Secrets - [Guardian Trilogy 01] (22 page)

“Yes,” I said quietly

“And you’re the one who found the body?”

This time my voice failed me. I nodded. I forced myself to ask the question I already knew the answer to, but I needed to hear the words. “Is she—”

“Yes.” He gave me a moment as I was again overcome with grief. “Can you please tell me everything that happened?”

I could feel the numbness swallowing me, but I nodded through it. “I came home, unlocked the door and saw … saw… Juliet. Then I think I may have screamed. After that someone brought me in here.”

“Did you try to help her—take her down?”

“No. Would that have—could I have … saved her?” A yelping cry sounded and kept repeating and repeating—I didn’t realize it was coming from me until the man put his hand on my arm and shook his head.

“No, no—I’m sorry. She’d been gone for a few hours by the time you arrived home. I just need to know for fingerprint purposes. When was the last time you saw Ms. Evans?”

“Today around noon.”

“What was her state of mind?”

“Her state of mind …” I echoed. “She was fine. We went to the funeral of my ex-boyfriend then out to lunch, but she left. She said she had to work. She was acting protective of me and a little odd, but—” I couldn’t go on.

“Did Ms. Evans have a relationship with your ex-boyfriend?”

“No. She disliked him. She felt bad because she was mean to him the last time she saw him—the night before he died—but they weren't close.”

“The night before he killed himself?”

“Yes.”

“What else was going on in her life?”

“She recently broke up with her boyfriend, other than that everything fine. She’d met a nice man that she thought she liked. She was . . . happy.”

“What was her boyfriend’s name?”

“Joe Schaffer.”

“What time did you leave the house today?”

“We left about 9:30.”

“Did you come back at any point?”

“No.”

“Did she have a key to your apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you after she left?”

“I stayed at the restaurant and had lunch with a friend.”

“And what is his name?”

“Holden …” It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t know Holden’s last name.

“Smith,” his voice came from behind me. I turned around to make sure he was really there, that I wasn’t just imagining it.

“Were you here when Ms. Martin entered her apartment, Mr. Smith?”

“No, I came a few minutes later. Olivia forgot her jacket. I was bringing it back,” he said smoothly, though it was a lie. I hadn’t had a jacket with me. I didn’t contradict him because I didn't see a reason to. I was simply glad he was there. His hand squeezed my shoulder in an act of solidarity that gave me strength. “I think Olivia has been through enough for today. May I take her somewhere to rest?”

The police officer readily agreed and after he collected contact information from Holden and me, Holden walked me back to my car. A fog was settling in around me. He deposited me in the passenger seat and drove us wordlessly back to his house.

I felt like I was going to throw up. The last few hours weren’t real. They were a movie, or someone else’s life. I had to remind myself to blink. Holden watched me, but didn’t say anything. I looked over at him, “I can’t do this. I can't—” I shook my head. “I don’t . . .” I couldn't continue. There weren't words only gaping hole.

“You will.”

“You don’t understand. I'm not good with people. I don’t make friends easily. She understood me. She loved me. I’m . . . I’m alone.” The truth of the statement broke my hold on the thin string of calmness I still held. I buried my face in my knees, crying so hard I was almost retching. Holden’s door shut and mine opened. He got me out of the car and to his apartment. He tucked me into his bed.

Sixteen

I've been around death, one way or another, my whole life, but this was different. I watched Olivia lying crushed and broken on my bed, drowning in a pool of grief. My breath became shallow and fast. My stomach tightened and churned. I was helpless. There was nothing I could do, no one I could protect her from, nothing I could fix. I couldn’t take back what happened. I couldn’t make her as she was. I didn’t know what to do. . . . I was paralyzed with my own uselessness.

Part of me wanted to leave—that's what I did for as long as I could remember. I'd delivered death to the doorsteps of many people and families, but never stayed to see the aftermath. Was everyone like this? How wide was my collateral damage? How many lives had I destroyed? How many hearts had I shattered? I tried to imagine all of the people I might’ve left in this shape over the years. My chest constricted; I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out of here. Her grief was smothering me.

The tightness didn’t loosen when my feet hit the pavement. I walked aimlessly, hoping to escape the insecurity taking root in me.
Why am I doing this
? I kept asking myself.
I don’t need drama
.
I don’t need her messing up my orderly life. She broke up with me.

