10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Maci
S utton kisses me on the forehead when he slips out of bed before dawn. I doze on and off for a while before deciding to get back into the swing of things. Unlike the night at the hospital when the anesthesia suppressed my dreams, nightmares continue to plague me now and my sleep is broken at best.
Moving around is minimally easier today, and I speed up my shower process by skipping a hair wash. After applying a fresh bandage, I get dressed in leggings and a thin, oversized sweater, then pull out my computer. My heart swells. Between the clothing and photography items I left here, and Izzy picking up my computer and a few more items from Nana’s, I have all the most important things.
After shoving my feet into my slippers, I grab my computer and coffee mug and head out the exterior door. Maybe Andi will be up for some company.
As the front door closes behind me, I call out, “Knock knock,” then roll my eyes at myself. One hospital stint and I’ve turned into a forty-year-old.
“Oh, Maci! In here,” Andi calls before her head peeks out of the kitchen.
The trek up the hall doesn’t feel as long as yesterday.
“Good morning, sweetheart. How are you feeling?” She kisses me on the cheek with more sound than lips. “You look good.”
My skin warms in a blush. “Thank you. I feel better today. Still sore.”
“Oh, yeah. I bet.” She points to the half-full coffee pot as she turns back to a bowl on the counter. “Coffee’s still hot.”
“Perfect. That’s just what I came in for. And to see you, of course.” When I open the fridge door, I see a bottle of caramel creamer sitting in the door shelf. Do not cry. Do not cry.
Andi smiles brightly over her shoulder. “Oh! Sutton mentioned you prefer caramel, so I picked some up while I was out yesterday.”
“I—” There are no words. Heavy tears fill my eyes. “Thank you.”
“Of course. You let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
I hum a response and set my computer in the dining room. With a full cup, I lean against the far counter, watching her work. “What are you working on?”
She dumps the contents from the bowl onto the butcher block counter. It’s a dough of some sort. “It’s an easy bread. I have a soup in the crock pot, and I thought fresh bread would go nicely.”
It always feels like home in here. I’m reminded of cold days spent in a warm kitchen with Nana. “That sounds delicious. Is there anything I can help with?” Her glance my way is quick, and I anticipate she’ll tell me no as usual. “And please, don’t tell me no. I’m starting to go a little stir-crazy.” I grin.
Her eyes squint, but she smiles on the backside. “I’m sure I can come up with something.”
Sutton is so much like her. A man of few words like his father, sure, but his hidden heart of gold is all from this amazing woman. She’s become so special to me in such a short time.
We work quietly, me following her instructions to the letter, until there’s a lull. “I loved spending time in the kitchen with my Nana.”
“I bet.” Andi beams. “She was so special. You know our family holds her in our hearts.”
“I do.” I finish washing my hands and turn to face her. “I don’t know if Sutton told you, but my mom and I aren’t close. Haven’t been for a while.”
“He didn’t. You know he doesn’t take to talking about people much. Or himself, for that matter.”
“No, he doesn’t.” We share a smile. “He’s been so amazing. Even before my injury”—I clear my throat of the catch—“always so patient and kind. I’m lucky to have found him.”
Andi wraps her arms around me, squeezing me tightly and speaking into my ear. “Oh, honey, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to him.” She pushes back to arm’s length. “He’s always been intense, but he’s lighter with you. I know you two will take things on your own terms, but he does it because he cares.”
Her eyes turn glassy and she swallows hard. “I hate that you haven’t had enough people love you unconditionally. But I am so happy, so happy , that my son gets to be the one to show you how it’s done.”
Tears trickle down my face.
The front door closes firmly and we both jump, though a shared happiness flows between us. I use the back of my hand to wipe at my face, trying to get myself in order before whoever it is comes walking in.
As if I don’t know. I’d know Sutton’s steps anywhere.
He rounds the corner and grins broadly at me before his face drops.
“Hey, Cowboy.” I smile widely.
His eyes flit between Andi and me. “Mama, why is Maci crying?”
“I’m standing right here.” I tip my chin down indignantly.
Andi smiles. “We were just having girl talk. Don’t you worry.” She pats his arm.
