Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(90)

Ben is standing in the driveway, his arms wrapped tightly around Wilma; her face buried in his chest, her tiny body shaking.

Sirens sound in the distance.

I pick up speed until I’m running. I’m sure my feet are stomping against the gravel driveway, but all I hear is the pounding of my blood in my ears as I close the distance, until I’m skidding to a halt to find Ben’s eyes squeezed tight, his jaw visibly taut as his mother sobs uncontrollably.

There’s really only one thing—or one person—this can be about.

And when I turn to see the barn doors gaping open, and the body slumped over in the Adirondack chair, the arm dangling lifelessly to the side, that bottle of whiskey lying on the ground next to a small white bottle, it’s not hard to put all the pieces together.

A processional of lights and sirens invades the serenity of the family grove as a line of emergency vehicles race up the picturesque driveway. When the paramedics hop out, arms loaded with big black bags, and neither Ben nor Wilma makes a move to address them, I take charge. “He’s in there,” I say, pointing. They don’t need any more instruction than that, but I run over with them anyway.

And wish that I hadn’t.

There’s no doubt in anyone’s eyes that Joshua Morris is beyond saving, his skin an unappealing shade of gray that I’ve never seen on a human being, the very shape of his face transformed, the muscles lax. By the yellow-tinged stain on his shirt, he had vomited at some point.

The paramedics—a man and woman in their early thirties who have probably seen this more than once—begin with standard protocol, checking his pulse and his pupils, but it’s not long before the male glances over his shoulder at the police officer and gives a very clear, single shake of his head.

The female paramedic begins reciting a bunch of personal and medical questions that I can’t answer. I admit as much to her and then retreat to Ben, my steps shaky.

“She found this next to him this morning. He must have come back out here, not long after we went to bed last night,” he explains in a low, somber voice to a young police officer, handing him a sheet of paper and an envelope.

“Were there any signs to suggest that Joshua Morris was thinking of taking his own life?” the officer asks.

Ben shrugs, his eyes wide with shock as he stares at the ground, Wilma still in his arms. “He’s been doing it slowly for years with the booze. You know that, Roger.” The cop doesn’t look that much older than Ben. Maybe they went to school together.

Wilma finally speaks up, her voice ragged. “Joshua is allergic to aspirin. Quite severely, too. And that was a new bottle that I bought for myself.” She sniffs, her voice dipping low as she admits, “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

They talk a bit more, the officer asking various questions, a few of them—about their marriage, their finances, potential infidelities, and such—irritating Ben enough that he instructs Wilma in a very lawyerly manner not to answer.

The officer finally turns to me. “Can I have your name, please, miss?”

“That’s Ben’s girlfriend,” Wilma announces quickly, reaching back with her arm to beckon me forward. I comply and find myself tucked under one of Ben’s arms in seconds. We steal a glance at each other over her introduction, but neither of us corrects her. It doesn’t really matter right now. Still, I don’t miss the tensing in Ben’s jaw.

“I’m so sorry you had to see this, Reese,” Wilma offers as a fresh set of tears fills her eyes. I can offer nothing more than a sad smile as Ben tightens his grip around us, squeezing us to him.

I guess the coroner’s office isn’t busy on a Sunday morning in the heart of Florida’s richest orange groves because an old, wiry man shows up less than an hour later to make the official declaration: Joshua Morris Senior is dead.

And not long after that, still standing in the exact same spot on the driveway, the three of us quietly watch the taillights disappear as the last of the vehicles drive away, his body in one of them.

Wilma releases a heavy sigh, a resigned mask taking over her face. “Well, I suppose I should go call your brothers and Elsie and start making arrangements.” Her voice has taken on an almost lifeless murmur.

“I’ll be there in a minute to help, Mama,” Ben offers.

“Okay. I’m so glad you were here.” Patting Ben’s shoulder as she passes him, she moves slowly toward the house, her head hung, while Ben wanders over to stand in front of the barn, his arms folded across his chest, his back rigid. And he says nothing.

He simply stares at the empty chair and the bottle lying beside it, until I can’t help myself. Closing the distance, I set a tentative hand against his arm and lean into his side. His face is stern.

We stand like that for what feels like an eternity. I want to ask him how he’s feeling but I won’t. Knowing what I know about their relationship, I can’t even guess how Ben might feel right now. Anger? Relief? Happiness? Is there still room for sadness somewhere in there? I finally settle on, “I’m glad she wasn’t alone.”

His head bobs slowly. “Yeah.” His eyes roll all over the barn. “I want to burn this entire f*cking building down. Pour gas all over it and light it up.” After a pause, a feeble attempt at a smirk touches his lips. “What do you know about arson?”

I jab a finger into his ribs softly. “I told you, I’m not a criminal. I’m just an occasional idiot who always get caught.”