42. Clarity in Chaos

42

Clarity in Chaos

Brighton

Saturday, June 10 th

8:09 a.m.

It's in his eyes.

The walls he's built to protect himself.

A way to block the pain.

It's come to the surface before, but this time, it's different. There's something deeper, something he's not prepared to confess. And I get it; we're scared to be vulnerable because of things that have been used against us in the past. Our softness, once judged as weakness, our compassion reduced to pity.

And despite how I reacted seconds before, he's back to his usual self.

"I don't know where to start." He takes a seat beside me and gives an uncomfortable chuckle before he clears his throat. He stares over my head, and I follow his gaze to the front door.

Once again, I think about the flapping, yellow caution tape, and it steals my breath. I fight my climbing anxiety and try to focus on the moment, on Dax.

"I hate them," he says through clenched teeth. "All of them." He continues to stare as his jaw ticks.

"Who's them?" I urge, after giving him a couple of seconds to gather himself.

"Cops. Detectives."

This explains a lot. I figured his hostile reaction to Derrick was because of how he was treating me, but now I'm having second thoughts.

"They wouldn't let me see him. I had to wait for hours. Question after question. When they brought out the bodies"—he pinches his eyes closed and drops his head into his hands, jabbing a finger into his chest as his voice cracks—"they thought it was me."

My chest tightens. I was not expecting this. I step toward the living room to our right and offer my hand, hoping to guide him to the sofa, but he ignores it.

"Liam found them. But I should have been there first. I would have been if I wasn't being a selfish asshole." His tone wavers as tears fill his eyes. He tears his gaze from mine and shoves his hands through his hair, pulling it in different directions.

"I'm sure he doesn't see it like that."

"He says he doesn't blame me, but you should've seen his face. I don't think I can ever get it out of my mind. It looked like a home invasion at first. They figured my mom had come home before my dad and surprised the intruders because they found her in the kitchen, and when he got there, he got a gunshot to the chest as he walked through the door. And the cops thought I could do something like that." He jabs himself in the chest again and closes his eyes. "I know the people closest to the victims are usually the first suspects, but it still felt wrong. It wasn't the cops' fault; they were just doing their job. But every time I see them, it brings back memories from that night."

I want to say something, but normal thoughts evade me.

"It's still unsolved." His voice cracks on the last word, and his nostrils flare as he fights back tears.

"My. God. Dax." I cover my mouth with my hand. I picture him hearing his parents are gone. See him cuffed and escorted to the back of a cop car. Seated behind a metal table in an interrogation room. This is unbelievable. A knot forms in my throat, and I want to cry for him. I feel selfish, as if what I'm feeling about what happened last night could ever compare to what he's been through. "I'm so sorry."

"Whoever it was went through her purse, took my dad's wallet—and somehow, I was their number one suspect." He shakes his head. "Because I was too busy to be there. If I had gotten home twenty minutes earlier, I would have gotten there first; they'd still be alive, and Liam would still have them."

"But he wouldn't have you."

He rubs his fingers into his eyes. "And he'd be better off."

"Don't say that."

He clears his throat. "He was alone. I did that to him."

I graze a hand along his arm, lacing my fingers through his. His account of how things took place is a lot to process. "It's not your fault."

"Five years later," he chuckles. "I'm still not convinced."

"You couldn't have stopped what happened."

"I know that now, but there's the chance I could have changed things. I should have been there for Liam. Afterward, I checked out. Started drinking. Turned into a version of myself I never want to see again." He hangs his head in defeat. "That's what Liam's worried about. He doesn't think I can handle things when they get tough. I want to prove him wrong, but sometimes I'm scared he'd be right."

"You won't let that happen." A pang of guilt weighs heavy in my chest. I can't imagine losing my family like that. My discomfort about the scene outside seems ridiculous now.

"Man, that's a relief." He stands and hops from foot to foot like a boxer, shaking out his hands. "I didn't realize how good it would feel to talk about it, get it off my chest."

Silence permeates the foyer. We both glance at the door.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Ready." The heavy, wet scent of his laundry detergent wafts into my nose, and I close my eyes, taking in all of him. "I have a dryer."

