Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Connor
Alone at the dinner table, I enjoy a moment of peace before my wife and daughters join me.
The smell of some kind of roast fills the air as Jamie scurries around the kitchen getting things ready.
She mumbles something about asparagus being better with extra virgin olive oil, but I don’t bother to ask what she means.
My wife routinely talks to herself about things I don’t give a damn about.
I’m not even sure she cares about the things she says.
I think it’s just her way of filling the silence, which she seems to hate.
For me, silence is a luxury I don’t get to experience enough.
If I could have a week of pure peace and quiet, I’d think I died and went to heaven.
Not having to listen to anything about work or my wife’s complaints about needing something or the girls’ requests for more and more things they absolutely, positively must have would be a dream come true.
Unfortunately, that’s all it’s ever going to be. A dream.
“Connor, did you pick up the mail on your way in from getting home from work?” my wife calls from the kitchen.
I’m literally ten feet away from where she’s standing. Why she needs to yell is beyond me. And why can’t she just ask when she sits down with me to eat at the same table?
I don’t answer her question and simply walk to the front door to check for the mail. The woman is home all day. Why can’t she get the mail?
The answer to that question remains a mystery, and I get a few envelopes out of the mailbox.
Bills. Something from our cell phone carrier about the newest iPhone.
One addressed to me in someone’s handwriting.
You don’t see too many of those anymore.
Probably from that politician who claims voting for him is like casting a vote for your best friend.
He always uses that handwritten letter gimmick.
I toss the stack of mail onto the hallway table and head back to the dining room. By the time I get there, my daughters are already in their seats and complaining about something.
Just one week of peace and quiet is all I ask. Maybe a week is too much to expect. How about a day? Or simply an hour?
“Dad, you have to make those cops stop coming to our house,” my daughter Danielle whines as her sister nods her head in agreement.
“Trust me, honey. I want them to stay away as much as you do.”
“But you have to do it right now!” she continues. “Nobody at school will talk to us because everyone says you’re a murderer.”
Now I get to hear this nonsense from my own flesh and blood. Great.
“I’m sure it will be fine, girls. Just wait. A day or two and this will all blow over.”
What I really want to say is get the hell off my back, but letting my temper get the best of me right now isn’t going to make things any better. It would be nice if my wife would be on my side this one time, but I’m not expecting miracles.
“But Dad! None of the girls at practice wanted to be around us today,” Cassandra squeals, following up on her sister’s complaints, as if I didn’t understand the first time I heard them.
My wife sets the green and yellow platter with slices of roast pork in the center of the table, and for a brief moment, the delicious scent of the garlic and rosemary she used floats into my nostrils, and I forget how shitty my life is.
A second later, though, my daughters’ whining and their mother’s concern that their entire lives are going to be ruined because no one wants to be friends with them fill my ears.
“Connor, two of the mothers declined my invitation to have their daughters over next weekend. They were very cold and distant when they did too. And Vanessa Dennis didn’t wave back when I waved to her outside the gym. I’m worried we’ll have to move if this keeps up.”
Before I can stop myself, I stab my fork into a slice of pork and drop it on my plate as I say, “Move? Nobody’s moving. We’re upside down on this house right now. Moving would only make our money problems worse, so I don’t want to hear another damn word about moving.”
“I don’t want to move!” Danielle screams. Folding her arms across her chest, she adds, “I won’t move. I won’t!”
That’s it. I’ve had enough of these people.
I’m home for not a whole hour, and the entire time not a single damn one of them has even thought to ask how I’m doing with all this.
I was with someone who died in front of me.
Everyone’s accusing me of killing him, and all my family can think of is themselves.
“Enough!” I bark and then stand up to leave. “I can’t listen to you three anymore. We’re not moving, so that’s that. I don’t care if people won’t talk to you. I’m being accused of a heinous crime, and all you three can talk about is how it affects you.”
The three of them stare up at me with utter judgment in their eyes like I’m the villain in this little play they’re producing. Nope. Not today. I will not let these people make things worse for me with all that I’m dealing with since Bryan’s death. Not going to happen. I’m done.
