Mary's Place
‘I’m tired of trying to see the good in people.’
Those words hadn’t been what Brian had expected her to say.
They’d only been sat next to each other for about fifteen minutes and had barely shared a word. When she’d come into Baxter’s, Brian had been drinking alone watching the game on the TV above the bar. He’d arranged to meet Jon and Mike but they’d both called with excuses – Jon: wife, kids, life. Mike: work, the life of a cop - when he was half way through his first beer. He only noticed her when she placed herself on a stool, leaving two empty ones between them, and ordered a bottle of the same beer he was drinking.
Brian glanced at her a couple of times through the mirror behind the bar. She was attractive: jet black hair, cut into a rough bob that framed her face and highlighted bright blue eyes. She was dressed in jeans and a tight black t-shirt. She’d turned a couple of heads at the pool table at the back of the place, but she didn’t seem to care.
The game held their attention, surrounded by the sounds of Baxter’s: the click of a bottle opening, the closing of the register, pool balls smashing together.
She broke their silence: ‘Who’s your team?’
‘The Mets.’
‘How they doing?’
‘Same shit, different game.’
She laughed.
‘I’m trying to find the good bits of the performance,’ Brian said. ‘But people don’t make it easy.’
And that’s when she’d said it. ’I’m tired of trying to see the good in people.’
Brian turned to face her.
She looked at him. Those blue eyes held a deep sadness.
Brian understood. He was tired too, and not just because he wanted to be a guy who saw the sunny side. He was tired of work, of just getting by, of supporting sports teams that lost more games than they won. Tired of looking in the mirror across Baxter’s bar and seeing a face that looked like it was deep into the third quarter of a game versus life and being down by twenty. ‘I guess we all feel like that sometimes.’
She drained her bottle.
Brian sank what was left in his.
He signaled to Lauren behind the bar, holding his empty up in one hand, his other hand showing two fingers, indicating his order.
Lauren pushed two drinks along the bar.
‘Thanks,’ the woman said.
‘No problem.’
They drank.
‘I’m Isabelle.’
‘Brian.’
***
Brian couldn’t believe this was happening. He wasn’t that kind of guy.
Yet…
Her motel door closed with a thud. She locked it. Then they were kissing and grabbing at each other. Her t-shirt lifted over her head. His shirt unbuttoned. Boots off, jeans down. Bra on the floor. Backwards to the bed.
***
Afterwards. The only light a small lamp by the bed. Brian took in the room. It was a cheap place with bare walls and a TV balanced on top of a brown wooden desk that had a chair tucked underneath. On a chair near the door was a large sports bag with clothes bursting out. There wasn’t much personal stuff lying around, minimal evidence of her being a long-term resident.
‘What’s your story?’ Brian asked.
They were lying on the bed, looking up.
Silence.
He could hear her breathe.
‘It’s too long to tell.’
‘I’ve got time.’
A car’s engine revved. She tensed. The tightening of her muscles lasting only a second but he was close enough to feel it.
***
Later, in the quiet of the night, Brian said, ‘I need to go.’
‘OK.’ Her tone was neutral.
Brian searched through the dim light for his scattered clothes. He dressed, not facing her.
‘Can I see you again?’
There was a pause and he wished he’d not asked.
‘I’d like that.’
He slipped his arms into his shirt’s sleeves. ‘When? Where?’
‘Tomorrow. Here.’
‘What time?’
‘Breakfast?’
Brian tried to process his thoughts and do up the buttons of his shirt. He missed one, his fingers not following the instructions of his brain.
‘I’ve got to work in the morning.’
‘Lunch?’
He slowly undid the button and pushed it through the correct hole.
‘Sure.’
She sat up in bed. ‘Bring decent coffee,’ she said.
He walked to the bed and kissed her with more awkwardness than passion.
***
Brian pulled his truck into the driveway, the engine noise cutting through the silence of sleeping suburbia. He got out and carefully closed the door.
