Undertow
Aisling M. Albright
It smells different here. Salt and seaweed and mist hang on a breeze. I don’t know when I forgot how viscerally my body needs the ocean. It cries, aches for it… but not until I have it. Away, it forgets. It doesn’t know the texture of sand between its toes, the swishing of foam over wave-worn pebbles, the way inhaling feels like flying. When I’m here, I remember. And when I’m gone, only self-imposed rules help me back… help heal. Go to the sea; you will feel better.
Jackson was a good husband… at first. We met on a drunken night our third year of undergrad. His smile was blazing, wavy hair cascading in a tangible vision of cool. Girls in the dorms said he was the chosen one—smart, handsome, going places. I didn’t see it at first, how he’d pull me under. Then, he was just another guy on campus. The charisma was there, but I wasn’t fooled by that, not entirely. My blindness came later.
I was playing pool with Samari and her brother. We needed a fourth. Seth called across the entryway to where Jackson topped off a Solo cup.
“Jacks, you’re up!”
He cocked a brow and flashed a crooked smile, “I’m on Jazmine’s team.” I should’ve known. I was out of my depth. I didn’t think he knew who I was, yet he used my full name like we were old friends. Everyone else called me Jazzie, even professors.
“What’s your major?” he asked later. We lay on our backs at the edge of the dunes.
“Pre-med,” I said, looking at the moon, pretending to pinch it between my fingers. “You?”
“Criminal Justice,” he raised an arm, the back of his hand brushing mine. He dragged his knuckles slowly down my forearm, bicep, shoulder.
It was the most sensuous thing a man ever did with me. I looked at his profile, beachgrass tickling my cheek. He smiled faintly.
The fog thickens, accelerating the coming darkness. A chill catches me, sinks along my back, invades my lungs. I turn home. It’s an odd thought to call the small cottage on the bluff “home.” It’s so different from any I’ve ever had before, like it was made for this version of me… my cocoon. I mount the trail, steep and cut deep into the cliffside. If my new home is a cocoon, may I emerge a steel moth.
Jackson’s eyes sparkled. A pink sunrise stained the sky. His warm hand was in mine, and our love story was set to the gentle music of Atlantic waves crashing beyond the dunes. Graduation dropped us off the edge of a cliff. I felt light… like floating, gently drifting through pillowy air pockets after four years of cramming, term papers, and final exams. Graduate school seemed a lifetime away. Now, we had two months to ourselves.
“How many children do you want?” Jackson asked. “After residency?” he added when I lowered my brow.
We had this conversation before. He looked so impish when we talked about babies, like he was excited to relive childhood through them. My heart fluttered, “Seventeen,” I said, solemnly.
He threw back his head and laughed into the brightening sky. I giggled and climbed to the top of the dune. Jackson joined me, but when I turned to him, I needed to look down. My mouth opened, air rushed in, streaks of visceral happiness sizzled through my limbs.
He looked so beautiful, gazing at me from one knee. When I said, “Yes,” unadulterated joy lit his features. Then, I thought it was the happiest moment of my life.
I crest the trail, puffing from the climb, and step around the barrier at the end of the street. A car is parked awkwardly, dark green with rust creeping around the wheel wells. After months here, many neighbors’ vehicles are familiar… but not this one. It wasn’t there when I descended for my evening walk. I assume the hidden occupants linger after watching the sun sink into the sea. I don’t mind sharing this tiny bit of beauty with tourists looking for a unique California experience. I was like them once.
I sat on the hardwood floor, empty boxes and balled-up bundles of tape surrounded me. Lorde echoed down the hall. We installed the entertainment system first. Jackson said the best way to get unpacked quickly was with music. He appeared, high-stepping over the pile of empty lawn bags I used to transport our pillows and parkas. I smiled as he bent to kiss me.
“We’ll sleep like royals,” he said, spinning to fall spread eagle on the newly made bed. It was huge. I wanted a queen, but he insisted we get the biggest mattress possible.
His parents gifted us the bedroom set, a combination graduation-engagement gift. “We’ll need room for all our beautiful babies when they crawl in with us in the middle of the night,” he’d said at the furniture store. The thought of cuddling our children sent flutters through my stomach. I crawled up next to him, and he pulled me into his side.
“What do you think it’ll be like,” I said, “when classes start next month?”
“Can’t be much different than undergrad, right?”
I raised an eyebrow, “Med school’s intense, law school, too.”
