Fifteen Detective Olivia Newhouse
Fifteen
Detective Olivia Newhouse
I’m waiting for David when he comes down for his first cup of coffee.
I’m dressed and ready for work, and on my second cup of caffeine-infused brew.
Still forgot to Google whether or not it’s possible to consume too much caffeine during pregnancy.
I did remember to pick up the prenatal vitamins.
Took my first one this morning. I really have to do better than this.
Just because I’m screwing up my own health by not eating as I should and not getting nearly enough sleep doesn’t mean I want to screw up this kid’s chances at normal.
The word gives me pause. What is “normal”?
Images and voices filter through my mind, make my stomach churn.
“Morning,” he says as he shuffles to the coffee maker.
“Morning.”
I really had intended to talk to him when I made it home last night, but he’d already gone to bed.
It wasn’t even midnight. That was early for him.
Unless he had some sort of big bankers meeting and was mentally wiped out.
Judging by his bloodshot eyes, I’m thinking he went a couple of rounds with something stronger than beer and it took him out.
David isn’t generally a heavy drinker. I suppose I’ve sent him down that dark path.
Apparently I can’t do anything right anymore.
Last night got away from me. I hadn’t meant to be so late, but after Walt left, I just passed out for a few hours.
I woke up face down on my father’s desk, drooling all over his blotter pad.
I need to ask the doctor about that, too.
I went down for the count and slept the sleep of the dead for at least two hours. I guess I needed the rest.
Exhaustion can do strange things to you.
“We need to talk,” I announce. My throat goes instantly dry and my heart starts to pound.
Walt is right in that I need to tell David about the baby and somehow slow down this lunge toward disaster that our relationship appears to be caught up in.
We’re here and I’ve had some decent sleep. This is as good a time as any.
David waits until the final drops of coffee have plopped into his mug from the machine, picks it up, and swallows a mouthful, then flinches from the burn. “I have my own ideas about that, but what is it you think we have to talk about, Liv?”
“All we do lately is argue,” I say, weary of this battle. He clearly went to bed angry with me and now he’s awakened still irritated. How are we supposed to get past this unhappy place if he’s unwilling to move beyond it? I really have no idea how to begin.
He props a pajama-clad hip against the counter. “I suppose that’s my fault, too.”
Perfect example of why we can’t get past this rut. “I apologized to your mother.”
He sips his coffee, nods. “She told me. I appreciate that you made the effort.”
“So you’re still angry with me about missing dinner, even though I’ve apologized repeatedly.”
“No, Olivia. I’m frustrated because you’re never home for dinner anymore. For anything, really. It’s like you don’t want to be here.”
I can’t tell him that he might be more right than he knows. “It’s this case.” I shake my head. “It’s different . . .” Horrifying, I don’t say.
“So you were working last night?” He looks directly at me as he asks this question. The accusation is stark in his beautiful eyes.
“Yes. You know this without asking.” I hold my own mug of coffee so tightly, I fear it may crack at any second. “When I came home, you were already in bed.”
“You were at the farm.”
For a moment I’m rattled that he somehow knows this when we haven’t talked about exactly where I was. What the hell? “First, what difference does that make, and second, how can you know this? Do you have some sort of tracker on my phone?”
“First,” he echoes, an edge in his tone, “you just said you were working, which was apparently not entirely true. Second, your iPad dinged with a notification that the security system at the farm had been disarmed. Is there anyone else who would be there?”
Okay. He has me there. I hesitate for a moment. Do I want to tell him about what I found? If I don’t, he’s never going to trust me, but to tell him feels like a betrayal of my father.
Stop, Liv. This is the man to whom you’ve said yes to spending the rest of your life. This is the father of the child you’re carrying. Why the hesitation?
“I found some notes my father made regarding a victim in the Fanning case—the one I’m working on. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical reason for him being involved in any way, but I have to know what that reason was.”
“So your father is a person of interest in your investigation now?”
I think about that for a moment. It was a smart-ass remark, but a valid point. “In a manner of speaking. We haven’t found anything that concretely ties him to the case, but we have to look into whatever part he played.”
“‘We’ meaning you and Walt?”
