Page 5 of The Heir
"The fuck I will," I growl. "Don't pretend you know exactly what my finances are. Besides, I don't give a shit. I'll bankrupt the whole Consortium if it means I get Melodyout."
"I know. I know. But… you may find some comfort in returning to your routine," he says gently.Routine?Something in me snaps, and my rage burns through my veins.
"What, I should just forget about her? Go on with my life like nothing happened? Fuck off, Ro. You never liked her. You never wanted her here!" I jump to my feet. "All this time, all these months—youhated her. You wanted her gone!"
"I get that you're upset, sir," he says through gritted teeth. "I'd like to remind you that I did everything—everything—you asked of me and more. You wanted my opinions? I gave them. You wanted me here in the middle of the night to calm her down? I camerunning. You wanted to trace her like a damn needle in a haystack? I did it. I told you abouteverypossible angle—I ripped apart that goddamn shackfor her."
Roman stands at his full height and shoves his chest against mine, breathing heavily. "Do not insinuate that I've ever doneanythingto wrong her. Or you. I think I'll take my leave now,sir."
My hands clench at my sides, digging my nails into my palms. He's right, but I can't say it. I won't say it. I'm in a tailspin, and the only thing that can get me back on track is my wife. And she's rotting in a goddamn county jail. Roman slams the front door, the sound echoing through the house and reverberating in my bones.
I'm alone. And after all my failures, I deserve it.
Melody
The line for meds is moving quickly today. Ever since I got out of the hospital, I've been told—forced, really—to take a handful every day. I don't know what they are. No one will tell me. The nurse at the jail is nothing like Bridget; she hands me the little paper cups (one with pills, one with barely a swig of water), checks under my tongue, and sends me on my way.
I hatethem. I hate the way they make me feel. Like the world is moving in fast-forward and I'm stuck in slow motion. Despite this, I can't stop bouncing my legs. I can't stop moving. I can't get a moment of peace. I've been begging the nurse for a sedative, something,anything.She just gives me a bored look every time I ask, and notes something down on her little laptop. So far, nothing has come of it.
My only reprieve is the visits with Mr. Vetter, the lawyer. Apparently, the powers that be have barred my husband from visiting—"We're fighting that, too, Mrs. Lyons," Mr. Vetter assures me—and the other women in this place seem to change by the day. County jail isn't meant for long-term holding, of course, but I wish there were some kind of constant presence. Something to anchor myself. But it's just me, the shitty nurse, and these cinder block walls.
And eyes. So many eyes. Watching me, always watching me, at all hours. My every move is scrutinized under a microscope. They duck just out of view whenever I turn around, but I know they're there. I know they're watching me. It makes my skin crawl and itch.
"Crawford!" one of the guards—corrections officers?—yells from outside my cell. "Lawyer time!"
"Damn, girl. You see your lawyers more than I see my own parents," another woman says. "Must be nice to have all that money."
I turn to look at whoever said that. She looks vaguely familiar. She's pale, almost ashen. Her dirty blonde hair hangs in messily braided pigtails.
"Who are you?" I wonder out loud. She just laughs and shoos me away, returning to her conversation with another woman.
The guard impatiently shoves me down the hallway to visitation, and I stumble, cursing loudly. "Hey! Watch your language, Crawford!"
"It's Lyons," I snarl back. The uniformed man rolls his eyes and shoves me again. I was right, this place is hell. I'm not dead, though. I'm not lucky enough for that. The incarceration complex is pure hell.
Finally, we arrive at the visitation room where Mr. Vetter sits all prim and proper at the metal bench/table combo. He smiles warmly when I enter, and I heave a sigh. "You're not looking well, Melody. We'll need to work on that before the trial. Or better yet, we won't—we can argue you're being mistreated in here, which will make you look sympathetic."
"What do I need to do?" I ask. God, I'm so itchy. My skin crawls like there are little bugs just under the surface. The only thing that helps is bouncing my leg. Wringing my hands. Twitching my toes. If I keep moving, it doesn't hurt. It doesn't itch.
"That's the thing—you didn't do anything. Right? Plead not guilty. Deny any involvement. Keep in mind,this is just for any alleged crimes in Pennsylvania, okay? Nothing else. Nowhere else." Mr. Vetter grabs my hand and looks into my eyes. Ugh, I don't like it. His gaze is too hard, too knowing. "Can you do that?"
"Yeah, I can do that." I yank my hand back. "Any news from Dante?"
"Nothing that I can say here. I'll paraphrase. He says that he will not rest until you are free. He says that he loves you. He says that he can't wait until he can touch you again," Mr. Vetter whispers.
Does he, though? Does he miss me? I failed at the one purpose he chose me for: producing an heir. I couldn't kill Ella. And I couldn't keep our baby safe. Fetus. Whatever. It hurts less if I call it a fetus. But what if he's just saying these things to be polite? And what if the only time I'll see him is in the goddamn courtroom?
I can't pay attention to anything else Mr. Vetter says during our visit. If Dante trusts him, I trust him, too. That'll have to be good enough.
The jail nurse always checks under my tongue. Every single time. But what I've noticed is that she doesn't check my gums. She doesn't check if I've properly swallowed. Today is the sixth day that I hide the pillsbetween my teeth and cheek, spitting them into the built-in toilet when I get back to my cell. Dirty Blonde Pigtails watches me perform this ritual twice a day. I guess she's here for longer than the others, too.
"What are you in for?" I ask. Without these pills, I'm feeling more like myself. I love it. I love feeling like I can actually handle the stress, instead of morphing into a ball of bouncing nerves.
"Rude to ask that." She sniffs. "Aggravated assault on an officer. You?"
"Murder, I guess." I plop down on the thin mattress and tilt my head back, counting the ceiling tiles again. Fifteen, by the way. Same as every day.
"Damn. Is that why they got you taking crazy pills?"
