Blood Sugar(50)

Roman glanced at it, like he had for the first three. His face continued to give nothing away. My face, however, was starting to show a range of emotions from exhausted to irate to confused. Yes, Evelyn W. was dead. But why did the detective think that had anything to do with me? I was beginning to regret the decision to come in here and chat. And was starting to spin out. One second feeling confident, the next feeling disoriented, the next wanting to furiously defend myself, which would only make me seem more guilty. And I couldn’t begin to imagine what Roman must be thinking. Four dead people.

It was so odd to me that Detective Jackson revealed the photos in this order. Building up to Jason, the most recent death and clearly the most personal death, and then crescendoing to Evelyn W. As much as I wanted to be a cool customer, I was now rattled. And I knew it was not some mistake or random decision of the detective’s; it was a tactic. If this was his way of throwing me off balance, he had fully succeeded. I was agitated and uneasy. I was definitely not pleased to see Evelyn W.’s odious face, but it was him ending the twisted, warped game show on someone so seemingly inconsequential that worried me most.

It was true that I was volunteering at juvie when Dr. Don called me to tell me that, ding dong, the Witch was dead. However, it was not true that this was the first time I learned she was dead. I had already known that fact for a solid hour before he called.

After the lamp debacle, the Witch came back for therapy, since she had no shame and she needed to finish her court-ordered hours. Dr. Don had no choice but to finish up her sessions. He couldn’t tell me about them, but I was certain she was still arriving as usual, screaming at someone on her cell phone, and storming out as usual, screaming at someone else on her cell phone. I knew her usual therapy schedule and how many mandated hours she had left. So on the day of her last session, I decided to drive over, park in the lot across the street, briefly linger, and watch the Witch’s skeletal frame march out of Dr. Don’s building. I saw her staring at her phone and heard her mumbling “Stupid bitch” to someone in her orbit who had to endure her abuse. I followed her to the crosswalk. At any moment she could have lifted her face from her phone screen and noticed that I was standing near her, but she didn’t. It was pouring rain, so fewer people were out. But a smattering of folks huddled under umbrellas waiting for the light to change. The Witch flipped up the hood of her raincoat to keep her already limp hair dry.

A large grocery store chain delivery truck clanged toward us. I had no desire to push her in front of the eighteen-wheeler. That would have been murder. With witnesses everywhere. I wanted something more subtle. I wanted her own behavior to be her demise. If my plan worked, wonderful. If it didn’t, I would let it go, hoping to never see the Witch again. But I had to at least try to fully remove her rotten soul from this planet. I had to try and give karma a push in the right direction.

The timing had to be just right. A few seconds before the truck was going to drive past us, I stood shoulder to shoulder with the Witch. I then stepped off the curb, into the street. She sensed the movement forward and stepped off the curb as well, never once taking her eyes off her cell phone. I quickly stepped back, onto the safety of the curb. It wasn’t until she heard a deafening honk and screeching of overtaxed brakes that she looked up. Horror on her face as she saw she was standing in the middle of the street, the truck’s shiny wet metal grille just inches from her witchy nose. Evelyn W. was truly present for maybe the first time in her life. Present in the moment right before she got hit, broken, smushed, dragged, and killed. I looked away. I didn’t need to see the final carnage. I walked back to my parked car, contented, feeling as though I had done a good deed, and went to my internship bettering the lives of juvenile delinquents.

The truck driver was cleared of all wrongdoing. Witnesses stated that the woman just stepped right into oncoming traffic, not paying attention at all. There was no way the driver could have stopped in time. Especially with the streets being slick from the rain.

“Do you know this woman?” Detective Jackson asked.

To deny I did would have been asinine. “Yes. And to say anything further would break doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Detective Jackson accepted this response way too easily. He moved his gaze away from Evelyn W.’s photo and placed his massive hand again on Jason’s photo. Thump, thump. Tap, tap. I realized then that like a game show, the wheel spun with possibilities, but there was really only one place for it to land and actually matter. The Witch was merely a distraction. The tactic of ending on her was to make me dizzy, then loop back to the real prize, which was Jason.

The detective said, “I’ve been married over twenty years. Not to the same woman, but it all adds up. So I know it can be a frustrating institution. Day in and day out.” He looked right at me, eyeballs to eyeballs. I often do this when I’m in a session. To connect and to filter out the white lies and self-sabotage and self-aggrandizing. So I looked right back, sure not to glance away or flutter my lashes too much.

He continued, “I’m sure you had a nice wedding. They always feel so optimistic.”

“Yes, we did.”

“Why was your mother-in-law not invited?”

“Jason did not want her there.”

“Fair enough. She was also not welcome at his funeral, is that right?”

I couldn’t piece together why any of this was of consequence. And then I remembered his tactics. These were all fake questions. More meaningless, prizeless stops on the wheel. I looked at the detective calmly. Hiding the fury behind my auburn eyes.