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

wouldn’t see me. I’d check in and a few minutes later, the guard would call me up to the window surrounded by bulletproof glass and tell me my own brother didn’t want to see me.

The first couple times this happened, instead of leaving, mad at him for being a further jerk than he’d already proven to the world he was, I’d sit back down in the uncomfortable plastic chair and sob, wondering if for some inexplicable reason this had been my fault. If I’d demanded too much of my parents’ attention, or was mean to him. If I’d been too popular, or too smart. Maybe if he’d had a little more of the spotlight, he would have turned out differently.

The next few times, I left, walked to my car, and hit the steering wheel, trying to work out my anger before driving off, rightfully mad at him.

And then he finally saw me. I’m not going to say our relationship became stronger than ever—that’s not what happened. But I visited and we talked. I was the only family he saw, since my parents refused to visit. I think he grew to like my visits.

Until he killed himself. Can’t really blame him on that account either. I wouldn’t want to be in prison.

I truly hope Ryan won’t kill himself. I’m working hard to get him out, trying to prove Margaret framed him. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll prove it the right way, no cutting corners or prompting further investigations.

The guard looks at me, our unspoken signal that it’s time for me to leave. I’d stay longer, but short visits are probably best for both of us.

“I have to go,” I say, breaking the silence. We often sit in silence during my visits. Being in prison and all, I’d think Ryan would rather talk, have an outlet, hear stories from the world beyond these walls. Prison is never truly silent, though. Screaming inmates, guards barking orders, cells slamming shut, prisoners shuffling through hallways—there’s always some kind of noise, something going on. Perhaps that’s all to keep anyone from feeling safe when they’re locked up.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have to get back too. There’s some kind of party on cell block D tonight. It’s gonna be a rager.” We chuckle. “When will you be back?” he asks.

He’s never asked me this before. “Soon,” I say, trying to offer him comfort without committing to anything.

“I hope so.”

I stand and the guard lets me out. I watch through the glass as they handcuff Ryan and lead him back to his cell. I never thought things would turn out like this. Not in a million years.

Chapter 20

Margaret

I have to testify tomorrow. I’ve been present for every day of my trial, but tomorrow is the decision-maker, the deal breaker. Everything hinges on what I have to say. My freedom depends on me being able to convince the jury that I did not kill my daughter, even though I did kill my husband. That’s a difficult line to walk. I have faith in myself, though.

There will be another trial to determine whether I killed Dave. I’ve been charged with premeditated murder, but Stanley thinks it won’t be hard to get me off. This trial, right now, about Lana’s death, is the hard part. He’s already warned me it’s unlikely I will be acquitted. Even though he tells me this at every meeting, I think he’s just preparing me for the worst. A jury wouldn’t really convict me, would they?

To say it’s torture to sit and listen as character “witnesses” who barely know me destroy me is an understatement. Stanley is in full control, preventing me from being a part of the process or having a say in any part of my trial. Instead, I sit there and have to restrain myself from harming anyone else while my reputation gets dragged through the mud.

Our—I should say my—401(k) is basically empty now, all of the funds having gone to Stanley. I had plans for that money, lots of plans, but they are all slipping away as I write check after check to his office. It’s going to take a miracle and a fast-talking esquire to get me out of this mess. Also, my testimony. If there’s anything that can convince the people sitting in that box, wishing they could go back to their miserable jobs because they hate jury duty so much more than their typical nine-to-five, it’s my own words. Hopefully Stanley is qualified to prepare my defense.

The chance to share my story has me both nervous and excited, with butterflies flying around my stomach like I’m back in high school, preparing to give a speech, or behind the curtain on opening night in the student musical. Those are moments I miss, and getting back to that flash of panic followed by a rush of adrenaline and finally the roar of the crowd sounds rather nice. Not that experiencing those feelings again is worth what my life has become. It’s not. Clearly. But since I have to go through it anyway, I might as well find the brighter side.

Stanley told me to steer clear of any alcohol or drugs tonight. I intend to stay away from drugs at all times; I’ve never even smoked a joint. But come on, a little drink isn’t going to hurt me. I pour myself a tall glass of champagne and top it with orange juice, just the way I like my mimosas. I put the bottle of bubbly and its orange juice assistant back into the refrigerator so they’ll stay nice and cold when the craving for the second one strikes. And I know it will.

If I’m supposed to get the requisite amount of sleep, also per Stanley’s instructions, then I will definitely need the assistance of my beverage. The bubbles tickle my nose as I lean in close to catch a whiff. Then they meet my lips and finally tingle all the way down, comforting me with their fizzy