The Truth (12 page)

During the year
long trial, I didn’t speak to Grant in private. I would attend meetings with attorneys and I was at the hearings, but I never once visited him. What would be the point? I’d already had enough of his lies.

I avoided Grant’s family as much as possible during the trial, also. Grant’s mom exercised zero humility during the entire ordeal. She always sat there as if she were on a throne and scoffed at everything. You’d think she was watching over her kingdom, rather than sitting through a trial where her son was being charged with murder. Sara came to the hearings when she could. Honestly, I was relieved when she wasn’t there. Watching her when she was there broke my heart. She would cry silent tears for her brother the entire time she sat in the courtroom. I tried to be courteous but talked to them as little as possible. I didn’t want to get into a discussion about whether I thought he was guilty or not. That would only end poorly for everyone.

Whitney was at every hearing. She would sit in the back. I think she was being silently supportive. In reality, I just wanted to claw her eyes out. Keith came to the reading of the verdict with me. When the jury walked in, he held my hand. As they read the decision, I squeezed his involuntarily and let out a sigh of relief. Guilty. Olivia Kaspen, the courtroom shark, lost her first case that day.

Finally, after the verdict had been read at the trial, I went to see Grant one last time for closure. It felt good to tell him off, knowing he couldn’t hurt me this time. Ever since then, I have been at home trying not to leave for any reason because there is a whole news crew waiting at the gates for a chance to get a picture of me. It’s absurd, but I’ve become a prisoner in my own home. I’ve been packing so I can move into an apartment closer to work when I return.

Thank God I kept my maiden name at work. Unfortunately, my face has been plastered all over the media. I’m now
that girl
. I was at the grocery store the other day just picking up a few things, and as I was standing in line, I heard someone say, “Isn’t that her, the wife?”

The next thing I knew, there was a crowd forming around me asking all kinds of insensitive and just plain rude questions. I felt claustrophobic as they closed in on me. I did what I always do in uncomfortable situations—I fled. I left my stuff on the conveyor belt and I got the hell out of there. My period should be starting in a few days, and I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to get tampons.

I have been in the same clothes for over forty-eight hours, and I haven’t showered in about the same amount of time. Over the last few days, I have barely moved from my couch. I’ve officially watched every episode of Desperate Housewives now, and I’m contemplating hiring a gardener—maybe after I move.

Two days later, I’m into a new series when my stomach growls. It sounds pissed, like it hasn’t eaten in weeks. I half expect it to start saying, “Feed me, Seymour,” like the giant plant in that one movie.

Giving in, I trudge into the kitchen and open the fridge. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, we can eat some fish eggs, sweet gherkins or we can just drink the raspberry vinaigrette dressing. Guess we’re going to have to leave the house.” When I close the stainless steel door, I catch my appearance reflected in it. Wow, I don’t feel as bad as I look. I raise my right arm and sniff myself. “Okay, okay, maybe it’s time to shower.”

An hour later, I’m presentable, or at least I don’t smell anymore. I slip on some shoes and grab my purse, but just as I swipe to open the door, I wish I had just stayed on the couch.

“Eloise, hi?” I greet her awkwardly.

Wow, I thought I looked bad. I think she actually has grass in her hair. What the hell?

“Alyssa, I don’t know what to do. They took my baby boy. And I just got in a fight with a photographer. It’s like the whole world has gone crazy. Grant didn’t kill anyone.”

“You got in a fight with a photographer?” I ask flabbergasted. “Is that why you have grass in your hair?” I motion to the rat’s nest on her head.

She reaches up and feels her matted hair, pulling a few blades out. “You see? What have I become? I feel like a crazy person! I’ve been awake for days going over the evidence from the trial, trying to figure out who actually killed that girl. I hired an investigator, but he was just taking my money. He said there is nothing to do and he says Grant is clearly guilty. Guilty! Just like that! I just—I don’t know what to do.”

“Come in and I’ll make some tea—maybe, if I have some. I was just going to the store because the house is pretty barren.” I wave her in and have her follow me toward the kitchen.

She takes a seat at the island, and I go to the cabinet for the tea bags. Bingo! At least we have some tea. I fill a tea kettle and set it to boil on the stove.

I walk over to the opposite side of the island facing her. “Do you take honey in your tea?”

“No.”

“Phew, we probably don’t have any, anyway.”

I rest my hands on the countertop. She is silently lost in thought, and she looks like she is somewhere far away from here.

“Eloise, this is hard on all of us. I know he’s your son. He’s my husband and my first love. I know you want to believe he didn’t do it. Honestly, I don’t know what to believe at this point.”

The lost eyes of a concerned mother are gone. Eloise looks up at me with the eyes of a viper, and I’m suddenly glad the counter is between us.

“You—you think he did it? Grant is not a killer! I didn’t raise a killer! Who are you anyway? Some little piece of white trash who made herself a doctor? You were never good enough for him. You hear me? Never!” And with that Eloise gets up and flees the kitchen. Moments later, the front door slams closed behind her.

“Well, that went well.” I’m sitting there stunned when the teapot sounds behind me. “Yeah, yeah.” I turn it off and resume my mission to the store.

It’s warm, but I pull on a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses. After locking my front door, I hit the unlock button on my key fob and sprint to the car. I drive to a store a few towns over—in an attempt to make certain no one has followed me.

When I drive past a small grocer, I pull a U-turn and park. The sun is shining so bright today. I unzip my sweater and make my way into the store. Since I have no place to be, I take my time and enjoy myself.

“Ma’am, would you like to try a sample?”

“No, thank you,” I decline sweetly.

“Are you sure? I have chocolate cake.” Damn, I was really going to say no. She had me at chocolate cake.

“Sure, just one couldn’t hurt.”

