CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Truth Unfolds
SERENITY
I wish I could say I’m happy with Lake’s confession, but obviously I can’t. He loves me, he’s not angry with me, but he won’t come home, and that split my withered heart right down the center before it fled from me again. Now all I see when I shut my eyes are the scratches cut into his cheek and nose, and the purple shade on his eyelid. Then an ocean of guilt whisks through me, because I still don’t know what happened, and Lake won’t tell me.
I let him kiss me and bloom hope all within me, because one view of him and I deteriorate. One kiss, one moment of air, and I forgot what it was like to have empty lungs. His lips took away all my questions, but then he ran to stop his answers.
Every brick, every wall, shot up to shield him. They’re keeping me from him.
I miss him.
I frown, hiking up the front steps of my home and slipping the key into the lock. The weather is getting warmer. I’m tempted to stay outside and bask in it, but I have other plans.
The first thing I spot when I open the door is the water stain on my hardwood. My shoes must’ve inched off the mat yesterday. I don’t even pretend to have the intention of scrubbing my floors with everything wracking my head.
I shut the door behind me, throw my jacket onto a random hook, and kick off my shoes. They sit alone on the left side of the mat, and the muted house stays just as lonely. The only company is the golden sun shining through the windows and highlighting fresh flakes of dust.
The sole reason I haven’t gone insane is because of Jimena. Her texts don’t end. I’m still forced to check in hourly, or she threatens to break into my house again. She promised to not use the door either, but some other crazy way just to be extra.
Besides that, I return home in my sweaty scrubs and spend as little time as possible cleaning up before I drop into my dining room chair and review documents. Or I’ll bring a stack of papers to my sofa and play a movie in the background.
All of my books that I’ve been dying to read for a year, they stay unturned.
My life is on hold, and I’m so tired of it.
I drag myself upstairs, pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it into the bathroom sink. I move my socks down my ankles with my toes while I unclasp my bra. My socks slip off my feet and I shimmy out of my jeans.
This will be another quick shower. I’ll order something to eat because I still haven’t gone grocery shopping, and I’ll return to studying like a law student downstairs.
Here’s what I know so far. Dom is my only lead, but I have no idea how I’d track him down. I’ve been using social media to find Dom’s in Boston. I went as far as downloading dating apps, but none of the Dom’s look familiar. If he wasn’t the perfect guy like I suspected he wasn’t, he probably stays low on purpose.
He’s the only clue I found, but he’s a dead end. For now, I need to search for different hints. I don’t want to. There’s nothing keeping this fight burning other than the hope of a life that feels too far away.
I clutch my hands on my hips, squishing my lips into a circle and studying my naked body in the mirror. I may look broken, and I am, but I’m still beautiful, even with the mistakes I’ve made. If I can get through this, I’ll have time for my old hobbies. My hands might carry a book again.
Regardless of how vacant I am right now, I’m still complete. Although I’m still caught up in not believing that notion, but I’ll keep reminding myself until it’s truth.
To my husband, I’m sorry you had to leave for me to realize the beauty I have within me. That I don’t need to skip a meal, because it doesn’t yield the fulfillment I’m searching for, and completeness doesn’t call for me to save a million lives. Thank you for showing me. You’re not coming home, but I hope you do.
I turn on my shower, stepping inside, where there’s nothing left but floral scents, a purple loofah, and a blonde hair mask.
***
The only sound I hear is the softened rattling of my old house. I blow air through my puffed cheeks, opening the fridge and retrieving my Chinese takeout from yesterday. I can’t be bothered to order something else.
I yawn and listen to the turn of the microwave, covering my mouth with my palm.
Jimena’s working tonight, which means she’ll take a nap, text me once, then I’ll be free from her hourly check-ins until her break. I would’ve been there with her tonight, but Tommy rescheduled our next meeting for tomorrow morning. Early in the morning. He said it was urgent.
I need sleep before then to keep my sanity. It’s engraved in me that Tommy never calls with cheerful news.
The microwave beeps and I pull out my Chinese food. I stroll into the dining room, stabbing and munching on amazing chicken fried rice. I create space on the table and lay down my plate of food.
Every night, as I transition between tasks, I’m split between worrying about my heartbreak-slump or focusing on the documents in front of me. I’d rather weep, but that leaves me at square one. So I travel through the tangled mess of this case, and try to find a loose thread.
The blood on the clothes matched Mancini’s, and they found no other DNA. His hand appeared to be shot off. I could recite the evidence in my sleep, but I still grimace at the idea of Mancini’s missing hand.
If someone shot off Mancini’s hand, he could have died from bleeding out. Maybe he was under the influence and experienced hallucinations. The wound could’ve been self-inflicted. Although that doesn’t explain his disappearance. Unless he got lost, somehow shot off his hand, then ended up more lost.
My stomach bubbles. Imagery and food don’t mix. I fold my lips together and drop my fork on my plate, offering the glorious meal a regretful frown. I’ll eat once I get through some studying.
“No,” I mumble. “Because why would he toss out his own bloody clothes—”
My ears tingle at a hushed noise. I zip my mouth, and another gentle noise flows down the hallway. It’s the front door creaking.
Lake. Lake is home.
I smile so bright it makes me lightheaded. I shove myself back from the table and fly out of my seat, tripping into the kitchen. My mouth opens to call his name, but something yanks at my soul and stops me. I quit moving, listening for sounds, and I gather muted footsteps, making their way through the hallway.
He’s not stomping. It isn’t Lake.
I shift back toward the knife drawer, controlling every step, making them as light as I can. I don’t turn away from the sounds I’m hearing, but then I pretend I’m a fricking stuffed deer when a man rounds the corner. A rough beard and erratic green eyes. I can instantly tell he’s high on something.
