5. Jaime
Chapter 5
Jaime wasn’t sure how long he’d been laying in bed. It had been a while, though, because it was dark when his nightmares drove him from sleep, and now the morning sun had risen enough to no longer be streaming in directly through his bedroom window.
He turned to look out toward the lake, the meadow that swept around his backyard separating his lawn from the narrow, rocky beach filled with green lupine stalks, gently swaying in the breeze.
He’d seen fields of them up and down the highway surrounding his home when he moved out here, and fell in love with the blueish-purple blooms. He’d immediately wanted his own lupine meadow, so he ordered packs and packs of seeds and planted them all around his backyard last spring, before…
Before.
They hadn’t bloomed. Which was normal in the first year, sure, but even when fall came and the stalks were still bare, and then crispy and brown, buried under snow drifts in the punishing winter winds, it felt like a cosmic sign.
Beautiful things aren’t for you, anymore.
You can’t even take care of yourself, let alone something else.
The lupine were doing well this year, though. Jaime thought it wouldn’t be too long before they bloomed and saturated his meadow with deep blues and purples. It was a different kind of blue than the one he would use to paint grief; the rich hues of lupine more akin to a peaceful night sky, one that rested and breathed over chilly spring evenings…
Stop.
He turned his head away from the window and the life blooming outside and stared up at his ceiling, thoughts and plans of lupines and emotions and time moving forward drifting away from him.
He didn’t want to think about it—not right now.
Not ever, really.
Jaime’s therapist said thinking like that wouldn’t help him get better. He attended one session a week, to process the trauma and grief of what had happened last year and his resulting isolation.
They helped, really. He’d been a complete disaster in the weeks following Vera’s murder and the attack, and now the nightmares weren’t nearly as frequent. Still, he would often stay up late into the night, tense and anxious, reciting the facts from that evening over and over.
He would repeat them the same way the police had made him do in that tiny, cold room filled with stale air and metal furniture. They’d barely finished patching up the cut on his temple when they sat him down and began peppering him with questions before Sam swooped in like an avenging angel, armed with a lawyer and a scowl that cowed even the most hardened detective, and ushered him out.
Yes, she knew I was coming to drop off the commission myself.
No, I don’t do that very often, but I did this time because I wanted to make a good impression so that she’d recommend me to all of her wealthy friends.
No, I didn’t follow her out of the room when she went to find her phone.
No, I didn’t see who murdered her, just the shadow of a man in the window before I went into the house. I thought it was her husband.
No, I didn’t see what weapon they used.
Yes, it really did only last a few seconds.
No, I didn’t see the murderer before they knocked me out.
No, I don’t know how much time passed before I came to, tied up in that closet.
No, they never said who they were talking to on the phone.
Yes, they called her by name.
No, I didn’t see their face.
I don’t know why they left me alive.
I don’t know how I got out of there.
No, I didn’t fucking kill her!
Reciting it over and over wasn’t about trying to remember details he might have forgotten in the initial panic.
Jaime knew he never saw the murderer, and that no matter how often he thought back on the moment he’d been hovering over Vera’s torn and ravaged body, searching for a pulse, helplessly trying to put her insides back inside of her, trying to do something, he hadn’t seen or heard anyone come up behind him. There’d only been the barest hint of a shadow in his periphery, the most subtle draft along his cheek before he was knocked out cold, only to wake and find himself tied up and gagged in a closet.
He never saw the face of the man who’d murdered Vera, but he had heard his voice, and Jaime was haunted by both.
His therapist said that reciting the facts over and over was a coping mechanism. By doing so, his mind was reminding him that he got out. He survived.
Jaime told her he wished his brain would find a better way of doing that.
And that’s when she would suggest he try painting his feelings like he used to.
But he couldn’t.
There was no emotion in rote facts. He could repeat them without confronting the deep fear and anxiety lurking beneath the surface, but if he were to try to paint how that night felt… no. Not yet.
It would remind him of why his brother had finally decided he’d had enough of taking care of Jaime, of always having to be there when he couldn’t take care of himself. Like he was pathetic and helpless and in need of being managed.