Inside, the house was dark. He took his boots off and placed them at the bottom of the stairs before making his way up and underdressing in the bathroom.
He walked to his bedroom in the dark, knowing where to place every step to avoid the creaks in the floor.
Brian got into bed.
Suzanne moved.
He waited, lying dead still.
‘What time is it?’ she asked, the words fighting their way from sleep’s grip.
‘Just gone two,’ he answered softly. His pulse was fast, like a dance beat. ‘Sorry I’m late. I got playing cards with Big Joe.’
He touched her warm back, as he always did. As he should’ve done as soon as he got into bed.
Her breathing returned to the steady rhythm of when he’d entered the room.
Brian stared upwards, into the dark, feeling every beat, beat, beat of his heart.
‘Did the Mets win?’ she asked into the dark.
Brian didn’t know.
***
The house was always noisy in the morning. There were five people competing for space in the kitchen, with drawers slamming shut, causing cutlery to rattle. Cupboards banging after cereal boxes were pulled out. Even the milk hitting the breakfast bowl sounded loud. The kitchen was like Grand Central as the kids and Suzanne moved past each other, arguing about bathroom use and school books, trying to grab toast from the toaster or pour coffee.
Normally, Brian loved this time of the day. He’d sit with his coffee and the sports pages, trying to referee any conflict that looked to be straying beyond the boundaries of standard sibling rivalry.
This morning every noise felt like it was stabbing him behind the eyes.
Suzanne stood next to him in a brief second of calm and kissed his head. ‘You’re not as young as you used to be. Playing poker until two isn’t going to do you any good.’
‘It was just one night,’ Brian said.
Brian’s eight-year-old son, Evan, asked about his last night’s game. Questions Brian answered based more on the write up from the paper in front of him than the details he remembered from the TV at Baxter’s. His first born didn’t seem to see through the lies.
Lucy spilt milk on the table. James jumped backwards, his chair screeching across the floor. The hurricane of noise increased again. In between the shouting and the laughing, Lucy sat on the chair and cuddled her favourite bear; the one Brian had given her on the day she was born.
A wave of sickness in the pit of Brian’s stomach pushed up through his body, forming through a mix of tiredness and his hangover. And his guilt.
The feeling subsided whilst driving to work, as scenes of the dimly lit motel room flashed backed through his mind.
Her grip on his back.
Isabelle.
A kiss on his chest.
A dream.
Breath on his neck.
A reality.
***
Brian worked all morning, distracted by the dragging of time on the clock on the kitchen wall. At eleven thirty he put his tools down and locked up the house. He drove to a deli, bought lunch and coffee, then headed to the motel.
He knocked and waited, anxiety present in his every fibre.
‘Who is it?’ she asked from the behind the closed door.
‘Brian.’
The lock turned and the door opened.
‘Hi,’ he said.
Her face was hidden slightly behind the door. ‘Come in.’
Brian stepped inside and Isabelle closed and locked the door.
The curtains stayed shut, starving the room of daylight. Brian’s eyes adjusted and he noticed that the room was tidier than a few hours earlier. The bed had been made, although there was an indent where she’d been sat, a pillow leaning against the wall to support her back. An open newspaper was stretched out across the top of the bedsheet. The floor was clear of clothes.
Brian looked at her. She was dressed in the same jeans as the night before, although her t-shirt was
different. Her feet were bare.
Brian lifted the coffee and bag of sandwiches. ‘What should I do with these?’
She took them from him and placed them on the desk, quickly opening the bag and pulling out the food. Brian slowly unzipped his jacket and placed it over the chair in the corner.
Isabelle handed him his coffee and said, ‘Thanks for this.’
‘No problem.’
She passed him his sandwich and sat on the edge of the bed. Brian sat on the chair where his jacket laid and adjusted his position several times. Nothing felt comfortable.
Isabelle ate quickly and efficiently, making Brian wonder if this was the first time she’d eaten today.
