Page 113 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Let me guess,” Johnny said. “The broker was Minna Schultz.”

I nodded. “Minna’s last hurrah was going to be building that townhouse complex with the spectacular view of Magic Pond. Once the hospital decided to block her view with the new trauma center, she became obsessed with stopping them. She lost in court; she lost her bid for mayor, so she tried blackmail. She told Alex to find a new location for the trauma center, or she’d go public with the pictures of his slut lawyer-politician wife.”

“She had him by the balls,” Johnny said.

“Right. And she celebrates the win by going home, making herself a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, washing them down with Chardonnay, and drowning in Magic Pond. Suicide, according to the coroner.”

“Coroners are just doctors, Maggie. Some of them are smarter than others.”

“And Alex is smarter than all of them,” I said. “A few weeks ago, I couldn’t have even conceived of the thought, but now, after seeing how he’s orchestrated my death, I’m positive. Alex killed Minna Schultz.”

“And he got away with it.”

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” I said. “He’s not the man I married. He’s psychotic. He’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He’s known about me and Van for months, but he still plays the loving husband. I can’t imagine how much he must hate me, how much he wants to hurt me, and yet we laugh, we make love, we plan for the future, he kisses me playfully every time he brings me my morning mug of poison. But I don’t know if he can wait for the tea to do the job. He has all that anger and the rage building up inside him, and I’m afraid that one night he’ll snap—take a scalpel and slit our throats. All of us. Me... Kevin... Katie...”

And then the fear consumed me. The steely resolve that had served me well during my time as a prosecutor crumbled. Sobbing, I threw myself into Johnny’s arms. I wiped my face on his shirt and went on through the tears. “I would die for my children, Johnny, but please don’t let them die for me.”

He held me, and I closed my eyes. I inhaled the thick, sultry air, felt the late-afternoon sun play on my skin, as my ears picked up the gentle warble of a distant wood thrush. Slowly my composure returned. But I couldn’t let go.

Finally, Johnny put his lips to my ear and whispered four words.

“Do you trust me?”

I stepped back and looked at him. His face was stoic, his eyes determined, his expression grave.

“What kind of question is that?”

“It’s the right question. A few weeks ago, you trusted Alex. Knowing what you know now, I would understand if you said you will never trust another soul for the rest of your life.”

I tried to speak, but all I could do was pull him back to me and lose myself in the shelter of his arms.

“I love you, Maggie,” he said softly in my ear. “You’re not only part of my life; you gave me a life—Marisol, my kids, my career, my freedom. I would do anything to reciprocate, to remove the fear, to restore the joy, to give youyourlife back. All I need is the answer to one question.

“Do you trust me?”

SEVENTY

the day of the funeral

I was sitting at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, making notes on the latest draft of the eulogy I would be giving for my husband.

It was bullshit. But it was exactly what my audience wanted to hear.

For them, we were Heartstone royalty. A modern-day fairy tale. Smart. Attractive. Successful. The perfect couple. What they didn’t know was that individually we were damaged goods, each in our own way dealing with the pain of abandonment.

Alex had been unwanted and unloved since birth. Growing up he never felt that his newfound parents adopted him for who he was. He was convinced that he was merely a convenient surrogate for two desperate people who were forever grieving the loss of the only son they ever really loved.

And then I came along and gave him what he’d been searching for. I loved him with all my heart. I was all he needed.

But I had my own issues. I, too, had been abandoned. First by my mother, and then in a two-minute phone call from Korea that left me broken and alone. From that day forward my sexual behavior became erratic, rarely based on sound judgment or informed choices. I was a textbook case of the girl looking for love in all the wrong places.

In hindsight, we should never have gotten married. Alex needed stability, security, unwavering devotion, and most of all, fidelity. And I was the teenage tramp who grew up to become the wayward wife.

Most husbands who catch their wives cheating want out. Alex wanted retribution. Divorce wasn’t good enough. For Alex the only punishment for adultery was biblical.

But of course, not a word of that would ever be uttered. Instead, I would sing the praises of Alex Dunn—tireless physician, dedicated public servant, loving husband, adoring father.

Like I said, pure bullshit.

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