Do I still believe in his innocence?
They let me go, and I drive home, crying so hard I can barely see the road in front of me. I park in the garage, then sit there for a very long time, how long I don’t know. I just sit there, trying to calm my pounding heart.
I’m pretty sure my husband just killed someone. I don’t know what to do. It’s the only explanation, right? It can’t be a coincidence that he was with both of them right before they died, allegedly killing themselves, right? I mean, I’m not just being paranoid anymore; I can’t be.
Something like this doesn’t happen twice.
Does it?
I crawl into Isabella’s bed and try to fall asleep. I sleep with her for the rest of the night, or at least until I hear the garage door open and the truck come back. My heart is hammering in my chest as I hear him downstairs. He tips something over, and it falls to the tiles, shattering. I’m guessing it’s a glass or maybe a beer bottle. I hear him open the fridge and rustle something, probably eating leftovers. The stairs creak, and then I hear the footsteps outside the door. They stop right on the other side. I stare at the door, praying it won’t open.
It doesn’t. The footsteps disappear, and I hear the door to our bedroom click shut. I breathe and lie completely still, hoping Ryan is too drunk to realize I’m not in our bed.
I close my eyes, telling myself that I’ll tell the investigators the truth tomorrow. I’ll tell them he was there, just like he was there right before Sandra killed herself. I need to tell them the truth. I can’t live with myself if I don’t.
I finally doze off as the house grows silent, and I sleep for an hour or so before I wake up with a gasp. I open my eyes and realize the door to Isabella’s room is open. I turn to look and see Ryan sitting in the chair by the bed, hands folded, eyes glaring at us. He looks angry.
“R-Ryan?” I say and sit up. “What are you doing here?”
He reeks of alcohol even from where he is sitting. I think he’s still drunk.
“Why are you not sleeping in our bed?” he asks. His speech is slurred. “I came home, and…you weren’t there?”
“I…Isabella needed me. She had a nightmare,” I lie and try to keep my voice low. “Let’s talk in the morning, okay? I don’t want to wake her.”
He gets up and walks closer, then sits at the foot of the bed. He grabs my hand in his, then caresses it. I hope he won’t notice how badly it is shaking. Can he hear my shuddering breath? Can he hear my galloping heart?
“I’m sorry if I acted badly tonight,” he says, suddenly a lot calmer. “I think I had too much to drink.”
I just want him to leave. I don’t know if I’m looking at a murderer or what the heck is going on. I need time to think this through. I need rest. I find it so hard to believe. I have known this man since I was twenty. He’s been my entire life. Everything I did was for him. Could my Ryan have murdered someone?
I can’t wrap my mind around it.
The only explanation for it is the war. He went away and came back changed. Maybe he really had lost it over there? Could it be his PTSD? Maybe he isn’t even aware of his actions? Maybe he doesn’t even remember killing them? Is it possible to have a blackout and then kill someone and not remember afterward? Is it possible to be that sick?
“It’s okay,” I whisper, calming down. Yet, I still can’t help it. I begin to cry. I feel so hopeless and scared.
“Hey, hey,” he whispers. “What’s going on with you?”
“I’m just…I’m just so tired is all,” I say. “It’s been a long day, with my parents and all that. And the fact that I never know when you’re going to leave us again. It wears on me, Ryan. It really does. That and then the drinking and…” I am about to say more, but I stop. I can’t say what I saw. Not now. Not here. I need time to think it over; I need time to figure out how to handle this. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have a clue.
He pulls me closer and starts to kiss me—first my forehead, then my lips. His kisses are soft yet insistent.
“Come back to our bed,” he says between kisses. “It’s so empty without you. I don’t want to sleep without you. I miss you terribly in there. We’ve been apart enough. I don’t want to sleep apart anymore.”
I look into his eyes, not knowing what to do, what to think. It’s all so chaotic in my head. All the many thoughts rushing through it. It’s like it won’t stand still enough for me to think properly. It’s just all those images of Ted and Sandra, and then Ryan. My beloved Ryan. I have loved this man all of my adult life, as long as I can remember. He has to be in there somewhere, doesn’t he? I can’t just give up on him.
I search my brain for any logical explanation but don’t find one. He was there, and then they both turned up dead. And I am the only one who knows.
“Come,” he whispers, then pulls my hand. I let him and follow him back into our bed. I lie down, and we cuddle all night, me constantly trying to remain calm and not freak out. I finally fall asleep right before sunrise, and he lets me sleep in, then gets up and makes sure the kids aren’t late for the school bus.
I pretend to be sleeping, but instead, I write to Frank. I ask him about Ted and whether he can give me any insight into the body they found. And then I ask the question that I want answered most of all right now:
What is the time of death?
I close the lid of my laptop right as Ryan comes into the bedroom, carrying a tray with coffee and toast. He has even taken a flower from the yard and placed it in a small vase. He smiles gently and crawls under the covers with me. I shiver lightly when he brushes against me. After we have eaten, his hands crawl up under my dress, and his fingers play with my panties. He smiles and leans in over me, then pulls them off forcefully. I gasp lightly as he enters me with a groan. I pray he doesn’t realize my entire body is trembling in fear as he makes love to me. As I close my eyes, all I can see is Ted’s eyes as they cut him down and the small broken blood vessels around them. I had seen enough dead bodies in my line of work to know those were an indication of asphyxiation.
As Ryan kisses my breasts, and later my lips again, I can’t stop wondering if he strangled him before he hung him up or if Ted died while hanging.
Chapter 22
Two days go by before I hear back from Frank. He texts me that he needs to talk to me. He comes over as soon as Ryan leaves for his doctor’s appointment. Ryan is almost back at one hundred percent, he says, and he hopes the doctor will give him the all-clear to get back to work. Not having to go every day is driving him nuts, he says. He needs to have a reason to get out of bed. I wish him luck, and as soon as he leaves, I text Frank that the coast is clear.
He arrives a few minutes later, and I make him coffee. He smiles gently as we sit down at the dining table. I have a basket of laundry sitting on top of it, which I put on the floor first.
“How are you doing?” he asks. “You look a little…flustered.”
“I’m okay,” I lie. Because I am not. I am anything but okay. I am worried and scared out of my wits. I feel like my world has come crumbling down and that I am disappearing into a deep darkness that I can’t drag myself out of. I keep seeing Ryan as he kills Sandra or Ted. I keep imagining it and dreaming about their dead bodies. I can’t help it.