The short, rhythmic buzz of his phone on the nightstand cut through the silence. Jaime reached over and fumbled with the charger before seeing a text from his attorney, Dana Chase. She was one of the few people who had his new number, and one of the fewer who actually used it.
After the case hit national news, Dana had told him that it was in his best interest to change his phone number and stay off of social media for a while. “Just in case,” she’d said.
Jaime, please give me a call when you are available, ASAP.
He rolled his eyes. Dana Chase was a damn good attorney, but she was not a socially adept texter.
Still, Jaime knew how much she had done to keep him from the police’s intrusive scrutiny. Not that he had anything to hide, he wasn’t the one who fucking gutted Vera right there in the hallway, but when weeks went by and they had no one else to point fingers at, they had become restless.
Then, six months into the investigation, a neighbor came forward with doorbell camera footage from that day showing a grainy man, later identified as Jackson Bishop, entering a first story window in the Monroe-Dugan house a few minutes before Jaime had arrived, corroborating his description of events.
And now he was on the hook to testify in Bishop’s murder trial. Assuming that was what Dana wanted to talk about, he called her.
She picked up on the second ring. “Jaime? Are you at home?”
Her voice held a note of alarm that made him sit up in bed, but he breathed through the spike in his heart rate. He’d come a long way in therapy—he could make it through one phone call without panicking. “Yes, I’m home. Why are you calling?”
There was a pause that lasted just long enough to tangle and snarl in his chest. “Jaime, someone leaked your identity to the press. It was all over the morning news cycle. They know you are the prosecution’s witness to the murder.”
What?
Jaime swung his legs off the bed and padded over to the window, pulling back the curtain. “Holy shit.”
A sea of media vans flanked his gravel drive and the road on either side of his house, and people were milling around everywhere. How in the world had he not heard all of those vehicles pull up?
Hastily, he dropped the curtain and put his back to the wall next to the window, like he’d been caught invading their privacy and not the other way around. “What the hell do I do?”
Satisfied that Jaime was alive and safe, Dana’s calm and unflappable tone returned. “I’ve got the District Attorney on the line, he’s going to explain the situation. Hold on.”
Jaime stood there in stunned silence, turning to peek outside when he heard a car door shut. Impossibly, it seemed like even more news reporters had appeared in the minute or so he’d been on the phone, and he watched as they all talked to a camera, holding giant microphones and gesturing to his house behind them as they spoke.
A low beep came through the phone, and a vaguely familiar voice joined Dana’s. “Jaime? It’s DA Rivera, and here with me on speakerphone is Detective Sutton, the lead investigator on this case. Are you well? Are you safe inside somewhere?”
He huffed out a breath. “Yes, I’m home. How could this happen? I thought everyone agreed that keeping my name out of the media until the trial was for the best.”
He tried not to sound accusatory, knowing the DA wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize the case, but the list of people outside the police department who knew of Jaime’s involvement that night was very short. Two others, to be exact—his lawyer, and his brother. Even though his relationship with Sam wasn’t what it used to be, he knew Sam would never risk his safety by running his mouth, and Dana wouldn’t risk her job or bar status.
DA Rivera gave a heavy sigh, like he’d been asking himself that same question all morning. “That was the plan, yes. I’m sorry, Jaime. I don’t know who the leak is, but we’ve narrowed it down to one unit in Monroe PD. We’re running an internal investigation to see if we can root out who talked to the media, but right now our focus needs to be on keeping you safe.”
“The media is already swarming his house, Gabriel, it’s a little late for mitigation,” Dana said in that no-nonsense tone that she always used when speaking to law enforcement on his behalf. It was belied by the use of the prosecutor’s first name, though, so they must be on decent terms with each other.
“The media is an annoyance, yes. And will be an even larger headache once we start jury selection, given that this brings the case right back into the public eye just a few weeks out from trial, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. They aren’t my main concern right now.”
Jaime’s stomach flipped, and he started to pace around his room, keeping away from the window even with the curtains drawn.
“You know something about that phone call, don’t you?” Dana accused. She was referencing the call Jaime had overheard the murderer make after he came to, tied up in Vera’s closet.
