Chapter 1
I take a deep breath. It doesn't do much to calm me. A fresh wave of tears streams down my cheeks. I take another long look into his blue eyes. No matter how hard I search them, they’re flat and devoid of what I’m looking for.
A spark. Recognition. Life.
I miss the way his face lit up when he looked at me. The playful twinkle in his eyes when we spotted each other across a crowded room.
I clutch the framed picture to my chest wishing it was him, warm and in the flesh instead of just a moment in time, an image captured and held in cold, hard glass. What I wouldn’t give for one more touch. One more kiss. One more chance to say I love you.
Missing him hurts. It’s destroying me. Everything I do, everywhere I look, reminders of him tease and torment me. Memories bombard and overwhelm me.
*
I glance at the oven clock. Shit. I’m running late with dinner. I’m making Mike’s favorite, lasagna. I usually save it for holidays and special occasions. But Mike’s starting a new job next week and has spent his week off helping around the house. I want him to know how much I appreciate it. I just didn’t expect to hit so much traffic on the way home from the grocery store.
Apparently something big happened at the bank. Streets were closed off as sirens blared, and emergency vehicles raced to scene. Mike had some errands to run today, but this craziness in town seems to have delayed him, too. If I’m lucky I’ll finish preparing dinner before he gets home.
The doorbell rings.
I jump. Bumps cover my skin. For some reason it sounds five times louder than normal. It breaks the unnatural silence in the house. It’s a rare moment when my eleven year old isn’t raising hell. He’s not blasting his music. Doesn’t have the television or gaming system turned up to deafening levels.
My breath is caught in my throat at the sight of the two officers on the other side of the door.
“Mrs. Doherty?” The taller officer asks.
No! I’ve seen this on television and in movies. I’ve read about it. No. No. No fucking way! NO!
Neither man looks comfortable, or happy. Both officers remove their hats from their heads.
“May we come inside?”
NO! My brain screams.
Tears fill my eyes as blackness creeps in from every angle. My brain can’t process. My heart is about to explode. My lungs don’t want to pull in air. My body knows and now, with the blackness overtaking everything else, it’s shutting down.
*
Two years have passed, but it isn’t any easier. The pain is fresh. Sharp. His loss devastates me as much today as it did when I first found out Mike had been shot in the head and killed in a bank robbery.
Mike shouldn't even have been there. That’s the real bitch of it. Payroll goofed when he left his job and instead of depositing his last check electronically, they cut him a paper check. Bills were due before he’d get paid again from the new job he hadn’t even started yet. My husband wasn’t one to trust technology. Especially with banking.
"Mom," Timmy calls from the other side of my bedroom door. "Are you okay?"
I sniffle and try to pull myself together. The key word is try.
"Yes, sweetheart. I'm just tired."
I hate lying to him, but he's taken his father's death so hard, I don't want to stir up any pain.
"Can I come in?"
"Um." I clear my throat, blow my nose and wipe my eyes. "Sure."
The door creaks open. My son doesn't move. He stands at the entrance to my bedroom, and evaluates me.
"You're not tired, you've been crying."
"I'm fine, Timmy. Really. I'm just a little emotional."
He nods as he approaches the bed and sits at the edge.
"I'm going to find a way to kill that fucker."
"Timmy! Your language!" I scold.
"Fuck my language. That dick killed Dad, and when I'm old enough I'm going to hunt him down, cut his balls off and kill him."
Maybe I should be grateful that my son wants to avenge his father’s wrongful death. Maybe it will motivate him to do something great with his future. Perhaps he’ll want to serve and protect the innocent and go into law enforcement. I should be proud.
I’m not. Instead I’m terrified. I’m scared to death of losing him, too.
"Sweetheart, I know you miss your father. I do, too. But he wouldn't want you to sacrifice all the good things you have yet to come in your life for revenge. He'd want you to become all you can be."
"Dad taught me to stand up for what’s right. He said I should never be afraid to what I need to, as long as I’m on the right side of the issue."
"Yes,” I nod. “But you're talking about murder. There’s nothing right about killing someone."
“There is if it saves lives.”
Timmy says it so matter of fact and emotionless. His words send shivers down my spine. I understand where my son is coming from. I'd like nothing more than to put a bullet into the bastard's head myself, but I can't risk jail time and being separated from my son. Timmy is the only thing that makes life bearable. I have to trust in the system.
"He's behind bars. He's never coming out. Let him rot there like the piece of shit he is."
"That isn't enough. I want him to suffer the way we do. Besides, you don’t know if he’ll get paroled. And then what? Huh? Dad will still be dead and he’ll be able to live. To have a life. "
Timmy doesn’t talk much about his feelings. He doesn’t show that the pain of losing his father is like an open chest wound. Wearing emotions on the sleeve, that’s my specialty, and I see firsthand the effect it’s having on my son.
"Get over here."
I sit back, lean against the headboard, and stretch my arms open for my son.
He shakes his head. “I’m not a kid, Mom. A hug isn’t going to fix what’s wrong with me.”
Not what I needed to hear right now. He’s right. He’s not a kid. But he’ll always be my baby. I’ll always want to mother him. Love him. Protect him. Hugs are just a natural consequence of those other things.