I sigh and lean back, grabbing my forehead, closing my eyes briefly because it hurts so badly. I realize Frank is right. I’m in trouble either way. It’s only a matter of when.
“The police will probably come for me soon anyway,” I say and fiddle with my cup.
“How so?”
“First of all, I’m pretty sure they saw me drive away from there and probably also got my license plate. Second, I was the one who called nine-one-one. Before I went into the house, I called and told them someone was about to be murdered, then gave them the address, and hung up. I just couldn’t wait for them to arrive; I was scared they’d be too late. I had my gun. I thought I’d be able to defend myself. But he must have heard me on the stairs or maybe when I was by the door. Boy, he moved fast.”
“Plus, you wanted to be sure it was Ryan, am I right?” Frank asks. “A highly skilled soldier with PTSD who can kill you with his bare hands. Didn’t you think about that at all? You completely disregarded your own safety to play a silly Miss Marple or whatever their names are.”
“If I am anyone, it’s Hercule Poirot,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Annoying and stubborn.”
Frank laughs, but he isn’t happy. He’s mad at me for not taking better care of myself. I can’t blame him. I would be mad at me too.
Chapter 34
Frank doesn’t go back to work. He stays with me, and we order a pizza for lunch, then eat together. I also order a smoothie since I can’t really chew much with my lip, so I stay mostly on a liquid diet. After finishing up, Frank makes a couple of phone calls while I clean the kitchen from this morning. I feel overwhelmed as I put the bowls in the dishwasher. I am not just in physical pain. I feel broken inside and can’t wrap myself around the fact that my husband isn’t the man I once knew. Not only has he changed drastically, but he’s become a murderer like the ones you read about in novels or watch on TV. It’s hard for me to believe that a man could change this much. Especially Ryan. But you hear the stories, right? How some women refused to see their spouses for what they really were, even some who were married to serial killers. Or stories about those who live in an abusive relationship who continuously makes excuses for them, even when they isolate them from the world and hurt them. I don’t want to end up like one of those numbers in the statistics who were killed by their husbands because they refused to see the signs. I really don’t.
Still, it is hard for me to believe it.
Look at Isabella. He shot her! Look at your face. Isn’t that proof enough? How much more do you need?
I shake my head as Frank returns from the balcony, holding his phone in his hand. He closes the sliding doors behind him, shutting out the soothing sound of the waves. It’s getting hotter out now, and the AC can barely keep up inside. I haven’t been out there all day since the bright sunlight hurts my head.
“Okay, so I spoke to the ME’s office on the mainland,” he says, looking at me pensively. “I have a colleague who works there. He told me something interesting. He said they never received Duke Marchant’s body.”
I want to grimace, but my face is in too much pain, so I sit on a dining chair instead and look up at him. The place was furnished when I rented it. I don’t care much for the flowers on the back of the chairs, but who am I to complain, right? I’m just glad to have a place to stay—a place that hopefully remains safe for the kids and me.
“What does that mean?”
“That he didn’t die,” Frank says and sits down across from me. “I then called the hospital, and a nurse told me they have him in the ICU. His wrists were cut, and he lost a lot of blood.”
I stare at him, barely blinking. “So…what you’re saying is…he’s alive? He didn’t die? I was so certain…I guess I just assumed he did because the paramedics didn’t look like they were rushing, but I could have misinterpreted that. Ha. So that means…he can talk to the police, right? He can help them get to Ryan?”
Frank places the phone on the dining table, then gives me a look. His shoulders sag a little. “Hardly. At least not yet. He is not responsive. He hasn’t woken up yet, and they are not sure he will.”
“Oh.”
Frank grabs my hand in his and looks down at it. “But it does mean you saved his life. If you hadn’t called the cops or even disturbed Ryan when he tried to kill him, he probably wouldn’t be alive.”
“Dang it,” I say and bite my lip.
“I know you were hoping that this guy, Duke, could talk to the police about Ryan for you, but I am afraid it won’t be the case. You’re not off the hook, Laurie. I still think you should go to them and tell them that you were there.”
I shake my head, feeling distressed.
“No.”
“Why not, Laurie?” Frank asks, getting impatient with me. I can hear his breathing, quick and shallow.
“Because he will come for the kids,” I say. “And me. It’ll put us all in danger. I can’t do that. I’m not doing it. End of story.”
When he leaves, I sit back alone behind heavily locked doors and wonder what to do next. A big part of me is happy that Duke is still alive; of course, I am thrilled. I feel like I have finally had a win over Ryan. But the rest of me is in deep pain. Not just because of my face and the possible concussion I am suffering from, but because I know that Frank is right. For the relatives of the people Ryan has killed to get closure, I have to help them. If we’re to stop Ryan from killing more people, I have to be the one to step up and speak up.
The door buzzes, and I press the intercom. It’s my mom.
“I’m bringing the kids back,” she says. “They can walk up on their own, right? I need to get home. Your dad hasn’t seen me since yesterday, and I have to get him to his doctor’s appointment at four.”
“Of course, Mom. Thank you so much for all your help.”
“No problem, sweetie. The kids were both wonderful.”
I hear her giving them kisses when I buzz the door open and let them in. I wait by the door, feeling anxious because I have to tell them what happened. When I hear the elevator ding, I open the door to greet them. They both stare at me like I am a ghost.
“What happened to you?” Isabella asks, humping along on her crutches. She seems almost angry at me.
I stare at her. I have been going over this in my mind all day, what to say, how to tell them that their dad did this to me, but when I look into their faces, I can’t get myself to do it. So, I come up with a lie.
“I fell down the stairs, clumsy, huh?”
Damian looks up at me, mouth gaping. “Were you running? Because Grandma always tells me not to run on the stairs.”
“Yes, sweetie, I was,” I say. “I was in a hurry, and so I fell.”
I bend down so Damian can touch my lip. He smiles as he runs a finger across it. He touches some of the dried-up blood that I haven’t been able to wash off, then says:
“Cool.”
Damian takes off to play with his toys, satisfied with my little story, while Isabella still looks at me like she doesn’t buy a word of it. I close the door behind me and lock both locks, then shake it several times to make sure it is actually locked. I turn around and find myself face-to-face with my daughter. She lifts her eyebrows.