After I rattle off my home address and date of birth, she thanks me and says, “You are listed as Richard Thompson’s next of kin. We need you to come in, please.”
My heart pounds against my ribcage and my breathing becomes labored—out of fear or hope, I haven’t determined. “Did something happen to my husband?”
“Unfortunately, we can’t give any information over the phone. We’re going to need you to come in.”
“Okay,” I say, robotically standing and finding clothes to put on. I’m about to head to the hospital when Celeste’s earlier words come back to me: “Jase and I will be here for you, no matter what…If you need anything, call me.” I don’t know how, but something tells me I’m going to need my family.
Not wanting to wake up Celeste and Jase since they have two little ones, I dial my brother Jax’s number. He answers on the first ring, his voice groggy from sleep.
“I need you,” I whisper.
Twenty minutes later, he picks me up and we head over to the hospital. When I get to the front desk, I give the receptionist my husband’s name, and she gives me directions on where to go. As we step around the corner, I spot her. Blond hair, petite body, perky, young breasts. Sylvia, my husband’s secretary-slash-mistress is sitting on the couch of the waiting room, bawling her eyes out. I’ve seen her a few times when I visit Rick at work, but he’s never formally introduced us. I only knew she was his secretary by her name because she always answers the phone when I call.
Averting my gaze, I walk straight over to the desk I was told to go to and give them Rick’s name. The woman types on the keyboard for several seconds before her eyes meet mine and she gives me a look of sympathy mixed with sadness. “The police have requested to speak with you.” She stands and walks me over to the two men in uniform. Both are standing in the corner, near the coffee machine, but only one is drinking a cup of coffee.
“This is Richard Thompson’s wife,” she says, and both men’s eyes widen.
When neither of them say anything, Jax loses his patience. “Can someone please tell us what the hell is going on?”
“Yes, sir,” the cop, who was just drinking the coffee, says. “We received a call tonight about a man who was held at gunpoint.” My body begins to tremble as I take in the words he’s saying.
Pulling me into his side, Jax asks, “What happened?”
“A homeless man, under the influence and armed with a stolen weapon, approached your husband when he was getting into his vehicle. According to the witness—”
“What witness?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear him say it.
The cop without the coffee, frowns. “The woman who was walking with your husband to his vehicle.”
“Who?” I push. My hands fist at my sides in frustration.
“We’re not at liberty to say, as the case is still under investigation,” the cop with the coffee says, but his eyes dart over to where Sylvia is sitting. I nod once to thank him, and he grants me a sad smile.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the cop without the coffee says. “According to the witness, your husband was asked for his wallet when they were coming out of the restaurant. Unaware the man had a gun, he told him no, and when he turned his back to get into his vehicle, he was shot from behind. The man took off, and the woman called nine-one-one. He was brought in, but didn’t make it through surgery.”
Jax’s arm around me tightens, and when I look over, his gaze is flitting from the officers to Sylvia. He’s putting the pieces together.
Liar. Cheater. Asshole.
“Did you catch the man who shot him?” I ask.
“We did. We found him shooting up on the corner. He wasn’t even trying to hide. He’s been arrested, and is being held, while we complete the investigation, but we wanted to be here to tell you what happened ourselves.”
“Thank you,” I tell the cops, fully aware my voice isn’t even cracking. This is the part where I’m supposed to cry. Even though my marriage was in shambles, and my husband hated me and was cheating on me, I should still feel something. Anything. I was with him for just over four years—married for almost three of them. Surely, that has to amount to at least a tear. But standing here, in the hallway of the hospital, I can’t conjure up a single damn drop of moisture. Maybe it really is possible to run out of tears…
And then I hear sobs coming from behind me. I look back over at Sylvia. Her tiny body is shaking uncontrollably. That should be me, I tell myself. I should be the one crying like my life is over. I’m pregnant, and my husband is dead.