Caller: I’m at 7208 Mongolia Drive. Please send the police. I just found my parents, and I think they’re dead.

  21:02:39: Operator: I will send the authorities immediately. Please, tell me your name.

  21:03:02: Caller: My name—my name is Anton Rawls.

  21:03:09: Operator: Anton, are you in the house?

  21:03:47: Caller: No. I’m next door.

  21:04:07: Operator: Good. Don’t re-enter the residence until the police arrive. Did you see anyone else?

  21:05:02: Caller: No. Send someone fast.

  21:05:27: Operator: The Santa Monica Police are on their way. They’ll be there in three minutes. Please stay on the line with me. (silence) Anton? Are you there?

  21:06:18: Caller: Yes–I’m—I’m–here.

  21:06:49: Operator: Good. Did you see a weapon?

  21:07:13: Caller: I don’t remember.

  21:07:42: Operator: Are you sure they’re dead?

  21:08:29: Caller: My mother is. I checked her when I found her on the floor. (Gasp)Oh! There’s blood on my hands, I didn’t even realize…

  21:09:42: Operator: Did you say there’s blood? (Voices in background) Anton?—Anton?

  21:10:52: Caller: This is Patrick Chester. Anton is sitting down. The cord doesn’t reach that far. Are the police on their way?

  21:11:03: Operator: Yes, Patrick. Who are you?

  21:11:28: Caller: I’m the neighbor of the Rawls. Anton called from my phone. Oh, I hear the sirens. Can I hang up now?

&nb
sp; 21:12:01: Operator: Just another minute. Let me please speak to one of the officers when they arrive.

  21:13:12: Caller: All right, let me go answer the door. (Silence—voices) This is Officer Griffiths—ten four. (Line disconnected: 21:14:03).

  Claire stared at the report and felt moisture coat her cheeks. Yes, she hated her ex-husband for the things he’d done to her, but no one should have to experience what she just read. She placed the pages on the shiny polished table and pushed back the tall upholstered chair with her feet. Dabbing her eyes, she tried to focus on the melting stacks of pages before her. It was too much. They were acquiring evidence to prove Tony’s guilt, but at this moment, Claire didn’t feel vengeance. She felt pity for the man she’d loved.

  Unconsciously, she used her sleeve to wipe her eyes and massaged her throbbing temples. She couldn’t stop the awful images of Tony’s parents that floated through her mind. Desperately trying to think of something else, she remembered Amber saying it was a nice day, but she’d spent most of it inside. Claire needed a break from all this information.

  As she put the report on a stack of pages, another title caught her attention: Santa Monica Coroner’s Report. Her stomach lurched. Claire didn’t want to read more; she was on overload. Closing her eyes, she contemplated the unread information. Would it indicate the estimated time of death? If it did, would it condemn her ex-husband, or absolve him? Did she want to know the evidence? Or could ignorance allow her peace?

  Opening her eyes, she looked at the clutter. The pounding in her head and twisting of her stomach told her to walk away. She placed the coroner’s reports in a manila folder, closed the folder, and allowed her hand to linger on the smooth cardstock. The information wouldn’t go away. She could read it another time. In more of a dream state, she continued to fight the visualization of Amanda Rawls lying on her kitchen floor, a dark red puddle of thick liquid surrounding her form.

  By the time she and Emily were asked to identify the bodies of her parents, they were cleaned, laid on cold silver tables, and covered with clean white sheets. The coroner reported they both died instantly; their deaths were quick and painless.

  Claire often hung to that information. Losing people you love is difficult. It wasn’t a conscious thought process, but those who remain often contemplate the final moments of their loved ones lives. Claire imagined her parents driving down the dark country road, talking jovially, laughing about some story that her mother was undoubtedly telling about one of her students. Her mother often dominated the conversations. Claire’s father didn’t mind. Actually, he seemed to enjoy the sound of his wife’s voice. The endless chatting created a melody which sang continually throughout Claire’s childhood.

  The wet roads combined with wet leaves made the road slippery. Physics would prove that their tires lost their grip. The moisture and wet leaves widened the separation. Within an instant, the car slid, and the automobile connected a royal hundred-year-old oak. Due to force and speed, her parents didn’t have time to regret their drive or worry about their children. They just transcended from a loving, happy discussion, directly to a heavenly sleep. Many times in the months and years that followed, this story, this fantasy, gave Claire peace. She never shared this account with anyone, even Emily. Truthfully, she’d compartmentalized the entire momentous event away. Nonetheless, it occasionally decompartmentalized.

  Groggily, she got up and walked into the warm kitchen. Amber stood near the counter, cutting vegetables. When she looked up from the bright red, yellow, and green peppers, she saw Claire’s tears. “What’s the matter?”

  “I just read the 911 call from Samuel and Amanda’s crime scene. I feel bad for Tony.”

  At first, Amber silently stood scanning Claire’s face and expression; then finally, she spoke, “Do you remember saying you thought I might have a halo?”

  Claire nodded.

  “Well, I think you’d be a better candidate.” Amber rinsed the vegetable juices from her hands and dried them on a towel. Empathy no longer evident in her voice, she continued, “I find it very difficult to feel compassion for the man who’s caused you so much distress and could—according to your theories—be responsible for my fiancé’s death.”

