End of Eternity 1 Page 2

  I’m right here, Carmen. I’ll always be with you, my love. For eternity.

  “Carmen, honey?” Dad says softly. “The police are here. They need to ask you a few questions.”

  My face is smashed into my pillow. My entire body feels like lead.

  “Sweetheart,” he says again, with a gentle shake of my shoulder. “Just a few minutes and this will be over. They need a statement.”

  I wince, for even the tiny shake causes my tender breasts to be jostled against my fortress of pillows. The infernal mounds of flesh are so sensitive that it hurts even to wear clothes. It doesn’t help that I dozed off wearing my bra, and the underwire is digging into my chest like a metal cage. I feel trapped in my own uncomfortable body, like a gigantic pregnant cow.

  Don’t think like that, Carm, Grayson’s disembodied voice whispers into my ear. I can almost feel his hand trailing along my side. You’re more beautiful than ever. Your skin is as soft as silk, and your hair smells like strawberries.

  “Carmen,” my dad says firmly. “Can you please get up? I’m going to grab your purse to show the detective your identification.”

  I take a deep breath. I try to force myself to move, but I can’t seem to find the willpower. Even though I was freezing cold when I came to bed, I now feel too hot. A thin film of sweat covers my neck, and I squirm in my cocoon, stuffy and overheated. I think I vaguely recall that Grayson wanted to be cremated. It’s unfortunate; we never had a chance to pick out matching decorative urns or a fancy couples’ headstone. It’s not something you really talk about when you get married in your twenties.

  How soon until I have to shove my husband’s body into an oven? Is he already being toasted and simmered in the fires of hell? Maybe I can feel some of his pain, and that’s why I’m burning up. My therapist told me that our male partners can experience a sympathetic pregnancy, and that might explain some of Grayson’s strange health issues and insomnia. Is it possible for me to experience a sympathetic death? I do feel like I am being cooked alive in a furnace.

  My father returns to my bedside. “Sweetheart, can you come talk to the detective?” he prods again. I can tell that there is a little anxiety in his voice.

  My feet ache. My back aches. I’m just a mess on the inside and out. “I can’t,” I finally manage to croak.

  “You have to,” he informs me. “It’s standard procedure. The detective just needs to rule out any possibilities other than suicide.”

  Prying my eyes open, I squint up at my father. “What other possibilities?” I snap. “Did they not see the rope around his neck and the ladder kicked onto the ground? It sure as hell wasn’t natural causes.”

  “Carmen,” my father says hesitantly. He looks caught somewhere between reprimanding me and backing away in fear from my hormonal fury. He sighs. “Let me see what I can do.”

  I stare after him as he walks away. The detective is standing by my bedroom door, and I can hear their muffled voices traveling back to me.

  “This has all been a serious ordeal for her,” Dad tells the detective in apology. “My daughter has already been having a difficult pregnancy due to stress. Can she give her statement another time?”

  “She could, but it might be easier to get this over with now,” the detective says kindly. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll be fast. I just need have a few words with her alone.”

  My father nods reluctantly and moves away from the door, and the detective begins walking into my bedroom. At first, his face is obscured by the shadows of the doorway, but soon I can make out his dark hair and broad shoulders. For a moment, I can swear that I see Grayson’s eyes staring back at me from this man’s skull.

  I hug my pillow against me tightly, crushing my already sore breasts. “Gray?” I whisper in confusion.

  “I’m Detective Peterson, miss. Can I ask you to tell me a little about your husband’s behavior over the past few days?”

  I stare up at the detective blankly, and I find that I’m having difficulty remembering anything. All I can picture is Grayson’s peaceful smile. “He was fine,” I mumble hoarsely. “He was fine.”

  The detective hesitates and moves closer. He reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says in a compassionate voice. His dark and bushy eyebrows knit together thoughtfully. “Do you mind telling me about your day today, miss? What did your husband say he was going to do?”

  I close my eyes, and it takes me a moment to respond. “I went to the doctor. My husband stayed home to do some chores.” My heart sinks as I recall the last thing Grayson said to me. I swallow, and when I try to speak, my voice comes out as a whisper: “He said… he said he was going to paint the nursery.”