“Well, yeah, like undergrad on steroids… but my program’s only three years. I’ll pass the Uniform Bar here in D.C., and you can apply anywhere you want for residency.”
“California’s not a UBE state.”
“Okay, not California, but there are plenty of other places I can practice. We’ll figure it out,” he caressed the arm I reached across his chest.
The kettle screams at me. I swiftly twist a towel around my dripping hair and run to the kitchen. Wet footprints follow me, darkening the flagstones. Steam rises from my bare shoulders, lazy swirls joining aggressive streams from the spout. Between tea and the shower, every window in the house is fogged. Someone could be directly outside the kitchen and I wouldn’t see them. I scoop tea leaves with the infuser and pour over the water. Tea has become my ritual. It warms me from the inside. Maybe, eventually, it will thaw my heart, too.
“I gotta take this,” Jackson pulled his ski glove off with his teeth. “Go ahead, meet you up top.”
I poled and skated my way to the lift line, catching Maddox before other skiers separated us. I glanced back at Jackson. He stood at the bottom of the lodge steps. Steam billowed from his mouth and one glove dangled from a wrist as he held the phone to his ear.
“You made it,” Maddox smiled.
“Yeah, Jackson says he’ll meet us at the top,” I said. We paused as a man in an orange and green knit hat scanned our lift tickets.
“So,” Maddox said, “you’re a doctor?”
“I finish med school in May, start residency after that.”
“Here in Colorado? What hospital?”
“I’ll find out next month, but I hope to be close to wherever Jackson lands.”
“He’ll be here, I guarantee it,” Maddox said.
“I was unclear, how did you meet Jackson? Do you work at Domhall and Evans?”
“No, my dad’s one of their bigger clients. I’m a client, too, but smaller. There’s a chance Jackson gets my account. We were there for a meeting when Evans was giving him the tour. He suggested I show him the slopes.”
“Nice of you,” I said as we pushed into place and turned to catch the lift. It slowed to allow proper positioning then launched off the loading zone.
“My pleasure,” he said as our speed evened out. The conversation shifted to snow conditions and favorite runs. Jackson was a few chairs behind us, so the wait wasn’t long.
“Everything okay?” I asked as he glided around and stopped beside me.
“Yes,” his face broke into a huge grin. “They’re sending me an offer letter!”
“You got the job?” I asked.
“Yes!” he said, and I squealed and hugged his waist.
“I knew you would, man. Congratulations,” Maddox reached an arm past me to fist bump Jackson. “Now we just have to pull some strings to get Jazzie here, and you’re all set.”
“Yeah,” said Jackson, clearly enjoying his successful interview. I didn’t bother to tell Maddox that wasn’t how Match Day worked.
I sip tea while considering a quick run before work. My schedule isn’t the break-neck pace of residency, but I have no seniority here. Being late is poor form. I’m antsy and decide to risk it.
Fog is still thick when I jog a block over to the cliffside beach access. As I near the trailhead, someone yells my name. I spin, adrenaline surging. The side window of a dark SUV opens.
“Hey Jazz, I didn’t know you lived in this neighborhood,” it’s Joe Kaplan, anesthesiologist.
“Dr. Kaplan,” I smile and calm my heartbeat, “yeah, one street over.”
“Great place, huh?” he gestures toward the cliff.
“Thought I’d squeeze in a run before work.”
“Nice! Have a good one… see you there.”
“Jackson, I didn’t call because I worked a double,” I said into my phone’s camera. “I texted.”
“Jazmine, this is our marriage. You’re choosing the hospital over me.” His tie was loosened, pin-striped shirt unbuttoned at the neck.
“Jackson,” exasperation colored my words, “I’m three weeks from being done. In a month, I’ll be in Colorado. This is temporary.”
“It’s been ‘temporary’ since February.”
“In the grand scheme of things, that’s a blip.”
“How much time have been spending with Dr. Samz?”
“What?”
“Dr. Samz. How long are you with him?”
My eyes went wide and I felt my mouth drop open, “Jackson,” I said when I finally recovered. “Dr. Samz is almost as old as my father, and he’s married… to a man. Why are you asking?”
“You’re spending all your time with other men, and I’m here alone. What do you expect?”
“Expect?” my tightly held control slipped. I had to end this call before my anger grew. “Okay, Jacks,” it came out steelier than intended. “I worked eighteen hours straight. I’m exhausted and don’t want to drive distracted.” There was a long pause. I looked to see if the video froze, “Jackson?”