Then, she asked. ‘What did you tell your wife?’
Brian couldn’t chew the food in his mouth fast enough so the question hung in the air between the two of them, like a storm cloud waiting to burst.
‘How did you…?’ he managed to say, desperately trying to swallow.
‘The ring,’ Isabelle said, pointing to his wedding band.
Brian looked at it, a rush of different feelings flowing through him. Guilt, stupidity, shame, excitement.
‘That I stayed out playing cards.’
Another bite.
‘You’ve not done this before have you?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you come back?’
Her face.
The way they had laughed at the bar.
Her body, her kiss.
The moments just before she removed her clothes, when it had felt like electricity was being plugged directly into his body, when his mind had been processing things at a thousand miles an hour.
The fact last night was the first time in years he’d felt alive.
Those eyes.
Those deep blue eyes.
‘I wanted to see you again,’ he answered.
She smiled and looked away.
Brian took another bite of food.
‘Are you with anyone?’ he asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
‘I was married.’
A pause.
‘Until recently.’
Brian could hear his own heartbeat.
He didn’t push for details. Instead he scrunched his empty wrapper then moved towards the desk, putting the wrapper in the deli bag.
Isabelle moved behind him, putting her hand under the back of his shirt. He stayed still for a few seconds, enjoying her touch.
And then, it was happening again. His shirt off, her t-shirt over her head. Work boots off, jeans down. On the bed. His lips on her stomach, her thighs, the tattoo of a rose on her back, the word Aiden inked underneath.
Again.
***
It happened two more times in the next two days before he asked.
‘What are you doing in this motel room?’
She lay in silence.
Brian didn’t look at her.
‘I’ve left my husband,’ she said.
He focused on the ceiling fan, moving in what felt like slow motion, like the hands of time were slowing to nothing.
‘He’s an angry man,’ she said.
Then, nothing. No words, just the low whirr of the fan and her looking away from him. Brian assumed she was flashing back on the memories, on whatever it was that had brought her here. To this room. To him.
He thought of Suzanne for half a second but Isabelle’s words ripped the thought from his mind.
‘Angry and violent. Especially when he was drunk.’
A pause.
Brian waited.
‘It started about three years ago. Questions about where I’d been, who I was with. I used to go to the gym three or four nights a week with a couple of girls from work. For some reason he stopped believing me. He’d drink, accuse me of all kinds of things.’
She stopped again.
Brian took a breath, possibly his first since she’d started talking. He carefully reached across the small gap between them and placed his hand on top of hers. She didn’t pull away.
‘I didn’t understand where it came from, where his mistrust had surfaced from. We’d been together since high school. Married at twenty-three.’
‘Kids?’ Brian asked.
Evan.
James.
Lucy.
Brian’s kids at home. Asleep. Suzanne would be downstairs watching TV. Brian was in a cheap motel room, holding another woman’s hand, listening to another woman’s story.
‘No. Luckily.’ She turned to face him, those blue eyes looking straight into his. ‘The first time he hit me, he cried for an hour afterwards. He was outside the bathroom I’d locked myself in and said he was sorry, that he didn’t know why he was being the way he was. That he loved me. All the stuff you’d expect to hear. He said he’d change.’
‘Did he?’
‘For about six months. He stopped drinking for five. He even started running. But then one Sunday he had a beer with dinner. One became nine. And I had to call in sick for a week until my bruises faded.’
‘Jesus.’
‘That was just the start.’
The rest went unsaid. Brian knew he didn’t need to hear it; knew he didn’t want to. He just knew he wanted to hold her, which he did, gently. She didn’t resist. She moved herself into his arms, her breath so close to his chest he could feel the small circle of warmth it had created.
He waited for her to cry, which, he thought, Suzanne would do in this situation. Tears didn’t come, so he just remained still.
Then, she whispered, ‘I’m scared he’s going to find me.’
