1
Lily
Ipoke my toe into the back of my husband’s motionless body where he lies on the kitchen floor, knowing that if he’s still alive, he’ll hate it and react accordingly.
Holding my breath, I wait.
Nothing.
He’s lying on his side, facing away from me, with his arm out and his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. Kneeling carefully next to him, my hand goes to my bruised ribs to support them through the movement, as if that will prevent the excruciating pain from radiating through my body. My tongue darts and swipes across my split lip. I’m grateful when I don’t taste any blood, indicating I haven’t reopened the fresh wound.
With a trembling hand, I press my fingers on my husband’s cool skin. What I already suspected is confirmed when I can’t find a pulse.
The small pool of blood underneath his head already told me everything I needed to know. I needed to be absolutely sure he was gone.
And he is.
Kneeling there, staring down at him, I try to muster any ounce of sadness. There are a lot of emotions swirling inside me. Some are to be expected when your husband is murdered, like fear. But others are ones that I think I’ll keep to myself, like relief. Happiness.
Swallowing everything but obligation, I stand with a small whimper of pain. I take the few steps to the counter where I left my phone. Picking it up, I unlock the screen and stare at it for a moment.
I glance over, pressing my lips together as the last forty-eight hours replay in my head. Blake screaming at me. Blake hitting me, then kicking me when I fell. Blake pushing me down one flight of stairs and trying to push me down the next flight as I lay sprawled on the landing with the wind knocked out of me. Me somehow scrambling away from him and locking myself in the guest bedroom.
Blake half-heartedly apologizing the next day, only for it to happen again.
That wasn’t the first time he hit me, and it wasn’t even the worst. It doesn’t happen all the time, though once is one time too many. But he’s usually much more strategic about where he hits me, since he knows I can’t walk into work looking the way I do now.
Our marriage wasn’t one of love and adoration. Blake was dismissive or mean when he wasn’t physically abusive. I tried to avoid doing or saying anything that would make him angry because it was just easier to play meek and obedient at home. We coexisted as best we could. Neither of us really cared about what the other was doing until Blakedecided that he did care and punished me for whatever indiscretion he found.
I blow out a breath and dial three numbers, then place the phone to my ear.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“I, uh, think my husband is dead.”
The flurryof activity around me is hypnotic in a way. I’m curled up on the couch with a throw blanket pulled over my legs. Two detectives stand in the living room, staring down at me. Every sideways glance at each other, every question asked repeatedly, waiting to catch me changing my story, tells me they don’t believe a word I’ve said.
The older detective clears his throat for the hundredth time and asks, “Can you walk us through finding him again? And help us understand how you didn’t find him until this morning?”
I rub my forehead. “I told you this already. I woke up this morning after sleeping in the guest room. I came downstairs to get coffee, and that’s when I found him.”
“And you were sleeping in the guest room because…”
With an exasperated gesture to my bruised and busted face, I snap, “I’ll give you one guess as to why I didn’t want to sleep in the bed with my husband.”
The younger detective speaks up after pointing toward my injuries. “That must have pissed you off.”
I uncurl my legs and plant my feet on the ground, straightening my spine. “Detective, is this how you investigate all murders? By asking stupid questions? Of course, it made me angry. As it would anyone else.”
They exchange another glance. The older one opens hismouth to say something else when a different voice interrupts him. Another detective hovering off to the side steps into the living room to join us and says, “Fellas, the coroner is about finished. He wants to talk to you before he leaves. I’ll stay in here with Mrs. Bennett.”
The pair leaves the new detective and me alone. He crosses his arms and twists his body so he can watch them walk to the kitchen. Once they’re out of sight, he looks back in my direction. He walks over and sits on the other side of the L-shaped couch. Hands clasped, he rests his elbows on his thighs.
This man is better looking than the other two, maybe close to my age, or a little older. He’s tall and muscular, with dark hair and dark eyes. But beyond his looks, there’s an aura about him that puts me more at ease than when the other men were in the room.
“Are your ribs broken?”
His question catches me off guard, and my jaw drops in surprise. I close my mouth as sadness clogs my throat. The concern in his voice, but it’s so unexpected that it makes my face tingle with emotion. I blow out a breath to push it away before replying, “I don’t think so. I think they’re just bruised.”