He considers for a moment before relenting. When he wraps me in his arms, I melt into his chest, wrapping my own arms around his middle and trying to cover my wince at the stretch. He kisses my forehead. “I saw that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I pull back and open the oven, sliding in the muffins Andi had me working on.
He hums a response and grabs a glass for water, as usual. “Just came in to check on my two favorite ladies.” He smiles at us and I swear his mom blushes. She’s adorable.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say, once he’s downed the glass.
“Walking me out of my own house?” He raises his eyebrows at me.
“It’s not your house,” Andi says, as we head down the hallway. “You’re building your own.”
Sutton opens the door for us, following me onto the porch. Once the door is closed, I speak again. “Do you think you’ll have a late night?”
“Actually, no.” One hand slips around my waist, pulling me to him, and the other pushes a strand of errant hair behind my ear. “Missing me?”
I place my chin on his chest and look up at him. “Yeah. A lot. And I think we need to talk.”
“Sounds serious.” His tone is playful.
“Important.”
“Ok. I’ll be in for dinner and we can talk after. That ok?”
“Yes. Actually, I need to head into town.”
Sutton pulls back and looks me over. “Everything ok?”
“Yes,” I give him a faint smile, “but I haven’t been in to speak to Detective Porter, and the last thing we need is more people coming out here to look for me. I’d rather go to him on my terms.”
“I’ll come.” He shifts his hat.
“No.” His jaw tightens. “Please. I can’t feel like I’m always pulling you from other things. I’m fairly certain the worst that can happen already has. I’m just going to have a conversation with him.”
He doesn’t look convinced. Several silent seconds pass. “I think you should have a lawyer with you.”
“If they were going to arrest me, I assume they’d have done it by now.” I’m aware of my right to protect myself on Nana’s property. I’m also aware the police department is taking the investigation seriously.
Sutton scrubs a hand over his face and lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I do not like this. You have no legal protection on your own.”
I press up on my toes. “I’ll be fine.” I brush my lips over his.
Something breaks in him, a wall he’s kept up for the last few days. He grabs my head with both hands and kisses me powerfully, possessing my mouth and infusing so many emotions in every press of his lips and swipe of his tongue. Wetness gathers between my legs, and I ignore my side yelling in protest as I reach up to wrap my arms around his neck.
As if he knows, he releases me gently and I stand firmly back on my feet. He gives me one last tender kiss. “I’m sorry.”
I fist his shirt in my hands. “Why are you sorry?”
“I know you’re sore.”
“You kissing me the way you’re supposed to isn’t doing anything bad to my body.”
He smirks. “The way I’m supposed to, huh?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
His eyes bounce between mine for a moment, and he leans in once more to kiss me softly. “Just be careful.”
Eventually, Andi disappears into her bedroom. I seat myself at the dining room table and pull up my email on my laptop. My thoughts are distracted, and instead of sending many responses, I start researching laws around self-defense, which leads me down a rabbit hole of survivors and their experiences.
Many of them talk about the legal ramifications, and what they went through to be considered “not guilty” of murder, even discussing the financial impact. Few of them share what the emotional experience was like.
Removing my hands from the keyboard, I lean back in the chair and stare out the back window of the dining room. Owning my own business means I can’t afford health insurance. I don’t have the funds for therapy or anything like it. I hardly know how I’m going to handle all of the hospital bills from this when they start to come in.
At the same time, I suspect I’m going to need some outside help. Help that doesn’t come from my friends and family, and certainly not my new boyfriend, who has already taken on so much.
My fingers drum idly on the keys. There are enough online forums about the legal aspect of these situations; there has to be something for the emotional side. After a few more searches, I manage to find a few articles on post-traumatic stress disorder.
Do I really have a disorder? It feels damning. Unfortunately, the symptoms fit.
One person shares their experience with exposure therapy, and how it helped them to cope. I read through more articles on the technique, which involves confronting the memories and triggers of the emotional responses in a gradual manner to lessen the anxiety and other symptoms. It’s meant to be done with a therapist, but as that’s financially not an option, I decide to try it out myself.
I can face these things slowly and incrementally. I can do this.
I’m pretty sure I’ve used up all my energy reserves. I manage to climb into the Jeep on my own, then sit idling while I compose myself from exertion before leaving.