"Oh, shit," he says, giving me a lopsided smile.

I pull him after me. "I'll grab you a towel."

He freezes and yanks me to a stop. "I'm fine. I can change at home." He takes the hem of his shirt and billows it out, making a gust of air blow up beneath it. He's right. Dax in no clothes could be a problem.

"Why don't you talk to me about Liam?" I ask, changing the subject. I need to hear him say it. I need him to explain why he refuses to let me help him, even if it doesn't matter anymore.

"To avoid this." The Adam's apple in Dax's throat bobs up and down as he runs the pad of his thumb across my cheek. "I hate that look in your eyes."

I drop my gaze and wait for two, three, ten seconds. "I know what you're going through."

"And I'm fine." He stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, pulling his shoulders to his ears.

"You don't have to hide from me." Liam is stubborn, but Dax takes the meaning of the word to a whole new level.

"I'm not hiding." He winks, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he readjusts his ball cap. He cups my face as he looks me in the eye. "He needs you. And that's all that matters."

"I know."

"But you sorta messed things up."

"What?" I suck in a deep breath, my heartbeat a strike of a hammer in my ears. Letting go of myself and feeding into my emotions was a bad idea. I knew it.

"I did want to do this." He litters my face with kisses—everywhere except my lips.

"Stop! Patient-doctor line, remember?" I push against his chest, giving him a playful swat, but he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer.

"And whose fault is that?" He returns to pecking my cheeks, nose, and eyelids. I giggle, surprised by his sudden show of affection. "Point."

"That's not fair." I push at him, trying to create some space.

"I'm winning." He takes my hand and pulls open the door.

"For now."

The breeze whirls around us, making my skin crawl. The yellow caution tape flaps in the wind, and a floating sensation settles over me. The moment doesn't seem real; it's like we're teetering with one foot in the present and one foot in the past.

I swallow the nauseous feeling climbing my throat as I pinch my eyes closed and focus on the feeling of his hand holding mine, holding me together. My heart all but stops beating as he pulls me out the door and onto the landing.

He gives me an encouraging smile. With a shaking, horrified breath, I force my eyes to his and smile back. He squeezes my hand as if seeing me smile is reassuring. Like, maybe I'm okay.

But I'm not.

I don't think I'll ever be okay again.

The breeze whips my hair across my face, and I drop my hand from Dax's, brushing the loose strands behind my ears.

"Dr. Fields," a voice comes from the sidewalk, and I turn to see who it's coming from. "I should have figured you'd be around. Seems like trouble follows wherever you go."

Nausea tosses my stomach. The control it takes me not to turn and flee is all-consuming.

Dax's forehead scrunches like he isn't sure what he's seeing. At the last second, he grabs me and shoves me behind him, shielding me with his body. "No comment."

"I've heard that before," Chris Jenks' snarky voice says as he climbs my steps.

"She doesn't know anything." Dax steps back, forcing me against the door.

Jenks doesn't look convinced.

"Let me talk to him," I say, making my way out from behind Dax's body.

The surprised, smug look on Jenks' face doesn't go unnoticed. He holds up a mic, waving his cameraman in our direction.

I wrap my arms over my chest. "This is off the record."

"Nope, we don't do that." Jenks straightens his sports coat as the cameraman climbs the remaining steps.

"Then this conversation is over." I plod across the landing, pretending I have nothing to say. Dax guards me as I twist the handle and wait for Jenks to change his mind.

"Fine, off the record. But he's got to go." Jenks points the mic at Dax as he turns.

My eyes meet Dax's as I take a couple of steps away from him, and he shakes his head, trying to convince me to let him stay and for me to keep my mouth shut. But four women have been murdered. Three of them work at my hospital. The cops have no leads. And I need to send someone a message.

"Not happening." Dax's voice is thick from a lack of sleep as he grabs the crook of my arm and pulls me back toward him.

I place a hand over Dax's and squeeze. "I'll be fine."

"I don't like it."

"You don't have to. I need to do this," I say, my voice unsteady. I take a peek over my shoulder, once again finding the caution tape flapping as a reminder that I need to do everything I can to ensure there are no more victims.

