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

me, make me nervous. They are boring into me, convicting me, even though the twelve people, whose opinions really mattered, didn’t.

“Good afternoon, everyone. We are so pleased with the verdict sent down by the jury. Margaret is an innocent suburban mother who unfortunately lost both her daughter and husband in a very short period of time. While her suffering has been tremendous, the jury gave her a little comfort with justice today.”

He says a few other things, but he’s really just repeating the same thing over and over again, with different words. The mark of a great attorney, I’m sure. I bet he had an entirely different spiel memorized had things gone the other way. Always prepared, that Stanley. Once his statement is complete, the swarm of media shouts questions at him all at once.

“No questions today. Thank you,” he says, and whisks me away into a large black SUV waiting to carry us somewhere. I’m fine with anyplace, as long as it’s not a courthouse, police station, or prison.

Soon, the car stops in front of my house. It wasn’t at the top of my list, but it’ll do for now. It feels late, but the sun is still shining, so I know it’s not.

“I’ll walk you in,” Stan says. Some press surrounds my house, but most of the journalists are still back at the courthouse, reporting live and wondering aloud to viewers how I could possibly have been found not guilty.

I open the door and walk to my front door with Stan and a few of his minions trailing behind, keeping the press away from me. The hands that shook so badly they could hardly lock the door earlier are now steady and deal swiftly with the lock and key. I open the door and wait for Stan to come in. His assistants wait outside.

“You’ll be fine, I trust,” he says. It’s not really a question, so I’m not sure what to say, kind of like when people would tell Lana and me that we looked alike.

Lana . . . now why’d I have to go and think about Lana?

“Are there other options?” I ask.

“Not especially.” He looks around a little, probably marveling at how good the place looks compared to the crime-scene photos he spent hours analyzing.

“When will the other trial start?”

“A couple months, probably,” he says.

“Will we win?” I say, fanning myself while I turn up the air-conditioning, not entirely sure why it’s so hot in the house.

“If we won this case, I’d say that one will be a breeze,” he says.

“Could you at least stay the night?” I ask.

He smiles at me and walks close. He’s right in my face. I feel this intense romantic tension. I want to kiss him and I’m close enough to do so, but I resist.

“I could,” he says, “but I know what you’ve done, and I don’t want a single thing to do with you personally.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m flabbergasted. I just look at him and watch as he pulls away, turns around, and heads for the door.

“I’ll see you in trial prep,” he says. “You should expect this kind of reaction from people, as I was telling you earlier. Life is not going to be a cakewalk for you, but maybe you should have thought about that before you decided to kill your daughter and your husband.”

“Uh . . . but . . . I . . .” I stumble with my words, not that it matters, as he has already walked out the door and shut it behind him.

He acts like I’m some serial killer. I’m not. I never meant to do those things. I’m not crazy. I’m no psychopath. I’m just a normal lady who got caught up in a couple of strange situations. That’s all. Right?

The room is spinning. Everything becomes fuzzy. I kind of feel like I’m going to pass out.

I walk through the house, supporting myself on whatever piece of furniture is within my reach to get to the bedroom, where I prepare myself to leave the house: a wig, heavy makeup, and some clothes from Lana’s closet that I’m able to squeeze into. Then I grab my purse and keys and head for the garage, and my car.

Once I sit down and start driving, I’ll be fine. I need some fresh air, the wind blowing through my hair. I need to get out of this house, drive down an open road, fast, slow, it doesn’t matter. Just something, anything, to take my mind off the mess that lurks around every single corner in this house.

Sitting in the car doesn’t help anything. My brain is still fuzzy, like static scrolling across a TV. Still, I continue; I start the engine, put the car in reverse, and start to drive. I realize only millimeters from the garage door that I’d neglected to open it. I do so now and pull out into the street. I start driving, slowly, being sure not to kill anyone else . . . not today, anyway.

I lose control of the car briefly, and swerve. I graze a parked car. A car I’ve never seen before, so I don’t fret. They’ll never know it was me. Once I’m on the road, I do start to feel better. I’m just driving along to nowhere in particular. For now, that’s just fine with me.

Finally I stop at a bar in a nice area, far enough away from where I live that I hope I can blend right in.

“Can I buy you a drink?” a guy a couple seats down from me at the bar asks, before I’ve even had a chance to get comfortable. I thought the place might be a little more hopping, full of guys not quite as middle-aged and out of shape as this crowd, but the guy vying for my attention is wearing a Rolex, so he can’t be too bad.

“Sure,” I reply, sliding one seat over to be closer to him and batting my eyelashes