Page 1 of The Guilty One

CHAPTER ONE

CELINE

When the call comes in, I nearly ignore it. I assume it is probably a scammer, someone trying to tell me about my car’s extended warranty expiring or to sell me something I don’t need for a price I can’t afford.

I’m not sure what causes me to change my mind. Perhaps it’s the fact that the area code is local, though that doesn’t always mean it is safe. Maybe it is something deeper than that, a sort of gut feeling that something is terribly wrong. The only way I can think of to describe it is that it is the sort of knowing many people talk about but few have ever experienced. At least, I’ve never experienced anything like it.

In the end, I do answer my phone, and when I do, I hear a voice and a phrase I’m certain I’ll forever have nightmares about.

“Is this Celine Thompson?”

I swallow, my throat suddenly too dry. I step farther into the hallway, pressing a finger to my ear to drown out the sounds of the customers and machines in the background. There’s something ironic and cruel about the fact that my world is falling apart at the exact moment someone is ordering a mocha breve with oat milk and extra caramel.

“Yes, it is.”

“My name is Officer Simone with the Oakton County Police Department. I’m calling about a Tatum Thompson. He has you listed as an emergency contact in his phone.”

Tate. A pang of sadness shoots through my heart, and all I want to do is see him right now. My chest aches suddenly with worry. Something must be wrong. “That’s my husband.”

The woman on the phone draws in a deep breath, keeping her voice steady and calm. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but this afternoon your husband was involved in an accident in which he sustained injuries he was unable to survive.” I have absolutely no idea what she says next, only that she keeps talking for what feels like an eternity while my brain sputters and gasps and tries to process everything I’m being told.

Minutes, hours, or days later, when the phone call ends, I know what she has told me. The stuff that matters, anyway.

My husband has been involved in a car crash.

He is dead.

I need to go to the police station to identify the body.

Back behind the counter, I find my supervisor and pull her aside in a sort of catatonic state. Margie is the kind of person who lives and breathes our job. She has worked for The Bold Bean for as long as it’s been open, and I’m still not sure it won’t be forced to close the day she retires.

She isn’t an unkind person, she’s just the type of boss who finds it hard to believe anyone could possibly have a life outside of the coffee shop that pays our bills.

I don’t remember much of the conversation between us, just that I rush to tell her, between my tears, that something has happened to Tate and I need to leave, and that she will have to find someone to come in to cover the rest of my shift. I don’t wait for her to grant permission—the simple act of telling her instead of running out the door immediately feels like more than enough, so with that taken care of, I hurry to my car as fast as my legs will carry me.

In the small parking lot, I put the police station’s address into my GPS, my mind a blurry mess of terror, confusion, and heartbreak as I drive across town and soon find myself walking into the building where my life will forever change.

Once inside, I’m directed to a room where a woman with dark hair and fair skin who looks not much older than I am sits down across from me and introduces herself as Officer Simone. It’s the same voice I spoke to on the phone, and somehow, each time she speaks, it’s a shot to the heart.

“When will I get to see him?” I ask, wringing my hands together in my lap.

She places her hands on top of the table, smoothing them out calmly. “The way this works is I’m going to show you a few photographs the medical examiner took of your husband’s body after the crash.” She picks up a folder from the seat beside her, laying it down on the table. “These photographs will help?—”

“Photographs?” That doesn’t make any sense. Why isn’t she taking me to see him? I need to see him. Not photographs. His body. I need to see his body. “What are you talking about? Why can’t I see his body?”

She pauses, her eyes searching mine with a sort of frustrated compassion. Her next sentence explains why. “I know television shows would have you believe that’s how this happens, but in reality, this situation is about minimizing trauma to the family, not creating dramatic moments, Mrs. Thompson. Your husband sustained serious bodily injuries in the crash. Of course, his body is in the morgue, and we can arrange for you to see it, but please know that I would strongly advise against that. This process is designed to prepare you for what you’ll see, to minimize the trauma of what you’ll have to see, and to make sure you feel safe and supported during this time. None of this is easy, we just want to make it as comfortable as possible. I also have the contact information for an excellent grief counselor that I’m happy to provide you with.”

I swallow. Of course this isn’t like the crime shows Tate and I watch together. Just the thought of him, of those memories, sends another wave of pain through me. I’ll never get to see his face when he correctly guesses the murderer before it’s revealed again, never get to hear him bragging as he catches a blooper.

Everything about my life is about to change into something unrecognizable.

Clearing her throat and sitting straighter in her seat, she goes on, “Now, whenever you’re ready, just so you know what to expect from these photographs, your husband’s face has several severe lacerations across both his right and left brows, down his forehead, and across his temple. The skin on the right side of his face is, for the most part, missing due to his injuries. You will notice that his mouth is concave due to the accident causing him to lose several of his teeth.”

I think I’m going to be sick. Or pass out. Every breath I take is so loud in my ears.

“He was cleaned up to the best of our abilities before the photos were taken, but I want to prepare you for what you’re going to see. There is also a photograph of a tattoo on his right shoulder, a birthmark on his hip, and a photograph of the wedding ring he was wearing. Your husband’s injuries were severe, and though our team made their best effort to keep the photographs tasteful, you will likely find the photo of his face especially gruesome, Mrs. Thompson. As I said, this process is designed to minimize trauma for people in your position, but I still want you to know that this will likely be traumatic for you, and that’s completely understandable and to be expected. Please take your time looking at these photos. No one here is going to rush you, okay?” She slides the folder toward me cautiously, lifting her hand. “Take all the time you need.”

I replace her hand with mine, pulling the brown folder the rest of the way across the table and glancing down. The second I open the folder, I know everything is going to change. It has to. Once I look into his face—the face I kissed just this morning before he left for work—and know he is gone, all of this will be real.

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