This is fine. Everything’s fine.
It feels surreal to be driving to the police department. People in town are going on their merry way, and I’m about to walk into a building I may not walk out of.
I might have convinced Sutton to calm down, but it doesn’t lessen the severity of what I know is about to happen.
After a final cleansing breath, I grab my purse and head inside. A man in uniform sits at the front desk. He doesn’t speak, just looks at me with a bored expression.
“I’m here to see Detective Porter.” The confidence I’m going for is lacking.
“Name?” There’s no change to his stiff face. His voice is just as blank.
“Maci McCullough.”
If he’s aware of who I am, there’s no outward indication. “Have a seat.”
I don’t bother to respond, making my way to the row of hard-backed chairs. The first one I come to has something sticky on it, so I skip a few before sitting down.
The officer picks up the desk phone and starts speaking quietly, my name falling from his lips. His head bobs in acknowledgement of something, even though the person on the other end can’t see him. The receiver smashes into the cradle and I jolt, but his face is still impassive.
“This way.” His volume hardly increases as he stands. There’s a door to the right of the desk, and I move hesitantly toward it. “I’ll meet you on the inside.”
That doesn’t sound good.
A buzzer blares and a lock clicks as it disengages. I pull open the metal door with effort. The officer stands at a similar door just inside the small hallway.
“Follow me.” He rounds a corner and I work to keep pace. He doesn’t have an incredible height on me, but my tender steps make it hard to move quickly. Voices float through doors, although I can’t make anything out.
We stop at two black doors, side by side. Nausea washes over me. I imagine that inside these doors there’s an adjoining wall with a one-way window. This suddenly feels far more real than I anticipated, and I’m second guessing if Sutton was right about bringing a lawyer. One of these days my fierce independence is going to do more harm than good. I may have reached that time, actually.
The officer shoves one of the doors open and I’m happy to find there is not, in fact, a window of any sort. A table and three chairs butt up against one wall.
“Detective Porter will be here in a minute.” The officer closes the door behind him without waiting for me to respond.
He’s pleasant.
Claustrophobia creeps in as my stance on the lack of windows changes. I’m not shut in for good, but there’s an element to being closed off that doesn’t sit right.
I choose the chair in the corner, pulling it farther from the table, and facing the door. Almost immediately, Detective Porter walks in.
“Hey, how are ya?” He closes the door behind him and plops down in the chair opposite me, his notebook in hand. I don’t have a chance to respond. “Thanks for coming in.”
His voice is relatively welcoming, even as he looks me over with narrowed eyes.
I stare at him. Am I supposed to say you’re welcome? I’m not feeling especially cordial.
He smiles at me. It doesn’t meet his eyes. There’s a too-long moment of quiet between us.
“So, I want to start with what you told me at the hospital. Mr. Young came over to the house on Bluebonnet Cove without your knowledge.”
I nod. “That’s correct.”
“How did you and Mr. Young meet?” He tosses the notebook onto the table loudly, clasping his hands and looking directly into my eyes. It’s open to a page where notes are scribbled on the top section.
If he thinks he’s going to intimidate me, it won’t work. “We met at The Spur.”
“When?”
“October 6th.”
“October 6th,” he repeats, as if mulling it over. He yanks a pen from his shirt, clicks it loudly to extend the ink chamber and jots the date down. “What was the nature of your relationship?”
I consider for a moment. “I wouldn’t really call it a relationship. He bought me and a friend drinks. We talked with him and a friend of his—”
“What friend?”
“Pete.”
“What’s Pete’s last name?” He looks up from writing, waiting.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” His tone isn’t accusatory, but his gaze is still hard.
My jaw clenches. “Listen. I told you at the hospital, I’m willing to help you. I have nothing to hide. I’ll answer your questions, you can check my phone records, pull whatever surveillance from wherever, I don’t care. But this will go a lot faster if you stop repeating me and assume that I’m telling you the truth.”
He gives me a sarcastic smile from one side of his mouth. Click . He tosses the pen onto his notebook.
Does he think that’s a power move?
“Ms. McCullough, I don’t have the luxury of assuming people who come in here are honest with me.”
“Fair enough.” I sigh and set my purse on the table. “Colt and I had sex in the alley behind The Spur.”
