1
The Ending Of The Perfect Life
MONDAY 6:49pm
Premonition. Pay attention to that nudge of warning, and it can save your life.
I ignored that shiver, ignored the advice Mom told me oh-so-long ago. Ignored it even when I knew better.
Every time I don’t listen, I tend to end up in jail.
After one of the worst days working at Soil and Springs Landscaping, I’m finally home, curled up on my second-hand, used-to-be-beige couch, in leggings and my favorite sweater, doing the one thing I’ve wanted to do all day.
Nothing.
Nothing means bliss, me-time. Nothing means a big bowl of cereal while watching the news followed by a long hot bath. Nothing means for the first time today, I have no one to be accountable to.
My cell rings and after being on the phone all day at work, I’m talked out. When it starts ringing again, I know it’s Mom and I should answer, but texting is faster. A quick connect and I’m done.
Me: Just got home. Call you later?
She hates when I text instead of talk.
Mom: Turn on the news.
Me: Why?
Mom: Tell me you’re not involved.
Me: Involved? What?
I have the news on, I always do at this time. What’s her problem?
Mom: Starla Bishop, stop playing games with me! Please tell me you are safe.
Me: Relax. I’m home. Involved in nothing. Playing it safe for thirteen months now.
She knows this. She calls every single night making sure.
I’m a jailed bird without the prison bars.
Mom: Then why did they say staff?
I re-read her texts and feel a headache forming.
Why am I not surprised tonight mirrors how my day began? My morning began with a text from my boss, instructing me to stay at the office until she arrived. Then something about rumors and lies and she didn’t want any calls…none of it made any sense.
Until now.
Premonition.
After that, nothing went my way. The first nudge came when I poured hot coffee into my bowl of cereal. Then another when I dislodged one of the smaller diamonds on my new engagement ring. I started to pay attention after I’d hit the panic button and set off all the alarms at the office.
And that had only been the beginning.
Premonition. It yells louder than inmates in a cell block with no heat. And while I’m doing everything right, it screams in my ear.
My phone goes off again.
Mom: Starla, tell me what is going on. Do I need to come down?
Curled up on the couch, legs tucked under, I unmute Sassy Sedona, the news anchor joking with Tyler, the weather guy. Normally I like their fun, sarcastic, grin-growing interaction.
Not tonight. Tonight, their banter is aggravating. Annoying. Angering.
Mom blows up my phone with her texts, demanding more information.
Me: Give me a minute. I have no idea what’s going on. I’ll call you when I do.
The camera does a close-up pan on Sedona and her wide, welcoming, window-dressing smile disappears, in its place is her this-is-serious-pay-attention look.
"In breaking news, a local landscaper has been arrested on suspicions of multiple murders. Here is Danai with more news."
My heart thumps to a disco beat. Thump. Thump. Thump. A bruising base that drowns out every thought but one.
Local landscaper?
Shit. Shit-shit-shit-shit. Nothing else. Just shit.
A video plays on the television.
I recognize the company.
My legs hit the floor. I'm on my feet, chest constricting, and I wait, the milliseconds taking forever, before the headline flashing across the screen confirms what I don’t want to admit.
Councilman Donald Dixon suspected of multiple murders.
I'm not breathing, and my lungs do a one-two-punch.
So many thoughts, so many questions, so many worries.
So many fears.
Breathe. My fiancé’s voice is in my ear. Just…breathe.
In. Out. No breath. Lungs hitch. Vision funnels. Black spots dance. Breathe…in.
My boss is being led away by the cops.
Not me and yet…me. My hair falling forward, my face hidden, my shoulders slouched, my wrists cuffed. Not me and yet…me, surrounded by flashing lights, police, cameras, being hauled away…again.
Not me. Not me. My boss.
My phone rings. I jerk, dropping it to the floor.
Bang-bang-bang on my door.
I stumble back. Fall onto the couch.
“Open up. Police.”
Boom-boom-boom. The knock is harder, louder. My front door sounds like it’s about to break.
I know that force, I’ve heard it before.
My gaze switches from the television to the door and back to the television.
"I'm here on the grounds of Soil and Springs Landscaping-" Danai, the reporter, begins.
Another figure appears on the screen, being led away.
My heart thuds to a stop.
"--where Donald Dixon, Finance Director and Councilor for Bervie Springs, along with his ex-wife Alexius Dixon, joint-owners of Soil and Springs Landscaping, have been arrested on charges of suspected murder."
Shit. Shit-shit-double-shit.
I was just there. At the office. Planted that garden being dug up. Got a text message saying I could leave for the night.
That man in handcuffs. My fiancé. Donny. Donald Dixon.
That woman in handcuffs. My boss. Alexius.
Thwack. My door bounces. I fumble forward, jerk the handle, swing it open. A man stands there with his mouth open, speaking words I can't hear.
The man, he seems familiar. It’s the sharpness of his expression. I know that look. I’ve seen it too many times. On faces like his. Cops.
More men stand behind him with similar expressions. Men with guns in their hands. Pointed at me.
I back up. The first cop is talking, but I hear nothing. No words. No sounds. Everything is muted. Every. Single. Thing.
They all step forward, guns still aimed at me. I raise my hands...
Thirteen months ago, I had a sense something like this would happen.
Damn premonition. I knew better.
2
Promises Are Meant To Be Broken
8:55 pm
I made myself a promise thirteen months ago.
I would not find myself back in this situation, back in a room like this, back where I’ve been detained. Again. And yet, here I am.
A prisoner of my own making, by my past, but not by my actions.
My lips are chapped, my hands are clammy and cold, with my right calf spasming, but I refuse to let my anxiety show. I've been in rooms like this before and I know even one small emotional slip could have devastating consequences.
This room is the same as all the other interrogation rooms I've been in. One metal desk. Four cold chairs. A large one-way mirror facing me. A camera up in the corner recording my every word and movement. Bottle of water on the table.
A warm air blows on the back of my neck, but it's not to keep me warm. The goal is to make me tired, make me slip up, say too much.
I don't know what they're hoping to find out from me.
I play with the ring on my finger, still not used to the weight. My finger covers the missing diamond from this morning.
I can't believe I'm here. That Donny is here. I will repeat to every single officer who asks that Donny is the type to help college students finance a new vehicle, buy a sleeping bag and tent for the homeless man who sleeps in the alley next to his dealership and create a program to help freed inmates start over. Ask me if he's a killer and I'll say no.