They sat up and she told the story: her husband had pushed his luck too many times recently. Her friends encouraged her to call the police but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She felt hopeless. An empty shell of the woman she once was. He’d beaten the life, the love, the laughter out of her.
And the courage.
She felt like a candle that had burned down to nothing.
And yet, her flame hadn’t flickered out. Every shouted word, every slap or punch she’d taken, a small orange glow must have remained inside her, because three nights ago she told him to get out. She’d not said that before. She’d barely thought the words over the last few months. When she did imagine herself saying them, they always felt like they were echoing around an empty chamber in her mind.
Three nights ago, she’d shouted them, screamed them from the bottom of her soul. ‘Get the fuck out of my house.’
He’d laughed at her.
‘I don’t know how I kept my cool,’ she said to Brian, her eyes studying the blank TV screen. ‘But as he was laughing, I had this weird feeling come over me. It was like some kind of calming liquid was running through my veins.’
She turned to face Brian.
‘As he laughed, I knew what I was going to do.’
She’d waited until he drank himself into his nightly coma. Once sleep took him, she knew she had hours to execute her plan. The plan wasn’t full of detail. Isabelle simply packed a small bag full of clothes and essentials, took her keys from the kitchen and walked out. As she got in her car, she looked at Aiden’s car parked on the road. She went back inside, moving quickly across the house and found his keys. She carried them outside and got back in her car.
She reversed off the driveway and drove out of town.
As her headlights hit the near-empty highway she lowered the window and threw Aiden’s keys across the lanes into the dark.
She drove and drove and eventually, as tiredness wrapped itself tightly around her, she pulled into the motel.
‘I sat in here for two days, worried he was going to find me. On the second night I went into that bar you were in.’
Brian didn’t add anything to the conversation. He heard a car start up and leave the parking lot outside the room and remembered her body tensing a few nights ago.
‘Is that why you picked me out at the bar? To have someone in this room with you?’
She didn’t say anything for a long time, instead weighing each of her words carefully in her mind before speaking.
‘It wasn’t quite like that,’ she said. ‘I liked you when we spoke at the bar. But I also didn’t want to feel scared, or sad, anymore.’ With a whisper, she added, ‘I wanted to feel wanted.’
And he had wanted her.
‘I thought it was safe to bring you here.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re married. I figured you weren’t going to tell anyone about me.’
Brian knew she was right.
‘What’s your plan?’ he asked.
He looked at her and noticed her blue eyes were clouded with tears.
‘I don’t know. When you’re not here I just sit around, scared he’s going to find me. I know him. He’ll want to find me. He won’t stop. I need to keep moving. But I haven’t got the courage.’
A strange combination of feelings shot through Brian. If she kept moving this would be over. No more nights exploring each other’s bodies, no more days wondering when he could see her again, living with this exciting secret. Yet, the longer this went on, the higher his chances of getting caught. Brian wasn’t stupid; this was never a long term, ending of his marriage situation. Isabelle came into his life unexpectedly and he figured she’d leave the same way. He assumed he’d show up here one day and a motel worker would be cleaning the room and changing the bed. Then he’d return to being a husband and father, the memories of a crazy few days the only thing remaining. Looking forward, Brian assumed he’d just go back to being the sort of man things like this didn’t happen to. He’d never chased women outside his marriage before and he didn’t really see the need to do it again. There was just something about Isabelle that made him keep coming back. The fact it had lasted this long was a surprise to him.
Isabelle moved across the bed and wrapped her arms around him. Brian held her tightly as she cried. Through her tears, he heard her say, ‘If he finds me, he’ll kill me.’
***
The next day Brian left the house before breakfast, telling Suzanne he needed to pick up some materials for work. He kissed her goodbye and left.
He drove to the motel and knocked on the door. Isabelle opened it, fully dressed with her bag in her hand.
‘Ready?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You got everything?’
‘Yeah. I checked twice. Nothing to trace me to here.’