My eyes tighten at the chain on his neck. He’s not Lake, that’s for sure, but I know him.
“Is anyone else here?”
I’m so frazzled on if I should answer yes or no.
“Where is that bastard, Lake? He’s a dead man for snitching on me.” He strokes his beard. “You look so much like Delilah, don’t you? Same blonde hair and all.”
I suck in a breath. “Dom.”
“Serenity, it’s been a long time.” His phone buzzes, and he drags it from his pocket. I catch a glimpse of the knife tucked in the side of his jeans. It looks like a hunting knife.
It’s okay. I just can’t panic. Do not fricking panic.
He curses under his breath, and hastily types out a message.
I shift my hand to the knob on the drawer. “What are you doing here?”
The saying goes, never bring a knife to a gunfight. A dulled kitchen knife, compared to the sleek one in his waistband, is on a similar plane field. Maybe it’s easier to not arm myself. It could save my life if I seem less threatening, or maybe spare me time to think.
Think. How do I do that when there’s a strange man in my home, that I’ve been struggling to track down, but now he’s here on a bender with a weapon at his disposal?
He pulls the weapon out of his waistband, waving it in the air as he approaches me. I don’t panic. Instead, I take flight and completely fricking freeze.
“You were supposed to take the damn blame. He wouldn’t—” He brings both his hands to his head, and drags his free fingers down his face. “Eddie wouldn’t pay us!”
Okay. I just need to stall him and figure out what’s happening. If I imagine this in a professional setting, it might help. I deal with all sorts of people every day of my life. So, if someone is caught in a crisis, how do I respond?
Despite my petrifying terror, I force myself to radiate a sense of calmness through my posture. I relax my shoulders and take slow breaths, holding sight of the ink beneath my skin. “Us? Are you talking about Delilah?”
“No. No. Delilah didn’t have the brains to run a business.” He shakes his head. “Not one like this.”
Drugs? He’s selling drugs. “That’s not easy, Dom. I can’t imagine managing something like that.”
“He had so much debt.” His eyes jump around the room. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I misfired into his hand. He started sprinting, screaming, bleeding out. I lost it.”
He killed him. Mancini’s dead. His family is somewhere right at this moment, still squeezing onto their dwindling faith, unaware that he’s gone.
“It was an accident.” I swallow, speaking casually about the truth I’ve searched for. I wish I could shout, express how it feels to get an answer to one of my million questions, but I can’t.
“Delilah.” He flaps his finger at me. “She was gonna take the fall.”
A little hope glimmers in my stomach. “She didn’t mean to frame me?”
He giggles and scratches at his nose. “No, she did. I promised her we’d move to Mexico. We were gonna go.” He itches more. “We framed you to escape. Then she died, and I was fucked, but you were still taking the fall, anyway.”
Oh. Thanks, Delilah.
Dom goes back to rambling at a quick speed. “So tell me, Serenity, why is there a damn warrant out for my arrest, for first degree murder, being televised all over Boston, when you’re the one who’s supposed to be in jail?”
Is my name being cleared? Is that why Tommy fast-tracked our meeting, because it is good news? I’m free from everything? Tommy had something positive to tell me?
I stammer, “I don’t know, Dom. I didn’t know you had anything to do with it.”
He brings his pointer finger to his mouth and shushes me. “Well, cats out of the damn bag! Delilah can’t take the fall, so what am I supposed to do?”
He grits his teeth at another text and curses under his breath. I watch that sharp and scary knife get dropped on the kitchen island behind him, so he can look at his phone, but then he drags zip ties out of his pocket, too.
“You were supposed to take the blame! I can’t go to jail!” He screams so powerfully it sends a painful chill down my spine, and I cower against the counter.
“This is all your fault,” he adds.
I swing my head. “Dom, I had nothing to do with any of this.”
“Yes, you did. You’re a fucking liar!” He jabs his finger inches away from my nose. The neon plastic ties are choking in his grip. “You got your husband to do this to me! How many hummers did you give him for him to snitch on me?”
I rise from the counter and stare into his expanded pupils. “Do not call me a liar and do not imply that I’m some sort of whore,” I snap. “That’s just weird.”
Dom and I blink at each other a couple of times, then I continue. “I’m sick and tired of people shitting on me when they have no right to.” My anger is choosing now to catch up with me for the first time in twenty years, so I keep ranting. “Why are you yelling at me when you’re the guy who killed someone?”
He stands in shock with me again. Only for a second, fermenting as his fragile masculinity cracks, but he recovers, and his face turns sinister. “Are you sure you don’t want to take that back?”
For a moment, I’m proud of myself, because a few months ago, I couldn’t speak up at all. I would’ve recoiled in fear. I would’ve sworn to Dom I was sorry. Sorry for stuff that I can’t control and isn’t my fault.
My father didn’t teach me defense and my mother didn’t give me a smart tongue. My parents never taught me that my life was worth fighting for, but rather my life was measured by what I could provide for others. What I could be for others. A nurse, a good wife, a supporter, the sideline-owner—away from any spotlight.
That’s why I sacrificed it all for Delilah, and why I let my mother insult me and lead me down the path of self-hatred while my father doesn’t bat an eye. It’s why I’ve let people walk over me my whole life, including assholes like Caleb, and now this guy. But that’s exactly why I won’t fall to my knees and beg Dom for my life. I deserve this life, way more than I’ve allowed myself to have it.
If there’s one thing Lake has taught me, it’s that.
My life is worth living. I am worth far more than I believe.
For the first time, I’m holding my ground. I take one last look at the knife behind the stranger, and I swallow the spike- covered ball in my throat. Then I give Dom a presence that tells him all he needs to know.
Bring it on.