Page 6 of The Heir
"Guess so. Wait, how do you know what they are?" I turn my gaze back to her. "If I keep them, can you tell me exactly what the pills are?"
"You don't know? Shit, I thought I was spacy." She laughs. "Spacy Stacy."
"Melody. But will you?"
"No promises, but I'll try. I used to be a CNA until they took my license." Stacy rolls her head from side to side. "My bastard ex-boyfriend told the hospital I was stealing pills. I wasn't, of course, but he was pissed I fucked his brother. He planted a few bottles in my purse, and there we go. No job. No license. And I wound up here."
"Your boyfriend was a cop?" I ask, putting the pieces together.
"Yep. He still is." Stacy grimaces, and I laugh. "Classic, huh? Nurse and cop. Or nursing assistant, I guess. What about you? What's your man do to get you that fancy-ass lawyer?"
"Uh… business? I don't really know." I chew my lip. "Real estate, maybe?"
She lets out a low whistle. "Oh, yeah. You got itmade."
"Maybe so. Court date is next week, so… I guess we'll see, huh?" I offer her a sad smile. "Full jury trial. I have to testify. God, I don't want to. Don't do well with crowds."
"Ah, you'll be fine."
I really wish I could believe her.
My heart is practically beating out of my chest as I hide the pills between my cheek and teeth. The jail nurse, with her usual bored look, nods and waves me off, calling for the next person in line. I did it. I spit the pills into my hand and rush back to my cell, accompanied by another guard. Everyone who works here looks sobored,as if the pain and suffering of the incarcerated population isn't entertaining enough for them.
Stacy looks up from the magazine laid out on her bed as I enter the cell. My hands shake as I show the pills to her. She snatches them and examines the shapes, tracing the stamped markings with her thumbnail.
"Wow. Heavy-duty. This is an antipsychotic," she says, holding up a little yellow, disc-shaped pill. "Here you've got a run-of-the-mill antidepressant. This one's for anxiety."
"Jesus," I breathe out. "They made memoreanxious."
"Well, yeah." She laughs. "It's a pretty heavy concoction. That antipsychotic really fucks people up, especially if they don't need it. Do you need it?"
"I don't think so?" I shake my head. "I feel a lot betteroffof it."
"Cool." She tosses the pills into the built-in toilet. "Flush that for me, will ya?"
I flush it and plop down on the bottom bunk next to her. My eyes won't focus on the magazine page, even though she shifts it so I can see. Antipsychotics. Am I psychotic? I don't think so. I just have… urges. Urges that haven't shown up since we were in the shack. Maybe Ishouldsee a therapist. Maybe. When this is all over, I'll ask Dante what he thinks.
My stomach rolls in my gut.Dante. He isn't known for being polite, but what if he doesn't mean all the things Mr. Vetter tellsme? What if Bridget was lying when she said he was waiting for me outside the hospital? What if he never meant what he said in the hotel? What if I'm just plain not good enough?
I'm sure this is an embarrassment to someone of his standing. His wife is in prison for murder. Multiple murders, even. What if we're not actually married, and that's why the guards keep calling me "Crawford?" Has he been lying to me this whole time? How am I ever going to face him in court? It's only three days away—Monday morning, bright and early.
Mr. Vetter is supposed to have non-jail clothes ready for me. I bet Dante's picking them out right now. He'll most likely pick something classy, something elegant. Something that screams "not guilty". I suppose it's too much to ask for Mr. Vetter to pass along a request—I desperately want my red dress and my purple-bottom heels. I loved those—they're what I wore the first time I was presented as Mrs. Lyons. They make me feel like a powerful bitch. And that's exactly what I need.
Dante
Jitters run through my body as I attempt to sit still in the courtroom. Mr. Vetter and his team are performing phenomenally, as expected. Melody is following their cues to a tee. And god, she looks absolutely beautiful. A little thinner than I'd like to see, but I'll get her back to her fighting weight as soon as she's released. I miss those gorgeous curves pressed up against me. I miss the smell of her body wash when we liedown together at night. And fuck, do I ever miss her fiery temper.
Unfortunately, the prosecution isalsobringing their A game. The evidence they have—fabricated or otherwise—is damning. And I can see on the jury's faces that they're starting to doubt my wife. They're doubting her story. They're doubting her innocence. All Mr. Vetter needed was to plant reasonable doubt. He istrying, but the prosecuting attorneys shoot holes in every alternative theory with pinpointed accuracy.
They're all going to fucking die, though. Whether Melody is convicted or not, they're dead. Every single one of them. Hell, I might even point Melody herself at them. When she's good and rabid, of course.
"Mrs. Lyons, I'd like to ask abouthowandwhenyou met your husband," the prosecutor starts.
"Objection," Mr. Vetter interrupts, raising his hand. "Irrelevant."
"Overruled," the judge says, glaring at Mr. Vetter. "I assert that her answer isveryrelevant to the case."
"As I was saying." The prosecutor smiles at the jury. "Mrs. Lyons, is it true that you met your husband on the day of Barry Lennox's death?"
