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

news is far, far worse for me. My fiancée was murdered and I am out with another woman. The reasons don’t matter. There’s no excuse, no explanation that makes any sense. I can’t talk my way out of this. I’ll be charged with murder. I’d even charge me if I could. In fact, in other scenarios I have charged people in the exact same situation. Well, maybe not exactly the same; that would be rather odd.

“I have to go,” I say. “I can’t do this to you. I knew we shouldn’t have met here.”

She doesn’t move. I look at her, urging her to leave, yet she isn’t moving.

“You need to go.”

Beth looks right at me. Right into my eyes. “I couldn’t let my sister go down,” she says, and then saunters away from the table.

Oh shit.

She walks out of the restaurant, cool, calm, and collected. Devin’s probably in on the whole thing. He won’t be mad she cheated on him. Maybe he knew about us from the beginning. Beth was only interested in me because I was interested in Margaret.

I pull back the curtains to watch Beth walk away. She looks like a celebrity, totally unfazed by the flashes. She walks confidently, shoulders back, looking straight ahead, hair swaying in the breeze. I want to die, right then and there. I want this to end.

But I don’t die. I sit there for a moment before I get up, feeling as though I have no other choice. I don’t want to go outside, so I’m just about to ask if there’s a back door before realizing I’d still have to walk around front to my car anyway. I bite the bullet and walk out of the bar, trying to take a lesson from Beth and pretend I’m confident, pretend everything is A-okay as cameras flash. I’m sure I look sneaky and suspicious. I’ll know in a matter of hours if that is the case, because my story and photos of me will be online in no time, on the news tonight, and in the newspaper tomorrow. Lucky me. Instead of being lauded as a hero cop like I’d always dreamed about, like my father had been more than once, I’ve sullied myself and the family name. I’m the reason why cops can’t be trusted. The problem with society these days. The scum of the earth.

I keep my eyes on my car and nothing else during my walk. Once I arrive there safely, I get in and immediately lock the doors until I compose myself enough to carefully pull away.

I drive with my hands gripped on the steering wheel as though my life depends on it. By the time I get home, after checking out of the Riverview, my phone has exploded. I have become a major news story, just waiting for the police to take me away. I check my messages; the first one is from Sarge.

“Ryan. I hate to tell you this, but I think we’re going to have to arrest you, with all this news business. I don’t want to come to your house and drag you away in handcuffs. If you come in by midnight, you can surrender yourself. Do that. Okay?”

Is he telling me to run instead of come in? Is he giving me a head’s up? How am I supposed to know the difference? Not that I would know where to go, or be able to cross any borders or walk through any airports without fingers pointing and the watchful eye of every security guard on me. Still, I can’t help but wonder if he’s nudging me ever so slightly in the direction of freedom in a non-extradition country.

Unfortunately, that kind of life isn’t for me. I’m not made for being on the run, always looking over my shoulder, waiting to be caught. I’d rather prove I’m innocent—and I am innocent. It’s this evil Margaret Moore who’s not. No one could really believe it’s just a coincidence that her daughter killed herself, and then the detective on the case kills his girlfriend. It’s unbelievable. Granted, it was bad that I got involved with Beth. It was a heat-of-the-moment, grab-this-opportunity-before-it-slips-away kind of thing, and on that count, Beth is just as guilty as me. Yet no one, not even Beth, is going to see it like that.

I say good-bye to the house I’m emotionally detached from as it is. I try to mentally prepare myself to never be able to come back to it, since realistically, I don’t expect to come back here, even though I’m innocent. I gather some things that are important to me. Things I’d like to see again if the charges against me are dropped and Margaret is named as the real killer. Once I’m gone, the house could be broken into, vandalized, eventually repossessed by the bank and sold to some other schlub looking to make his way in the world, my things sold at auction, perhaps to become souvenirs on eBay.

Two haphazardly packed boxes sit by the front door waiting to be placed in my car. Some of it’s dumb stuff. A trophy from when my high school football team won the state championship. The first love note Tracy wrote to me many moons ago. A foul ball I caught at a game I went to with my dad. And then there’s the practical stuff. Birth certificate. Passport. Anything of value. A few clothes. Some photos. Things I’d need to rebuild my life, in case I get the chance.

I put the boxes in my car and then lock up the house and put the keys in one of the boxes. I’d rather trust them with Casey than the prison.

That’s where I’m taking these things before I turn myself in. To Casey’s house. He’s my best friend. Well, he was. We haven’t been in touch much lately. He’s married, has kids, is living the white-picket-fence American dream we all pretend we want. He says he’s happy, but I don’t really believe him.