by Theo Baxter
Sadly, I had no time for that since my father demanded my full attention. He looked kind of strange bathed in white light.
Not even my screwed-up perception could make me miss the fact that he was once again glaring at me. "And you? Don't you have anything to say to me?" he yelled.
Now he wanted me to speak? Make up your mind, old man.
I shrugged. "It's all self-explanatory." I pointed at the screen. "She offered and I accepted. It was fun while it lasted." That last part was meant for Melissa, and I delivered it with a big smile.
My father went ballistic, hitting me again and again.
My head landed on the armrest. That felt like old times. For some reason, I found that hilarious. The auras were getting brighter, which wasn't a good sign. I didn't want to seize in front of my father. Fuck.
Taking everyone by surprise, myself included, I stood up and pushed him away. I was done being his punching bag.
"This was fun, but I have to go," I said while wiping the blood off my face with a sleeve.
My father looked absolutely homicidal in return. "I am not done with you!"
"Yeah, well, I am done with you," I interjected. "So if you want to yell some more at me, kick me out, or kill me, you'll find me in my room."
He tried to hold me back, and I hit him so hard I was sure I broke my hand, and he fell on his ass. I really surprised him or that could have never happened. Count your blessings, Dean.
I'd waited all my life to do that, and it felt terrific. He looked at me from the floor in utter disbelief. Knowing he wouldn't stay like that forever, I added, "Yeah, I fucked your wife, and I loved it. You were a monster of a father and a tyrant of a husband to my mother, so deal with it."
With that, I retired, leaving the spouses to deal with their marital problems on their own. That felt incredible, standing up to my father.
My bedroom was completely trashed which could only mean Carson did some investigation of his own. The question was why? What tipped him off? Not that it mattered. The shit had already hit the fan. And I was still breathing. Part of me knew that could change in an instant, but I was done being afraid of him. I wouldn't let him torment me ever again.
All the same, over the normal stress that I had experienced, I was about to start seizing. No amount of meditation or listening to some guru speaking of peace and tranquility could bring me back past this threshold. So, I decided to let it be and went to bed early, hoping I would wake up in the same position. I wasn't that lucky.
When I came to, I was in a strange place. As it turned out, I found myself in the middle of a crime story with me as a prime suspect. I was charged with killing my father since let’s face it, I did have his blood all over my hands.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Present day . . .
"There, now you know everything," I informed the detective, pointing at a glass of water that was out of my reach. "Do you mind?"
The detective obliged and I thanked her. My throat felt completely dry after all that talking. It felt weird telling her my entire life story, yet I'd felt compelled to do so. I couldn't fathom why, at the moment.
Detective Michaels returned to her place.
"So, you had a huge fight with your father right before the murder?" she asked for clarification.
"If you can call his yelling at me and using me as a punching bag a fight, then yes. Melissa was there too since he found the files."
I still had no idea how something like that happened. Melissa said she had been careful regarding their storage. I guess she lied. What a shocker. Or she went nuclear and showed them to him herself, but I'd never taken her to be that stupid. Maybe I was wrong.
Detective Michaels took notes. She did that a lot, which I took as a good sign, before continuing. "And Mr. Andros turned physical at some point?"
"Melissa looked like he’d hit her even before I got home." Not that I was defending her. "After I got there, he hit me several times and I hit him back once," I added.
Detective Michaels nodded. "That explains the bruises on you and Mrs. Andros."
Instinctively, I touched the tender spot on my face and winced. I guess it does. Or more accurately put, it was the most logical conclusion since in my case it could also mean I ran into a door or something during one of my episodes.
The detective continued to ask me questions, urging me to repeat some parts of my story, and I obliged. All this questioning and interest in the smallest of details got me curious, though.
"What's the verdict, detective? Am I guilty or innocent?"
No one is innocent in this world, remember? I ignored that.
My question was meant as a joke, at least in part. She didn't take it as such, though it took her some time to reply.
"I cannot know that, Mr. Andros, for sure. I'm not psychic, but I do believe your story."
Even though I got what I asked for, a straight answer, it still took me by surprise. Something must have happened to me during those last couple of seizures since it wasn't normal or rational to start distrusting someone simply because they turned out to be on your side.
She didn't say that, I corrected, she said she believed you, for now. I was sure that could easily change with the discovery of new evidence. Evidence trumped stories any day.
Nevertheless, that was exactly how I felt, distrustful. Everything in me rebelled, and I was certain this was some kind of a trick, a ploy to entrap me. But why? That was a question I couldn't answer. Every part of my being screamed don't trust her.
And then it hit me. Living in my father's house with them had changed me, and not for the better. Being surrounded by that kind of negative energy, being constantly surrounded by manipulators, liars, and abusers, I accepted that as a normal state of affairs.
Now I assumed everyone had a secret agenda to hurt me.