  The detective stares down at me with deep pity. “I’m so sorry, miss. Can you tell me exactly what you saw when you came home?”

  “Other than my husband hanging from the chandelier?”

  The man winces. “Anything that might have been out of place? Doors open, or things on the floor to suggest there might have been a struggle?”

  I shake my head. Had the door been open? “No,” I tell him. My hand drifts down to my pocket where I placed those two photographs that had been on the ground. I still can’t shake the feeling that my sister was somehow involved, but I don’t want to mention this to the police. I want to talk to her myself—even though she’s been giving me the silent treatment lately.

  That was only because she hated me, love, Grayson’s voice reminds me. Now that I’m out of the picture, I’m sure that little sis will be happy to be best friends again.

  I am startled by the voice inside my head—but he’s right. I really don’t like the idea that I needed to lose my husband to regain a sister. Why couldn’t Helen just be there for me? Maybe if we could have worked things out as a family, Grayson would still be alive. These thoughts cause my brain to ache with a deep pulsing pain.

  The detective has placed his pen against his notepad, but his hand isn’t moving. He is just staring down at me with a concerned look on his face. “Can you tell me if anything upsetting might have happened lately to trigger your husband’s suicide?”

  Biting down on my lip, I nod slightly. “Grayson was unwell a few months ago. I’m sure that Dad told you all this. My husband was diagnosed with schizophrenia and a few other disorders. He got violent and… he tried to hurt my sister. He was sent to a psychiatric facility. I had to quit my job so that I could visit him regularly and give him the attention he needed to get better. He’s been on antipsychotic meds ever since. I just… I didn’t take care of him well enough, I guess.”

  “Please don’t blame yourself for this, miss,” the detective tells me. His dark eyes are filled with sympathy. His hand reaches out and touches some of my hair that has spilled over the duvet. “You’re such a sweet girl, and anyone would be lucky to call you his wife. Your husband sounds like he was a very sick man. I can’t think of any other reason someone would be unhappy with a girl like you.”

  I glance up at the detective suspiciously.

  Wow, Grayson’s voice says inside my head. My body isn’t even cold yet, and this guy is already hitting on you. If I were still capable, I would punch him in the face.

  But you’re not, are you? I ask Grayson angrily. If you were still here, I wouldn’t have to go through any of this. In fact, my dear dead husband, I think I will flirt with the detective just to piss you off and spite your memory.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do now that he’s gone,” I tell the detective in a soft voice, lifting myself up onto my elbow. The duvet falls away a little, and I am conscious of the fact that it’s exposing my ample cleavage. “I needed his help with so many things. Being pregnant makes me so weak… I couldn’t even take a bath without him around to help me get out of the tub.”

  The detective gulps visibly, and I can see that he’s picturing me naked. “Well, once I wrap up this investigation, maybe I can come back and help you paint the nursery,” the detective offers.


  Victory. Even though I haven’t been married for that long, it must be years since I’ve flirted with anyone other than my husband. It’s reassuring to know that I’ve still got it. Somehow, the little bit of power I’ve gained from this exchange has taken the edge off my sadness.

  You whore, Grayson says inside my head. You haven’t even washed my sweat off your bed sheets.

  If you were a living man instead of a figment of my imagination, I wouldn’t have to, I retort. If you’re going to kill yourself and turn your wife into a desperate, miserable widow, fucking up the entire rest of her life, you need to be ready to deal with the consequences.

  “What color did you choose?” the detective asks.

  “Color?” I say in confusion.

  “The walls,” he reminds me, as he gently fingers my wispy blonde hair. “Is it going to be a boy or a girl? I’d still love to help you paint the nursery.”

  “There will be no need for that,” says a young, masculine voice from the doorway.

  I look up, trying to peer around the detective to determine who else is intruding into my bedroom. The voice is familiar, but it is not my father. My mind is a fuzzy, chaotic mess, and I can’t seem to remember any men I’ve ever known—other than Grayson.

