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

station from depressing news, most of which I’ve already heard, to upbeat trashy pop music from my youth, and when I look up, I’ve swerved into oncoming traffic. I steady the car and steer myself to the side of the road amid a cacophony of horns and a few middle fingers from the drivers that pass me. If only they knew.

If only they knew that although I pretend to be tough and in control, I am secretly scared Margaret is going to come after me. Or that sometimes I can’t sleep at night thinking about Ryan in jail, feeling bad for him and wondering if we should have been together. Then I wonder if I’d be dead had we started the relationship that’s always been at the tip of our lips, even if we act like we’re just friends.

One day I know my phone is going to ring and it’s going to be the prison telling me Ryan has hanged himself with his bedsheets, or that he fatally stabbed himself with a toothbrush he managed to turn into a weapon. He’s a crafty guy and I know he’s not happy. How could he be? He’d never complain, of course, because he knows our every conversation is listened to and recorded, since he is a ward of the state, but I can tell.

Being able to share this with someone would lift an immense weight from my shoulders, but that can never happen. I have to hold in all the details of these cases from Emmitt, who tells me to ask for a desk job, or quit and get another job altogether. After I shoot those ideas down, he suggests we get married or not worry about traditional social conventions and start a family. Then I can stay home and be a mom. But what if that’s not what I want either?

Beyond this, I know for sure that I don’t want to make any rash decisions, especially ones that can affect the rest of my life. I’m not even getting married until I know how this case turns out.

As I sit on the side of the road, I have so many emotions and thoughts scrolling through my brain, and I can’t make sense of any of them. Not a single one. Quitting does cross my mind. Too bad it’s far too late for that now. Nothing will change the fact that I am involved in this case. The thought of breaking up with Emmitt definitely hits me too. I love him, but he didn’t sign up for this . . . this mess, sitting on the side of the road in her car, unable to control her emotions, or seemingly a single thing going on around her.

I refuse to let this woman control my life. So I sniffle, wipe some tears away from my eyes, take a deep breath, and pull back onto the road. I am going home. I am going on with my life. And I sure as hell plan to lock up Margaret Moore so I don’t have to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.

It’s nearly dark by the time I get home. Looking at clocks hasn’t really been a part of my day, so I’m not entirely sure if I left late or spent far longer than I estimated sitting in the car, trying to steady my head.

I walk in and Emmitt is lying on the sofa, watching football.

“Hey, honey,” he says. “Did you get my texts?”

“Hi.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at it. “Sorry, I was distracted today. I did get your texts.” I scroll through them. “Let’s see: Chinese for dinner is a yes. Wine is a hell yes. And I’m late because I had a long day at work and I have a ton on my mind.”

I put my bag on the accent table in the corner, nearly knocking a photograph off. I can barely see straight. The only thing on my mind is the verdict in Margaret’s case. They can’t come back with a not guilty. For the sake of humankind, they just can’t.

Emmitt walks over to me and rubs my shoulders. “You okay?” he asks.

“No,” I say, closing my eyes, feeling just a little of the tension release with each knead of my knotted muscles. “It’s this case.”

“Tell me about it.”

I always rebuff his desire to know more about this case. I’ve told him about plenty of other cases. I talk to him all the time—coming home and spending time with Emmitt is the highlight of my day—but I’ve never told him about this case. He’s seen stories about it on the news and read about it in the newspaper, but he doesn’t know it’s my case. I just spent too much time in the car fretting over him getting embroiled in this, so I can’t very well tell him now, can I?

I’ve always been media-shy, so I don’t talk to the press. My name doesn’t belong in lights. The attention doesn’t appeal to me, but more than that is this deep-seated fear that if I am associated in public with any case, big or small, there may be retribution. Danger in the line of duty doesn’t scare me normally. I wear my bulletproof vest when I know I’m headed into dangerous situations. I try to be smart, and I work in a relatively safe city with low crime rates. An officer hasn’t been shot at a crime scene in over two decades. That officer was Ryan’s father, which serves as a reminder to me that no matter how safe I feel, there are no guarantees.

Even before Margaret, I’ve thought about a criminal coming after me. Now that I’m watching my worst professional nightmare happen right in front of me, to my former partner, my friend, a stand-up guy who doesn’t deserve this, I can barely control myself. If Margaret Moore doesn’t go to prison, I don’t know what I’ll do.

It’s more than I