CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Michelle Santos didn’t cry when she closed the front door of her single-story ranch house in Buffalo Grove, a quiet suburb thirty miles northwest of Chiago that she’d chosen after the trial in the hope that she wouldn’t have to see anyone she knew, or rather, anyone who knew her.
It was the first time in eight years that she’d come home without collapsing in front of the door or onto her couch and weeping, sometimes for hours, at the treatment she received from people.
No one recognized her today. Well, people did, but no one recognized her from eight years before.
Everyone who knew her knew her as Michelle Santos.
No one remembered Maricela Santana, the woman who eight years ago had been accused of smothering her mother to death and gone free when the DA chose to dismiss her case after a hung jury rather than retry it.
It was the first time in eight years that Michelle felt like an ordinary person.
A single tear did form, but this wasn’t a tear of grief.
She let it fall, savoring the coolness on her cheek as it ran down her face.
She took a deep breath, savoring the sweetness of the summer air, she allowed in through her slightly opened windows.
Her sister warned her not to leave her windows open even a little bit, but Buffalo Grove was a safe neighborhood, and besides, she was only leaving them open a crack.
She took one more deep breath, then pushed off the door.
She tossed her keys in the bowl sitting on the small table near the door, kicked her shoes off underneath and walked in her socks across the vinyl laminate floor, stained to look like oak.
Or was the term dyed? Staining was just for wood, right? ”
She laughed at herself, thinking of how her mother would have scolded her for that. Jelena Santana was an artist of no great renown but of some talent and exceptional eye, and she was often exasperated that Maricela never took after her in that way.
Michelle didn’t mind. She’d made a wonderful career for herself.
She had bought this house with her own money, money she’d saved for twenty years as an experienced and highly paid nurse for Chicago University Hospital.
She didn’t imagine needing to use her rainy-day fund for this reason, but she had it.
And now, after eight years at Midwest Regional, she had a solid chunk of that saved up again.
Her mother never approved. Approval wasn’t something Jelena Santana was good at.
Tolerance, to a point, but not approval.
Some people thought that was the biggest impediment to her career.
She didn’t get along with others, and if she disagreed with a choice or an opinion, she had no problem saying so.
Michelle started the oven and carefully removed a chicken pot pie from its packaging, setting it in the precise center of a baking pan, then put the pan in the precise center of the oven.
She pulled a bottle of merlot down from a high cabinet and uncorked it.
If she’d known she was going to have such a good day, she would have thawed the wagyu beef Dr. Anthony had given her for her birthday.
She pulled it out of the freezer and set it in the fridge to thaw. Maybe she’d invite Dr. Anthony over to enjoy it with her. She’d probably decline, but she’d be touched to be asked.
He poured a glass of the merlot and sighed with pleasure at the first sip.
She couldn’t drink often because she loved wine way too much, and the last thing she wanted was to end up like her aunt, but today the first day she felt like her new self, not the pariah that everyone had decided must be all of the horrible things everyone said about her.
She took another sip of the wine, savoring the warmth already spreading through her joints from the alcohol. She chuckled, imagining her mother telling her that red wine did not pair with pot pie. She could just see the curl in her upper lip as she said pot pie.
“That’s not the point, mom. The point is to get good and fucking plastered.”
Language, dear, her mother didn’t say.
Because she was dead. After eleven years of lupus, five years of kidney disease, and two years of stomach cancer, Jelena Santana had finally gone on to whatever waited on the other side eight years past. She couldn’t say anything to Michelle. She couldn’t tell her a damned thing. Ever again.
Michelle burst into sobs, so suddenly and powerfully that her eyes widened in shock for a moment before her body realized that they were crying, and she should close her eyes, not open them.
She set the wine on the counter, sank to the ground in front of her oven, buried her head in between her knees and wept.
That was okay. It was okay to cry. All of the websites told her it was. It had to be websites because her therapist had declined to treat her after she was arrested, and no one else she talked to was interested. Therapy was for people who weren’t mother-killers.
A latch clicked. Michelle stopped crying. A door creaked, paused, creaked again, then shut with a polite thud.
Michelle cursed, got to her feet, and wiped the tears from her eyes. If Gayle saw her like this, she’d want to know why Michelle was crying.
I’ll just make something up about a patient. That’s believable.
Like all of her neighbors, Gayle thought Michelle had moved here from Texas. She didn’t know that Michelle Santos was Maricela Santana, and Michelle desperately wanted to keep it that way.
A shadow entered the kitchen. Michelle smiled.
“Hi, Gayle. I was just getting ready to cook some pot pie, but if you want, I can order pizza instead. I’m fine.
” It occurred to her that her neighbor might be here because she had an emergency, which was the reason Michelle had given the elderly Gayle a key in the first place. “I’m sorry, did you need something?”
“Whoever takes a human life shall surely be put to death.”
Michelle blinked. “What?”
The owner of the shadow entered the kitchen. Not Gayle. Someone Michelle recognized, though. She wasn’t sure why, only that the person in front of her looked familiar.
And she was carrying a knife. The blood drained from Michelle’s face. “Oh, God,” she began.
The figure moved. Pain exploded in Michelle’s chest. Something burst inside of her, and the last thing she heard before consciousness faded was her mother’s voice scolding her for not checking to make sure her doors were locked.