Brian took her bag and put it in his truck. She got in the passenger seat and put on a baseball cap Brian had left on the passenger seat. They stayed silent for a few minutes; Isabelle focusing on the soft colours of the morning filling the sky as Brian drove out of town. The roads were quiet, only the odd car passed them.
Brian slowed and turned through a small opening onto a dirt road. On either side of the road were huge trees that leaned forward at their highest point, creating a natural tunnel. The road continued for a quarter of a mile before opening up and revealing an old farm house.
‘What is this?’ Isabelle asked.
‘Mary’s Place.’
‘Will Mary be home?’
‘Mary’s dead.’
‘Oh.’
Brian explained: Mary and Lenny Bird had owned this property for sixty something years. When Lenny died back in ninety-eight, the farm became known locally as Mary’s Place. Mary Bird was an active member in the community, despite living on the outskirts of town. She baked for local events, volunteered to read to kids at the library. People knew and loved her. Several friends had suggested she sell the farm and move into a smaller place in town, to be closer to the community she gave so much to, but Mary refused. Lenny and I built that place, she’d say. I aint leaving until the Lord wants me to. That happened about three months ago when Mary’s daughter Linda found her body after six failed attempts at phoning her.
Linda and Brian went to high school together. After Mary’s funeral, Linda had approached Brian and said the house needed a large amount of work to bring it up to a decent standard to sell. Was Brian interested? Brian was. He finished the other construction jobs he had on his books and, five weeks ago, started clearing the house, stripping it back to its bones.
‘It’s quiet,’ Brian said to Isabelle. ‘No one comes to check on my work. Linda will be back in about a month to see how it’s all going.’
‘Nice work for you.’
‘The place is a mess. But I’ve not touched the main bedroom upstairs yet so you’ll be comfortable.’
They stepped inside. A layer of dust in the air was highlighted by sunlight that streamed through a large window in the hallway. Brian carried Isabelle’s bag and led her to the kitchen.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
Brian placed her bag on the floor.
‘I’ll show you upstairs. Then I’ll have to work.’
‘It’s OK. I understand.’
Brian made the coffee and passed her a cup.
‘Thank you, Brian,’ she said, her fingers touching his hand as she took the drink from him. ‘For everything.’
***
Two nights later, Suzanne sat next to him on the couch and rested her head on his shoulder. The familiar smell of his wife’s shampoo caught in his nose and he realised he’d not smelt that scent for nearly a week. They sat, enjoying the fact the kids were asleep and a peaceful calm had covered the house.
They watched TV in their standard, comfortable positions, with Suzanne’s legs stretched across his, Brian resting his hand on top of her pyjamas. Brian was wearing basketball shorts and a hoodie, which he knew he’d give to Suzanne later when she got cold.
Their conversation was sporadic: information about upcoming things to do with the kids, the odd comment about the show they were watching, something about a friend’s son playing tackle football for the first time. A night like hundreds of nights they shared before.
Until the local news started.
***
The blue eyes were staring at him from the screen.
The hair was different: long, blonde, resting on her shoulders.
The mouth was wide, smiling at an unknown joke.
He had no doubt it was her. He’d know those eyes anywhere.
Brian felt like his head was spinning. He sat rigid on the couch, trying to focus on what the newsreader was saying but it felt like all the air and noise had been sucked out of the room. The images on the screen were a blur.
A voice started to penetrate his mind. ‘…Rigg County police are still searching for Claire Stevenson, in connection with the murder of her husband Aiden, and his brother Eric. The two men were found in the Stevenson family home eight days ago and Mrs Stevenson has not been seen since the incident occurred. She is believed to be armed and dangerous and should not be approached by members of the public. Anyone with any information should contact the police immediately on…’
Brian sucked in a large breath, and forced himself to concentrate.
The urge to throw up coursed through his body.
He looked at the photograph in the top left corner of the screen.
Isabelle but not Isabelle.
Different, but the same.
Blonde, smiling Claire.
With those beautiful eyes.