“You’re right, I’m sorry Jazzie,” his voice softened, sweetened. “I’m lonely is all.”
“I miss you,” I said, fatigue rising in my throat and stinging my eyes. “Maybe call Maddox? Friends might help?”
“I’ve been… trying to spend less time with Maddox.”
“Oh no, why?”
“He’s different lately.”
“Oh?”
“I mean… he’s fine… fine. I just miss you.”
“I’ll be there soon, Jacks. I love you”
“Love you.”
I step through the maternity center’s sliding doors and turn toward employee parking. Air by the sea is different from Colorado. Some things still remind me of Denver, though—leaving work, certain restaurants, the chill creeping into your lungs without you realizing it.
Today, the evening light reminds me of those weeks after my life imploded. Looking back, I should have known. It started before I even left DC. Jackson had never been jealous before, especially of work colleagues. Maybe it was his guilt talking. Maybe he’d already betrayed me.
Sunlight shone on my face, radiating through my eyelids. I was warm and things were soft around me. Jackson’s voice reached me from beyond the bedroom. It was louder than normal, angry. I stretched and twisted, still half asleep. Pulling myself from the sheets, I padded to the bathroom. Jackson sat on the bed when I emerged, feet flexing on the plush rug.
“Morning,” he offered a steaming cup of coffee, blond and bitter, perfect.
“You’re a god. Thank you,” I said, reaching for the mug and inhaling. “Were you on the phone? Everything okay?”
He tensed, “Yeah, Maddox, work stuff, it’s nothing.” Then his expression shifted, “So,” eyes trailed down my pajama-clad body, “we finally have a day off together.”
“Finally,” I smiled back and sipped. It was hot and delicious.
“What ever could we do?” he teased, eyes flaring.
I giggled. He stood and slowly took back the cup, setting it on the nightstand. It was cold before I picked it up again.
Later, after an extended shower, we went downstairs for food and more coffee. Rounding the banister, I saw a huge bouquet on the breakfast bar—snapdragons, asters, and daisies.
“Awe,” I said, glancing at Jackson, “what’s this for?”
“First year of residency! One down, two to go… then you can work reasonable hours,” he sounded bitter. I turned quickly and caught his angry grimace. He relaxed as my eyes fell on him.
“That’s sweet, Jackson, thank you,” I pushed away my trepidation.
I walk into the examination room—last appointment of the day. The beautifully inked woman on the table grins as I enter.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Kaels.”
“Gemma,” she brushes back a lock of hair with a tattooed sleeve.
I smile at her eagerness, “Congratulations. Home tests are fairly accurate these days, but confirmation is nice. We can do an ultrasound today to hear the heartbeat.”
She nods furiously, “I can’t wait to tell my boyfriend. When can we see if it’s a boy or a girl?”
I walk Gemma through what care she can expect, and we listen to healthy, whooshing sounds. All appears well, but the appointment carries an eerie familiarity. I retreat to my office to finalize notes. Gazing over my monitor, I can barely see the blue-on-blue horizon through treetops. I can’t wait to walk the beach and let the sea wash away my memories.
“When was the start of your last cycle?” I asked as we waited for my patient’s labs.
“Um,” Kayleigh closed her eyes, a tattooed hand falling across her forehead, “almost three months, but they’re never regular.”
The computer dinged. Positive. I turned to her, “Labs confirm you are pregnant.” Her eyes widened. “We can do an ultrasound right now, if you’d like,” I added quickly.
She pulled her shirt high, revealing a faded and blurring tattoo following the curve of her hip. When heartbeats filled the exam room, her eyes teared, “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Maddy.”
“Maddy is…” I asked.
“Boyfriend. Well, his name is Maddox, but I call him Maddy.”
“Well,” I kept my voice even, there were plenty of Maddoxes in Denver, right? “I’ll be happy to meet him if he’s at your next visit.”
I ended the appointment and texted Jackson. We had a date. After weeks, our schedules finally aligned.
“What do you think of Maine?” I asked across a candle-lit table.
Jackson’s eyes narrowed, “We’re established here.”
“Or Pennsylvania? It’s not Virgina, but there’s a position I can apply for and plenty of law firms could use your expertise.”
“Why do you want to leave? You like Colorado.”
“A picture from that trip to the Outer Banks came up as a ‘memory’ in my photos toda…”
“I’m invested here,” he grasped my wrist. “Me being at Domhall and Evans affords you a quality of life you wouldn’t otherwise see. I owe them loyalty, and you owe me for putting you through medical school.”
