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I’m reminded of Eric and push the thought away. It hurts too much.
“Did they bring you in for a physical lineup or just the photos?” Melinda asks, jotting notes as she talks.
“Just the photo, the public defender told me. Which is bullshit. Pardon my French.” He glances at me apologetically.
I force a smile. “No worries.”
“So, what can you do for me? I didn’t do this,” he says, sounding understandably distressed.
“Where were you the night of”—Melinda looks over the paperwork—“July twenty-third?”
He looks stressed again, glancing at me, then Melinda. “I was home alone. My girlfriend was out of town.”
He’s awfully flirtatious for having a girlfriend, but that’s a thought for another day.
“And no one else can vouch you were there?” she asks.
“Cops asked me the same thing. No, I was home alone.”
“It’s okay,” she soothes. “We’ll help you. Doesn’t look like they have much other than one person’s eyewitness testimony. That’s weak, at best, with no physical evidence.”
“Yeah, because I wasn’t there. I’m not a thief. I manage loans at a bank, I see my kid on the weekends, and I spend time with my girlfriend. That’s it. I’m a boring guy.” He looks frustrated and I don’t blame him, if he truly is innocent.
“I believe you,” Melinda says. And she always says that to make the client feel at ease, even if she doesn’t. “Our fee is ten thousand.”
He lets out a sigh. “It’s my whole savings, but I’ll give it to you if you keep me out of jail. One weekend was bad enough. I have no desire to revisit that shit again.”
I chuckle. “I don’t blame you.”
He stares at me intensely again. He’s definitely flirting, but I’m in no mood to be flirted with. Besides, he has a girlfriend and dating clients is absolutely forbidden.
He stands, we all shake hands, and he leaves.
“What do you think?” Melinda asks, her arms folded across her white blouse.
I chew my lip. “It’s hard to say. Did you run his record and check his financials?”
“Got ’em from the police. Everything he says checks out. Cell phone pings to his residence that night. Been an employee at Mountain Bank for four years. Has a three-year-old daughter he sees on weekends. Girlfriend is not the mother. She’s a flight attendant, gone a lot. Has eleven thousand in his savings.”
“Doesn’t sound like a petty thief,” I concur.
“Guess you didn’t read the whole file...”
“What?” I ask.
She pierces me with an intense stare. “It wasn’t petty theft. The three suspects committed a home invasion that left two elderly people in the hospital, husband and wife. The old lady is still in ICU. They beat them up pretty badly.”
“Dammit,” I reply.
***
After barely tastingdinner, I change into my pajamas and turn on the television, hoping for a few hours of escape. In the past two months, I’ve tried reading (fuck those romance novels), TV, meditation, and working myself to the bone. None of it helps. None. The only thing that barely touches the pain of Eric leaving is about half a bottle of wine and a very plot-heavy TV series that helps distract me.
Still, during the show, with the glass to my lips, something will remind me of him. An actor on TV or something they say. A couple going on a hike or eating Indian food.
A character in prison.
Everywhere I look are reminders of him, and the pain just floods in anew. I should probably go see a therapist, but I feel like all I’m going to hear is that the pain will subside with time. Well, it’s been nine weeks, three days, and... I look at the clock. Eight hours. When the hell is it gonna stop?
