Puzzle Piece Chic
I'd like to say it's easy to fall apart and stand back up, but I've done it over and over again, and it's getting to the point where my legs are too weak to hold my weight.
A month passes, and another, and it feels as though they'll never figure out who the fuck shot my husband. It's getting sickeningly annoying, because as long as it takes them to solve it, that's how long it will take me to stop hearing about him, to stop the mourning I'm supposed to do, the grieving I'm supposed to feel, stop the charade that I'm not grateful he's gone.
They've questioned me on the events of those early morning hours so many times; I know them by heart - the sound of his as it stopped pumping when I screamed and dropped to my knees beside him, by smell - the scent of gunpowder and his cologne, by taste - the iron of his blood splattering on my shocked lips the moment it happened.
And I tell them over and over until I'm blue in the face. Jake did not shoot himself! There's a dot they aren't connecting, but I can't do it for them. I don't have the information and resources they've got. I wish I could solve it; wish I could bring some solace to my family and his mom and my world, but I can't do their job for them.
Yes. Jake showed up the morning of his death, though he was supposed to be in Buffalo. Yes, he told me about the spyware on the computer and how he'd read the email I sent Edward the night before. I've told the police this. But they just don't get it.
I also know that dot is in their files, the information at their fingertips, but they either haven't discovered or don't understand the connection.
There's so little I can do, but I want only to move on in my life. Edward and the kids deserve that.
When Edward makes love to me, he frees my mind from thinking of these darknesses. I'm alive and light in him, and there are is so much to live for now. He's everything the kids need; everything I need.
He doesn't ask me about it anymore, and he refuses to query about the final moments with Jake, but I know there's a curiosity in his eyes I cannot put out by riding him to the edge and back. He comes to his knees for me, but he's not kneeling to his queen. We are equals, he and I, and that is all I want. All I've ever wanted.
He brings his part and I bring mine, and there's nothing in between.
The kids are at school when Edward answers a knock on the door in his fatigue pants and dog tags - just those - and I suck in an excited breath at the scratch marks on his skin from nails. He's all mine. After all these years, life's brought us full circle.
"We'd like to speak to Mrs. Black." I recognize the voice of detective Esme Brown. Edward keeps her and her partner at the front door and waits for me.
"Detective," I say as I approach. "What can I do for you today?"
"May we come in?" the detective asks. There's no point in giving them the cold shoulder. Maybe, at last, they've put together the final piece of the puzzle lain out so perfectly.
We sit and sip coffee, and Edward runs his hand down my back, over and over like an eternal flame. We wait while Esme looks around the room, glancing at photos and everything Jake's. Then she stops at one - one on his campaign with his supporters all around. And there it is.
"His campaign staff seems close," she muses. "Do you know this man?" She points at the photograph and the man standing beside my late husband. "More so, how well did Jacob know Royce King?"
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A/N:
Nothing is as it seems.
Nothing ever is.
Though of some of you are pretty damn close.