They had called to report to someone that Vera was dead, but that Jaime was an unexpected visitor, and asked whoever was on the line what to do with him. Apparently, they’d been instructed to leave him alive, because they didn’t come back to check on Jaime—they’d just left.
“You know I can’t tell you that, Dana.” DA Rivera sounded genuinely sorry. “What I can say is we received a tip regarding the murder of Vera Novikova-Dugan that Detective Sutton and her colleague Detective Jones are investigating. We are still confident in prosecuting Jackson Bishop for first-degree murder, but there are open lines of investigation in regards to this crime. We aren’t ruling anything or anyone out.”
Detective Jones was the asshole detective who had started interrogating Jaime the minute the medics had finished stitching up the wound on his temple. He sat down on his bed with a heavy sigh, and ran his fingers through his unwashed hair.
When was the last time I showered?
Out loud, Jaime asked, “And you think whoever this is will come after me now that they know who I am?” Another pregnant pause, and he couldn’t stop his breathing from accelerating this time.
“Yes.” That voice belonged to Detective Sutton. She had been more reserved at first, but she’d spoken to Jaime like he was someone who’d just survived something horrific, whereas Detective Jones had been belligerent. At first, Jaime had thought they were doing their own good-cop-bad-cop bit, but after a few weeks, he thought Detective Sutton’s quiet observation and subtle kindness were genuine.
“If you know who this is then put a tail on them. Make sure they don’t come near my client before you get enough for an arrest warrant,” Dana snapped.
“We’ve hit some roadblocks with the arrest warrant, but we are working around them. It may take some time, though, and we don’t want to take any chances with Jaime’s safety in the meantime.”
“Well what do you suggest, then? He’s already essentially housebound, never mind the media circus currently camped in his yard. What else do you expect him to do?”
Jaime winced at his attorney’s words. Sure they were true, but he hated the blunt reminder of how isolated he’d become in the last year.
Detective Sutton gentled her tone. “I’ve called an acquaintance of mine who owns a private security firm up in Silver Rapids. They take both body security and household security contracts, so they’ll be able to set up Jaime’s home with an alarm system and escort him when he needs to leave the house. Cameron Sheppard is a good guy, and his team is highly competent. They’ll be able to handle this.”
Jaime tensed at the mention of this private security firm. How much would that cost? Probably an astronomical amount to outfit his home and pay someone to be with him until the trial in a few weeks. “Why can’t you just have an officer come out and keep watch? Surely a police car parked in my driveway would be enough of a deterrent.”
He didn’t actually believe that. Whoever it was that might want to silence him had enough resources to hire someone to murder one of Monroe’s elite socialites. They would be able to find someone who, with the right incentive, wouldn’t blink at a police car in the driveway while they snuck in and did the same to Jaime.
But he didn’t have the money for private security. Sam was already covering Jaime’s bills on top of paying for his attorney, and his brother had clearly had enough of helping Jaime when he was too young, weak, or pathetic to do it himself—he wasn’t going to become even more of a burden.
Maybe if he handled something like this himself for once, Sam would see that he could do it. He didn’t have to step in all the time and save him, and they could be brothers again.
Friends, again.
“I spoke with the state Attorney General about hiring private security for you Jaime, but the budget’s just not there to do it. And given the leak was internal, I think it best we outsource security until the trial. Sutton, are you sure about Cameron Sheppard’s firm?”
“Yes, they do excellent work and are very professional. They were on the Senator’s detail when he was campaigning in the area last week,” she confirmed.
Then Jaime definitely couldn’t afford them. “I appreciate your efforts here, but that’s not something I can afford to pay out of pocket. I’ll take the police cruiser and have a doorbell camera installed. I’ll be fine.”
Hopefully.
There was an awkward pause, and Detective Sutton cleared her throat. “Did your brother not tell you? The contract is already set, paid for in full. He called this morning immediately after the news broke and we arranged everything. The security team is probably already on their way to you.”
Jaime’s face flushed hot with anger.
Sam called Detective fucking Sutton before talking to me first?
They’d managed him before consulting him, before asking what he wanted. Sam hadn’t even called—he just threw money at a babysitter so he didn’t feel obligated to come and scrape Jaime off the floor. Again.
