Over the Edge (32 page)

Don't do it, Brock, I'll shoot you. I will.

I clutched the gun, my hands smacking up and down. But even as the chair rolled back, back, out of the way, I knew I couldn't do it. I could not shoot my husband. The man I'd once loved.
Still
loved. The father my child so adored. How could I kill him and ever face Lauren again?

My head buzzed. I was going to faint.

The chair stopped rolling. Brock moved toward the desk. Clothes rustled once more as his legs began to bend.

A sob spilled from my lips.

Brock stilled at the sound. Then stooped down. I made out his arms. His shoulders.

No, Brock, please!

My trigger finger would not move.

His face peered under the desk. Did I see a smile?

"Found you, Janessa."

No, no.

He reached for me.

My finger jerked.

A gunshot shattered my ears.

Chapter 47

EVERYTHING BLURRED INTO CHOAS. THE GUN KICKED HARD in my tender hands. My body spasmed, and my head smacked against the back of the desk. I cried out and dropped the weapon. It fell on my lap. I swept it off.

Brock reeled backward from his squat and slumped over on the floor. He didn't move.

I screamed. Screamed again—then couldn't stop. Panic ricocheted through me until I thought I would explode. I could only see Brock's body up to his shoulders. Had I shot him in the head? What had I done, what had I
done?
I had to get out from under the desk, help him. Maybe he was alive. But I could barely move, and he lay right in front of the opening. I'd never be able to crawl over him. Never be able to get to the phone and call for help. How long would I be trapped in this little area with my own shrieks sizzling my ears, and my limbs too weak to move, and this acrid smell, and my husband, the father of my child,
dying?

My throat turned ragged, and still I screamed.

A sudden earsplitting sound jangled my nerves. My shrieks cut off, my hands flying to my ears. Too loud, so loud, what
was
it?

The alarm.

I choked a breath. The police. They'd heard the gunshot.

"Here! Help!" But the constant ringing drowned out my cries. I struggled to scoot forward, my limbs barely working. "In here!"

The alarm stopped. The sudden silence buzzed my head.

I broke into sobs. Tried to drag myself from under the desk, but there lay Brock. My husband, and I'd killed him.

"Jannie?"

From some other plane I heard my name called. "H-here! In the . . ." What room was I in?

Running footsteps sounded in the hall.

"Jannie, where are you?"

"Here." I slumped over, chin to my chest. My head reeled.

The room lit up. Footsteps ran toward the desk. "What the—"

I raised my heavy head to see legs appear near Brock. The policeman bent down to look at my husband. Reached to touch his neck.
"What—?"

The officer dropped to his knees and peered under the desk. In a terrifying hallucination, I saw Brock's face.

"
No!
Get away!"

"It's okay, it's okay." The man jumped up and dragged the body aside. Squatted down and held his hand out to me. "Come on now. It's me. Let's get you out of there."

"No!" I cowered back.

"Jannie, come on. I won't hurt you."

His face swam before me. My husband's face. Talking. Alive. "B-Brock?"

"Yeah. It's me. It's okay now."

"
Brock?"

"Jannie." He reached out and clasped my wrist. "Come on now. I've got you."

The world went black.

Chapter 48

MY EYES BLINKED OPEN TO OVER-BRIGHT LIGHT. I WINCED. For a moment I knew nothing. Saw only the ceiling of our den, felt the sofa cushions beneath my legs. Then memory flooded my brain. A moan escaped my throat.

Brock's pinched face appeared above me. He stooped down and took my hand. His touch was gentle. "Welcome back. You've been out for awhile."

I stared at him. My Lyme brain whirred but kicked up only grit.

He gave me a tight smile. "Everything's okay. The officer who was patrolling outside is here."

Vaguely I registered a man's voice from the other side of the house, the squawk of an answering radio. "But I sh-shot—"

"I know." Brock's face contorted. "I'm so sorry you had to face that alone."

"But . . ."

"Dane worked for me for two years. I had no idea. I still can't . . .I just don't understand how this happened."

Who?

"But it's over, Jannie. He's dead."

"I sh-shot
you.
"

"Me? No."