  “Detective Peterson, can’t you see that Carmen isn’t in any state to answer questions right now?” the man says sharply “I get that you have a really boring job, and talking to a pretty girl is the highlight of your day—but she’s going through something right now. She just lost her husband. So get the fuck out of here, detective.”

  I am a little stunned by the man’s aggressive manner, but I am more surprised at the fact that the detective is intimidated, and is apologizing profusely as he scurries away. It seems like the men are colleagues, or that they have met before.

  “Excuse me,” the detective says to my rescuer as he passes him on the way to exit my room.

  Normally, I would be angered at the thought that he really didn’t need to ask me all those questions. He was just stalling for the enjoyment of staring at me. But at the moment, I can’t bring myself to feel much of anything. I do have a mild curiosity about the identity of my mystery guest.

  “Fucking uneducated law enforcement pricks,” says the man as he approaches me. As he steps into the dim lighting of my bedroom, I recognize the sandy brown hair of Grayson’s best friend, Bradford West. His elitist comment is also a dead giveaway; he has grown rather arrogant since becoming a fancy Manhattan lawyer.

  “Brad,” I murmur softly.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” he tells me, moving across the room so quickly that it might as well have been one stride. He wastes no time in gathering me up in his arms. “Your dad called me. Carm, I’m so sorry.”

  I am conscious of the fact that his large hands have encircled my back, and he is holding me against his chest. His spicy, musky cologne reaches my nostrils, and it hits me like a stab to the chest; it is the same cologne Grayson wears. For a moment, if I close my eyes, I can pretend that the arms wrapped around me belong to my husband. I wonder if I could pretend for years.

  “Grayson told me that there was a chance that this could happen,” Brad tells me quietly. “I didn’t want to believe him. A lot of people say that they’re going to do things like this, but they never go through with it. I should have known that Gray was serious.”

  “My husband was a lot of things… but he was never a liar.”

  “I know,” Brad says, running his hand over my back soothingly. “I loved him too, Carm.”

  Part of me wonders whether Brad is being a bit too familiar with me, but I don’t care; I need the affection. I gingerly grasp his shirt, as I feel the tears pricking the back of my eyes. I tremble slightly, trying my best to build emotional dams to shut down the impending onslaught. I am too afraid to cry. I am afraid that if I start, I’ll never stop.

  “Brad,” I say brokenly. “What the hell am I going to do?”

  “Shh,” he says, kissing my cheek tenderly. “Grayson made me promise that if anything ever happened to him, that I would take care of you. I loved that man like a brother, and I would never break a promise to him. So don’t worry for even a minute, Carm. I’m here for you, and we’re going to get through this together.”

  His words are reassuring, and my heart soaks them up like a sponge. However, the cautious parts of me are ablaze with alarms and sirens; I can’t help wondering whether he is really just being a good friend and honoring my husband’s memory, or whether he’s taking advantage of the opportunity due to a personal agenda. He’s always been inappropriately flirtatious with me, every time Grayson stepped out of the room. He also might be just another crafty suitor, trying to capitalize on my current vulnerability in order to attempt to get a piece of my family’s money.

  I have only been single for a few minutes, or hours—I am not quite sure how long Grayson had been hanging before we got home, or how long I napped since—but two men have already been way too forward with me. I must have the words VULNERABLE and EASY PREY tattooed across my forehead in big red letters. The ink must be sending out some kind of beacon, attracting all the eager predators for miles around.

  I hate being single.

  Bradford West is extraordinarily handsome, smells amazing, and I’m fairly certain that the Armani suit he is wearing costs as much as a decent used car. But I just need a friend right now, and I’m worried that he wants more than that. He touches me like he wants more than that, but I haven’t even had a chance to grieve. My pregnancy is not a baseball game, and you can’t just send in a relief pitcher to take over the final two innings when things are getting difficult around the seventh-inning stretch.

