Authors: Kathryn R. Biel
Killing Me Softly (14 page)
Okay, so how do I get out of this one? Am I responsible for my sister's death? Absolutely. Did I do it? No way. I just didn't prevent it. It's totally not the same thing. Right?
Oh God, I'm going to hell.
This is even worse than getting some odd premonition about a comedian and then him dying. Or making a comment, like the one about never talking to Rob again, which then resulted in his untimely demise. No, I knew—or should have known—what the outcome was going to be with Jenna. And I did nothing to stop it.
I am responsible for her death. But not in the way that Detective Abbott seems to think. What if Fitzy—and Max—and everyone think that I'm a murderer? Murderess? What is the proper term?
My brain cannot even process this train of thought. Will my mother still love me?
What do I do now?
Through my tears, I drive by my house. There are cops everywhere. In the house. Combing the yard. Crawling in the dumpster. The dumpster. Oh crap, this is bad. Sooo bad. Like I need to start working out so I don't become someone's bitch my first week in prison. I don't even watch
Orange is the New Black
. I wonder if I'll have time to binge watch it before I'm locked away. Jesus, what an inappropriate thought. I have always used humor to deflect the unpleasantness around me. Good to know some things are the same.
Therese puts me up, letting me sleep fretfully before even asking me a question. Later, thankfully, her children don't allow me to answer her questions. Never have I been so happy for their attention-demanding presence. The nightly news, however, fills in blanks that I wish it didn't. Did you know that I tell a lot of people I want to kill my sister? Apparently I do. There's Mrs. Henderson, only concerned about her grandchild, begging for the last remnant of her son. At least she doesn't support the Saint Jenna image that the rest of the media seems to favor. Then there's the interview with Tina, Brady's wife. "Sadie was always resentful of the attention Jenna got. She couldn't get over the fact that her boyfriend left her for Jenna. She's been horrid ever since she found out Jenna was pregnant." Brady, my douchewaffle brother, just stands there in the background, wearing a dumbass look on his face. Ugh.
To make matters worse, the national morning news programs pick up the story.
A woman, six months pregnant, is missing. Her sister is the main person of interest in her disappearance. Sources close to both women say that theirs was a tumultuous relationship, with tension worsening when Jenna Perkins was in a car accident with Robin Henderson.
I can't stand to watch my name be dragged through the mud on national TV. Okay, so they never actually said my name, but we all know who they're talking about. They're playing it up like a mystery, but I know if I were watching it—as a bystander, not the subject—I'd be convinced of my guilt too.
My house is in shambles after the police search. Especially the bathroom. I'm guessing they found trace evidence they were looking for. Or they will, once it's all processed. I just keep waiting for Fitzy and Detective Abbott to come pulling up, sirens blazing, and handcuffs waiting. And not in a good way this time.
The buzz around town is incredible. I can tell every time I walk into a store. I see the looks. Hear the whispers. After some people asked to be switched out of my section at the restaurant, my manager told me to take a few weeks off, "until this blows over." Un huh. Doug gave me a smile and a hug as I left the restaurant, head hanging in shame. I wonder if he'll come to visit me in prison.
It takes me three days to get the house back in order and start working on my windows again. I wonder if I'll need to sell the house to pay my legal fees. I don't have a lawyer yet. Max got the name of someone for me, but I've been too chicken to call. Like retaining counsel is sure proof of guilt. Few friends and family have been in touch. I don't blame them. Actually, I do. Once again, everyone is taking Jenna's side. Just by assuming I'm guilty, they're siding with her.
My mom is the worst. I mean, talking to her is the worst. I don't know what to say to her. Her daughter is dead, and I'm to blame. That much is true. She really can't talk to me about it either. I get it. There's an ongoing investigation. I'm the primary suspect. She's a witness. I need to come clean about what happened. I'm scared because I know how bad I'm going to look. I can barely look myself in the mirror. I don't know how she'll ever speak to me again.
I've been spending some extra time at the nursing home as well. My dad is the one person who won't judge me without hearing my side. I'd like to think that I'd have his backing if he could give it, but I think he'd be disappointed in me, too. Heck, I'm disappointed in me.
Guess it's a good thing that I don't want anything to happen between Max and me. After the truth comes out, I'll be a marked woman. A pariah. I wonder if I can get fired from my job over this. I should probably contact my union rep to be proactive. Ironic. Rob and I always fought about the union, and now here I am, needing it. Or at least I think I'll need it. I put it on my mental list of things to do. Hire a lawyer. Call the union rep. See if I still have a job. Kiss my love life and social standing goodbye.
