The General Read online

  The girl who had never known the touch of a man who actually loved her. Just liked to control her. Manipulate her. Hurt her.

  Yeah, I was the slut of freaking Navesink Bank.

  What was next was a blur. For those who had never been beating more than once, they usually all turn that way. Pain. Yelling. Pain. Repeat and repeat until he ran through his anger or I got sick or I lost consciousness.

  I couldn't tell you how many times he hit me. If his fists were closed or open. If I blacked out at all while he strangled me. When he managed to grab my arm hard enough to leave bruises.

  All I knew was the sensation of relief when it was over, when he moved out of the room, his footsteps no less clipped than before. And I leaned back against the counter in a room I used to love, trying to process the pain that felt everywhere at once.

  "That will make you think before you think you can fuck around behind my back again, bitch," he yelled as he moved away.

  And, for some reason, that was it.

  The straw that broke this battered woman's back.

  I flew out of the kitchen, ramming my shoulder into Teddy as I passed him, making him stumbled, hiss, curse, demand I Come back here and apologize.

  All I remember thinking was Oh, I am coming back there alright, as I went into his library, sliding open the stubborn middle drawer, dragging out the gun I knew he kept there because it made him feel manly to have it, pulled off the safety because I likely knew more about guns than he did, turned, and aimed just as he came stepping into the doorway.

  "Oh, fuck off with that, Jen. You're never going to..."

  But I was going to.

  I did.

  Unlike the beating, every moment of this was in slow motion, in bright, Technicolor detail, everything in high contrast, every noise beside the click of the trigger and the bang of the gun, the whiz of the bullet, the thunk of it tearing through Teddy's hollow chest was silent.

  The gun felt hot in my hand as my arm lowered, as Teddy made some shocked noise as his hand clutched his chest, as he staggered. His gaze lifted to me, eyes huge, uncomprehending, before he lost his footing, falling backward, landing with a sickening crack on the hard floor.

  Seconds passed before the blood started blooming out, giving him the appearance of Mary depicted on those candles my grandma always had on her kitchen counter, the bright yellow sun behind her. Only this sun was red. This sun didn't give life, it heralded death.

  And I stood there, watching the life drain from my husband, this man I swore to love and cherish and honor and obey until death do us part.

  I should have been sick.

  Horrified.

  Regretful.

  Something.

  But all I felt was numb.

  Shock. This was what they always talked about on nighttime dramas after traumatic events. Shock. Like your system couldn't process the emotions, so they locked you down to them.

  It was only maybe a couple of moments before I knew that I was in trouble. That I was going to go to jail. For the rest of my life. That all the time I spent with Teddy for good reason while he beat the life out of me would be for naught.

  No.

  No way.

  I couldn't let that be my fate.

  I half-turned to my husband's desk, seeing my phone sitting there in its sedate gold case. It was there for the same reason I didn't get to have a password on it. Because Teddy checked it. Every single night. To make sure I wasn't, I don't know, looking for ways to leave him, or kill him or divorce him and still get the money, or, of course, cheat on him.

  I reached for it, opening an incognito window because it seemed like the situation called for it even though I genuinely had no idea what the purpose of an incognito window even was for. Aside from masturbating husbands not wanting their puritanical wives to know what porn they liked to watch, I guess.

  And I typed in the words that came to mind because I had seen TV shows about it.

  Fixers.

  Professional fixers.

  And there one was.

  Right in Navesink Bank.

  Like it had been waiting for me to finally get the lady balls to do this so they could help me fix it.

  The woman at the desk was calm, efficient, never even hesitating while I rambled through my sordid story about murdering my own husband. Maybe I should have been put off by that. But, to me, all it said was that these people had seen - and fixed - it all. So I had nothing to worry about.

  Being told a man named Smith would be there in a few moments and not to move or touch anything including myself, I waited.

  Then there he was.

