“Get her a good lawyer,” he said.
Gertie? I’d come to the conclusion that Gertie had shot her husband.
“No, we’re not going to question her without an attorney present. You saw what he did to her.”
I found that interesting and insightful. Obviously he meant Gertie, and from watching police shows on TV, I would have thought he’d want to interrogate her as soon as she was able to talk, hoping that she didn’t ask for a lawyer. Instead he was protecting her.
Dylan intrigued me more every day. I was learning that he was a complicated man, which only made me want to peel away his layers, learn what made him tick. He rolled down the windows as we traveled to his place, leaning his face toward the opening as if he needed the fresh air in order to breathe.
Something was eating at him, something more than what had happened tonight. Why I felt that, I wasn’t sure, but I hoped he would open up when we got to his apartment.
The first thing he did when we walked inside was to go straight to the kitchen, where he filled a tumbler with scotch. I dropped my overnight case onto the counter and waited for him to tell me why he was pouring scotch neat straight down his throat.
18
~ Dylan ~
Why hadI brought Jenny home with me? This was a night to down this bottle of scotch until I was too drunk to see Jansen’s wife holding a gun under her chin, her hands trembling so hard I was afraid she’d accidently shoot herself.
Was that how Christine had held my gun, her hands shaking, before pulling the trigger? I’d never know, but now that image was in my head where I feared it would live forever. At least I didn’t have to witness Mrs. Jansen blowing her brains out. I’m not sure I’d ever be right if that had happened.
“Dylan?”
I set down the empty glass, resisting the urge to refill it. What I should do was put Jenny in the car and take her back home. I wasn’t good company tonight, and she didn’t deserve my black mood.
“I need air,” I said, walking past her to the balcony. She followed me out, and as I stood at the railing, my hands gripping the metal, she wrapped her arms around me, resting her head on my back. I sucked in air like a suffocating man, but I didn’t dare close my eyes. When I did, it was Christine’s face I saw transposed over Jansen’s wife’s. As Jenny held me, the warmth from her body slowly seeped into my skin and I could breathe again. Was I a bad man for needing Jenny here with me when I was battling my demons?
For months after Christine had taken her life, I’d had episodes like this, where I couldn’t get air into my lungs. A word that reminded me of her, a picture, a woman with her hair color would steal my breath, and not in a good way. After many sessions with my therapist, the attacks had faded, and I’d hoped they were gone forever. Guess not.
I turned in Jenny’s arms. She was rainbows and sunshine, and I wanted to crawl into her skin and live there. “I should take you home.”
“You invited me to stay with you tonight. You can’t take it back now.” She took my hand, pulling me to the patio chair. “Sit.”
I did. She disappeared into the apartment, coming back with two glasses and the scotch bottle. If she planned to get me drunk, I was onboard. She poured three fingers into both glasses, handing one to me.
“Drink.”
“Yes ma’am.” I liked how she was bossing me around, taking away my making any decisions.
“Don’t pour it down your throat like you did the last one. Sip it.”
I held the glass up in a salute. Obeying her, I only sipped. It surprised me that I was good with her taking over. That wasn’t normally me. I was used to being in control, being the one to lead others. Somehow, though, she knew just what I needed tonight. For that, I owed her some kind of explanation.
“Mrs. Jansen shot and killed her husband tonight after he almost beat her to death.”
“I kind of figured that out.” She reached over, putting her hand on my leg. “Although that’s awful, that’s not what has you so upset.”
She was intuitive, my Jenny Girl. I swallowed the rest of my scotch. Talking about Christine wasn’t easy. The only people I’d told everything, other than my therapist, were my brother and my former captain. But sitting here with Jenny, my owl hooing in the distance and the scotch loosening my tongue, I wanted to tell her.
“Mrs. Jansen still had the gun in her hand that she had shot her husband with. She held the barrel against her throat, threatening to pull the trigger.” And I thought she’d fully meant to, even though I’d begged her to give me the gun, promising her that I would get her help. Finally, desperate to find a reason to stop her, I’d told her about Christine, then I’d told Gertie Jansen that if she made me watch her pull that trigger, I’d see her face every night in my dreams along with my wife’s. When she’d finally held out the gun for me to take, I’d wanted to fall to my knees and weep.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
I turned my hand over, lacing our fingers, and told myself to just spit it out. “My wife did the same thing, only she followed through.” The scotch in my stomach threatened to come back up, and I swallowed hard.
“Oh, Dylan. How awful for you.”
Surprised, I looked at her. “Why do you say awful for me? Shouldn’t you be saying how awful for Christine?”
