Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jason
It starts with my hands. It always starts with my hands.
Steady. Precise. Instruments of salvation.
At least that’s what they were.
Now they shake. Tremble.
Useless.
A surgeon with a dead hand is no surgeon at all.
I may as well be dead too.
But I’m not. Not yet.
The scalpel glints in the overhead light. I know this room, the cold sterility of it, the hum of the machines, the scent of antiseptic. I know this body on the table.
My hands hover over her abdomen. She’s small. Fragile. Warm.
No. No, no, no. It’s not real.
But it is.
Because when I look down, when I see the face beneath the mask of unconsciousness, it’s her. My daughter. My baby girl.
Julia.
I blink. The monitors scream. Blood. So much blood. My hands are drenched in it, and they won’t stop shaking.
I can’t hold the scalpel.
I can’t cut.
I can’t save her.
I try. Oh God, I try. But my fingers cramp, my wrist twists, and the blade—the blade slips.
A mistake. A fatal, irreversible mistake.
I hear my wife screaming. But she’s not here. She’s gone too.
The lights flicker. The walls shift. The operating room melts away, and I’m standing somewhere else.
Somewhere darker.
A cell? A courtroom?
A place where men go when they’re guilty.
I didn’t do it.
They don’t care.
I hear the whispers. The murmurs in the gallery.
Murderer. Fraud. Butcher.
Hands grip my shoulders, drag me down. Cold steel bites into my wrists. My hands—my ruined, broken hands—are shackled now.
The gavel cracks like a gunshot.
And then I see them.
My wife. My daughter. Standing just beyond the bars. Watching me.
Disappointment in their eyes.
No. No, please, no!
I didn’t do it.
The lights go out.
And I wake up gasping, drowning, choking on what has become of my life.
Where am I?
Then Tillie. Her tongue scraping against my cheek.
Angie’s. I’m at Angie’s.
I scratch the little dog behind her ear. “Where’s Angie, girl?” I ask as if she’s going to respond.
I love dogs. Have always loved dogs. But Lindsay was allergic, and after she died, I couldn’t get one. It was too much of a reminder of what I’d lost.
Shock whirls through me when I check the time. Nearly noon?
I scramble out of bed, pull on my jeans, and let Tillie out. I have no idea how long Angie’s been gone, and Tillie probably needs to pee.
Some cold coffee sits in Angie’s coffee maker. I pour a cup and heat it in the microwave. I open the refrigerator, though I’m not hungry. She’s got bacon, eggs, lots of different kinds of bread, probably from her cousin’s bakery in Snow Creek.
I grab a croissant, take a bite of the buttery dough, and let Tillie back in.
“I should get back to my place,” I tell Tillie. “But Angie will be home soon.”
Will she? I don’t know her class schedule. Anatomy at eleven this morning, though that’s over now. I wonder who subbed in for me?
God, what a reminder of all the crap my life has become.
I finish the croissant, take a few gulps of the coffee and burn my tongue, damn it, and then go back to Angie’s bedroom where I put on the rest of my clothes.
Saying goodbye to Tillie, I leave Angie’s place, making sure the doorknob lock clicks behind me.
I’ll have to get a key from her so I can lock the deadbolt.
I walk the few steps to my place, unlock the door, and enter. I’m heading for the shower when my phone buzzes.
I don’t recognize the number.
“Jason Lansing,” I say.
“Dr. Lansing, this is Detective Felicity Mann with the Boulder Police Department. We’d like you to come in and answer some more questions.”
Fuck. More of this?
“You should be calling my attorney,” I tell her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see an attorney listed on your file.”
“Blake Haywood,” I say. “Call him, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Of course. I’ll do it right now. But we do need you to come in. There have been some developments in your case.”
“What developments?”
“We’d prefer you to come in to discuss them,” she says.
For Christ’s sake. “Fine. Call my lawyer. When I hear from him, we’ll come in.”
“Very well. I’ll be in touch, Dr. Lansing.”
I toss the phone—more harshly than I mean to—onto the floor.
New developments? What the fuck does that mean? Did Ralph Normandy finally come to his senses and decide to drop the charges?
Fuck.
If that were the case, she would have just said so.
A moment later, the phone rings again. This number I recognize. My attorney.
“Blake?” I say into the phone.
“Yeah, hi, Jason. Are you available right now?”
“Like this very minute?”
“Yeah, Detective Mann just called. Said she talked to you first.”
“She did.”
“Yeah, and I gave her holy living hell for that. She won’t make that mistake again.”
“So what’s up with this new development?”
“She wouldn’t go into any detail on the phone.” He sighs. “So we need to go in.”
“They just hold all the cards,” I say.
“No, they don’t. But we have to play by their rules for now. Show them that you’re cooperative. That will help you in the long run.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“You okay?”
“What the fuck do you think?” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“I get it. But I’m here for you, and we’re going to get you out of this.”
“Is that a promise?”
“No attorney can make that promise, but I’m the best. The Steels wouldn’t work with my firm if we weren’t the best.”
“Fine, when do we go?”
“Let’s meet at the station in an hour.”
“All right. See you then.” I end the call, my mind racing. I need a shower to clear my head and clean my body of the lingering terror from the nightmare.
The water beats down on me as I stand there letting it wash over me. I try not to think about what could have possibly developed, but the thoughts creep in anyway.
I finish my shower and pull on some fresh clothes.
At the police station, Blake is waiting for me.
“Jason,” he says, his voice steady and reassuring.
Except it doesn’t steady me or reassure me.
“Blake.” I force a smile onto my face.
He looks at me for a moment before we go into the station. His gaze seems inquisitive. If he has a freaking question, I wish he’d just ask it.
The inside is too bright, sterile like the operating room. The comparison sends a shudder through me, but I squash it down. I follow Blake toward an interrogation room.
Detective Mann is waiting for us. She has short brown hair and sharp features that make her look both beautiful and intimidating. She doesn’t get up when we enter, just looks at us with an unreadable expression.
Great.
“Dr. Lansing,” she says, her voice cold. “And you must be Mr. Haywood.”
“I am.”
“Please,” she says. “Have a seat.”
I sit across from Detective Mann, Blake to my right.
She opens a folder. “We have a question for you, Dr. Lansing.”
“Shoot,” I say.
The detective meets my gaze. “What exactly were you doing at Ralph Normandy’s apartment last night?”