I know all of these things, so there's really no explaining my next phone call.
"Fitzy? It's Sadie."
"What's up?" His voice is brisk and businesslike.
"Can you talk?"
"I'm in the middle of something at the moment. I can meet up in about thirty minutes. I don't suppose you want to meet me at the station?"
"I'd rather not meet there right now, if it's all the same."
"Gotcha. I'll pick you up, and we'll go for a drive."
What to do in the thirty minutes until Fitzy arrives?
Max.
I need to say goodbye to Max before this gets ugly. Uglier, I should say. I call him next.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself."
"Are you busy right now?"
"I'm just wrapping something up. Lemme go out to my truck."
I wait while I hear him rustling. His truck door shuts and the background noise quiets. "Hey."
"I'm sorry to bother you."
"How are you doing?"
"Not good, but that's to be expected, right?"
"I've been questioned."
"About that night?"
"About what I know about that night as well as your relationship with your sister."
"Oh great. Well, maybe you can come visit me once in a while in prison."
"Sadie, I don't understand."
I sigh. How do I put this into words? "Max, I don't think I'm a horrible person."
"I know you're not. I don't understand why things are so bad with you and your sister. She brings out a terrible side of you. But mostly I don't understand what happened between us. You seemed all into me, and now you're pulling back. I don't get it."
Max is sort of ... whiny. It's not what I would expect from him. Not at all. I mean, I have a lot going on right now, and he's fixated on the lack of progress in our relationship. "I wish I could explain it Max. I can't even understand it most of the time." How do I put into words that I'm a freak who kills people with a mere thought? That my freaky visions have evolved into being full-fledged curses. Now he's added a possible ex-girlfriend into the mix, not to mention getting a little too intense at an inopportune time. "Maybe it's a good thing that things didn't go too far. I wouldn't want you to be hurt by me."
"Sadie, you could never hurt me."
"That's the thing. I don't mean to. It just happens. I don't want to hurt people but I still do."
"Sadie, you don't have a mean bone in your body. I know you would never hurt me. I know it would be good between us, if you gave us a chance. You're a good person. That's why I don't understand you and your sister."
"There are some things that defy logic. Like how she could—"
"Maybe you shouldn't say anything else to me. You know, in case ..."
"In case you are called to testify against me?"
The silence is deafening. Finally, he mumbles, "Yeah, something like that."
"I never thought I'd break up with someone so they couldn't incriminate me in a court of law."
"It's a first for me, too." Again, silence. Then he speaks, his voice full of hope. "So, does that mean that you were considering dating me?"
"You look down in the dumps."
"Thanks Fitzy. Why don't you tell me I've gained weight too?"
Eyebrow cocked, he looks me up and down. If I wasn't all depressed about breaking things off with Max and the impending murder charges, it would be enough to get certain areas tingling. Okay, maybe it still is enough.
"You look just as good as always."
"Okay, that's enough!" I slam my hand down on the counter. Fitzy raises that damn eyebrow at me again. "You cannot say things like that to me. Don't you understand that you messed me up for years. I'm finally in a good place—"
"You call this a good place?"
"Shut up. You know what I mean."
"No, I'm afraid I don't. How did I mess you up?"
"You knew I had the biggest crush on you."
There's that wicked smile again. "Really? I had no idea."
Now he's just jerking my chain. "Stuff it Fitzy. You knew I was head-over-heels for you. I was always doing stupid stuff, trying to impress you."
"You mean like stuffing a dollar bill down my pants."
Of course, when he says it, I can't help but look at his crotch. He catches me looking. Dear Lord, please make the floor swallow me whole. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?"
"Um, no. It's still the talk of the station. Poor Richards. I think he's going to be in therapy for a long time."
"Can you please tell me exactly what happened? My recall is fuzzy. Honestly, I thought I was dreaming."
"I think Richards thought he was dreaming too. I asked him to stop by and check on you. See if you were home. Your lights were on, and so he knocked on the door. Apparently when you answered, you somehow were under the impression that he was there in an entertainment capacity. I believe you encouraged him by dancing yourself."
I want to die. I sink down in a kitchen chair, hoping the floor will open up, and I can disappear right through it. I try the next best thing, which is folding my head in my hands on the table.
Fitzy sits down in the chair to my right. He's playing with the edge of the woven placemat. "He called me to tell me about your, um, condition, since he knew that I was following this case."
"And then?" My voice is muffled from inside my arms.
"When I got there, it was, frankly, hysterical. You kept calling Richards Max, but you knew who I was. You may have brought up—" he breaks off.
That's enough to make me sit up straight. "Oh God, what? What did I bring up?"