  He walked like he'd served. See, they always had a walk. A swagger in a way. I'd grown up in a town full of active service men and women and veterans alike. They all walked the same way.

  This man who was supposed to be honorable and lawful was going to help me hide a murder.

  His head turned after looking down at the blood drops I hadn't even known I had dripped.

  My husband was lying dead a few feet away from me. I shouldn't have been able to even notice anything like this.

  But he was good-looking.

  No.

  That wasn't fair. It didn't do him justice.

  He was gorgeous.

  I couldn't call him handsome. Teddy was handsome. Bertram was handsome. Men with perfect aristocratic features, they were handsome.

  This man was more than that. Taller, wider, stronger, more rugged with his dirty-blond or light brown hair, his matching beard, his thick gray work pants, black boots, black tee, black leather jacket. The worn kind. Well-loved over many winters, enough so that the seams were loosened, there were whitish creases in the spaces that felt the most motion - the crook of the elbow, the material next to the zipper, the buttoned flaps of the front pockets.

  This man was gorgeous.

  And in full work-mode.

  All business.

  Hard, but with hints of soft too.

  He called me sweetheart.

  I hadn't heard an endearment in so long that the effect was like that of a blushing schoolgirl. Butterflies swarmed my belly, their fluttering making goosebumps prickle up over my skin.

  And as he moved around, cleaning, explaining, giving intense detail, I felt for the first time since, well, ever, that everything was going to be okay.

  So when he left, the sinking feeling of uncertainty, fear, insecurity, was expected.

  But I faked a happy marriage for fifteen years.

  I could fake a grieving widow for the police dispatcher, the EMTs, the cops, the ME, the detectives.

  And I did, dredging up some high school drama to sniffle, whimper, sob, tremble, mumble, whatever felt necessary in the situation.

  It wasn't until I heard one of the cops mumble that The senator is here that I doubted myself.

  His eyes saw everything. They knew all. And if he saw a single tear misplaced, he had a long reach, he had ways to make terrible things happen.

  I pretended I didn't hear the news, hearing the detective ask me something about my husband having any enemies.

  "No! Everyone loved Teddy," I declared, voice cracking, tears starting afresh. "Everyone he met knew he was... he was a good man. People loved him. I lo..." I broke off there, head planting in my hands as my body shook with sobs, ones I had been holding in for so long that they didn't need to be faked.

  They weren't for him, though.

  They were for me.

  "Oh, Jennifer," Bertram's voice called, calm as ever, but there was a bit of roughness there as he stood in front of me, likely taking in the bloodstain that had seeped out of his son before his body had been removed after pictures were taken and the scene dusted. "What did they do to you?" he asked when my head lifted, showing him the damage his son had done, wondering if he saw the truth of that or if he was believing the lie. His hand lifted, fingers touching my chin. "Detectives, I don't think I need to say that I need all hands on deck with this. I will be in touch with your captain.
This was my son. My only..." he broke off a bit, making my head jerk to see if he was actually going to break down. But his head just hung for a moment before lifting again. One of the detectives closed a hand on his shoulder, leading him away. Maybe to ask him if his son had any enemies.

  "You hanging in there?" a different detective asked, one who I think had been introduced as Lloyd, but all the names were starting to tumble together in my head into a mass of indiscernible letters.

  "I don't even know," I told him, shaking my head at myself.

  I didn't see pity in his eyes. I saw that in most everyone else's. I wasn't sure what was in his. Not suspicion. But almost... knowledge?

  No.

  That couldn't have been the truth.

  I was just projecting my insecurity, my fears.

  "I wish I could tell you that this is going to be all over in a few hours. But I think we both know it is going to be weeks of this," he leveled with me, shrugging. "My advice is to get some good, much-needed rest, and stay away from the TV."

  "Rest sounds good."

  And it did.

  I wasn't sure the last time I genuinely felt rested, like I could sleep without worry.