“Jacks, I’ll be licensed to practice medicine in almost any state. The plan was…”
“Plans change, Jazmine. We’re staying.” His expression was cold, foreign, and the intensity of his grip left bruises. It was a gut punch.
I close the office and look at my phone. I don’t have anyone to text, no one to tell I’m headed home. I’ll get in my car, drive to my cottage, and eat alone. Still, I prefer this to being controlled.
Crossing the lot, I scan cars. Everything looks familiar—Dr. Hodges lifted Blazer, Samantha’s blue Corvette, Kal the night custodian’s Prius. I get in my Nissan and drive toward the exit but slam the brakes. A dark car speeds past me, so close I inhale sharply. I look after it. It’s older and the finish is dulled.
“Jazz, coffee’s ready.”
“Thank you,” I trotted downstairs. “Sorry I crashed so hard last night.” I reached for the cup Jackson handed me, noticing his roughened knuckles.
“When I found you asleep, I went to the gym. Once you’re done with residency, you’ll have convenient hours.” It was a command.
I brushed it aside. He knew nine-months-pregnant women didn’t keep to business hours. “They’re planning another wildlife overpass on 70,” I gestured to the morning news to distract myself.
Jackson squinted at me before turning to the screen. The overpass headline scrolled across the bottom. I slotted a bagel into the toaster as a breaking news graphic appeared.
“Investigators identified the woman found yesterday along the South Platte in north Denver,” a reporter said over an image of the victim’s name and photograph. “Detectives tell ABC News 25-year-old Kayleigh Jones suffered numerous injuries to her face and neck. Her death is being investigated as a homicide.”
“Oh,” I said, but couldn’t muster more. I’d seen patients die but never by murder.
I wake early now, even on weekends. Sometimes I walk the beach or cliffs before others are out. The solitude is peaceful, the waves a slow-motion metronome syncing my now with my before, omitting everything between. Today, I warm myself with herbal tea. I can’t stomach coffee anymore. It was too much a part of “us.”
Scents of the sea greet me as I step outside. It’s trash day. I round the corner to pull my bins to the curb but stop short. They’re askew. Prickles sting my neck. I know they were straight when I got home. If they’re out of place, there’s not enough room between them and the fence to drive into the garage. I peer around, listening through the mists. Nothing. Racoons maybe? At night, I see them fence running. They’re big enough to move the bins. I tell myself I’m being silly, pull the trash to the curb, and wind my way to the beach… but thoughts of displaced garbage cans linger.
The bins stood alone, crooked, in the middle of the driveway. Jackson was gone, rushed off when Maddox called. It turns out, Maddox wasn’t such an uncommon name after all. After finishing the trash chore, I drove to work. I had time to check with Legal for advice about Kayleigh Jones before my shift. Hospital attorneys would be present for any interview detectives might have, but because my employment was in transition, they advised retaining my own counsel.
I almost pulled up Jackson’s number but paused. He represented Maddox. Given, a criminal defense team would likely take over, but it was still a conflict of interest for him to represent me. I swiped to an internet search and, later, took lunch off-campus.
A black BMW pulled along the curb outside Rocky Mountain Root Beer. The Beamer was out of place amongst the aging, road-rusted vehicles in this part of town. The soda shop was a silly place to meet, but one where I was sure to avoid Jackson’s coworkers.
A man in a suit stepped out, “Dr. Kaels?”
I nodded.
“Byron Getz.”
Inside, in a back booth, I explained the situation—in hypotheticals. He assured me hospital representation would likely suffice. Nonetheless, his retainer was minimal and a good idea, “Just to CYA,” as he put it.
I paid him from my personal account—the new one Jackson didn’t know about.
I stare out the windshield blankly, car beeping for me to engage the safety belt, and contemplate my dismal finances. A physician’s salary is large… but so is seven years’ worth of student loans. A loud crack sounds next to me and my heartbeat slams into my ears. I jolt and duck away from the side window, ready to crawl out the passenger side.
“Shit!” comes a frustrated voice.
Movement in the mirror shows a body stoop to pick something off the ground. My heartrate eases. Over my shoulder, I see Joe Kaplan inspecting a dirt-speckled Stanley cup. My face falls to my hands, and I force myself to breathe.
“Oh, hey, Jazmine,” he says. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I open the window, “just a jump scare.”
He smiles then looks more intently, “You sure? You’re pale.”
“Yeah, long day.”