Claire Stevenson.
Fuck.
Wanted for murder.
Double murder.
Fucking fuck.
***
Brian locked the bathroom door and heaved into the toilet. Nothing came out but he stayed on his knees, both hands clamped on the cold surface of the toilet, as if it might offer him some kind of answer.
He heard Evan cough in his sleep.
Brian’s head felt like a whirlwind was passing through it, smashing thoughts and feelings against the sides of his mind.
Evan coughed again.
Evan.
James.
Lucy.
Fuck.
Suzanne.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He went back to the living room. ‘I need to go back to Mary’s,’ he said.
‘Why?’ Suzanne asked, sitting up.
‘I think I’ve left a couple of power tools outside. You know what I’m like. I won’t sleep if I don’t go and check.’
‘OK. I’m going to go to bed. Be safe.’
‘I’ll be OK.’
He blew her a kiss.
‘Love you,’ she said.
‘Love you too.’
***
In his truck, Brian dialed Mike.
One ring, two rings… ‘Come on…’ three rings, four… ‘Pick up the fucking phone.’
‘Hello.’
‘It’s Brian.’
‘I know. Your name comes up on the screen.’
‘I need to see you right now.’
‘I’m at home.’
‘Mike, we’ve been friends since high school. You were the best man at my wedding. I’m calling you at ten-thirty at night saying I need to see you now.’
‘Jenny’s Diner. Twenty minutes.’
***
Brian sat in a booth in the corner, untouched coffee going cold in front of him.
The door pinged. Mike entered and walked with purpose to the booth. He was dressed in jeans and a sports jacket, thrown on in a rush following Brian’s call. The seriousness of whatever his friend had called about hit him when he saw Brian’s pale face. He was hunched over, unsure how to act, how to move, the weight of the situation physically impacting his posture. Mike had seen this a million times before in suspects.
Mike sat.
‘You OK?’
The ability to speak had temporarily left Brian.
A waitress appeared. Mike asked for coffee without looking at her.
Mike looked at his friend. ‘Brian,’ he said, almost gently. ‘Brian, look at me.’
Brian turned his face from the counter, where he’d been transfixed on the menu board above the coffee machine.
‘Talk to me.’
‘Claire Stevenson,’ Brian said. ‘You know her?’
‘The double murder suspect from Rigg County. They think she killed her husband and brother-in-law. What about her?’
‘I know where she is.’
Mike went from friend to cop in less than a second.
‘Start at the beginning.’
Brian did. He stumbled over details and got lost down the wooded path of what-the-fuck-do-I-tell-Suzanne every few minutes but Mike pulled him back on topic. Mike needed clear, focused answers.
‘What was her room number at the motel?’
‘Seventeen. It’s the corner one.’
Mike’s mind was creating a to-do list, which now included searching that room, getting a forensic team over there to do their work.
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘About five-thirty tonight.’
‘Where was she?’
‘In the kitchen at Mary’s.’
Mike nodded, then took out his cell. Brian sipped his now cold coffee.
‘Daryl. It’s Mike.’
A pause whilst Daryl spoke.
Brian studied his friend, hoping for some kind of sign that his confession wasn’t going to ruin his entire life.
‘Daryl, listen up. I’ve got a lead on Claire Stevenson. I’m bringing a guy in who’s got information on her whereabouts. I need you to call the Chief and get him in. I also need you to keep an interview room free.’
Another pause.
‘You’re a good man Daryl. I’ll see you in fifteen.’
The call ended.
‘What happens now?’ Brian asked.
‘We go in.’
Brian slowly pushed himself up onto his feet, resigned to the inevitability of it all.
They walked through the diner, Mike following a couple of steps behind. The door pinged and they stepped out into the cold parking lot. Brian walked towards his car.
‘No,’ Mike said. ‘With me.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Brian asked.
‘Give me your keys Brian.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want to have to chase you through the streets because you decide to run to your girlfriend and tell her you confessed.’