Honesty was something that got twisted or ignored altogether. My father used it to hurt me. At times he was brutally honest, telling me exactly how he felt, how disappointed he was so I would feel guilty.
On the other hand, Melissa preferred lies, embellished truths to make me hate my father even more and end up in her bed.
Overall, honesty wasn't something I was getting there, so now it took me a moment to recognize it for what it truly was. A sliver of hope, a small shining light in this darkness. That was my life, my grim circumstances.
"Thank you," I replied eventually.
The only person who’d never lied to me or tried to manipulate me was Dr. Blake. Thinking of her now made me realize I hadn't seen her or spoken with her since this nightmare started. I needed her, now more than ever.
"Can I speak with Dr. Blake?" I asked her, abruptly changing the subject.
"Dr. Imelda Blake? Your therapist?" She consulted her notes for the full name.
"Yes."
"At this moment, I do not believe that is possible, but you should check with your lawyer," she advised.
My invisible, nonexistent lawyer. For a second or two, I contemplated reaching out to that lawyer who gave me sound advice when I wanted to blackmail Melissa — Michael White — and ruled against it. This was a criminal case, after all, and that guy looked like he mostly practiced family law.
"Okay, but if you go and talk with her, she will corroborate my story."
Saying that, I remembered there was that small issue of doctor-patient confidentiality.
"I will most definitely do that," she reassured me. There was something on her face telling me she had more to say, and I was proven right. "May I be frank with you, Mr. Andros?"
"Please do." Also, I desperately wanted to stop her from addressing me as Mr. Andros. That was my father. It wasn't like I could ask her to simply call me Dean.
"At this moment, you need as many allies as possible since the case against you is pretty strong."
I already knew that, which made her intent to dig deeper than much more peculiar.
"I know," I replied simply and then decided to share my thoughts further. "I kn
ow I was found in my father's room with his blood on my hands and my fingerprints on the murder weapon." To some, no, to most, that would be case closed.
Then I remembered the detective mentioning mine were not the only prints, which was enough for doubt. Or at least that was what Detective Michaels believed.
Once again, I cursed my disease since because of it I couldn't remember what happened that night. I knew I would be having a seizure thanks to the auras I saw, and unfortunately, I was right. Somehow, being right felt wrong in this situation. Despite my troublesome memory, I was plagued with all kinds of questions. Did I really kill him? Did I see who actually killed him? Did I try to save him? Would I? was the real question.
After the confrontation we had, I couldn't be sure if I would, in an altered state or not. I punched the man and told him he was a monster. Those were the last words I said to him, I thought, realizing something else. I felt nothing regarding that. No regrets, no nothing.
What confounded me the most was that I hadn't gone to bed angry. I had no thoughts of killing him. I left that room because I didn't want to have a seizure in front of him, I didn't want to show weakness. If it weren’t for the notion that I would be having an episode soon, I would have happily stayed in that living room and continued to fight with him indefinitely.
It wasn't like we didn't have plenty of baggage to air. Nevertheless, not even in my most volatile moments did I think I wanted to kill that motherfucker. Sure, there were times I wanted him gone, yet in a natural way, perhaps in a car accident. Never by my own hands.
Had I truly been framed?
The detective’s next words snapped me from my reverie. "You should definitely consult with your lawyer about the next course of action since I am certain the DA will offer you a plea."
That surprised me. "Do you believe I should take it?"
"That isn't my decision to make. Based on your history of illness, perhaps you should consider it," she advised.
Her words confused me now more than ever. If she believed my story and the possibility of my being innocent, then why would she suggest something like this? It made no sense. Perhaps she's not too confident that she can prove her theory.
Maybe I should listen to her.
To confess? My first instinct was to say no to that. No deal, no plea, but then I started thinking about it, forcing myself to calm down and look at things from a more rational point of view.
It was true I couldn't remember anything. That didn't change much. If some random jury would be forced to decide about my fate, would they believe me? Sure, I could have some doctors come and explain how my seizures work, but the main issue still remained.
Why should they believe I had a seizure in the first place? They only had my word for it. It all sounded too convenient. I can't remember anything was not such a good defense strategy, although it was the only one that I had. At this point, it didn't matter that it was the truth. The perception was what mattered the most, and I looked guilty. If I accepted the deal, then at least I wouldn't be getting a maximum sentence.
Who says the DA will even offer you one? part of me challenged. The detective thought so, but she could be wrong. As she said herself, the case against me was solid. If the district attorney was confident enough, he could get a guilty ruling, then I was fucked. I would be locked up for a long time, spending my best years of life in prison.
That made me beyond depressed, among other things. Scared shitless of life in prison was definitely on the top of the list of things I was feeling.
"Thank you for your advice, Detective."
She simply nodded in return before proceeding. "Mr. Andros, I have one more concern that I would like to run by you."
I couldn't help thinking about how this detective was full of surprises. "Of course, Detective."