“Okay,” he opens his door and deposits his bag and the Stanley. “My sister and I are going to King’s Arms tonight. You’re welcome to join, seven-thirty.”
“Thanks, Joe, maybe I will,” I buckle and back out. As I ease onto the street, that same, rusted car is across from the parking lot. The rust is odd.
“How long does it take for a paternity test?” Jackson sat abruptly next to me on the couch.
My eyes whipped to him, “What?”
“You’re a doctor, right? You deal with pregnant people! How long?”
His anger threw me, “Uh… depends on the lab. A week or two… sometimes three.”
“A week!” his nostrils flared.
“Why?”
“Work. Can’t talk about it.”
“How’s Maddox?”
“Attorney-client privilege.”
“I’m not asking an attorney about his client. I’m asking my husband about our friend.”
“He’ll be fine,” Jackson stood and stalked to the entryway. “I’m going for a run.”
My phone vibrates on the plastic table. I usually eat in my office but don’t want to be alone. Sometimes solitude is what I need. Sometimes it’s scary.
My phone buzzes again. I don’t recognize the number. Spam. Deleting the message, I chew my sandwich and stare aimlessly. I got a text from an unknown number that day. The day everything changed.
I shake my head and draw my eyes back to the present. A pink bakery box sits alone on a center table, the remaining frosted sheet cake reads, “…ulations… …r. Ruiz!”
“Help yourself!” is scrawled on a nearby note. A pair of nurses a few tables away eat cake while they talk, but I can’t stop remembering.
I stayed in the examination room, hurriedly finishing my last notes of the day. I didn’t accept the hospital’s full-time offer. Admin said I could have a week before they moved on. I couldn’t say yes without discussing things with Jackson—if he would even talk with me about it. He worked late every night and was beyond grumpy whenever we were together.
Compartmentalization was the only skill getting me through each day. I finalized notes and logged out, heading to the locker room. Eyes down, I rounded the nurses’ station.
“Surprise!” sang a chorus of voices.
I looked up to a wall of smiles and a nurse holding a bakery box, lid open, “Congratulations,” written in buttercream. Parties for third-year residents had been happening for weeks. We laughed and chatted and ate cake—a few more minutes when I didn’t have to think about difficult conversations with Jackson.
I looked through the reception window into the lobby. Byron Getz stood inside the entrance, face pale and pained. His gaze met mine. He swallowed hard, waved for me to come out. He told me right there in the hospital… sick strangers all around… me in scrubs and white lab coat, “Dr. Kaels” embroidered on the lapel. My retainer would be needed.
Byron ushered me along the walk to my front door. In the living room, I threw my phone and purse down as I sank into the couch.
“Spill. Why do I need you?”
“Maddox Clemmons is dead.”
“What?” I sat straight.
“Found dead this morning.”
“No… how?”
“My source said he fired his legal team, was going to tell all he knew—something about corruption and trafficking. Police are interviewing all his associates. I understand you and your husband were friends with him.”
“But Jackson is his attorney, certainly he has… had attorney-client privilege.”
“You don’t.”
My phone buzzed on the coffee table. I grabbed it—a text from an unknown number. A preview window showed the first few seconds of a video, a darkened room, two bodies dancing. A woman… crop top, slow-slung jeans. A man… pin-striped button-up. I froze. I knew that shirt. As the couple danced and rubbed against one another, they turned. My stomach plummeted. Jackson. The preview looped.
“Dr. Kaels?” Byron said, but I didn’t hear what came next.
I tapped the video full screen. Jackson danced with the woman, grinding to the beat. She lifted her head and threw back her hair. Kayleigh. It was Jackson and Kayleigh. “Jackson.”
“Pardon?”
I looked back at the video. She turned away from the camera. There it was, the hip tattoo. Even in the grainy video, it looked new. This video was old.
“It’s my husband… and Kayleigh Jones,” I tilted the screen toward him.
Byron’s eyes widened.
My keys clink loudly in the dish on my nightstand. I always keep them close now. I had to leave, I tell myself. The numbness that crept through my body at seeing the video returns. It happens occasionally on days like this when so many things remind me of Jackson. I had to go.
I stumbled down the stairs, half asleep. Byron knocked again, loudly. It wasn’t sixteen hours since he left. Opening the door, I squinted into the harsh summer sunlight.
“Dr. Kaels, is your husband here?”
“No, he didn’t come home last night.”
“Please, may I come in?”
I stepped aside, still dazed. He locked the door behind him. Blinking, I followed him to the kitchen where he opened cabinets. I was still too sleepy to help. He found two glasses and filled them with cold water.