  Holding me against his chest, Brad combs his fingers through my hair and whispers reassuring words to me in the dark. My own body betrays me by responding to his touch and leaning closer into his warmth. Although my mind is appalled by this, and rejecting every word he speaks as a lie, my body is thirstily trying to absorb his strength. He is merely a man-sized battery to me; a reservoir of emotional fuel in a moment when I am running on empty. But it’s not right.

  I would almost rather spend time alone with the voices in my head than with any men made from flesh and blood. Real men have only ever disappointed me. But with enough persuasion, you grow to love the imperfect, disappointing pieces of shit anyway.

  And then they die.

  I feel like I’ve been asleep for a week, but it must have only been a few hours. My suffocating bladder refuses to let me rest any longer than that. Dragging myself from the bed, I stagger over my hardwood floors with the neurological skills of a zombie. My zigzagging takes me stumbling toward the bathroom, but not before I notice lights underneath my bedroom door. It is strange for anyone to be awake at this hour; are the police still here? Is my dad okay?

  You’d better check, Carmen, Grayson’s voice whispers. There are a lot of evil things that go bump in the night. Better make sure that dear ol’ dad isn’t offing himself, too. I never was much of a trendsetter, but it’s never too late to start. Wouldn’t that be sad? If you lost everyone?

  The pangs of sharp pain in my bladder won’t allow me to investigate, and I am forced to empty the screaming organ before I can do anything else. Moving hastily toward the toilet, I reach down and grasp the hem of my nightgown so that I can lift it to sit on the toilet bowl. A thought suddenly strikes me: I do not remember putting on my nightgown. This makes me uneasy, because I know that Brad must have taken the liberty of changing my clothes while I slept. I should be grateful that my uncomfortable bra is gone, but I only feel anxious. How was I so deeply asleep that I did not notice? I don’t even remember dozing off. Did I say or do anything unsavory with Brad? I feel like I’m waking up from a mind-numbing drunken stupor.

  Luckily, the physical pain is too distracting for me to dwell on this.

  With the cold plastic of the toilet seat pressed against my ass, I cup my hands around my belly in an attempt to soothe the stabbing cramps.
My muscles are clenched so tightly that it takes a few seconds before I can relax enough to start the stream of urine. Somehow, this causes a stream of tears to leak out of my eyes at the same time, and the hot saltwater splashes over the lace trim of my nightgown’s bodice. I hug my arms around my middle, bending over slightly to try and ease the ache in my abdomen.

  I feel so pathetic; sitting on the toilet, peeing and crying.

  At least I can take this private moment to be honest with myself and feel the impact of the day. Once my urine stops flowing, I abruptly command my tears to stop as well. I use generous servings of toilet paper to wipe the droplets of moisture away from both sources, before grasping the marble vanity to help myself to my feet. Turning around to flush the toilet, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I am appalled at how ashen my face looks. The light makeup I had been wearing all day is now smeared into creases that were previously nonexistent. I look like I’ve aged twenty years in one night.

  I hastily wash my hands, and splash some cold water over my face, trying to convince myself that I don’t belong in the morgue next to my husband. Once I turn off the faucet, I am startled by a loud noise from downstairs. A gunshot? I barely have time to dry my face and hands off on a towel before I turn to rush out of the room.

  “Dad?” I call out frantically as I exit my bedroom. My bare feet patter softly against the floor—I can’t move as quickly as usual. A million frightened thoughts run through my mind. Does Dad own a gun? Would he use it on himself? No. Grayson only did what he did because he was sick. My dad wouldn’t leave me. But what if Grayson didn’t kill himself? Months ago, he shot my sister’s boyfriend, Liam, in some kind of psychotic jealous rage. What if Liam was the type of guy to hold a grudge and come back for vengeance?

  But your sister isn’t like you, Carmen, my husband’s voice echoes inside my mind. She isn’t attracted to deranged lunatics like you are. She actually has half a brain.

  Thanks, I say inwardly as I walk down the stairs. I flinch as the chandelier comes into view. I can still picture Grayson’s body hanging from it. I grip the railing tightly as I descend the staircase, mechanically swallowing the saliva that’s pooling around my tongue.