I take the sample cup she offers me and pop what looks like chocolate cake into my mouth. As soon as I put it in my mouth, I regret it. I concentrate on chewing and try to keep a neutral face. This is chocolate cake? What the hell could you put in chocolate cake to make it taste this bad?

“This is interesting. What brand is it?” So I remember to never, ever buy it.

“It’s a gluten-free, vegan cake.” That explains it.

“How is that even possible? So there are no eggs, no butter, and no flour in it?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, so what
is
in it?”

“Organic cane sugar, vegan margarine, unsweetened applesauce, brown rice flour, non-dairy milk—”

“I’ve heard enough. No wonder! You should really stop advertising this awful stuff as chocolate cake before someone gets sued.” I scrunch up my face. “Good luck to you. Thanks for the ‘not chocolate or cake’ chocolate cake.”

The cute little old sample lady giggles in my wake. I walk up and down every aisle of the store, refraining from trying any further samples. Somehow, I end up with fruit, stuff for sandwiches, four boxes of cereal, milk, and a box of ding dongs. These foods struck my interest and seemed to fit the couch potato thing I’ve been rocking. Besides, maybe if I get really fat eating all this crap, no one will recognize me, and everyone will leave me alone. Potato chips, I’m missing potato chips. I grab a bag on the way to the feminine products.

After loading everything onto the conveyor belt, I stand patiently waiting for the person in front of me to pay. Rocking on my heels, I look around at where the magazines would normally be, and I see a few local newspapers from surrounding towns. Two from the right on the bottom row is La Perla and front page is Grant’s face. Apparently, I didn’t drive far enough. I start to sweat standing there waiting. Keeping my head down, I wait silently. Finally, the belt starts moving again. I respond to the greeting of the cashier, but I don’t look them in the eye. When everything is bagged and in the cart, I swipe my card.

“You look familiar.”

“Me? I hear that a lot. I must just have one of those faces,” I spurt out. I jab the keys harder than necessary trying to get out of here before someone recognizes me.

“Must be.” The printer spits out my receipt and I grab it myself.

“Thank you, have a good day,” I say as I push the cart away as fast as I can. Practically running with my cart through the lot, I get to my car and breathe a sigh of relief.

I place everything in the trunk and slam the hatchback closed. When I look up, I jump back and clutch my chest. “Whoa, you scared the shit out of me. Whitney? What in Sam hell are you doing here?”

Fingering my keys, I look down at them remembering the pepper spray I put on it.

“Don’t!” she shouts when she notices me eyeing the pepper spray. “I know I probably deserve it, but please don’t. Alyssa, I just need to talk to you. Please? It’s really important.”

“You do deserve it.”

“I won’t argue that.”

“How did you find me here?”

“I followed you from your house.”

Dammit, I thought I was careful. Clearly, I’ll never make detective. “Great, I have a stalker now.”

“Alyssa, please don’t blow me off. Just listen to what I have to say,” she pleads.

I ponder for a moment. “How about I make you a deal?”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

An evil grin takes over my face causing fear to immediately takeover hers. “You let me pepper spray you, and I’ll let you talk after.”

“Alyssa, this is serious!”

“Oh, I’m serious.”

“If I let you spray me, you’ll come with me after to talk?”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Wow, this must be really important.” I sigh. “Fine, I need to go take this crap home. I’ll come to your place after.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Better make it two hours.”

“Okay, two hours.” She looks at me confused.

“Yeah, you’re going to need time to clean up.”

I lift and click the spray ever so gently effectively misting her. It’s not enough to take her down, but enough where she’ll feel it for a while. Whitney screams and shields her face. “You bitch! I can’t believe you did that!”

“There, we’re even—well, almost.” I leave her furiously rubbing her face in the parking lot, watching her as I drive out of the lot. Man, that felt good.

I hurry home, put everything away, and then head out to Whitney’s place. I’m more careful this time. I drive around for an hour before I finally go to her condo.

She buzzes me in, and I’m slightly anxious because it hits me that she might want revenge for the pepper spray. When she opens her front door, I burst into tears I’m laughing so hard.

“It’s not funny, Alyssa. You could have seriously injured me! Now I have to walk around looking like I got a chemical peel or something.”

I rein it in. “Well, are you going to invite me in or what?”

“Yeah, come on in.” She moves aside. “I didn’t have time to clean up before you came.”

“Your place is a mess, what the heck? Where is Ralph?” Her once pristine condo, done in almost all white with small teal accents, is trashed. The dining room and living rooms are littered with papers and old take out containers. I don’t even want to see what the bedrooms look like. Something is very wrong here. If I didn’t hate her, I’d be worried about her.

“He left me.” She doesn’t make eye contact with me. She hasn’t actually since I saw her at the trunk of my car.

“Well, good for him. Dodged a bullet there!” I’m goading her and I know it, but I don’t care.

“I told him the truth about Grant and me.” She looks down at her hands. “I hoped he would forgive me, but he just couldn’t.”

“Whitney, some truths are like bullets. Once they are released, they do damage you can never take back.”

“Yeah, well, let’s go sit down.”

“Fine, do you have any wine in this shit hole?”

“Yeah, I’ll grab some.” She goes to the kitchen and I have a seat at the bar.

“You know, you can afford a cleaning lady. Just a thought.” I suggest, brushing off random crap from one of the bar stools.

“Yeah.” She shrugs nonchalant. She doesn’t seem to notice or care about the mess, which is very unlike Whitney. 

“So, what did you want to talk about, patches?” I’m being cold. It’s not my nature, but the truth is, I’m not sure who I am anymore. Everything has turned to such shit, and lets face it—Whitney deserves it. I have had so much anger inside of me every single day for so long now I don’t know what to do with myself. So, I shut down. I shut people out and I go on breathing.