Where the Blame Lies(55)

Jimmy didn’t say anything. Alicia Merrick looked very small suddenly, and it wasn’t the pillows engulfing her. She seemed to be shrinking emotionally. Was this woman capable of hiring someone to torture and kill women her husband had betrayed her with? Not just hire one killer, but two, after the first one blew his brains out? Jimmy would bank on no, unless she was a damn fine actress. And moreover, the crimes against Josie, Aria, and Miriam were personal, not the work of some hired hitman. Still, something was not right here. They just didn’t have enough information to figure out what it was.

Jimmy took a card from his pocket and leaned forward, handing it to Alicia Merrick. “If you think of anything else that might help this case, please don’t hesitate to call. We’ll be in touch if we have more questions.” He’d have a tail put on Ms. Merrick too, at least for a couple of days. It would be interesting to see what she’d do after digesting the news he’d just delivered.

He stood, and she extracted herself from the nest of throw pillows, standing as well. “I will. Let me show you out, Detective.”

As Jimmy walked to the front door, he noticed a large photograph of two pretty blonde girls hanging on the wall that he hadn’t noticed on the way in, because he’d been looking toward the living room where Ms. Merrick had led him. He slowed, stopping in front of the picture. “Your daughters?” he asked.

Ms. Merrick came up beside him, offering the first genuine-looking smile she’d given since he’d introduced himself to her. “Yes. Ophelia and Esme.” She glanced at Jimmy. “I guess you know their father teaches English literature,” she said, obviously in explanation of their literary names. She looked back to the picture. Both girls heavily resembled their father. “They took the divorce very hard.”

“I’m sorry,” Jimmy said sincerely, “for all that your family has gone through recently.”

She looked at him, something Jimmy didn’t know what to call snagging in her expression briefly before she gave a slight smile. “I’m not.” She looked back at the picture of her daughters again. “I should have put myself and my girls first far sooner. In every other case, I always did. I made excuses for Vaughn, but I shouldn’t have because it’s true what they say, Detective,” she murmured, almost as though to herself. She looked at him, something burning in her eyes despite her neutral expression. “Once a cheater, always a cheater.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


Before



Josie was sick. She knew she was and yet was unsure what was wrong with her. An infection maybe? Please let it be slight. Please, she prayed. She’d heard somewhere—she had no earthly idea where—that infection was one of the leading causes of death among new mothers until the invention of antibiotics. She couldn’t die here now. She couldn’t die and leave Caleb alone.

Her baby lay next to her on the dirty mattress, the quilt wrapped around them. She’d used the last of the baby wipes Marshall had left behind so many months ago, and a few fast food napkins to clean herself and Caleb as much as possible after the birth. She’d had to save some of the napkins though to lay under Caleb, as she had no diapers.

Josie was hot, too hot, and so incredibly thirsty. She needed more water than the thin trickle that rolled down the wall now and again. She needed far more than she’d needed during her pregnancy. Breastfeeding was making her desperate with thirst. She knew she needed the water to make enough milk.

With each tug of Caleb’s hungry mouth, her uterus contracted painfully, causing a small gush of blood. Then again, her definition of pain had taken on new meaning since she’d endured an unmedicated birth while shackled to a wall.

She was so incredibly weary, thirsty, uncomfortable, terrified, and . . . ravenous. She was out of food. She eyed the rotting placenta that she’d pushed as far from her mattress as she could. Maybe she should have eaten some. But it was too late now. The temporary organ was rotting. It smelled like putrid flesh.

It’d been a week since Caleb was born, and three days since she’d eaten the last measly quarter of a hamburger and six cold fries.

She gazed at her son, her heart constricting as a tear escaped her eye. If her milk dried up, would she watch the small life she’d brought into the world against all odds and loved with her whole being, fade slowly away in her arms? Her imaginings alone caused pressure to build in her chest, and grief so profound it felt as though it physically rolled over her. Crushing.

Her eyes opened and she froze. Footsteps. She heard footsteps. She pulled herself into a sitting position, her breath coming rapidly.

Marshall opened the door and drew back slightly. “God, it s-stinks in here.” But then he froze where he stood when he saw what Josie held in her arms. He walked slowly to where she sat, one arm holding the baby, the quilt tucked up to his neck, her other hand chained.

Is giving birth easy?

Why yes. I could do it with one hand tied behind my back.

The thought rose unbidden in her mind, and she had the insane urge to howl with wild laughter until her mind cracked and she floated away on a peaceful sea of delirium. But madness would take her from her child. No, she wouldn’t go there. Not willingly.

Marshall’s movements seemed different as he made his way to her, squatting next to the mattress. He pulled the quilt back and she saw that his hand was trembling. It struck her. He’s afraid? Is he afraid or . . . what is he? “What is it?” His voice sounded strange too. Josie sat up taller.