"But you . . ."

"It was Dane Melford. Remember him?" Brock spoke as if addressing a confused child. "My lab assistant."

My tongue wouldn't work.

"He apparently got in through the window upstairs."

Breaking glass. I remembered that. I licked my lips. "It wasn't you."

"I came in to help you, remember? I was trying to get you out from under the desk."

I could only stare at him.

"Jannie, it's okay now. You're just still in shock."

"I thought . . . You didn't make those phone calls? Infect me with Lyme?"

"Of course not. Don't tell me you really believed that."

Why shouldn't I have?

"Jannie, I'd never do anything like that to you. How could you even think such a thing?"

Because . . . because it made sense at the time.

Hadn't it?

I felt so numb. I couldn't even rejoice that my daughter's father wasn't dead. That I hadn't killed him. "I never thought you'd leave me either."

Guilt flicked across Brock's forehead. A moment passed before he spoke. "I'm so sorry I didn't believe you. I just had no idea. I thought you were making the whole thing up to get back at me. But I should have known. Should have listened."

My throat tightened. For a moment I couldn't speak. "You stopped listening to me a long time ago."

Brock looked away. "I should have believed you were sick." He shifted to his knees. "But the story about the man and the phone calls just sounded so crazy. And I still can't understand how Dane . . ."

Dane Melford. The name was just sinking in. Brock's loyal assistant. Had always been so nice to me.

Sympathy for Brock twinged. Betrayal never felt good. "Why'd he do it?"

Brock rubbed his cheek hard. For the first time I realized how shell-shocked he looked. "I talked to Jud Maxwell on the phone. He's on his way over here. He'd just found a picture of Dane online. Dane had a sick wife who died."

"But he'd never been married."

"I guess he lied about that. Apparently he lied about a lot of things."

I couldn't respond. Too much to take in.

Brock shook his head. "He claimed his wife died from Lyme."

"Claimed."
Same old Brock. My sympathy waned.

I pulled my hand from his. So much this man—my own husband—had done to me. "I thought it was you. I thought I'd shot
you.
"

Brock eyed me, his mouth opening.

"Do you get that, Brock?
Do you?
You say Dane lied. Well, you lied to
me.
Abandoned me for someone else. Refused to believe my . . .pain and fear. Took my d-daughter away from me. When I heard the window b-break, I thought it was you. I got the gun and hid from
you.
"

Horror crept across his face. He rocked back on his heels. "You wanted to kill
me?
"

How thick
was
this man? Could he not see what he'd done to me? What he'd driven me to? "Wanted? No. Never. In fact I couldn't, even when you—he—leaned down by that desk and grabbed for me. Even when I knew I was going to die. But then my finger jerked, and—" Tears bit my eyes. I turned my head away.

No reply from Brock. For once he'd been shocked to silence.

I lay there and cried. Still Brock said nothing.

A horrible thought hit. My head shifted back to Brock, my voice sharp. "Where's Lauren?"

"With Alicia." Defensiveness edged his tone. "Sound asleep."

"You took her to your office after school. Was D-Dane there?"

Brock's eyes widened. "We saw him when we came in. And she sat outside his cubicle doing homework."

"He threatened to give her Lyme, Brock." Panic clutched my throat. "He could have put a tick on her!"

Brock's face paled.

"You have to go check her all over. Right now!"

He pushed to his feet. "I'll call Alicia."

"She won't—"

"Alicia knows what ticks look like, Jannie." His voice had hardened. He thrust a hand in his hair. Stared at the floor. "She'll be okay. Even if he did put a tick on her, it hasn't had time to start transmitting the spirochetes."

"You sure?"

"Yes." He gave me a look. "There's no controversy about
that.
"

We stared at each other, thinking too many thoughts to speak.

I heard the front door open. "Dr. McNeil?"

I knew that terse voice. Jud Maxwell.

"In here." Brock strode around the couch. I looked over the back of the sofa to see Jud appear at the den's threshold. He looked out of breath, shaken.

"Got here fast as I could." Jud gazed past Brock toward me. He hurried into the den, around the furniture. Brock followed. "Mrs. McNeil. You all right?"