“Sit,” he pointed to a stool. I did. “Drink,” he pushed a glass to me. I did. “What I’m going to tell you could get me in a lot of trouble.”
“Okaaay?” my thinking was fogged.
“Kayleigh was pregnant.”
“I know. I told you that.”
“You said she called her boyfriend Maddox.”
“Yeah, when detectives interviewed Maddox, I thought it was because intimate partners are always suspects,” I shrugged. “But I’d never met her… the cops likely have paternity results back.”
“Not Maddox, but maybe Jackson.”
“What?”
“They arrested Jackson yesterday.”
“What?”
“Dr. Kaels, you need to leave town.”
“Why?”
“The video yesterday? It came from Maddox’s burner phone. It was auto-scheduled. Maddox stopped it from sending every day until… he couldn’t.”
“It can’t be Jackson…” my urge to defend him, to soothe him began… until I thought of the video, his increasing anger, the condescension and controlling behavior, his insistence we stay in Denver. “But her boyfriend’s name is Maddox…”
“This is her number for ‘Maddy,’” he handed me his phone, picture of a contact list displayed.
It was Jackson’s cell. Jackson not Maddox.
“You need to leave before Jackson makes bail. Someone killed Kayleigh. Someone killed Maddox.”
I’m paralyzed. A scream sticks in my chest. Help! I try forcing it. Nothing. I go limp. Night terror. It’s a night terror. Don’t yell. Don’t run. Move a finger, just a tiny twitch. I move my pinky finger, a slight spasm against my cheek. Wakefulness surges through my body.
I suck in air. Lids whip open. Eyes jump panicky around the room. I’m alone. Sheets are twisted. Sweat clings to my skin like pond scum to rocks. Air gusts through my lips. I calm my heartbeat. In. Out. Leaning against the headboard, I close my eyes. I want to sleep but know I won’t.
Resigning myself to an early morning, I swing my legs to the floor and flounder for slippers. After tea, I dress in warm clothes and slip out the front. The eastern sky is lightening but the sun isn’t up yet and fog lays thick and low.
I glance along the street. All is quiet. Visibility is bad but increasing as dawn nears. I cross the street and take the alley. Emerging, I turn my back on the sunrise and head to the barricaded dead end and the trailhead. I hope high tide isn’t blocking beach access.
Something twinges in my thoughts, almost too subtle to notice. I pause, look around. All looks right. I continue. The feeling hits again. I look behind me. Nothing. The night terror, I tell myself and hustle to cross the street.
An engine roars. Tires spin. Sand and pebbles bounce over pavement. I startle and sprint for the sidewalk. A dark shape blurs towards me. I leap. The car launches over the curb and hits empty trash bins with a crack. I shriek.
The car rockets back onto the street, narrowly missing a tree. Brake lights turn the mists crimson. A squeal of rubber on blacktop cuts through the dampened morning. Gravel rumbles. A crunch of metal on metal shakes my bones. Then nothing. No sound. No lights.
I hold my breath. The thud of an impact rolls over the cliff-edge, followed by another… more silence. A thunderous wave crashes into the cliff face. Cold Pacific water hisses against hot engine metal.
I sit in the station, staring at ornamental plums in the parking lot. Byron is on the phone. My California attorney sits nearby. Sometime after the rusted car nearly killed me, the fog burned off. Investigators won’t identify who was inside, but Byron says cops have been searching for Jackson for weeks. I saw the coroner’s van arrive before an officer brought me here.
I’m tired of police rooms, exhausted from describing horrible things. My attorneys reassure me the worst is over. No trial, no more interrogations. I’m free—of Jackson, of fear—free to go anywhere.
It’s mid-afternoon when we finally say goodbye to Byron and the local attorney walks me out of the station. My eyes are dazzled by bright sunlight. There, leaning on the tailgate of his SUV, arms crossed over this chest, is Joe Kaplan.
“Jazzie? You okay?”
“Joe? What… are you doing here?”
“Woke to cops on my street… saw you in the cruiser. They told me what happened. Thought you might need a ride home or… company?”
My lawyer glances between us then stares at me, asking if I’m okay. I nod, “Sure, Joe. Thanks.”
Aisling M. Albright
Aisling M. Albright was born a storyteller. From writing news articles in her journalism career to research articles in her science career, storytelling was always at the forefront of Albright’s work. Now, she brings that passion to fiction, a genre precious to her since childhood.