I storm away as my wife calls after me, “Connor, where are you going?”
Like she gives a damn. She’s probably worried I might march right over to that ridiculous gymnastics school and tell them I won’t be paying another dime to their little clique. Then what social life would she have? Let’s see how she likes losing the respect of people she cares about.
“Out! I’ll be back later,” I snap on my way out the front door.
The fresh air instantly makes me feel better, but truthfully, it wouldn’t matter if I walked out into a downpour of hail.
I don’t want to go back to that house. How sad is that?
I pay for that house. Every day I go to work to ensure that house stays ours, and now I can’t stand the idea of returning to it.
The sun sits just above the horizon, sending out gorgeous shades of purple and orange as it readies itself to set. It’s a beautiful sight, one that I rarely get to enjoy, and I stop at the end of my street to really look at it.
After a minute or so, I sense eyes on me, and I look around to see neighbors—my neighbors who I’ve lived around for over a decade—standing on their lawns speaking in hushed voices and then turning to stare at me.
These are people I’ve lent tools to and attended cookouts at their houses in the summer.
They’re people who’ve been to my house for cocktails and who send their kids to my front door every time they have something to sell.
Yet now, I’m not good enough to even receive a friendly wave, much less a kind hello. No, I’m simply a pariah they think is nothing more than someone to gossip about and shun, sure I’ve done the worst thing they can imagine.
So much for that wonderful sense of community those HOA assholes are always preaching.
I hurry away, eager to not feel like some kind of wretched criminal with all eyes on him. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for eleven years. These people know me. How could they think I’d kill Bryan?
Judgmental bastards. And here I thought they were my friends.
My feet seem to have a mind of their own, and I end up on the very path Bryan and I walked two days ago. I’m alone as I walk into that clearing where everything took place. All I can think about is how the police said his injuries show he was murdered and didn’t commit suicide.
That’s impossible. I saw what happened with my own eyes. He was waving the goddamned gun around and accidentally shot himself. How the hell is the damn coroner getting that wrong?
Was there another person in that clearing with the two of us? That’s the only way this murder idea makes any sense. But if we weren’t alone, wouldn’t I have seen them?
No! That’s bullshit. Bryan screwed up and mistakenly pointed the gun at himself. There couldn’t have been a person with us in that clearing. I’d remember that.
Jesus, I’m starting to think maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe there was someone there in addition to Bryan and me? Did that person shoot him? Wouldn’t I have heard another gunshot?
None of this makes sense.
Turning three hundred and sixty degrees, I try to find some evidence that whoever may have shot Bryan was here, but I’m not even sure what to look for. I’d think the cops would have found something, but since they’re so laser-focused on me, I guess it’s not surprising they haven’t.
Those two aren’t exactly talented at their jobs. Who knew our local police were so incompetent?
As I question whether or not I’m beginning to go insane, out of the corner of my eye I see someone in the brush down the path from the clearing. I immediately make a beeline to where they stand, but in a flash, there’s no one there.
I am losing my mind.
No. I saw what I saw. The other day and now. Whatever this is, whether it be shadows because it’s twilight or something else, I know what I saw.
“Come out and show yourself! I know you’re here.”
I wait for whoever it was a moment ago to answer or come out into the open, but nothing happens. Maybe I am seeing things. If not, how can I explain thinking there was a person in front of me no more than ten feet away one moment and them disappearing the next?
The sound of someone stepping on a branch behind me makes me spin around, and what I see makes my heart skip a beat. It can’t be. No, that’s not possible. Now I know my mind is playing tricks on me because that person can’t be here.
I open my mouth to speak to what I’m sure is a ghost, but before I can say a word, something hard slams into the back of my head. My knees buckle, and then I collapse to the ground with the last image I see being impossible.
Something pressing on my shoulder wakes me up, and I open my eyes to see Officer Ramon standing over me shining a flashlight in my face. A throbbing pain at the back of my head reminds me that I didn’t merely fall asleep here on the pathway.
Someone knocked me out.