  My face was throbbing with pain from the beating. My head was screaming with a migraine from all the crying, the worry, the questioning.

  "Mrs. Ericsson," the other detective, an older man with one of those round faces that made him indistinguishable in a crowd, the top part of his head bald, catching a shine from the light above, the rest of his hair almost inky black framing his head like it had something to prove. "We think we are done here for the night," he told me, sounding apologetic. Like I wanted half a dozen people in the house for the next day or two.

  "Okay," I said, voice as hollow as I was feeling.

  "We might be in touch with more questions in the morning. Maybe talk to your neighbors. We will be keeping you - and the senator, of course - up to date as we learn anything. If you plan on staying here tonight, make sure you set your security system, lock your doors and windows. Actually, I will have one of the boys do that for you," he said, snapping at one of the police in blue to come over, giving him the instruction to tramp through the house and check for open windows. "I would also advise looking into some private security. Just as a precaution," he added in a soothing voice. "Until whoever did this is behind bars. It would just ease your - and, quite frankly, my - mind."

  "I will call someone. I have some numbers," I told him, mostly lying.

  "Good. Tonight. Before you lie down. See if they can come right out."

  "I will."

  "Do you want me to stay with you until you can find someone?"

  "No. No, I'm okay. I'd rather know you were out there tracking this man down," I told him, my eyes glistening again. This detective, he was a father of girls, my gut told me. His blue eyes went sad and panicked anytime a new bout of tears overtook me.

  "Of course. Of course. We will do everything we can, I assure you."

  There was another fifteen minutes of goodbyes and assurances and advice before everyone finally cleared out, leaving me completely and utterly alone in my big, empty house.

  I sat there on the couch in the library where I'd been questioned. I'd never sat on it before. I found it garish - red leather with brass nail heads up the front of the arms and across the bottom under the cushions. It turned out it was every bit as hard as it looked as well. I'd been there for I didn't know how long, my behind numb five minutes after sitting down.

  But my legs didn't feel like they could hold my weight even if I tried.

  So I sat.

  Waiting.

  Until I heard the low scratching noise that had brought Smith into my home hours before. Lockpick.

  His footsteps were different. And when he moved in and forward toward the study, I realized it was because he'd changed his boots.

  Because he'd made random bootprints out back.

  He'd said he would.

  The crime scene people had found them and molded them after taking pictures.

  Somehow, seeing him, a face who knew my secret, broke the wall of calm I had been trying to keep in place.

  My lips trembled on their own - not because I told them too. My eyes filled because they needed to - not because I needed them to. My whole body started shaking.

  Smith's gaze fell for a second. Sad, almost? Or maybe that was wishful thinking. When it rose again, he was moving across the room toward me, carefully side-stepping the bloodstain on the floor.

  "The adrenaline is wearing off," he told me as he got close, squatted down in front of me, his gaze steady, making me realize for the first time that his eyes were hazel. Green and brown at the same time, but maybe just a tad more green. Maybe it depended on the light. "You're about to feel really, really shitty. I wish I had something kinder to say, but I find the truth is usually better in these circumstances. Right now, what you need is a shower. If you think you're too shaky for a shower, then a bath. Do you drink?"

  "Alcohol?" I clarified, my voice quivering. "Only if I can't avoid it."

  "Coffee?" he asked, and I was thankful he didn't push. I'd had so much pushing in my life.

  "Tea," I clarified.

  "Okay. I will run you a bath. Then while you take it, I will make you tea. How do you like it?"

  "Two sugars. No milk. It's in the..."

  "I will find it. No worries. Come on," he said, slowly moving to stand, offering his hand to me.

  I watched as my own shaky one rose, rested, finding his palm wide, rough, calloused. Then his fingers curled, blocking mine entirely from view as he gently pulled me up onto my feet, led me out of the library, up the stairs, waiting for a cue from me for the direction of the master, then through it and into the bath where he ran the water, tossed in a little of everything I had laid around it decoratively - salts, bombs, soap flowers, and squeezed nearly half a bottle of my vanilla bath wash in as well.

