I was so mad at him. I think that was our first huge fight as a couple. It was also the first time he got physical with me. Even though it started with just a shove, things certainly progressed to more severe physical abuse over the years.
Eventually, I relented. I didn’t have anything keeping me in Seattle besides memories. My mom had passed away a few years prior, and I only had a few casual friends from college, so we packed up and moved.
It was leading up to and during that move that I realized I may have made a mistake marrying him. But I was young and alone when we met. He was older, successful, and convincing enough that I thought he was the solution to all my problems.
When we drove up to the house, all I could think was that at least the land was beautiful. It’s tucked into the area of southwest Nashville, which is almost the suburbs but still close enough to the city that it doesn’t feel isolated. Thereare lots of mature trees that provide ample shade and further enhance the tranquility.
Then I saw the house and thought how gaudy it looked. But Blake loved it, so I tolerated it. I did my best to put my own little touches on each room, making everything feel like part of my style. Some changes Blake ended up hating, which he would change behind my back, and others he either liked or decided, for whatever reason, he didn’t care enough about to change.
At least Blake died in a place he loved and I hated in equal amounts. I think Blake would recognize the symbolism of this being the place he took his last breath.
I close my eyes as we turn onto the main road, feeling overwhelming exhaustion suddenly wash over me. I don’t open them until we come to a stop and the engine is turned off. I blink my eyes a few times, and the door is opened.
“Let’s go, Mrs. Bennett.”
When I climb out, the grip on my arm returns, as if I would make a run for it in my overpriced flip-flop sandals. As the three of us walk inside, curious gazes follow us across the open office area to an interrogation room.
One of the men gestures to the chair. “I know this isn’t as comfy as your house, but hopefully you won’t mind too much.”
I drop into the chair he indicates. “It’s fine. I just want to get this over with.”
The older one smiles as he takes a seat across from me. “Of course. Well, we won’t waste any more of your time if you don’t waste ours.”
I press my lips together and give him a curt nod. Wiping my clammy palms down my thighs, I try to regulate my breathing.
It’s once again the younger cop’s turn. He leans acrossthe table, I’m assuming to look more intimidating, when he asks, “Why don’t you just tell us where the murder weapon is, and this can all be over.”
I swallow hard and wet my parched lips. “I’m not answering any more questions without an attorney present.”
2
Chris
I’m in a bad mood today.
When am I not in a bad mood these days?
I shove a frustrated hand through my hair as I stomp across the small parking lot of my office. Hopefully, Mandi is already here and has started the coffee. I only had one cup between going to the gym and leaving to come in. And I already know I’m going to need about seven more.
But that’s what you get when you average about three to four hours of sleep a night.
No wonder I’m always in a bad mood. I’m always fucking tired.
Shaking off that realization, because I simply don’t have the capacity to analyze or fix my issues, I continue my trudge to the door of my office. I prepare myself mentally for what I already know will be a draining day. And not draining in the way that I have so much work to do, thatwould be riveting and interesting and require a lot of brainpower.
No.
It’s draining because it’s boring as fuck.
But this is the life I chose four years ago when I left defense work and pivoted to do contract law. Most attorneys don’t switch the focus of what they practice because learning laws that they haven’t looked at since law school is a pain in the ass, and they would be correct, but it wasn’t optional for me.
I may have been the best defense attorney in the entire city—hell, really the state—but sometimes things happen, and it just isn’t feasible to continue the path that you’re on. Or you risk spiraling so far down that you lose your mind and yourself in the process.
So here I am, reviewing mind-numbing contracts and drinking way too much coffee during the day, and bourbon at night.
This isn’t the life I thought I would have at forty-four, but here we are.
With a sigh, I pull open the door to my office. I’m greeted by the smell of expensive coffee and the scowling face of my paralegal, who also acts as my receptionist, because there isn’t as much money in contract work as there is in defense work. I still make a good living, being the best and all, but the practice and client load are much smaller than they used to be, so I had to downsize my firm. We also have to work on Saturdays on occasion, like today. This week was particularly bad, and we had to push a few clients to come on today. Mandi never complains, and I pay her well enough for the work she puts in, so she tolerates the additional duties and my grumpy ass.