She checked her notes again before proceeding. "You told me a great deal about Mrs. Andros, about your relationship," she clarified, "but you did not disclose anything personal."
"What do you mean I didn't share anything personal?" I challenged. "All of it was personal."
"I'm sorry, you misunderstood what I meant. I meant personal information about her. Where she was born, what school she attended? Was she married before? Does she have children? Things like that."
"Oh," I replied as I started to think about her questions.
Did I know anything about her? Looking back, I discovered I knew jack shit about Melissa. The notion was sobering and just a little bit frightening. How come I didn't know the most basic things? Because your dick didn't care about such information. That was true. In those moments, I could only think about being with her, and afterward, when she tried to ruin me, I didn't care for chit-chat.
"You're right, Detective. I told you none of these things because I don't know anything."
"Tell me everything that you do know," she encouraged, looking as though my life depended on it.
There was a huge possibility that it really did.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Who are you, Melissa? Detective Michaels asked me to tell her everything I knew about Melissa, and I really tried my best.
How much did I actually know about Melissa? According to my own brain, not that damn much. Of course, in some ways, I knew her pretty well, in other ways not so much. Unfortunately, we couldn't solve this mystery with me telling the detective what Melissa's favorite sexual position was or listing all her kinks.
"What do you know about her?" the detective urged since I remained silent, probably misinterpreting my silence as though I were hiding something.
I wish. That would actually mean I had any kind of information. The truth was much worse. The detective's question wasn't supposed to be this hard for me to answer, or shocking, yet it was. Because it showed me the truth. I didn't have the faintest idea who that woman who’d married my father really was.
I didn't know her history, didn't know how they met or why they married. It was all a big unknown, and it was tragic that I’d only now started to question that. It was insane that we spent hours and hours talking to one another and confiding in the beginning, when we first met, and I didn't even know her maiden name.
And then I realized why was that the case. We mostly talked about me. When she did provide any kind of information about herself, it was of a general kind. Now I started to wonder if that was by design. Was she intentionally vague, secretive? You think?
"I'm sorry, Detective, I have nothing useful to tell you." She looked at me like she was about to argue, push harder, so I continued, "Those kinds of personal things never came up."
I couldn't quite decipher the look on her face. She looked like she wasn't that surprised by my admission. That didn't mean she was discouraged in any way.
"There has to be something she shared by accident, a slip of the tongue."
I shook my head no.
"Was there a moment she was upset and talked with you in confidence?"
Hearing her mention something like that, one thing did register. "Now that you mentioned it, there is one thing."
The detective waited patiently, her notepad and paper ready to write down anything I had to say.
"She told me her mother is ill."
"Okay, anything else?"
"Yes, she needs constant medical care, and my father was paying for it all."
"That is hopeful, Mr. Andros. Anything else?"
Looking at her so enthusiastic about anything I could provide, I couldn't help wondering why she bothered in the first place. It couldn't be that she was simply thorough or wanted to have a clear conscience that she did everything in her power to discover the truth. There must be something I wasn't seeing.
As I thought of her and her motivations, the detective continued to question me on Melissa. I really wished I possessed a piece of information that would turn out to be the key to not only what Melissa's ultimate goal was, but about my innocence. Unfortunately, things like that happened only in fairy tales, not real life, and especially not mi
ne.
"She was out of the house every Thursday, but I can't say where she went or what she was doing," I remembered.
"Good," Detective Michaels muttered to herself.
I couldn't help thinking about how this woman in front of me was rather unconventional. She was questioning me, her prime suspect in a murder case, about someone else. Maybe that was it. Looking at things from that perspective, it was possible that she suspected Melissa as well. That cheered me to no end, yet at the same time, I didn't dare hope. Melissa was in another room while the murder occurred. Or so I thought.
I was sure the police checked all of my father's files from the security cameras. At the same time, Melissa knew how to move around the house without being detected. We both did.
"I'm sorry, Detective, that I can't be of any help. Sadly, I've come to realize that woman is a complete mystery to me."
"You're not the only one who feels that way, Mr. Andros," Detective Michaels replied, taking me by surprise.
Was she talking about herself? I was sure Melissa was questioned as well, yet the detective's comment suggested she had failed to charm them as she did me. I found that somewhat reassuring. Realizing I didn't have to guess about any of these things, I simply asked, "Why do you say that?"
"During the questioning of Mrs. Andros, I found a lot of inconsistencies in her story."
"Like what?"
"It appeared the story of how your father died was rehearsed, and when she was asked to share personal things, she got defensive and became vague or contradictory."
In other words, she behaved pretty shadily.
"She even lied about her age at first," the detective finished as though that stunned her the most.
"When was she born, anyway?"
That was such an unimportant, random thing, and I was curious to know. I could only assume she was in her forties.
Detective Michaels checked her notes. "She is forty-six."
I suspected as much. It was true that she looked after herself with great care, but nothing could prevent nature from doing her thing.