‘I came to you,’ Brian said, raw hurt in his voice.
‘I know. Because I’m a cop. Now let me do my job.’
Brian faced him for a couple of seconds but he knew it was useless. He dug into his pockets and handed his keys over.
They walked to Mike’s car. ‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ Mike said as they got in. ‘I say that as your friend.’
***
They grilled him for information: exact details about the layout of Mary’s property, where Claire, or Isabelle, or whoever the fuck she was, slept in the house. What work had he done, whether there were any loose floorboards that would alert her to people entering the house.
‘Are there any weapons on the property?’
Brian paused and thought.
‘There’s an old shotgun in one of the sheds.’
‘Will she know about it?’
‘She might. I’m not there every night.’
‘We need to go in prepared for a gun,’ one serious looking cop said to another.
Brian wanted to cry.
***
‘It’s me,’ he said.
‘Where are you? It’s getting late.’
‘Mike called me,’ he lied. ‘Said he’d had a shitty day and needed a beer. I won’t be home late.’
‘Brian…’
‘I promise. I love you, Suzanne. See you later.’
He ended the call, wanting nothing more in the world than to be in bed with her. Safe.
***
There were more cops than Brian had ever seen, driving in a fast convoy towards Mary’s Place. Brian was in the fifth car back with Mike. He didn’t want to be here but Mike wanted him close in case he thought of any final detail that would help the operation.
They slowed and pulled into the long driveway.
‘I’m sorry,’ Brian said.
***
The capture of Claire Stevenson took seven minutes. There were no gunshots and two officers led her out of the front door of Mary’s with her hands cuffed tightly behind her back.
As she was being moved towards a police car, Brian stepped forward out of the dark. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. He simply wanted to know if it was true.
She saw him. Her blue eyes burned through the dark.
He looked into them. And he knew.
***
Brian sat on a plastic chair in the police station kitchen. It was close to 5am. His eyes stung and his head felt like it was underwater. It had been hours since Claire Stevenson had appeared on his TV. His body was shaky from all the instant coffee he had drank since arriving back at the station following the arrest.
Claire, not Isabelle.
The same, but different.
Mike appeared at the door and said, ‘We’re done for the night.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She confessed.’
Brian put the palms of his hands over his eyes and let out the longest of breaths. He removed his hands and sat up. ‘Why?’
‘He hit her, bullied her. Went on for years. Him and his brother came home drunk one night. Both fell asleep on the couch. She took a knife from the kitchen and cut both their throats, walked out of the house and drove away.’
‘Was the brother involved in the abuse?’
‘No.’
‘Why’d she kill him?’
‘She said it just felt right.’
‘Fuck.’
Mike didn’t say anything. He’d heard more feeble excuses for murder.
‘What happens now?’
‘She’s been charged and there’ll be a trial.’
‘Will I have to appear as a witness?’
‘Yes.’
Brian cried.
***
Mike drove him home and went in with him. Brian heard the sounds from the kitchen. Those morning sounds that he loved so much. The fight for space, the arguments over cereal.
Both men entered the kitchen and Suzanne looked up, shocked. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you all night.’
Mike put his hand on Brian’s arm and said, ‘I’ll cover the kids.’
‘What’s going on?’ Suzanne asked, anger turning to worry.
‘Can we go upstairs?’
‘No.’
Brian looked at the kids. ‘Please.’
She gave in and followed him.
In their bedroom they stood a few feet apart. Face to face.
Brian felt tears roll down his cheeks.
‘Brian, what’s going on?’
He roughly wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.
‘You’re scaring me,’ Suzanne said. ‘Where have you been all night?’
Brian stopped crying.
He paused, not wanting to speak, knowing in a few seconds his marriage would be over.
Eventually, he said. ‘I’ve been at the police station.’
‘Why?’
He didn’t answer, holding onto his life for a brief final moment.
‘Tell me,’ Suzanne demanded.
Finally, he did.