  "Clothes, sweetheart?" he prompted while I simply stood there numbly, stupidly, watching him run me a bath like that was part of his job when it wasn't. "No, I'll get them. Just tell me what. You want another of these?" he asked, waving a hand at my floor-length nightie.

  "No. Anything but this," I told him, meaning it as I walked into the bathroom, stopping in front of the vanity to look at myself.

  It didn't matter how many times I had done this, seen this mess of myself in the mirror, it never stopped hurting my vanity a bit.

  Swollen, bloody, puffy, cut.

  You could barely see what I looked like underneath it all.

  "I'll clean all that," Smith offered, coming up behind me to set what appeared to be my softest workout leggings - something Teddy had firm rules about only being worn while working out despite what popular culture said -, and a sweatshirt that I all but forgot I had - one that had been given to me at a charity event by a bunch of kids who made it themselves. It was an awful, bright green with a brown tree trunk up the center with little hands making the leaves in an autumnal starburst - russets, oranges, yellows, deep purples, even a few brown.

  Alberry Park Children's Center was scrawled underneath in white font meant to look childlike.

  Teddy told me to toss it. I simply buried it in the very back of my yoga pant cubicle in the built-in wardrobe. He never knew it was there. For three years.

  Panties were wedged between the pants and shirt, hidden like he was trying to protect my modesty, something unexpectedly sweet given the situation. He'd picked one of the few of the simple cotton pairs too - not the dozens of silk, lace numbers, cheeky thongs, G-strings. Teddy had opinions and rules about underwear as well.

  "It's okay. I can do it. I... know a thing or two," I offered, not wanting to give too much of my experience with said things away even though he already knew that Teddy beat me. Obviously. I just didn't want too much more sympathy from anyone.

  "Alright. Take your time. I won't pour the water until I hear you coming," he told me, not assuring me that the night ahead o
f us would be short. I imagined it was going to be long and tedious still. I appreciated him not lying or sugar-coating the truth.

  "Thank you," I told him, feeling another wave of shivers overtaking me, suddenly in desperate need of the hot water.

  "Call if you need anything," he told me, moving out, closing the door to the hall behind him.

  Alone again, I wet a soft washcloth with witch hazel and cleaned my cuts. Washcloths were key. I learned that a long time ago. If you used a cotton ball or makeup remover round, the cotton would get scraggly and get caught in the rough skin around cuts. Then you'd have to pick it out. Which didn't feel great. Washcloths were the way to go.

  Clean, I wiped a little triple antibiotic on some of the scratches, wet a fresh washcloth with cold water to lay over my puffy eyes, stripped, stopped the water, and climbed in.

  Still, warm, every ache and pain came back to me, stronger than before, the water doing nothing to soothe it.

  I needed some ibuprofen and sleep.

  I'd feel better then.

  But the ibuprofen was in my nightstand. And rest was a while off yet.

  I tried not to think too much, to let the worry seep in. There was no use for it. Not until Smith told me what there was to worry about.

  Maybe I should have been feeling guilt, too, as the events got a chance to settle in.

  And maybe it made me an awful person, someone truly wicked and unredeemable, but I felt no guilt. Not even a small dash of it.

  I'd been young and idealistic once, having fights with family members about how it was never okay to kill, how the death penalty was barbaric and antiquated. Though perhaps I hadn't known those words way back then.

  But that was when the world didn't get to show me its ugliest sides.

  See, when you think of the upper class, you think of glamour and comfort, beautiful vacations, fancy cars, lovely things.

  But you don't have to be in it long to see that it is no different from the lower class they so looked down upon because it was supposedly full of gangbangers and rapists.

  Honestly, if you asked me, what I had seen hidden away in the closets of the rich was much scarier, much more terrible than what I had seen growing up around the lowest of low class.