Page 6 of The Perfect Divorce

It used to be him giving the commands around here. But not anymore. Things change, and apparently, so do people—for the worse, that is. Ryanwasslipping for a while there. Then about a year ago, he started spiraling out of control, and it didn’t take long for the community to notice their sheriff was a drunk. At first, they took pity on him, but that didn’t last long either. There was a petition, a protest, and finally a recall around five months ago. He was out, and shortly thereafter, I was elected as the new sheriff.

I motion for him to walk, and Ryan obliges, barely lifting his feet as he trudges down the hallway. He’s quiet other than his labored breaths and his shoes scuffling across the epoxy floor.

When we reach the holding area, he asks, “How long was I out for?”

It’s our song and dance, but unfortunately, there’s no more music.

“Nearly thirty hours.” I unlock the door to his cell; its hinges squeak as I pull it open. Ryan shuffles in, rubbing at his forehead.

“Jesus,” he says as he plops onto the two-inch-thick mattress covering the metal bunk. He slumps forward, resting his elbows on his legs.

I widen my stance. “They’re gonna bring you in for processing shortly.”

Ryan twists his lips, and his brows shove together. “What do you mean ‘processing’?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I thought you had my back,” he says, his head wobbling back and forth.

“Not this time, Ryan.”

“Whynotthis time?” His eyes are unsteady, skirting all over the place, like he’s realizing this six-by-nine cell could be home for the foreseeable future.

“Because you hit someone with your truck.”

His jaw goes lax, and he takes a few beats to speak. “I... I don’t know what happened.”

“I do. You got shit-faced drunk...again, got behind the wheel, and plowed into a woman out on an early-morning run.” My remarks come out louder and harsher than I intended.

“Is she all right?” His voice cracks, signaling his fear.

“No, Ryan... she’s dead.”

He sits motionless as the words hang in the air, swirling over his head. I’m waiting for him to realize the severity of his actions, to understand nothing will ever be the same again. He should be full of shame and guilt and despair because he killed someone, whether he remembers doing it or not.

Finally, his eyes widen as the words worm their way into his brain. “No, that—that can’t be true,” he stammers.

“It is,” I say, shaking my head.

Ryan buries his face into his hands and a cry begins from deep within him.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs.

“Yeah, so am I.”

If I hadn’t kept giving Ryan the benefit of the doubt and letting him off with warnings each time he was picked up for DUI, an innocent woman would still be alive. I’m just as guilty as he is.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

I’ve heard that sound before.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

It’s a woman’s heels. Obviously, a lot of women wear heels that make that clicking sound. But this is different. This is slow and methodical. This is a woman walking with purpose. She moves like she has someplace to be, but that place doesn’t matter until she occupies it.

I turn to see the figure increasing in size as she comes down the corridor, escorted by a deputy. Her chin is held high. It always is. Her long blond hair slightly curls at the ends, bouncing with each step. She wears clothes perfectly tailored for her body with not a wrinkle in sight.

Sarah Morgan.

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