"I'm watching from inside," Dax threatens. His nostrils flare as he steps around me, poking Jenks in the chest.

Jenks stumbles back, almost tripping off the landing before he catches his balance. "It's only a few questions."

Dax retreats to the door and toes the cement, not wanting to cross the threshold and leave me out here alone but slams the door after I give him a reassuring nod.

Jenks doesn't waste time. He relaxes just enough for me to notice. His wheels start turning. "Do you have any idea who's behind the murders?" He glances over my shoulder, and I follow his gaze to find Dax staring at us from the window beside the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

"No," I lie, copying Dax's posture.

"Three women from your hospital, and there are no leads?" He laughs, but it's a serious question.

"Correct." The idea that Kline is behind these pops into my thoughts, but I push it into the recesses of my mind, where I keep the idea of him being involved locked up tight. I still don't want to admit to myself that he could be involved.

"Did you know the recent victim?" he pulls a notepad from his breast pocket, his eyes scanning the page. "Tara Perez?"

"Briefly. Did you?"

Jenks jerks back as if I've slapped him. "Of course not."

"Are you sure? It's convenient, you being at the scene of each crime."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "I'm a news anchor. I take all the big cases."

"I thought the peons had to go on scene." I lift a hand against the glaring sun, trying to keep an eye on him and read his body language.

He says nothing as he stands there with his jaw clenched, staring at me.

Sweat beads along my brow, reminding me I didn't actually sleep much last night. I lay awake watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Dax's chest as he dozed off and on next to me, one hand clasping onto mine.

I steal a peek behind me. There's no movement from inside, but I can feel Dax watching me. Watching us. I press a trembling hand to my forehead. It's at this moment I admit to myself that I have no clue what to do or say.

Jenks stalks toward me with intensity, forcing me to move backward until he reaches me, his proximity pinning me against the railing. He's so close I have to tip my head up to look at him.

"I see what you're trying to do. We're done here." He twists his pointer finger in the air in a circle, the cameraman not needing to be told twice. "If you think of anything or you'd like to stop trying to run your own investigation, you know where to find me." He plods down the steps with the mic hung at his side.

"Wait!"

Jenks entertains my request but doesn't turn to face me.

"I know."

An exaggerated breath leaves his mouth, and he shakes his head as he continues down the sidewalk without a word.

"About Margo."

That gets him to pause. He takes his time turning. "And?"

"Your involvement in Kline's divorce."

"I don't know Kline."

"But you're more than friendly with the woman who's raking him over the coals." I follow him as an idea flickers through my mind.

"She has nothing to do with this," he says, impatient. He drags a hand over his face and drifts back to me, leaving a couple of feet between us.

"But you know who does." There is a piece of this that he has, and I don't. And I'm not going to let him leave until I know what it is.

"I have a theory," he says, one punctuated word at a time. A woman with a white poodle walks past us, and Jenks smiles, tipping his head in her direction.

Other reporters notice our conversation. A couple of them closing in from a few brownstones away. The sound of neighbors in and out, the commotion of the street waking up and getting around fills the stagnant air as the morning comes to life after the chaos of last night.

His cameraman leans against the news van, steadying his camera on his knee, yawning at the lack of action.

"I'll talk," I say as I point at the camera. "You have one minute." I'm almost convinced I have no other choice—if I want to get my point across to a specific someone and let on that I know what's happening. I haven't been able to help in other ways. Maybe this will benefit the cases. I need to do this, even if it risks making things more complicated. This might be my only chance.

Jenks perks up, nodding his head at the man without hesitation. He lifts his mic, and his gaze follows mine in Dax's direction. But Dax is nowhere to be seen.

"You need to make it quick," I say, twirling the ring on my pinkie finger.

I stare into the camera and clear my throat as Jenks lifts his mic, the words rolling off his tongue. "We're here live at the location where a fourth body was found under suspicious circumstances. Authorities are saying this is the work of a serial killer. We have it on good authority that they're getting information from someone on the inside . . ."

The world tilts. And everything unravels. What have I done?