Aftermath (2 page)

Inside, poison lurked, the sweetness gone. Mush remained. Left the unsuspecting wondering why they’d even bothered. Or how they’d ever been fooled. The admonition was usually too late. An afterthought as eyes closed for the last time.

In her world, the ultimate last laugh.

A powerful surge of energy coursing through her veins. Vindication she couldn’t manufacture with apologies. Numbness she couldn’t achieve with drug or drink. The only time the past wasn’t on constant repeat, a photo-slide of sick moments that didn’t give rest for the weary.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Mrs. Markel?” Her lawyer, in a pressed Armani suit, sat in front of her. He shoved a sheet of paper in her direction, but didn’t move his hand within her immediate reach. “This is very serious. We have fourteen days to work on a stay.”

A tickle of laughter edged up her esophagus before she squelched it. There was no miraculous stay on her death. No we. Or hope. Only a lawyer looking to make money. And he couldn’t do that with her dead. Had probably expected her death row visit to last much longer, so he could milk her for every penny.

The gleam of it twinkled in his eyes. She understood it. Had used the logic to survive. To exact retribution.

While no one would die at his hands, per se, he was using her for personal gain. She was a means he didn’t want to end. And she couldn’t say she blamed him.

From this angle, extortion was legal.

At the end of the day, he probably didn’t feel all that bad. Maybe went home to his wife and two perfect kids, in a cute brownstone, with a Labrador and patted himself on the back.

Job well done.

Suggest an appeal here. There. A visit to discuss issues. Time was money. And, really, he was doing her a favor. Society a favor.

“Bethany.” His voice was businesslike, but a hint of revulsion crept beneath the syllables.

What good was a trust fund, anyway? When she was gone it would go to a thirteen-year-old who probably had everything she ever wanted in life already. An anonymous donation she’d set up through the lawyer in front of her, only last month.

“Senator Nettles could get the ear of someone in Washington, if you asked. He’s done a lot of good for North Carolina. People trust him.” Armani Lawyer pulled the edge of one sleeve back, revealing a silver watch.

Beth hadn’t bothered to commit his name to memory. Hadn’t wanted to taste it on her tongue, even though he’d been with her since her trial days.

He nudged the document closer to her. “We can arrange a meeting with him, if you’d like.”

Not happening.

The Correctional Officers, stationed in each corner of the room, watched as she touched the heavy, white paper. The Attorney General’s seal sat in one corner, a stamp of finality.

The lawyer watched her, too. Silent. Maybe he was waiting for an outburst. Or tears. Something to let him know a normal human still lurked beneath her thin body and skin. Under dark hair that had grown much longer than she liked. Nails without a manicure. An impersonal orange jumper.

Like everyone else, he didn’t understand that she was much better here. Not destined to turn into the daughter her mother had always wanted. Live out a complete lie. And die a slow death while encased in foreign flesh and bone.

The Chaplin of the Central Prison and North Carolina Correction Institution for Women passed by the window looking out from the dayroom, in which, they sat. A permanent blank expression rested on Dexter Knight’s face. Deep blue eyes—almost violet in color—faced forward. Light brown hair was cut military style, perpetuating the rumor that he’d served in the armed forces at some point.

The Marines, whispers among the cells surrounding hers bet. They might be right. He was enough of serious brooding to have commanded his troops with calm efficiency. And still...

The quiet ways about him suggested a deep sadness and peace. The latter was typical of his profession. The former was an intricate puzzle that might keep her busy.

If she cared enough.

He was different. Never carried the book men of his faith liked to wield. Hadn’t thrown Holy water on her and asked the devil to leave.

No, he sat, in silence for fifteen minutes, four days a week. Didn’t do that with everybody, but followed each inmate’s lead. Sometimes those fifteen minutes made her want to scream. And sometimes she thought about opening her mouth.

What good would it do?

It wasn’t as if she had an explanation. Defense was futile. A lesson she’d learned a long time ago. And never veered from.

There was only one thing she had to do before she died. It didn’t include spilling her thoughts to a Chaplin who believed she would rot in hell, even if she fell on her face and begged for forgiveness until she could no longer speak.

Beth knew where those encounters led. Didn’t relish the idea of a swift kick to the teeth.

“If the execution is set for May fifteenth, when do I move to death watch at Central Prison?”

CHAPTER TWO

MAYBE SHE SHOULD try it on one last time.

Amanda Nettles drummed her fingers on the edge of the laptop, in front of her. Shifted in her stool, at the island inside her apartment.

The seller terms, on eBay, stared at her. If she accepted them, that would be it. In fourteen days, someone would buy it and she’d give it a final farewell at the UPS store.

Never have to see the item again. Transaction complete. Past erased.

The thought made a heavy weight settle on her shoulders. What was she supposed to do? Encase it in glass and say a prayer to it every morning?

She rested her elbow on the counter and pressed the tips of her fingers to one side of her forehead. The idea might have made her smile. If she weren’t considering something similar. Minus the reverence.

The clock in the lower right hand corner of her laptop ticked one minute closer to ten a.m. Her best friend, McKenna, would be here soon. And if she saw the dress...

Her and her husband, Jordan, would fly into intervention mode. Try to band-aid a problem that was none of their business. And they wouldn’t stop trying until they patched every single wound.

Amanda blew a stray strand of hair from her eyes.

Fine, she could do this. It was an article of clothing. A piece of fabric. The most beautiful she’d ever worn. Would ever wear.

It had to go.

