Redemption for Them (Nashville Security #5)

Chapter 1

Lily

Ipoke my toe into the back of my husband’s motionless body where he lies on the kitchen floor, knowing that if he’s still alive, he’ll hate it and react accordingly.

Holding my breath, I wait.

Nothing.

He’s lying on his side, facing away from me, with his arm out and his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle.

Kneeling carefully next to him, my hand goes to my bruised ribs to support them through the movement, as if that will prevent the excruciating pain from radiating through my body.

My tongue darts and swipes across my split lip.

I’m grateful when I don’t taste any blood, indicating I haven’t reopened the fresh wound.

With a trembling hand, I press my fingers on my husband’s cool skin. What I already suspected is confirmed when I can’t find a pulse.

The small pool of blood underneath his head already told me everything I needed to know. I needed to be absolutely sure he was gone.

And he is.

Kneeling there, staring down at him, I try to muster any ounce of sadness. There are a lot of emotions swirling inside me. Some are to be expected when your husband is murdered, like fear. But others are ones that I think I’ll keep to myself, like relief. Happiness.

Swallowing everything but obligation, I stand with a small whimper of pain. I take the few steps to the counter where I left my phone. Picking it up, I unlock the screen and stare at it for a moment.

I glance over, pressing my lips together as the last forty-eight hours replay in my head.

Blake screaming at me. Blake hitting me, then kicking me when I fell.

Blake pushing me down one flight of stairs and trying to push me down the next flight as I lay sprawled on the landing with the wind knocked out of me.

Me somehow scrambling away from him and locking myself in the guest bedroom.

Blake half-heartedly apologizing the next day, only for it to happen again.

That wasn’t the first time he hit me, and it wasn’t even the worst. It doesn’t happen all the time, though once is one time too many. But he’s usually much more strategic about where he hits me, since he knows I can’t walk into work looking the way I do now.

Our marriage wasn’t one of love and adoration.

Blake was dismissive or mean when he wasn’t physically abusive.

I tried to avoid doing or saying anything that would make him angry because it was just easier to play meek and obedient at home.

We coexisted as best we could. Neither of us really cared about what the other was doing until Blake decided that he did care and punished me for whatever indiscretion he found.

I blow out a breath and dial three numbers, then place the phone to my ear.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“I, uh, think my husband is dead.”

The flurry of activity around me is hypnotic in a way.

I’m curled up on the couch with a throw blanket pulled over my legs.

Two detectives stand in the living room, staring down at me.

Every sideways glance at each other, every question asked repeatedly, waiting to catch me changing my story, tells me they don’t believe a word I’ve said.

The older detective clears his throat for the hundredth time and asks, “Can you walk us through finding him again? And help us understand how you didn’t find him until this morning?”

I rub my forehead. “I told you this already. I woke up this morning after sleeping in the guest room. I came downstairs to get coffee, and that’s when I found him.”

“And you were sleeping in the guest room because…”

With an exasperated gesture to my bruised and busted face, I snap, “I’ll give you one guess as to why I didn’t want to sleep in the bed with my husband.”

The younger detective speaks up after pointing toward my injuries. “That must have pissed you off.”

I uncurl my legs and plant my feet on the ground, straightening my spine. “Detective, is this how you investigate all murders? By asking stupid questions? Of course, it made me angry. As it would anyone else.”

They exchange another glance. The older one opens his mouth to say something else when a different voice interrupts him.

Another detective hovering off to the side steps into the living room to join us and says, “Fellas, the coroner is about finished. He wants to talk to you before he leaves. I’ll stay in here with Mrs. Bennett. ”

The pair leaves the new detective and me alone.

He crosses his arms and twists his body so he can watch them walk to the kitchen.

Once they’re out of sight, he looks back in my direction.

He walks over and sits on the other side of the L-shaped couch.

Hands clasped, he rests his elbows on his thighs.

This man is better looking than the other two, maybe close to my age, or a little older. He’s tall and muscular, with dark hair and dark eyes. But beyond his looks, there’s an aura about him that puts me more at ease than when the other men were in the room.

“Are your ribs broken?”

His question catches me off guard, and my jaw drops in surprise.

I close my mouth as sadness clogs my throat.

The concern in his voice, but it’s so unexpected that it makes my face tingle with emotion.

I blow out a breath to push it away before replying, “I don’t think so. I think they’re just bruised.”

He nods, staring down at his hands. “I wouldn’t answer any more questions they ask you, if I were you.”

My eyes close, and my heart beats harder in my chest. When my eyes open, he’s watching me. I hate that my voice isn’t stronger when I say, “I won’t.”

Nodding again, he asks, “Did your husband have an attorney?”

“Yes. But he’s never practiced criminal law. I don’t think it’d be wise for him to represent me, even in the interim until I find one.”

The small smile he gives is nice to see. “Can’t say I blame you, considering.” He glances around again before looking back at me. “I don’t usually work homicides.”

Unsure why he’s telling me that piece of information, all I can do is stare back at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

His eyes narrow slightly. “I work on…other types of crime.”

Still not following, I draw out, “Okaaay…why are you here then?”

He licks his lips. “I was familiar with your husband.”

