Chapter 24
TERINA
Past
“I’m surprised to see you here without your father.” The detective’s gaze sweeps the station as though expecting to find my dad hovering somewhere nearby. He almost looks worried, and I wonder if he’s been warned not to talk to me alone.
“He doesn’t know I’m here, and he doesn’t need to know. I’m a grown adult, Detective Briggs.”
“Of course. How about we step into my office, and you can tell me what brings you in.” He closes the door behind us, taking one last peek around before doing so.
I sit in the visitor’s chair, my hands clutching my purse in my lap, and force all my strength into my voice. “I need to know how my husband died.”
His brows cinch together. “He … was stabbed, Mrs. Kirkland.”
“Yes, but I want to know why.” I don’t waver. I don’t allow my grief or nerves beyond the confines of the metal box deep inside me, where I stashed my emotions before arriving at the police station.
Briggs doesn’t say a word for long seconds.
“We can’t ever truly know what motivates a person—”
“No.” I cut him off. “You’re not going to feed me a bullshit story concocted by my family to protect me. I want to know about the quarters, Detective Briggs.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, fidgeting in his chair as though suddenly uncomfortable. “You know, none of this changes anything. I hate to say it, but this won’t bring him back.” He pleads his case gingerly, not wanting to upset me but desperate to end the conversation.
It’s my turn to go silent.
I keep my unflinching stare trained on him until he mutters another curse and continues.
“It wasn’t a mugging.”
“So I’ve gathered. I want to know what happened, and I promise I won’t tell my family I know the truth. I understand why they’ve kept this from me, but I need to know.”
He inhales heavily and relaxes back into his chair.
“It was a punitive hit. He must have been doing business with someone he shouldn’t have and crossed them in some way that they decided to send a message.
” He pauses, his jaw flexing. “Your husband had an entire roll worth of quarters shoved down his throat.”
Oh, dear God.
I don’t want to hear this. I’ve made a mistake. I don’t know what I thought the quarters referenced, but this isn’t it. This is so much worse, and I’ll never get the image out of my head.
No, Terina. You will not back out of this. That man died for you; the least you can do is learn his truth and honor him.
I unclench my eyes and battle against the emotions threatening to overthrow their confines.
“Show me,” I demand quietly.
“No, you don’t want—”
“Show. Me.” Each word is carved from unbreakable stone.
“Fucking Christ.” Despite the vicious hiss of his curse, he starts typing at his computer. Once he pulls up the crime scene photos, he steels himself and swivels the monitor in my direction.
It’s a close-up of Craig’s bloody lips. The dull shimmer of what I know to be coins rests wedged in the back of his throat.
I swallow and swear I can feel the pain of a phantom coin lodged in my esophagus.
“All of them,” I instruct.
Briggs grimaces but clicks through the portfolio of images, one after the other. I don’t ask him to slow down. I don’t need to. Every photo is instantly seared into my memory. I couldn’t forget them if I wanted to.
“Do you know who did it?” I ask once the slideshow is over, guilt and sorrow finally taking its toll on my voice.
“Not yet, but we’re working on it. I promise, we’ll do our best to track them down.”
I nod. “Is there anything else I should know? Anything else my family has instructed you to keep from me?”
“No, ma’am. Not that I’m aware of.” The relief in his hurried words leads me to believe he’s telling the truth.
“Thank you, Detective Briggs. I think that’s all, then.” I stand and extend my hand, which he accepts with a remorseful glint in his eyes.
“I am truly sorry, Mrs. Kirkland.”
“It’s Donati.” The correction is unexpected.
I hadn’t even contemplated changing my name back, but suddenly, I know it needs to happen.
I’m not worthy of the Kirkland name. And besides, I can’t escape my Donati ties with a simple name change.
Not unless I moved away and completely started over.
What would be the point in that? The damage is already done.
Briggs nods with a frown. “I’ll walk you out.”
“No need. I can find my way on my own.” I don’t wait for him to challenge me because in a small way, I need to prove to myself that it’s possible. That I can navigate the world on my own since that is the only acceptable path for me.
A beautiful young man lost his life because of me. A man I loved, despite the flaws in our relationship. He was fun-loving and sweet and had his whole life in front of him—all snuffed out because of the danger surrounding me.
I will never, ever allow such a thing to happen again.
When I think of the heartbreak I’ve caused, I physically stumble from the pain. I don’t know how Craig’s mother could stomach to look at me. All those people at the funeral—were they all watching me, wondering how I could be so incredibly selfish and heartless?
A barrage of crushing thoughts assails me as I rush home. I need to escape the eyes of the world, but even once I’m alone behind locked doors, there’s no hiding from my shame.
I will never stop seeing the blood that stains my hands.
And I don’t want to.
I must always remember the damage I’m capable of inflicting on others. And to that end, I allow the images of my dead husband’s mutilated body to wash over me, finally giving in to the violence of my grief as I collapse to my knees.
I haven’t left my apartment in a week. I resigned from the soup kitchen. They suggested I might change my mind in a few months. I won’t. Everything is different now, and it’s never going back to the way it was.
My mom has come by to see me, and though she’s worried, she’s given me space to grieve. She doesn’t realize it’s so much more than that.
The guilt is acid eating at my insides.
I hate that I could have been so hopelessly naive, and worry I’ll make another similar mistake. What if I see a friend at the market? What if an enemy sees us talking and decides to use my friend as leverage or punishment? Have my eyes been opened wide enough to know when I’ve put someone at risk?
Without the answers, I can’t make myself rejoin the world, which is how I find myself sitting on my bathroom floor at 1 a.m. with a candle in my hand.
My sleep patterns are a mess. And television only numbs the pain for so long.
I wander my apartment like a ghost stuck in a world where I no longer belong.
Do people use candlesticks anymore?
We were given a pair of Tiffany crystal candlesticks for our wedding. I’ve never been a crystal sort of girl, so the gift went in a cabinet along with the white candles that go with them.
During my late-night wandering, I didn’t want to turn on the harsh lights and remembered the candles. I grabbed one along with a lighter and ended up on the plush rug in front of my bathroom vanity.
Why there? Your guess is as good as mine.
Nothing in my life makes sense anymore. Why should tonight be any different?
I light the wick and am instantly enchanted by the dancing flame. Its soft curves are such a beautiful contrast to its devouring nature. Soothing calm with violent potential.
I wish I were a flame.
The world would be too scared to cross me. But that’s not my nature. I can’t be anyone other than who I am.
My existential wonderings are interrupted by a sudden searing pain. Hot wax has dripped from the candle onto my inner thigh.
I hiss and jerk my hand away, causing another series of drips to plop across my leg. The pain is intense but brief. Almost instantly, the wax begins to cool, hardening to an opaque white.
The transformation fascinates me.
As does the newfound absence of my seemingly incessant thoughts.
I slide my fingernail under a dried piece of wax and let it fall to the floor. Despite the dim light, I can see the skin beneath is red and angry, but won’t be permanently damaged.
I watch as my hand rises again and tips, drizzling a stream of translucent wax onto the opposite thigh. My teeth grind together as I inhale sharply from the burn. When the sting begins to subside, a blanket of peaceful calm envelops me like I haven’t known in weeks. Maybe even months.
The relief is euphoric.
I don’t know what’s happened in my brain to bring about this change, and I don’t care. All that matters is that the torment is gone for however long. And when I peel away the dried wax, I uncover a renewed version of myself.
Stronger.
More resilient.
This Terina is made to survive.