Blood Sugar(59)

Hannah looked at me, like she was seeing me clearly for the first time. Her eyes narrowed. She curtly said, “No loitering in the shop, please.” I knew that meant I was to leave and never come back. But I felt compelled to show her an act of continuing support. I pulled a black pencil skirt from her own clothing line off a rack, and bought it without trying it on. At this point in my life, fit no longer mattered.





CHAPTER 39


    AMMONIA



Jason dying was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Then being suspected of killing him added insult to unimaginable injury. It was like Gertrude started a conga line of people who suspected me of murder, and the line kept getting longer. First the well-respected Detective Jackson. Then the faceless judge who issued him those warrants to search my house and cell phone records. Then Hannah Vale. And I knew next in line would be some go-getter prosecutor, excited to sink his teeth into this marital murder and wage a war against me. His job being to get even more people up and dancing, and prove without a reasonable doubt that I was guilty of first-degree murder.

I was sure the detective was using his folder-of-photos game show trick on everyone in the justice system, to rile them up, and showcase that I was some sort of very lazy serial killer. Four deaths in thirty years? Please. If I were a serial killer, I would be way more productive than that. But surprisingly, my being present when Duncan and Richard and Evelyn W. died was not even the most damning thing against me. It was the seemingly meaningless minutiae of my life that would add up to total that I murdered my husband. While I forced myself out of bed every morning and went to work to help other people live their best lives, the police were weaving a web of motives and circumstantial evidence to conclude that I was a cold-blooded killer.

Although all this was technically confidential, Roman had ways of hearing courthouse whispers. He explained to me that what would happen next was the assistant district attorney who took on the case would be discussing my crime in front of a grand jury. This was not a trial to prove I was guilty, but a song and dance to get an indictment, so then Detective Jackson could officially arrest me. And then, a trial. And then life in a maximum security prison. When I was alone, and quiet, and really thought about that possible outcome, I couldn’t help but weep into Mr. Cat’s fur. Apologizing to him over and over for inevitably having to abandon him.

Roman was telling me about the assistant district attorney and the grand jury while in my kitchen. I sipped a second cup of morning coffee and watched him doing push-ups on the cool Mediterranean-tiled floor as he laid out my future. I was used to him exercising while he spoke. It was a sign he was both revved up and nervous. It also showed how strong his core was, that he could have full legal conversations, breathing deeply, while exerting every muscle in his body. He warned me that the grand jury was the first in what would be a long line of steps.

I was a little miffed. Especially knowing what an amazing lawyer he was. And said, “But maybe they won’t indict me? And this will be over?”

He hopped up, his face flush with rushing blood, and walked over to me. He wanted to make sure what he said next wasn’t getting lost in his impeccable pecs.

“A grand jury almost always indicts. It’s completely one-sided. The prosecutor calls witnesses, anyone he chooses, and if they refuse, they’re in contempt. Then he unfolds his case, manipulating the facts however he wants. And he has a very low burden of proof. There is no defense attorney there to protect you, and no judge to keep the proceedings in order.”

“Wait. You mean you won’t be there?”

“I can’t be there.”

I dropped my coffee. The cup clipped the island and chipped. Coffee spilled onto the floor. But I couldn’t worry about it just then. I felt faint. Like my life raft had deflated. And I was sinking into the abyss. Deeper and darker. Blotches of black covered my sight until there was nothing but night sky. Roman caught my shoulders before I fell off the island stool. He helped me flop my head in between my knees.

Jesula came in through the front door. She had her own key. And today was one of her cleaning days. There was much less to do now, without Jason, but of course I still wanted to employ her twice a week. She saw Roman, shirtless, a sheen of sweat on his back, standing in the kitchen. And she saw me barely on a stool with my head flopped down. I was unconscious then, but I later worried she had thought she walked in on something untoward, and had lost respect for me.

Roman turned to her and explained, “She just fainted.” Jesula rushed over. She knelt under the sink and grabbed some cleaning products. Opened one and sprayed it on the floor beneath me, letting the strong ammonia smell waft up. I could feel my color coming back, my clammy skin return to its normal texture. The black blotches receding. I lifted my head and saw her face. I weakly smiled. “Thank you.” She nodded and looked at the spilled coffee. She said, “I’ll take care of it. Go lie down.”

And without a word Roman gallantly and effortlessly scooped me off the stool and up into his arms. To an onlooker it would have seemed romantic. The start of a fantasy. A steamy sex scene so perfect it only happens to other people. A gesture as elegant as a handsome gentleman seamlessly leaning over at the perfect moment and lighting a cigarette for a beautiful girl at a bar in the 1940s. But that cigarette later causes cancer. And I didn’t feel sexy in Roman’s arms. I felt like a rag doll. And then, because of the way he was carrying me, I felt like a bride.