His eyebrows jump before he hides the response.
“I was intoxicated, and he was a pig. It was a lapse in judgment.” I press my back firmly into the chair and cross my arms, annoyed at my decision and how I got here, and aggravated at having to face it head-on again. Raised to value perception so heavily, admitting my shortcomings to a stranger doesn’t come naturally.
“I thought there was nothing more to it.” I shrug. “A one-night stand. My friend got Pete’s number, and I planned never to see Colt again.”
He nods, clicking his pen again. The sound is a zap of annoyance down my spine on delayed repeat. After a few notes, he continues his questioning. “So, you didn’t see him again until Halloween?” This time, his tone is curious.
“Not exactly.” I release a heavy breath. “Sutton and I—”
“That’s your boyfriend?” I try to overlook his habit of interrupting me as a product of his career.
“Yes. Sutton and I were eating at Granger’s a week or so later and Colt was there.”
“You talked to him?”
“No. He was leaving and revved his motorcycle in the parking lot. I happened to see him.”
He waits. “Nothing was said?”
“No, he was outside. He just gave me a creepy look.”
“A creepy look?”
“Yes. A creepy wink.” I stare at him.
His face is blank. I don’t bother explaining further. He knows as well as I do what kind of expression I’m referring to.
“After that was when your window was broken?” He fidgets with the pen.
“Yes, at the Fall Festival.”
“And he admitted this was him?”
“Yes, when he came to my grandmother’s house.”
He drops the pen again and sits back in the chair. “What happened on Halloween?”
I dip my chin. “He approached me during the Trunk-or-Treat at the dentist’s office on Main Street. He was antagonizing me, grabbed my wrists and wouldn’t let go, spouting off. I ended up head-butting him.”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “Did you receive any injuries?”
I hold my breath on an inhale. All of these pieces sound pretty trivial based on the way he’s asking. “A nasty headache. He didn’t leave any marks. There’s a report.” I told him as much at the hospital.
“During any of these instances when you two were together, did he hurt you?”
A rock sits heavy in my gut. Colt managed to make me look like the aggressor, intentionally or not. My words come out quieter than I’d like. “It was self-defense.”
Detective Porter says nothing. He continues writing. I assume being evaluated by a psychiatrist feels like this.
I chew my lip. “There’s more.”
That catches his attention. His eyes pop up to mine. He motions with the hand holding the pen for me to continue. “Go on.”
“Colt is my stepbrother.”
Licking along his upper teeth doesn’t compose his face the way he thinks. The cogs are turning, but he’s not speaking.
“We didn’t know,” I add. A new wave of shame washes over me. This sounds like some country bumpkin bullshit. I can’t believe I have to say it aloud. I shift in my seat. “His father married my mother ten years ago. Shortly after, my mom and I were attacked in a grocery store parking lot. Here in town. I’m sure there’s a report on that, too.” Who knew I had such a paper trail here?
I continue, unprompted, “The man was wearing a mask, and it was unclear what he wanted. Anyway, Colt admitted to me when he was at the house two nights ago that it was him. He thought that I stole his dad, and he was angry.”
Detective Porter’s raised eyebrows and flat mouth indicate he thinks this is a stretch, and I can’t help but agree. “You never met him over the ten years your parents have been married?”
“No.” I shake my head. “In fact, I didn’t even know his name. Alan, his dad, never talked about him. Look, my mom and I don’t have a great relationship. My relationship with Alan is toxic, at best. My high school years were spent in a very cold house. We didn’t have pictures up or family dinners or talk about our feelings. In fact, most things got swept under the rug for the sake of saving face.”
Detective Porter takes a moment to assess me again. He rubs a hand over his mouth. “Alright, walk me through what happened when Colt came to the house.”
I take a Guinness Record-style breath before summarizing the conversation and Colt’s odd behavior as best as I can, explaining that I waited as long as possible before pulling out my gun. I let him know how the first shot missed, and how Colt stabbed me in between that and the second shot. “I was trying to protect myself. I had every intention of shooting him at that point, but I didn’t mean for the gun to go off when it did the second time. It could have easily been me.”
He writes furiously in his notebook. “How did your boyfriend come to be there?”
