Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (ereader iphone .TXT) 📗

What if I don’t want to find out? What if I want to live in ignorant bliss the rest of my life? What if I think we’re better off with Lana dead?

Wait, I didn’t mean that. Obviously we’re not better off with her dead; it’s just that she was bringing us down. Threatening to kill yourself over and over eventually stops having an effect, unless you actually go through with it, so this was the next logical thing for her to do.

“Just a few more questions,” boy cop says.

I shake my head no, but he’s going to ask them anyway, I already know that.

At least Dave and I are together this time, so I don’t have to worry about them comparing our stories. Not that we’re telling stories; it just makes me unreasonably nervous that one of us will remember something differently, inaccurately, and we’ll be imprisoned.

“Why did you take a vacation immediately after Lana’s death?” girl cop asks. I don’t appreciate her tone.

“Immediately? We had her funeral, mourned. We needed an escape.”

“You needed an escape,” Dave adds. “I went along.”

I give Dave some serious side eye as the detectives spew more questions at us.

“Where did you go?”

I hear words coming out of Dave’s mouth and understand that I’m supposed to know what they are, as common in the English language, but they don’t make any sense. The cops’ insinuation that they know more about my daughter than I do is too much.

The pieces start to fall into place in my mind. If Lana had a job, and a boyfriend, there was no reason for her to kill herself. So how did she die? I can’t fathom it suddenly. This is unimaginable.

Dave must know something. He had to. Did he start this whole investigation because he knew she wouldn’t have killed herself? What else does he know about Lana that I didn’t?

Shit. He thinks I killed our daughter.

I fall to the floor. Dave doesn’t even make a move to try to catch me. He looks at me, sitting there, pretending to be in pain. I’m trying so hard to grab some of his attention, but he refuses to give it to me. It’s like he knows I’m acting and not really in pain at all. That, or he doesn’t give a fuck. If I thought he killed Lana, I guess I wouldn’t give a fuck about him either.

Wait a minute. Maybe he did kill Lana. How have I missed it this whole time? That’s why he’s been so upset about her death. It’s why he’s been drinking and doing drugs. Everything makes sense now. He wants to be the last suspect on anyone’s mind. He’s the poor, old, likable husband, and I’m the evil shrew. But it’s all an act.

Suddenly I look up and the detectives are gone. I want them to come back. I’m trapped in this house with a murderer. It’s one of those things I never thought I’d have to deal with. You know, other people’s kids get killed. Other people marry someone they think is awesome at first, but turns out to be a serial killer with a second family.

How did I end up here? That’s the only thing crossing my mind. I was supposed to be an upper-middle-class suburbanite with a successful child and a blissful marriage. I was meant to always look put together, to be a good baker and a gardener. In reality, I am none of those things. I am a mess. My life is a disaster in which I have left a path of nuclear waste, bound to contaminate anyone who comes near me. I have a house that only serves to remind me of my dead daughter, a husband who has been keeping secrets from me, including potentially that he killed said daughter. I can’t cook or bake a damn thing, I hire someone to handle the garden, and I’m starting to look like I died along with Lana.

I glare at Dave, hating him more than I’ve ever hated anything or anyone in my entire life.

“You killed her, didn’t you?”

He looks at me, baffled. “Who?”

“Who? Who? All you have to say to me is who? Lana. That’s who.”

He laughs. He actually laughs. I can count the times he has laughed since Lana died on one hand, and now that I am accusing him of staging her suicide, he is laughing.

“Really, Maggie? Really? You think I killed Lana? I could say the same thing about you.”

My eyes bulge. “You do think I killed her, don’t you?”

“I’m not going to lie to you—the thought has definitely crossed my mind. I don’t think you have it in you, though. You’ve always been more of a talker than a doer.”

I question my entire life with that one statement. I’ve always waited around to be mixed with another person to take on their form, to become exactly what they want and need me to be, totally losing myself every time. I did it with all of my boyfriends, most of all Dave, and then I did it with Lana. I don’t have a personality. I’m merely a shell of a person waiting to be filled by someone else.

“How much do you really know about McKellan?”

“I knew she’d gotten a job there,” he says, hanging his head.

“Why didn’t you tell the detectives?”

“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head at himself, at his own behavior.

“So why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“I figured it would destroy you. You have come to rely on Lana so much.”

“You’ve got this all wrong. You’re the one who’s been a mess,” I say. “I’ve been taking this all in stride, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, because taking your daughter’s death in stride is something to be proud of.”

“Well, we can’t both be wasted basket cases.”

“I agree. You might not be wasted, but I know which one of us is the basket case.”

“Glad we agree on something.”

“We don’t agree on it, Margaret. Stop kidding yourself.