I drop my gaze and run my hand up and down my blanket-covered thigh. “I’m not surprised by that. But I don’t know much about that part of his life.” I once again gesture to my face. “We weren’t exactly partners in that way.”

“I believe that.”

My face scrunches as all the emotions I’ve been keeping at bay, for long before tonight, come bubbling to the surface.

Normally, I keep any emotions like this shoved deep inside.

I bury sadness or loneliness and pretend like there’s no way those could exist for me.

I’ve built my life around presenting one persona to the outside world, and that persona would never include what I perceive as a weakness.

The man reaches forward, grabs the tissue box off the coffee table, and holds it out to me. I take one as I cry quietly into it. He stays silent and allows me a moment to let it out.

When I’ve calmed, he stands. He looks like he wants to say something else, but changes his mind. Approaching footsteps draw our attention to the returning detectives.

The younger one nods to whom I’ve been talking to. “Martinez, appreciate the assistance.”

Martinez nods and moves away, but he doesn’t leave the room. I’m grateful he doesn’t leave me alone with the others, not that I expect him to help me in any way.

“Mrs. Bennett, we’d like to take you down to the station so we can ask some more questions.”

Reminding myself of all I’ve been through in the last fourteen years of my life, I inhale a steely resolve. I’ve dealt with so much. Have probably forgotten or blocked out more than my mind allows me to remember out of self-preservation.

“Am I being arrested?”

The shared looks return before the older one responds. “We just have some questions we need answered while they finish the search of the house.”

Flipping the blanket off me, I stand, burying the panic swirling inside me. “Let me get my shoes and purse.”

As I take a step forward, he holds out a hand to stop me. “Where are they?”

I point toward the front door. “I have some shoes in the hall closet, and I think my purse is on the entry table.”

He nods, and they both follow me. When I go to grab my purse, I’m stopped again.

“I just need to search your purse before we leave.”

With a wave of my hand, I signal my agreement. Once they confirm I’m not concealing evidence or bringing a weapon, they hand it to me. I grab my sandals and slide my feet into them. “Okay, I’m ready.”

A fist grips my bicep and guides me outside.

When the cool spring air bites into me, despite the bright sun shining above, I’m glad I pulled on a sweatshirt over my yoga pants and T-shirt this morning.

The grip doesn’t loosen until we get to the marked SUV, and the back door is opened for me.

My stomach dips as I climb inside and the door is slammed.

Through the window, my eyes lock with a dark pair staring at me from my front porch. I can’t tell for sure, but Martinez seems to give me an imperceptible nod right before he turns and walks back into my house.

I keep my gaze locked on the landscape just outside the window as the vehicle starts rolling down my long driveway, staring out at the large expanse of perfectly manicured grass and landscaping.

Blake bought this house twelve years ago, which was about a year into our marriage.

He never asked me if I wanted to move from Seattle to Nashville.

He never asked me what I wanted in a home.

I had never even been to Nashville before.

He just came home one day, told me he was moving his company to Nashville and that I needed to get everything set up to be moved in two weeks.

I was so mad at him. I think that was our first huge fight as a couple. It was also the first time he got physical with me. Even though it started with just a shove, things certainly progressed to more severe physical abuse over the years.

Eventually, I relented. I didn’t have anything keeping me in Seattle besides memories. My mom had passed away a few years prior, and I only had a few casual friends from college, so we packed up and moved.

It was leading up to and during that move that I realized I may have made a mistake marrying him. But I was young and alone when we met. He was older, successful, and convincing enough that I thought he was the solution to all my problems.

When we drove up to the house, all I could think was that at least the land was beautiful.

It’s tucked into the area of southwest Nashville, which is almost the suburbs but still close enough to the city that it doesn’t feel isolated.

There are lots of mature trees that provide ample shade and further enhance the tranquility.

Then I saw the house and thought how gaudy it looked.

But Blake loved it, so I tolerated it. I did my best to put my own little touches on each room, making everything feel like part of my style.

Some changes Blake ended up hating, which he would change behind my back, and others he either liked or decided, for whatever reason, he didn’t care enough about to change.

At least Blake died in a place he loved and I hated in equal amounts. I think Blake would recognize the symbolism of this being the place he took his last breath.

I close my eyes as we turn onto the main road, feeling overwhelming exhaustion suddenly wash over me. I don’t open them until we come to a stop and the engine is turned off. I blink my eyes a few times, and the door is opened.

“Let’s go, Mrs. Bennett.”

When I climb out, the grip on my arm returns, as if I would make a run for it in my overpriced flip-flop sandals. As the three of us walk inside, curious gazes follow us across the open office area to an interrogation room.

One of the men gestures to the chair. “I know this isn’t as comfy as your house, but hopefully you won’t mind too much.”

I drop into the chair he indicates. “It’s fine. I just want to get this over with.”

The older one smiles as he takes a seat across from me. “Of course. Well, we won’t waste any more of your time if you don’t waste ours.”

I press my lips together and give him a curt nod. Wiping my clammy palms down my thighs, I try to regulate my breathing.

It’s once again the younger cop’s turn. He leans across the table, I’m assuming to look more intimidating, when he asks, “Why don’t you just tell us where the murder weapon is, and this can all be over.”

I swallow hard and wet my parched lips. “I’m not answering any more questions without an attorney present.”