Page 16 of The Perfect Divorce

My tactical boots clunk against the concrete floor, echoing off the hallway’s walls. For Ryan’s own safety, he’s being held in a private cell, separate from the rest of the inmates, since criminals don’t take kindly to cops or former cops. I have half a mind to put him with the others after what he’s done, but that seems more like something Stevens would do, not me.

I reach the last security door to the private holding area where two cells sit side by side. These ones rarely get used as most intakes don’t require added security. I scan my badge. The reader beeps, and the door buzzes. I grab the handle and pull it open.

“Stevens, you really—” I start to say, but stop suddenly when my gaze lands on him. My eyes widen in disbelief, and my stomach plummets like I’m on a roller coaster, cresting over the peak of the first drop.

“Medic. We need a medic!” I yell at the top of my lungs, bolting toward Stevens’s cell. My throat burns as my vocal cords are pushed to their limits, the muscles in my neck straining to the point of wanting to tear through the flesh holding them back. The keys slip from my hand, dropping to the floor with a resoundingclang. I quickly pick them up, scrambling to locate the one that opens his cell door.

“Stevens!” I shout.

I try several keys, each with no success.

Realizing no one can hear me through the thick steel doors, I press the call button on my radio. “I need paramedics in the private holding cells now!” I say while trying another key.

The lock clicks, and I throw open the door, sprinting to Ryan. The heavy metal bangs against the wall like a thick gong. His body is lax, slumped forward, lifeless. A belt is looped around his neck, pulled taut, the other end tied to the top bunk. His eyes are wide open, the whites completely replaced with red as the blood vessels have burst under the strain and lack of oxygen. I just hope I’m not too late.

“Hold on, man,” I say, struggling to get any slack in the leather. I try to lift Ryan with one hand and undo the knot with the other. Tears build up in my eyes, blurring my vision, making it harder and harder to see what I’m doing. I claw at the gaps in the leather, my nails bending and chipping in the process.

Finally, I’m able to dig my fingers into the knot and jerk it loose, the makeshift noose coming undone. The belt buckle clanks to the floor, and Ryan’s torso and head slump forward. The deadweight catches me off guard, pulling me to the ground with him. I roll him flat onto his back and remove the belt from his neck. The skin underneath is black and blue with splotches of red from burst blood vessels. There’s a small line of blood on his neck from where the leather cut into his flesh. I search for a pulse but there’s nothing. I check his nose, holding my hand less than an inch from his nostrils, hoping I’ll feel hot air, but I don’t.

“You’re not going out like this, Ryan,” I say, tipping his head back and lifting his chin to open up his airway. I place my hands against the lower half of his sternum, one on top of the other, and press down hard, beginning chest compressions at 110 BPM. In the distance, I can hear boots on the ground, or at least I hope that’s what I’m hearing.

“Come on, man!” I say, bearing down harder and faster. Something inside of his chest cracks, but I keep going because I know broken ribs happen often during CPR. It’s as though God calls back to his original deal with Adam, removing a rib to create life again. I pause only to give Ryan air, then start compressions again.

“Oh fuck!” a voice says in a panic. I briefly look up to find Officer Clark standing in the doorway. All the blood has drained from his face, and he looks like a deer in headlights.

“You said you checked on him!” I shout, saliva spraying the room in a wide mist.

“I did. He was asleep.”

“Who the hell let him keep his belt!?”

Clark stammers. “I... I don’t know.”

Two paramedics push past the officer and drop to their knees beside me. They start hurling questions.How long has he been out? How long have I been doing compressions? Was he breathing when I found him?I answer them the best I can, but I don’t know if my responses are correct. I can’t even hear the words leave my mouth. One paramedic straps an oxygen mask over Ryan’s mouth and nose while the other handles compressions. Sinking into a seated position, I scooch away until my back hits the bars of the cell.

My gaze goes to Officer Clark, standing near the security door. He’s trying to make himself look as small as possible. Sweat pools at the edge of his receding hairline, and his eyes dart in all directions. He makes the mistake of briefly locking eyes with me.

I lift my hand, pointing a finger at him. “You better hope he lives.”

TWELVE

SARAH MORGAN

I’m greeted with an unpleasant but expected sight when I pull my Range Rover into the Morgan Foundation office parking lot. A half dozen reporters are leaning up against their respective news vans. Cameramen stand at the ready, waiting for me, eager to get the first sound bite. They’re probably the same ones who were lingering at the end of my driveway this morning when I left to run some errands and drop Summer off at school. I’m sure as soon as I was out of sight, they packed up their stuff and raced to beat me here.

I park in my designated spot, which is thankfully numbered rather than marked with my name. It gives me a moment to gather myself before anyone notices my arrival. I considered staying home for the day, but the foundation needs me, and I have work to do. Stealing a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, I check my makeup and find in my reflection the woman I need to be today.There she is.She looks almost the same, but there’s more depth behind those green eyes. I reapply my lipstick and smile back at her.

As soon as my stilettos hit the pavement, I hear it.

“There she is!” followed by hurried footsteps as reporters race, trying to get to me first.

I close my car door behind me, toss my bag over my shoulder, and start walking.

“Ms. Morgan.”

“Sarah!”

They swarm, yelling over one another, making it impossible to hear any of their questions—not like I’d answer them anyway. Cameras click and flash, and microphones are thrust into my face. One of them bops me in the mouth, and I swat it away.

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