  Claire walked to the kitchen table and looked out at the street. Long shadows from the trees covered the ground as the setting sun neared the western horizon. Watching the pedestrians four stories below, she saw people wearing only light jackets. It appeared the temperature had indeed risen. Maybe she needed air.

  “I think I’m going to go for a walk.”

  Amber exhaled. “Claire, I wish you’d talk to me. Tell me why I should feel compassion? I don’t get it?”

  To be honest, Claire didn’t get it either. Nonetheless, she was mad. Involuntarily, her neck stiffened and shoulders squared. Intellectually, she knew this was ridiculous. Why would she be mad at Amber? Why did she feel the need to suddenly defend Tony? “I think I’ll get something to eat at one of the cafés. I’m sorry if you’re cooking me dinner.” Claire turned to leave the kitchen.

  Focused on her light jacket in the hall closet, she stepped into the living room. The swirl of emotions combined with her pounding head and queasy stomach stymied her footsteps. She became mesmerized by the tall floor-to-ceiling windows. Flooding the luxurious room were hues of red and orange; the panoramic expanse radiated colors of the setting sun as it reflected off the purple haze covered mountains. Momentarily, she became awestruck by the beautiful view.

  Amber switched on the lights, filling the room with sudden brilliance and taking away the outside. Claire turned from the now dark window back to reality, which now included the glare of her roommate, accompanied by an unfamiliar angry tone, “Don’t you get mad?”

  Claire stared at Amber’s expression. She’d met more intimidating expressions before. She slowly responded, “Yes, I get mad.” Nonetheless, her true emotion remained concealed by her calm tone.

  “Then show it!” An eternal silence pursued. Eventually, Amber huffed and returned to the kitchen.

  The sound of cabinets closing too loudly declared Amber’s ability to show her emotion. Claire knew she should talk, but she had no idea what to say. Instead, she reached for her jacket, grabbed her purse, and walked out the front door.

  Palo Alto had many small cafés on University Boulevard, which was only a short walk from their condo. Most were open during the early hours, with all kinds of delicious coffee. While many of these establishments closed their doors in the evening, other street fronts brightened with dining choices as the sky darkened and the lights of the city came to life. When she opened the door and walked from the brightly lit foyer of their building, the cool dusk air hit her face. The street lights illuminated the sidewalk, and people hustled along the pathway. Suddenly, Claire realized it was Saturday night.

  She didn’t want to go to a real restaurant. She didn’t want to sit and watch happy patrons chat and eat. No, she wanted time alone, time to sift and consider her thoughts and feelings. Without thinking, she turned toward the northeast, away from the setting sun and toward the water.

  During her first week in Palo Alto, Harry showed her a beautiful park along the San Francisco Bay. Perhaps she’d lived too long on private property. Her desire for fresh air and nature overtook concerns for the descending darkness or abandoning side streets. With each step toward her goal, the tension in her head and neck eased.

  Could it be possible to hate and love someone too? Claire wondered. The overpowering compassion back at the condo wasn’t just for a young man in a tragic situation; it was for the young man who grew up to become the husband she had loved. She blinked her eyes against the breeze and remembered good times. Theirs was a heated passion. She contemplated the man who made her hate her own existence one moment and love it the next.

  As her unconsciousness flooded with memories, feelings stirred deep inside. Concurrently, her consciousness screamed for her to remember his atrocities, the cruelties which outnumbered the kindnesse
s; however, her heart ached and argued—perhaps his positives could overtake his negatives. After all, doesn’t everyone have a good and a bad side?

  This is why I’m not ready to face him. This is why I can’t face anyone right now.

  Claire knew her thoughts and feelings were wrong. He’d given her every reason to hate him, seek vengeance, and aid in his destruction. So, why was this so hard? She tried to push Tony back into his assigned compartment.

  Her thoughts moved to Amber. Instead of crossing Middlefield Road, Claire should be back at the condo, talking to her friend; however, after spending so much time alone and years hiding her true emotion with Tony, Claire wasn’t comfortable sharing her feelings.

  She couldn’t control the way she felt. Apparently, her mask wearing skills were rusty.

  Hopefully, a walk along the shore will help me sort out my feelings and revive my energy. Then maybe I can face Amber. She deserves that.

  Parked near a four story stucco condominium on Forest Avenue, Phillip Roach compiled his information for Mr. Rawlings. Although Claire Nichols hadn’t used the phone with the number he’d determined was hers since she received the calls from Mr. Rawlings, Phil believed this was her place of residence.

  In the past twenty-four hours, Phillip learned a lot about Claire Nichols: She’d applied for her birth certificate and social security card—all matters of public record. She opened a bank account with a deposit of 100 thousand dollars from an unknown source—not public record.

  He also discovered that just yesterday, her account received a life-giving infusion. Phil wasn’t the investing type, but from his scan of the information, Claire Nichols had an impressive investment portfolio. The notable wealth came from a wire transfer. The originator of the transfer was an account in Switzerland. To most people, that would be the end of that transaction. Phillips’s sources weren’t that easily deterred. The funds came from a high-end gems and jewelry broker named Pulvara who operated in San Francisco. Phil planned to visit his business on Monday.