Fitzy's trying to compose himself. He's relaxed back in his chair with a wide grin. "You may have mentioned something about how you always wanted to give me your V-card, and even though it wasn't still valid, it had been a while, so it would be pretty much like the first time again."
It was even worse that I thought.
"I can't even."
"What, Sadie? What can't you even?"
How do you reply to that? "I have no words. I have never been so mortified in my life."
"So I probably shouldn't tell you that you may have brought up a threesome?"
"I DID NOT!" I jump up from my seat, part indignant, yet part worried that I really did say that.
Fitzy's flat-out laughing at me now. "Okay, no you didn't. You're still the good girl you always were."
"Yeah, I'm the good one. That's how I'm the primary suspect in a murder."
"There's been no recovery of a body yet." The word yet hangs in the air.
"How did I get here?"
"If you told me twenty years ago that we'd be sitting here, I wouldn't have believed you either."
"Twenty years ago, Jenna and I were still friends. Sort of. Actually, we weren't by that point. Isn't it sad that it's been over twenty years since we were friends?"
"What happened? You two were thick as thieves when you were little."
"I don't suppose that I can talk to the Fitzy who knew me back then, not the Detective Fitzsimmons who is trying to find a body?"
"So you're telling me you know there's a body then?"
"No, that's not what I'm saying. I just wish I had a friend in the world right now. I don't seem to. Everyone's afraid to talk to me because they know they're going to be questioned. It would be nice if I could talk to someone who knew Jenna and me when we used to be close." I sink back down into my chair.
"So what did happen?"
"That's the thing. I don't know. We were close, then we weren't. It was like someone flipped a switch in her and all of a sudden she hated me. It was her mission in life to beat me, to win. Where we used to be a team, suddenly we were competition. I don't know why."
"You know, when I think about you as a kid—"
"I am only two years younger than you."
"Yeah, but when I was fourteen and you were twelve, all gangly and spindly. I used to wonder how your legs could support you. They were so skinny that I thought they would snap."
"I seemed to fill out but you never noticed."
"I noticed. But you were Brady's sister. There was a rule. Like dating someone's ex-girlfriend. Sisters are off limits." He's looking down at my legs now. Why couldn't this be happening in the middle of winter when my legs could be covered up?
"I wish you had told me. Maybe it would have saved me a lot of heartbreak and lonely nights, hoping you'd drop by."
His fiddling with the placemat is irritating me. I put my hand on his to still it. He looks at me and I feel like he can see into my soul. "You know what I remember about you?"
As if it has a mind of its own, my hand pulls back and settles into my lap. I knot my hands together. "What?"
"It was the weirdest thing, but you would say something, totally out of the blue, and then it would happen."
After a moment I say quietly, "You noticed that?"
"Yeah. I remember one time Brady and I were playing baseball in your yard. You were at the picnic table, drawing. You weren't paying attention to us at all. But, clear as day, I heard you tell Jenna to go in and get ice. She didn't want to, and you two started fighting. Finally, you yelled, 'Get the ice for Brady. He got hit in the head with a ball.' Your voice caused Brady to turn, and sure enough, the ball hit him in the head."
"I remember that." That was back when I was just injuring people.
"It's like you had a sixth sense about things."
"Yeah, well, I don't see dead people."
"That wasn't the only time that happened either."
"No, I know."
"What is it? Does it still happen?"
"I don't know what it is. Clairvoyance maybe?"
"Have you ever looked into it?"
"No, not really. I don't like to talk about it. My dad had it too, so we talked about it some. I've talked about it with my friend Therese, but she doesn't understand. She doesn't get that I have no control and that I don't know the future. She constantly asks me what lottery numbers to play."
"Damn, that was my next question." His smile puts me at ease. He's playing with the placemat again.
"You know, I bet you're really good at this interrogation thing. I bet you get a lot further than Detective Abbott."
"Not a big fan of Michele's, I take it?"
"She's scary, needs a better tailor, and needs a lesson in how to use hair product."
"I would tell her that, but frankly, I'm scared of her too. She's beat my ass in the boxing ring on more than one occasion." He pauses. "You wanna hear something funny though?" Without letting me answer he continues. "She has a huge crush on Officer Richards."
That makes me laugh. "Oh, now I feel bad for her. If he can't take me in my inebriated state, he'll never be able to handle her."
"I agree, but I think they could be good together. There's a side to her that not many people get to see."
We sit in a heavy silence. I want to tell him about how I feel responsible for the deaths of the celebrities, relatives, the plane crash, the kid in my high school. Rob. How do you even broach that without sounding like a complete wackadoo?