She pushed away from the counter. After a year-and-a-half in the rented space, she’d finally furnished it with more than perfunctory furniture. Waiting to do so had made sense, until several months ago. And even then, she’d waited, like an idiot, because Amanda Nettles wasn’t a quitter. She didn’t give up when things got tough.

Acquiring new living and dining room furniture didn’t mean she’d written off a certain FBI agent, right? So, she’d chopped off her long, brown hair right afterward.

No big deal.

Children with cancer needed it more than she did. And she’d save money on shampoo. Her shower drain would clog less. In the morning, she could sleep an extra five minutes.

All positives.

Except, she missed not being able to put it in a ponytail and out of her face. Almost as much as she missed the aforementioned agent. His genuine smiles, beautiful eyes and deep affinity for protecting his family.

Verbalizing those thoughts brought nothing but heartache.

You could call him.

Nope. That was an idea fraught with landmines.

Amanda strode toward her bedroom, opened the door and flicked on the lights. The problem hung in the corner of the room. Like a moth to light, she went toward the white fabric, covered in blue plastic. Lifted the only barrier keeping the garment from yellowing with time.

Too bad there hadn’t been a protectant for the relationship this garment was supposed to signify. Not that it mattered. Even with every precaution, this dress would someday go the way of all things. It would discolor despite her best efforts. Start wearing away like eroding beachfront property.

Give out like an old, weathered body.

And, if she’d listened to her brain, instead of the boiling pot of regret overflowing in her heart, the thing would still be buried in the back of her closet. Not out in the open, where anyone could witness the beginning meltdown of her life.

Soft fabric met her fingertips. The layers of cotton and silk came together in a way that created the illusion of a million white flower petals floating to the ground. When worn, it hung off one shoulder, suspended by the same type of design.

A flash of Baker Jackson Robinson in his impressive, black tuxedo played in her mind. All their family—his much smaller than hers—in a church. She walked up the aisle, her hand in the crook of her dad’s elbow. In the sea of all those people, fancy dresses and hairdos, Amanda only saw one person.

Had only ever seen him, even before she’d realized the truth.

There was a handsome smile on his face. Jet-black hair was styled beneath layers of gel. The tuxedo highlighted the Caribbean blue, mixed with flecks of green, in his eyes. They were alight with love, because today they pledged themselves to one another. Continued something that had started the first time they’d ever met.

She brushed a speck of dark lint from the surface of the fabric. The picture of her dress on eBay didn’t do it justice. For the price, it wouldn’t matter. Somewhere out there, a woman deeply in love was searching for it. Hoping and praying for the opportunity to have her dreams come true.

Amanda clutched the material.

This shouldn’t be a big deal. People sold things all the time. The beautiful garment deserved to be worn longer than the time it took to walk down the aisle. Be filled with memories of a first dance, celebratory cake and the moment when two people became one, for better or worse.

She let the plastic fall to the floor.

Yup, she needed to get rid of it. It couldn’t hang in her bedroom, the closet or anywhere else forever. If she was moving on, it had to go. If she couldn’t marry Robinson, she wasn’t getting married. And she could live with that. Really.

Liar. Prove it. Sell the ring, too.

No. The word tore through her heart like an atomic missile. She was halfway across the room and yanking the drawer to her nightstand open before she could stop herself. A picture of herself and Robinson sat, face down, on top of the white cardboard container, begging her to dig inside.

She placed the frame on the bed. Knew the handsome face in it too well. Every crease of his smile. The slight dimple that appeared when he gave a smirk. The way his eyes practically glowed with every feeling he had. All aimed right at her.

They were holding each other, gazes locked. A private embrace caught on camera. Perfect in its unsuspecting pose. The moment after she’d agreed to become his wife.

What would a look at the ring hurt?

With any luck, it had tarnished over time and she’d be able to convince herself he, and the ring he’d given her, were all wrong.

Shaking fingers opened the container. She dropped to her knees and tore the black velvet box from inside. It held a half-carat solitaire, wrapped in white gold. Tiny diamonds surrounded it, spread out on metal designed like flower petals. They’d had the complimenting wrap, with more diamonds, soldered to the band a week before the wedding.

Had joked it was probably bad luck to do it beforehand. But Robinson didn’t believe in that type of thing. Neither did she. For them, this was it.

In her fingers, the ring sparkled with each touch of light. A symbol of love. Future. And so far from tarnished.

“Marry me, A.J.” The man asking was not on one knee, but both, his hands resting on her hips. Those eyes captured hers, every emotion clear in their depths. “Please. I want to do this right. Say you’ll be my wife.”

A huge smile moved across her mouth. Her heart mirrored the weight. “Really, Robbie?”

A swallow. “Really. I want all of you. Even that sassy counterpart.”

“You bringing The Jerk?”

“Is that a yes?”

Duh. The ball of emotion in her throat made it difficult to speak. She’d never imagined falling this deeply for anyone. Losing herself so completely to another person. Love, she’d expected. Not this soul-deep need to see him happy—no matter the cost. So, she nodded.

He stood. “You haven’t seen the ring.”

“For you, I’d wear a rusted piece of metal.” She pulled his head toward hers, their lips meeting in need.

That ring was on her finger, now. Six months without it. Without him. Something wet hit her leg and soaked through her jeans. Amanda wiped her cheek. Rubbed the wetness between her thumb and pointer finger.

Crap. The tears should be gone. She should be past the crushing loss. Beyond overwhelming grief—the kind she imagined rivaled that of losing a loved one to death.

Except no one had died.

A hot lick of shame crawled up her spine. She’d never been the type to wallow in could’ve beens. Always been more fixated on moving forward. Seeing a way through any mess.