CHAPTER 70

Present

I DECIDE, ONCE returned to my cell, my back on the mattress, fingertips drumming against my sweatshirt, that Mike may be right. No blood was on me when I woke up. There was whatever instance caused my broken nose. Maybe Jeremy didn’t break it. Maybe someone else did. My mind really snags on the thought of me pushing him out the window, then traveling down six flights of stairs and still having the bloodlust to stab him. Me hiding his body and leaving it for dead. I killed individuals who deserved it. Not the guy who fixed me bacon that morning and looked at my face like I was something. I wasn’t that girl, I can’t be that girl. I am, in a thousand irreparable ways, broken, but I am not that.

And if, as Mike so obviously pointed out, I didn’t hurt Jeremy, then someone else did. Someone who I, in my prison of solitude, can’t punish. I lie there, stare at dark corners of the ceiling above me, and think. Dr. Pat had told me that I might have a concussion. That any additional head trauma in the future would make another much more likely. I tilt my head back, pushing it into the thin mattress, and feel the twinge of pain. I am actually ready for Derek to return. I have too many thoughts, too many fears. For once, I need his guidance, his questions. And besides all that, I am BORED. I am bored and hoping he will return. There is nothing to do in this space, I have no idea how I will handle five or ten or twenty years of it, and I am ready to deal with his disapproving faces and condescending sounds and even the whole “You are good, Deanna” bullshit. I’ll deal with all of it and ask for seconds. Because if I have to listen to any more silence, I think I’ll explode.

It’s been lifetimes since my call to Mike. Long enough for the night to pass, the lights flickering on a few hours ago. I slept a couple of times, quick snatches of oblivion in between long periods of waiting, thinking, trying to remember. This shift’s warden has walked by my door fourteen times since my phone call to Mike. Before this guy, Ms. KeepYourHeadDownAndColor passed four times. I sat there and waited each time for them to pause, their boots to stop at this cell, their hands to slide open the window and for them to say something. But they haven’t. I’ve lain and waited and listened to the outside and none of it has had anything to do with me.

Another clop of steps, and I perk up. Roll the curve of my body up and move to the door, my ear to the cool metal. Clip, clip, clip, clip. They actually stop and I hold my breath. The slide moves, a harsh, metallic sound, and I scramble away. “Madden. Visitor.”

Be nice, be nice, be nice, be nice. I chant the words as I follow the guard. The nicer I am, the longer the visit. The longer the visit, the longer the distraction. “How long can a visit last?”

The man in front of me doesn’t respond. The one at my back leans forward slightly. “Thirty minutes, max.”

Thirty minutes. Too short, but I’ll take it. It must be Derek, and our entire relationship has been thirty-minute chats so we have it down. We turn right and stop outside the same door as before. “Will I have to wait long?”

One shakes his head. “If it’s his second visit, it’ll be shorter.” He opens the door and I am ushered in. Locked in like before, feet shackled to chair legs, wrists secured to the back of the chair. I guess my twenty-four hours of behavior hasn’t impressed anyone yet. I don’t blame them. I’m inches away from misbehaving just for personal entertainment.

The last hand drops from my cuffs and they leave. I roll my neck and wait. Sniff. I stink. Literally, stink. I try to think of the last time I had a shower. After Derek, that needs to be my next question. Where and how I can bathe. At this rate, my arraignment will consist of everyone holding their noses and running for the exit.

Twenty minutes, my concern over my odor passed, the door opens and Derek steps in. He’s changed, probably got a good scrubbing in his five-star hotel’s shower last night. The outfit of today is a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled a few flips up, with dark jeans, a pair of sunglasses in one hand, the entire ensemble setting off his dark tan and once-again-meticulous hair.

“Good morning.”

I nod in response, taking the moment to openly study him before smiling at him. I picked the smile out just for him, flipping through my reservoir of grins before deciding on fresh-faced innocent. It shakes him and his reach for the chair stalls, his eyes skittering over my smile before he looks away, pulling out the chair and sitting down before me. Not next to me like last time. Interesting. He sets his glasses down on the table between us and settles back in his chair. “How’s it going?”

“Fine. Why’d you come here?”

The blunt question doesn’t offend him. It shouldn’t. He’s had four years to adjust to my style. “I assumed you would need a psychological evaluation, or that I would be called to give my professional opinion as your primary doctor.”

“Shrink.”

He tilts his head in acknowledgment. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks, right now, that he drives a Range Rover. A white one, which he vacuums out on Sunday afternoons and only uses premium gas in. His fuckin’ jeans look IRONED. The tortoiseshell Ray-Bans he set carefully on the table are sparkling clean. You could drive this guy to insanity by just leaving your wet panties on his kitchen counter. He looks like he crawled out of a Banana Republic ad, then enrolled and got a master’s in OCD.

“So now that you’re here, you’ll stay… what? Till the arraignment?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. If you don’t have a trial, my purpose here isn’t really clear. But…”

I wait.

“… an incompetent individual isn’t able to plead their own guilt.”

I stiffen, my wrists flexing out before the metal reminds them of their place. “Crazy can’t tell crazy?” That’s bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.

“There is the possibility that I can testify at the arraignment.”

My jaw tightens, my teeth grinding together. “No.”

“You don’t even know what happened. How can I let you testify the inverse?”

“Let me?” Oh… that… that is kerosene poured on the fire of my irritation.

“You know what I meant.”

“I know that I need every bit of control I can get right now, and you’re stripping me of that.”

“A normal woman would thank me.”

“If you declare me mentally incompetent, they’ll lock me up.” I say the words so quietly, they are a whisper.

“It’s not a jail, Deanna. It’s a hospital.”

“That I can’t leave. Where I’ll be drugged up twenty-four hours a day.” I shake my head and a lock of hair sticks on my mouth. I blow out a huff of air and it falls aside. “I’d rather be in jail.”

“You’re not doing a good job of convincing me of your sanity right now.”

I look down at his fucking glasses. “You don’t understand.” I wonder how much time is left.

“Let’s talk about Sunday night.”

“I can’t remember it. I’ve tried.”

“Deanna.” His voice is soothing, it says my name like it is whipped cream being spread. I want to both eat the cream and vomit it out, all at the same time. “Just walk me through the last things you remember.”

“I was in the hallway, with Jeremy. We were headed to my room.” I had my keys in my hand, I can remember that fact. I remember, in the elevator, his hand rested on the small of my back, his fingers easing under the hem of my sweatshirt and just resting there, on the naked skin. It felt so good, so normal. I stop thinking.