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

Sure, I loved her, but at some point, something changed, and suddenly, she was never happy. No matter what anyone did for her, no matter how much money she made or how many things she had, no matter how many seaside vacations we took, nothing made Tracy purely, genuinely happy. I’m not even sure she wanted to be happy. I ignored her wretched unhappiness all these years, but now that I have some distance, I can see it all clearly. She was a bitch who had me right where she wanted me. Not unlike Margaret Moore. Now, instead of suffering through the next forty or fifty years, Tracy has been put out of her misery. Maybe in heaven, or hell, she’ll change her ways.

Merely thinking all these nasty things has made me antsy. My skin crawls with itches I can’t scratch. My hair is standing on end. Tracy is torturing me any way she can. Boo-hoo, I’ve offended Tracy, whom I suppose I have to keep pretending I still love when I confront those who will be mourning her.

“Shit,” I say out loud. “I have to call her family.”

I’m not concerned someone’s going to think I’m crazy for talking to myself, considering I’m alone. Besides, being called crazy isn’t the worst thing I’ve been called today.

Beth’s been texting me; maybe she knows something is up. Well, she’s going to have to wait for a while. I can’t deal with her right now.

Tracy’s parents are my top priority. Not by choice, but it’s not exactly like I can call Todd and Anna in a week and be like, “Oh, by the way, your daughter died.” Tracy might have turned out to be a terrible person, but I’m not, and I’m not about to become one now.

I go into the study, which seems to be the only room in the house unscathed by the events of the morning. I shut the door—not sure why. It’s not like I need privacy from anyone. I find Todd’s number in my phone, the only number I have for her parents.

We’ve never been best buds or anything, but her parents have always been nice enough to me. I have Todd’s number because we’ve gone to a couple of baseball games together, and he took me out on his fishing boat once, for some bonding time. Fishing ranks among my least favorite things to do, and going with him was a huge mistake. He must have thought so, too, since he never invited me again.

I press the call button quickly, like pulling a Band-Aid off a wound. The phone rings. I don’t know if I’m hoping Todd picks up or that it will go to voice mail. Even if I hear that robotic voice, I have to ask him to call me back. There’s no way I’m going to tell him his daughter’s dead over a voice mail. I can’t even imagine that.

He picks up. “Hey, Ryan! How are ya?”

I wish he wouldn’t have sounded quite so excited to hear from me. It’s been a while since we’ve talked, and it’s like he’s rediscovered a long-lost best friend.

“Actually, I’m not doing that great,” I say.

“What’s wrong? Anything I can help you with?”

Todd’s a good guy. A really good guy. He’s worked hard his whole life to support his family; too bad I’m about to ruin the rest of it.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Todd,” I start to say, and then I stop myself. I think about how we make death notifications. We do it in person. I have to make a quick decision and it’s an impossible one. I don’t want to give him the wrong message by saying I need to come over or we need to meet, but I can’t exactly just tell him this over the phone.

“What is it, son?” he asks.

I hate that he calls me son. I am not his son. Right now, I hate even more the fact that he feels this bond with me; it’s going to make telling him Tracy’s dead that much harder. And then he’s going to find out that I’m a person of interest. The only person of interest.

“Are you and Anna home? Can I come over?”

“Anna’ll be home soon. She’s getting her nails done or something. You okay?”

“Yes . . . no . . .” I’m searching for an explanation, but nothing’s coming to me. “I really need to talk to you in person.”

“Come on over,” he says in a friendly, concerned tone. “Tracy coming too?”

“No,” I yelp. “I’m on my way.”

She’s not coming; that’s the truth. I only told him the truth.

I get in the car, even though I shouldn’t really be driving. Physically and mentally, I’m a mess. People worry about driving under the influence of alcohol, but driving under the influence of powerful emotions is much more dangerous.

Somewhere along the thirty-minute trip, mostly highway, I start crying. Not manly, repressed tears, but ugly-cry tears, as Tracy would have said, back in the days when we were actually in love. It’s not that I’m necessarily crying over Tracy’s death. Although we weren’t as close anymore, I am sad that she is gone. Now when I think of my future, it’s empty. A giant void of question marks waiting for answers that will not come to me right now, except that my future most likely involves prison, probably for the rest of my life. Not one of those nice minimum-security facilities, either. Instead, my time will most likely be served in some maximum-security prison where no one will ever come to visit me. A cop in prison. It doesn’t get much worse than that.

The tears come because I’m scared about that future. I don’t want to be locked up. I know what prison is like; I know what it does to people. Even if they are innocent, by the time inmates are released—in the unlikely event it ever happens—they are changed people. And not for the better.

The drive goes by quickly,