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

the machine I’m hiding in the basement? Went to lunch with one of my dozens of friends? Spent our millions burning a hole in my pocket on a new designer wardrobe?

“Not very good.”

“A night in jail will do that to you,” he says, setting his briefcase on the floor and staring at me, arms folded.

“And today, I wanted to leave the house, but then I remembered the ankle monitor slowly cutting off circulation to my foot.”

Stanley’s not a miracle worker. This ankle monitor is a permanent part of my wardrobe for the time being.

“Oh,” Dave mutters, losing a bit of his sunny disposition.

“I’m probably going to be convicted, you know.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, though his tone lacks a single decibel of conviction. “And even if they do, we’ll appeal. Stanley will keep fighting for you ’til you’re back on the streets.”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to afford an appeal, but thanks for the support.”

He walks over and sits next to me on the sofa. He grabs both of my hands and nestles them in his. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.

“Honey,” he says, “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay,” I say, bracing for the worst, not that I think I can even imagine the worst. We’ve been through so many unexpected events lately that anything seems possible. Just as Dave starts to speak I legitimately think he’s going to tell me that he killed Lana, or maybe admit that he filed those damn divorce papers.

“I met someone,” he says, looking into my eyes with love and sadness.

“Who?” I ask. I have no idea what he’s alluding to. He met the president? A police officer? A new neighbor?

“I’m in love . . . with someone else. Another woman.”

My jaw drops. Did I really think we’d make it through this as individuals, let alone as a couple? Even I can’t be that delusional. We were destroyed by the death of our daughter, and all the lying since. Each one of us thinks the other killed our daughter. The fact that we made it this far together, not lunging at each other’s throats, is unfathomable. Moving on is a natural part of the process. It’s the next stage in our lives.

“I’m sorry, Maggie,” he says. “And I’m sorry for calling the police with that tip. It’s time I tell you that. I just knew Lana didn’t kill herself, and I need them to find Lana’s killer. Even if that person is you.”

“So you did call the police? You really think I killed Lana?”

“I do, but I won’t say that publicly.”

“Oh, well, thanks for that,” I say, not sure whether I’m more hurt by him moving on from me or finally admitting he thinks I killed Lana. Maybe it’s just the thought that I’ll never be happy or able to move on and he thinks he will. That just can’t be. It won’t be.

He kisses me on the cheek and gets up, starting to walk up the stairs.

“Honey,” I say, in a Stepford-sounding voice that makes even me shudder, “why not just leave? Why tell me all of this? Put me through all of this pain?”

“I . . . umm . . .” He trips over his words like a kid lying to his mother. “I mean . . . why would you ask me that?” He stays on the stairs. I wish he’d come down to me, but I get up and walk toward the staircase, with its old banister, the treads covered with matted, worn-out carpet that needs to be replaced.

“Just give me a straight answer,” I say. “Can’t you do that instead of answering my question with a question? It just feels so vindictive.”

“I just . . . this whole thing, it’s just been odd. I wanted to be honest with you. I thought you’d appreciate that. I guess I hoped it might make you be honest with me, too.”

“About killing Lana?”

“Yes,” he says. “I won’t tell them, if you just admit to me that you did it.”

I look at the floor and then back up at him, having composed myself enough to answer without sounding like he did just moments ago. He does deserve to know the truth before it’s too late for him.

“That DNA was from a fight we had,” I say. “That’s it, I swear. I didn’t kill her.”

“A knock-down, drag-out fight? Come on, Maggie, really?”

“It happens.”

“No, Maggie, it doesn’t fucking happen. Not between you two. Not in suburban neighborhoods like this. It doesn’t just happen.”

“How could you turn your own wife in with no more evidence than a feeling? If I acted on every feeling I had, our lives would be a hell of a lot different.”

Dave stares at me. He’s making a decision about what to tell me. I’m eager to hear what he has to say, but I know it probably won’t be the truth. Regardless, I’ve made up my mind: We’re done, and so is he.

“I can’t explain it, Maggie.”

He sits down on the stairs and starts to sob. The pain he’s managed to keep from the surface pounds back like a vicious migraine. “You killed our baby, our daughter; I know it. You made it look like she hanged herself, but she didn’t. You drugged her and fought with her and then killed her.”

“There were no drugs in her system,” I say defiantly.

“Okay, you just suffocated her, watching her fight the whole time until her body went limp in your arms and then you hanged her from the ceiling.” Dave spits on the floor.

I don’t know what to do or say. I shake. I can’t talk. I sit down on the cold wood floor. I can’t stand anymore. Tears begin flowing from my eyes as well.

“What have you done to us?” I manage to spit out with rage, sadness, and panic, a terrible combination that when mixed with the salty taste of tears and the bile creeping up my throat makes me feel like I too am dying.

“It’s not