No.
My head nodded. "I k-killed him."

Only then did it begin to sink in. I'd killed a man. Someone I'd known and trusted. Fresh tears welled in my eyes.

Jud shook his head. "It's okay, you're safe. That's what matters."

"Will I be . . . arrested?"

He gave me a wan smile. "Don't you worry about that. We'll clear this up."

"I want to say again that I'm sorry I didn't call you back today." Brock faced the detective, remorse in his expression. "I shouldn't have ignored you."

Jud waved the apology away. "That last call to your cell just a little while ago—when I found Melford's picture on the computer, I thought of you immediately. I had to let you know. When I couldn't reach you, I dialed here. But the phone was busy."

Brock nodded. "It was off the hook."

It was?

Vaguely I remembered trying to call Jud. Dropping the receiver when I heard the glass break.

The detective looked back to me. "I'm sorry, Mrs. McNeil. So sorry. I should have discovered this sooner."

"Don't . . . You did what you could."

Our eyes held for a moment.

Jud gestured toward the office with his chin. "I've got to go in there." He swiped his forehead. "We'll have other officers responding. I'm afraid your house is about to be turned into a crime scene. But you stay where you are. For the moment you're fine in here."

"Okay." Brock stepped aside to let the detective pass.

"Be back in to talk to you soon as I can." Jud hurried from the room.

Brock turned away, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and hit a button. I heard a number automatically dial.

Alicia.

How many months had that auto dial been on my husband's phone?

He wandered into the kitchen as he began speaking. I heard the words
wake up Lauren
and
tick,
then could hear no more.

My eyes closed. From deep inside my body started to shake. I needed water. And I felt so weak. Like I would never, ever get off the couch again.

I don't know how many minutes passed before Brock returned, slipping the cell phone back into his pocket. He ventured no closer than his armchair.

My
armchair.

His gaze met mine. So many unspoken words thrummed between us.

He spread his hands. "What you did tonight, Jannie—it's amazing. Really. You stopped a madman."

By the grace of God. Still, my husband's help would have been appreciated.

"At least you can rest now." Brock gave me tight smile. "It's over."

His words struck to the core of me. I looked away, feeling more weary than ever. And so very alone.

"Over, Brock? Far from it. I still have Lyme."

THREE MONTHS LATER

Epilogue

LAUREN AND I WERE AT THE KITCHEN TABLE ON A FRIDAY morning when she saw it. I noticed her glance at the floor, then do a double take. She frowned, her mouth stopping in mid-crunch of her cereal. Then her eyes widened. She dropped the spoon into her bowl, got up and crept toward the counter.

I turned to follow her focus. "What is it?"

A speck of red on the hardwood caught my eye.

Lauren squatted down a safe distance away and pointed. "Look."

The tick.

"Oh." My breath stopped. The nightmare of last May came hurling back.

As if it owned the world, the tick started crawling toward Lauren. She jumped to the safety of her chair and lifted her feet. "Where'd it come from?"

I watched it, too stunned to reply. We'd managed to convince ourselves the tick had found its way outside at some point while the back door was open. But all these months it had been here.
Here.
My skin tingled.

"Get it, Mom!" Lauren's face scrunched up.

I rallied myself. "I will." I tried to keep my voice light, even as my heart skidded. We'd had three months to heal emotionally, yet even now the fear rested just below the surface. Lauren still slept with me every night. And every night we turned on the alarm.

I pushed to my feet, reaching for my cane. "You're going to have to help me. You know I can't lean over."

"I don't wanna touch that thing!"

"You won't have to touch it. Just get a glass for me."

"But I'll have to walk past it."

"Never mind, I'll get the glass." Skirting the tick, I edged over to open the cabinet. After three months of antibiotics I moved better these days. But I was far from well. And some days—when the herxes hit—I could barely make it around the house.

I pulled down a tall glass and held it out to Lauren. The tick was now a few feet from her chair. "Set this down in front of it so I can push it inside."

She made a face but did as she was told. I held on to the table and used my cane to nudge the tick over the edge of the glass. "There. Now turn it up."