“He was already on his way.”
“And the game warden”—he checks his notes—“Nick?”
I blink. “Actually, I don’t know.”
“Your boyfriend call him?”
“Probably. Sutton is a rancher. He works long days, and we haven’t had a lot of time to talk since the incident. But they are best friends.” I drop my head, realizing how much we really need to discuss.
Probably because Sutton is trying to be patient and supportive while I sweep shit under the rug, as usual.
“Seems like you two would’ve discussed this quite a bit.” He stares at me, waiting for a response. I don’t bother. I don’t owe him a personal view into my romantic relationship when it doesn’t pertain to what’s going on.
“You mentioned phone records. We will be checking them.” He looks at me as if I’ll recant.
“Yep.”
He presses his lips together, but the comforting smile he’s going for misses the mark. “I appreciate you coming in. We’ll be in touch if we have more questions. You have plans to leave town anytime soon?”
My brows inch closer together. “My apartment is in Austin, but I gave my notice Saturday afternoon. I have work up there, some appointments scheduled.”
“If you make any other travel plans, keep me posted. It may seem questionable otherwise, given the circumstances.”
I rush to stand. “Happy to.”
Detective Porter walks me to the door with the buzzer before he lets me exit alone.
On the steps of the police department, I suck in a huge breath. Somehow, I managed to keep it together inside, but my veins feel electrified—and not in a good way. I adjust my sweater and bag and make my way down the steps toward the parking lot.
A middle-aged woman approaches on the sidewalk. I don’t pay her much attention, instead absently rubbing my aching side. The woman stops walking and stares at me.
I side-eye her as I pass, adding more space between us.
“You’re Maci, aren’t you?” Her voice is quiet, but not timid.
“Yes? And you are?” I halt. My heart rate kicks into overdrive.
“My name is Melissa Garrett.” Her face is blank, pale. Her dark hair falls to her shoulders, cut bluntly like she took a set of kitchen scissors to it, and her hazel eyes lack emotion, though they’re somewhat swollen. “Colt’s mother.”
Adrenaline surges through me and my meager breakfast warns at reappearing. This day is getting more and more difficult by the minute. Why have so many of my days gone this way lately?
Stupid fucking small towns.
My mouth opens, but I don’t know what to say.
“You probably think you need to apologize right now. You don’t need to,” she says.
I assess her more closely. The dark circles around her eyes, the translucent tint of her skin.
“I’m not angry with you. I forgave you as soon as I got the news.”
My face scrunches. “That’s a very selfless thing to do. You don’t even know me. Or what happened.”
“I don’t need to. I knew my son. And he was just like his father.” This suddenly feels like a much deeper conversation, and a latent validation of my distrust of Alan all these years.
I look around the sparsely populated lot. “I get the impression you came here for a reason that wasn’t to talk to me.”
Her eyes pass momentarily to the front door of the police department. “I came to speak with the detective.”
“I see.” I study my boots.
“You look like you’re in pain.” She motions to my midsection. “They said you were injured during the incident.”
I don’t know how much I’m supposed to say. Once again, I feel like I’m in over my head. Yet another reason I should have a lawyer. I hoped by helping with the preliminary process that this would all go away.
Melissa seems to be genuine, though.
“Colt stabbed me.”
“Was it serious?” She takes a half-step forward, realizes her movement, and pauses. “This is all so surreal.”
“It is,” I agree quietly. “It could’ve been worse.” The fact that I’m saying as much to the mother of the man I killed makes me feel ill. I could be dead, and hinting that his death was a better option than mine feels selfish to say directly to her.
“I’m glad it wasn’t.” Her face twists into a grimace.
“Ms. Garrett, glad you could make it!” Detective Porter calls down to her from the open front door.
Both of us look his way. She waves politely before turning back to me. “Would you be open to speaking again? It can be in public.”
I weigh the options. “I’ll think about it.” I hand her a card from my purse. “You can reach out and I’ll let you know how I’m feeling.”
She nods solemnly. “That’s fair. I hope you have a smooth recovery, Maci.” She presses her lips together in an awkward, tight smile.
I can’t bring myself to say anything. I only watch as she climbs the steps to meet Detective Porter, whose eyes stay pinned on me.