He wasn’t sure how much of their deteriorating relationship the detectives and his lawyer had picked up on over the past year, but right now he didn’t really care about letting on how hurt he was about this.
“Jaime —” Dana began, but he hung up before any of them could say anything else.
Jaime strode over to his closet and yanked on the nearest t-shirt and sweats without really seeing them. Fuming, he stomped down the stairs and pulled out his phone to call Sam while he hunted for his jacket and car keys.
When was the last time I drove myself somewhere?
The call went to voicemail.
Jaime knew things had become distant between them. Sam had pulled away because Jaime was a twenty-six year old adult who needed to learn how to take care of himself when shit hit the fan. And he was trying.
He was trying.
Jaime was going to therapy, and listening to the advice of his attorney, and he would get up on that stand and tell the world how fucking useless he’d been when a woman had been brutalized in her own home. And then he would sell his house, get a job somewhere they didn’t know his name so he could pay his own rent, and then maybe Sam would want to talk to him again because he wouldn’t feel like Jaime needed him anymore.
Jaime could do that. He could make it so he didn’t need anyone.
But Sam didn’t even give him the chance. He’d solved the problem and payed the bill before Jaime knew there was a problem, and that made Jaime so irrationally angry that he had his keys in hand and was stepping out the front door to go tell his brother that he didn’t need him anymore, before he remembered what was waiting for him on the other side.
The noise roared up around him, sudden and deafening, and the crowd pushed forward all at once.
Hands grabbed for him and people shouted and shoved microphones in his face. Jaime was backed up against the side of his house, the throng shifting him away from his front door, surging closer and closer.
His ears began to ring, and he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. Taking great heaving breaths, Jaime frantically searched for someone, anyone to see that he needed space. He needed them to back up. If they gave him a minute he’d be able to breathe again, and then he could ask them to please let him go find his brother so that he could tell him he didn’t want his money—he just wanted Sam.
Jaime’s vision grew spotty. Bright flashes in his periphery made it difficult to focus on anyone’s face as they all blurred together into one angry, loud mob.
He saw the closet walls closing around him, bodies crowding him and grabbing for him and trapping him. He needed to turn around, needed to look and see the man striding toward him out of the dark so that he could dodge the inevitable blow?—
Someone began shouting loud enough to be heard over the mob standing above him.
At some point, Jaime must have slid down the side of his home, and his hands covered his head as he sat hunched over his knees, taking great heaving breaths.
Two massive figures pushed through the crowd. The larger, darker-haired one began shoving people back and away from Jaime, like a guard dog defending his flock. He looked giant from Jaime’s viewpoint, curled up on the ground.
The other came toward him, hands extended in the universal language that said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Maybe Jaime was just hoping he wouldn’t.
He crouched down, and gently pulled Jaime’s hands away from their protective cage and pressed soothing, sure sweeps of his thumbs across his knuckles.
“Hi Jaime. I’m Finn, and that’s Silas. We’re here with Private Security Solutions, and we’re going to help keep you safe. Can you take a deep breath for me?”
His voice rumbled through Jaime; a quiet, familiar blue-purple note of calm that blanketed over him and hushed the bright haze of his panic. Jaime focused on that, followed the sweeping eddy of his voice back out into the gentle calm where he could take several slow, measured breaths.
The man striding out of the dark behind him was gone. Only this beautiful voice in front of him remained.
“Good. That’s very good, Jaime. Alright, how about you tell me five things you can see.”
Oh, yes, the pamphlet.
For some reason, that nearly made Jaime giggle. “Your voice is blue.”
Does that make sense? Probably not.
“Thank you, I love the color blue. Now how about you open your eyes and tell me four other things you can see.”
Jaime blinked, not realizing he had closed them. “The sky, it’s starting to get cloudy. Your sweater is soft and green. My pants are gray.”
He looked up then, and wondered if he had passed out and was dreaming after all, because he knew those brown eyes. He hadn’t been able to tell just how deep they were through a phone screen, but now he could see—like sun-drenched soil, offering warmth and life and hope.
“It’s you. I see you.”