But it didn’t matter what I told myself. I couldn’t leave. Every rational thought and primal instinct told me to cut and run, yet I stayed. Something unnamed went right through my center, staking me to her.

Once I accepted the fact I couldn’t escape what I felt, I stopped in the next bar. Perhaps I could drink guilt away. I was the only person in the bar, as I sat on a stool and ordered two fingers of Makers straight up. The bartender nodded and pushed the drink in front of me. I drained it in a single gulp and nodded to him again. The bartender refilled my glass, and I again drained the glass in the hopes that the warming sensation would kill the nervous energy filling me. I couldn’t even remember the last time I felt nervous. I nodded to him again.

“Bad day?” he asked as he filled my glass for a third time.

“I’ve had better.”

“This stuff will kill you.”

“What won’t?” I motioned for yet another.

“Not women, that’s for damn sure.” He laughed more to himself than to me. “You have woman trouble written all over you, son. Am I right?”

I looked up at the ceiling and sighed. I couldn't believe I was about to have a heart-to-heart with a fucking bartender, but what other choice did I have if I wanted him to keep serving me? “Sort of. It’s complicated.”

“What about women
isn’t
complicated?”

“I guess I never stayed around long enough to find out.”

“That’s the way to play it. What changed your mind about this one?”

“She’s different.”
Oh Christ, I've become a cliché
.

“No, none of them are different. The only thing that changes is us. Some women change
us,
make us see them differently from other women, but they're really all the same—united against us.”

“That's an interesting theory—” I should’ve let it go at that. Maybe the nosey bartender would have minded his own business, but for some reason I kept talking. “But Olivia is definitely different. There's no one quite like her.”

“Then why are you in my bar?”

“Her best friend killed herself today. I don’t know what to do.” My hands gestured helplessly. What was wrong with me?

The bartender filled my glass to the brim.

“I can’t fix it. I can’t make her feel better. What am I supposed to do? I don’t want to make it worse—that's why I'm in your bar.”

“Christ, son, has anyone close to you ever died?”

“Sure.”

“Do you remember how that felt?”

I thought about it, but no, I couldn’t really remember. It happened too long ago. It felt like I was a different person then—hell, I
was
a different person then. “Not really.”

“Look, my twin sister passed away two years ago, so I'm going to give you some advice—you look like you need it. First, you have to accept you can’t do anything. Nothing at all.” The bartender gave me a hard look with sharp blue eyes that peered out from under his shaggy grey hair. “Nothing you say or do will make any of this better—or worse for that matter—so stop thinking about it. This isn’t about you. It's about her.”

I wanted to punch him, but refrained. I hated talking to a complete stranger, but worst of all I hated that he was right. I did need help.

“Second, you can’t understand, so don’t say you do. Unless you've been there, there's no understanding, and you obviously
haven't
been there—it isn’t the sort of thing you forget. When you lose someone that close to you it changes you. You see the world through different eyes. You share a bond with others who have experienced a similar loss—and trust me, it isn’t a bond you ever want to have.” He shook his head and poured himself a drink, “The best thing you can do is shut the hell up. Don’t say anything. Ultimately, all that matters is being there.”

“Being where?”

“With her, you schmuck. Go home, get her a glass of water, be there for when she does need something from you.”

I frowned at the bartender. Why was he being so damn helpful anyway? “You are an asshole, but you’re right.” I tossed a couple bills on the counter, grossly over tipping, and walked out.

His advice was easy enough.
Do nothing.
Surely, I could manage that. I've been doing nothing for other people all of my life. I unlocked the door to my apartment and pain washed over me like a wave.

Doing nothing wasn’t going to be quite as easy as I’d hoped.

Olivia was still curled in a fetal position. Her red, puffy, bloodshot eyes stared blankly in front of her. Vacant. Retreated. An empty shell. I wanted so much to tell her everything would be okay, but I couldn’t. It was against the bartender's rules, and I couldn’t bring myself to make her promises that I couldn’t keep.

I went to the kitchen to make her tea, then remembered I didn’t have anything to offer her. A bitter self-loathing chuckle lodged in my throat, as I wryly thought about
all
the areas in which I had nothing to offer her. I quickly ran down the block and bought groceries and dishes. The effect of coming back to the apartment was the same. A funeral-like atmosphere had taken over my home, and it didn’t seem out of place.