The sarcasm in his tone leaves me both baffled and angry. “He is my partner. How many times do I have to point out that fact?”
“So you and Walt were at the farm, together.”
Somehow he makes the detail sound lascivious. “When I found the notes, I called him immediately. Making a judgment one way or the other about something my father did or didn’t do in this situation would be the wrong thing to do. I’m personally involved, my objectivity is compromised.”
“Aren’t you and Walt personally involved?”
“What?” Obviously David really is only interested in fighting. “We’re partners.”
“And friends. Good friends. Isn’t that personal?”
I slam my mug down on the counter. Coffee splatters. “I don’t even know why I try. You want to fight. You don’t want to understand what’s happening with me right now.”
He walks slowly toward me. Any other time I would have considered this sexy, but right now I just want to run away from the frustration and uncertainties. But I can’t. I owe it to him—to our child—to figure this out. What in the world is happening between the two of us?
“Why didn’t you let me know? Text? Call? Something?”
“There are rules about evidence.” He knows this, too. “I can’t always openly share my work with you. What I’ve told you this morning is already skirting the fringes of breaking those rules.”
He nods. Places his own mug next to mine and then stares directly into my eyes. “You could have let me know where you were and that you would be late. Would that be breaking the rules? Either way, you didn’t. What’s happening to us, Liv?”
I search his eyes for a long moment, looking for the glimpses of the man I fell in love with, but all I see is anger and frustration.
“I wish I knew. I can’t seem to do anything right anymore.
And you have a valid point, I should have called or at least sent a text, but I was so upset, so confused, I couldn’t think. ”
“I suppose Walt comforted you?”
“What?” I don’t believe this. “We discussed what my father’s notes could possibly mean. Trust me, it was all very clinical.”
“You said yes when I asked you to marry me, Liv. You made a commitment to me.” His tone hardens with each word. “Walt gets your days. Your nights should belong to me.”
“You’re twisting everything I say! Walt and I are partners—and friends. That’s all. If anything, he’s like a father to me.”
David leans closer, stares into my eyes until I blink. “Why don’t I believe you? It feels like you’re keeping things from me. Like I can’t trust anything you say anymore.”
The words echo in my brain as familiar as if I’d said them myself.
I drown out the voices that seem to be a replay of the fight we just had.
Have we had this fight before? I can’t remember.
The hours and days are blurring together.
The headaches, the fatigue. I don’t know how much more I can take.
I am so, so tired. So confused. I feel completely out of control.
I summon my resolve and say what needs to be said. “I honestly don’t know what your deal is with Walt. It’s like you’re suddenly jealous of him. The idea is absurd . . . it’s totally outrageous.”
He laughs. “You can’t remember anything about our lives anymore, and I’m the outrageous one?
” He flings an arm outward, toward the wall that separates the kitchen and dining room.
“Your stuff still sits in boxes in the foyer. You haven’t unpacked a damn one of them. Do you even want to be here, Liv?”
A distant throb starts in the back of my skull. I can’t do this.
I slide from between him and the counter. “I have to get to work.”
“There’s the answer!” he shouts at my back. “Walk away.”
I stop, turn to face him. “I’m not walking away, David. You’re pushing me away.”
He smiles, but there is no amusement in the expression, then he bangs a fist into his chest. “I’m pushing you away? From where I’m standing, you’re the one who can’t wait to get away.”
This time I turn my back and I keep walking.
I guess I’ll just have to wait for a better time to tell him he’s going to be a father.
Or maybe I won’t tell him at all.
Doesn’t matter. I’m out of time. I’m meeting Walt, and we’re going to talk to the warden at the prison where Fanning spent the better part of the past fourteen years. I need to know if my father visited him there. More importantly, why.
The street that leads onto the compound of Riverbend Maximum Security Institution could be the driveway to a large estate.
As Walt navigates the long stretch, I survey the landscape.
Trees and lampposts line the way. Freshly cut grass spreads out for as far as the eye can see.
Beyond the meticulously maintained landscape, the Cumberland River encircles the vast property.
But as you round the bend in the drive, you see the wire fence and the institutional boxes that make up the prison.
This is no estate, no spa resort; this is a maximum-security prison that houses several hundred prisoners, including the state’s male death row offenders.