Sugar Free Page 12

  "Jesus," Beck says from behind me in irritation, and I jump in the dining room chair that I'd been sitting in for the past half hour, spending Sunday reading news stories about Beck's arrest. "You've had your nose buried in that laptop for the last three hours. Quit reading that shit."

  Okay, so maybe it was three hours, not thirty minutes. But I can't seem to keep track of time this weekend. I'm in a constant state of worry, internal debate, and problem solving.

  I get up from the chair and my back screams in protest, confirming that I had indeed been sitting there way too long. I follow Beck into the kitchen and watch as he pulls the refrigerator open and pulls out a beer. He twists the cap, puts it in the garbage, and takes a long pull while looking at me.

  "I read a piece by one of the analysts at Court TV and they seemed to think without a murder weapon, it would be difficult to--"

  Beck slams the beer down on the counter and foam shoots out the top. His face contorts in anger and he yells at me, "I don't give a flying fuck what reporters or analysts are saying, Sela."

  He throws his arms out to the side in frustration and continues his rant against me. "I don't give a shit what anyone thinks about this. What I do give a shit about is that my girlfriend has been moping around this place all weekend and won't even look at me because she's too busy reading shit that's written by a biased media. I'm tired of it, Sela. Tired of you sitting in front of that computer reading stories or constantly flipping channels on the TV, trying to find something that will make you feel better about this shitstorm. Well, I'm here to tell you, babe...none of that stuff is going to make it better. It's only going to cause you more anxiety. So give it up and get the fuck on with your life. You're driving me batty."

  Outside of that one afternoon when Beck kicked me out of the apartment, I've never seen him angry like this before. Never seen him so close to being out of control. His face is red and his chest is heaving.

  "What would you have me do?" I ask quietly, because I'm thinking he's geared up for a fight and I don't want this to escalate.

  He takes a deep breath, seems reasonably mollified by my request, and says with a release of air, "Let's go out and do something. Get out of this place for a bit."

  "I don't feel like it," I say automatically, and then wince the minute the words are out.

  Beck advances on me, coming to a stop when we're toe-to-toe. His lips peel back into an ugly grimace and he snarls, "You don't feel like doing anything. You've shut down and you've shut me out. You wouldn't even let me touch you last night or the night before. Just moping around like you're half dead, waiting for the sky to fall."

  A tiny flare of anger pulses within me. "Well, the sky is fucking falling if you haven't noticed, Beck. You're in some serious fucking trouble and I don't know what to do."

  He makes a scoffing sound and turns away from me.

  "I'm scared," I say pitifully.

  "Well join the goddamned club," he growls as he spins back on me. "It's my ass on the line right now, but you don't see me pulling away, do you? You see me trying to keep on living life, right?"

  I want to accept his words and give them credence. Hell, I'm sure he's 100 percent right. But right now, I feel similar to the way I did after my rape. Completely lost, unsure of what to do or how to feel, and trying with all my might to resist the urge to just curl inward. I want to ignore all of this mess and live in a world where tomorrow doesn't come, because tomorrow means we are back in court listening to evidence that could take this man away from me forever.

  Beck looks at me expectantly, hope in his eyes that I might just step forward and tumble into his arms. Apologize for my bizarre behavior over the weekend and snap myself out of it.

  But I can't. I know things are hard on him right now, but they're equally as hard on me. Not only am I terrified of what will happen, I'm loaded with guilt so heavy I feel like my back will break from the sheer weight of it. Because let's face it...this is all my fault. One could even take it right back to my sixteenth birthday, where it all started. Had I just listened to Whitney at the mall and never gotten into the car with those boys, wanting to prove how grown up I was, Beck wouldn't be in the position he is now.

  "Fuck this," Beck mutters when I don't say anything, and stomps out of the kitchen. He grabs his keys off the foyer table and pulls the door open.

  "Where are you going?" I ask, because our building is surrounded by reporters and I'm worried about him facing that.

  "Out," he says curtly, and then he's gone, slamming the door behind him.

  That wasn't our first argument, but it was the nastiest and it leaves me completely restless. I pace the entire condo several times, resisting the urge to call Beck. I eventually give up the compulsion because at this moment, he probably needs distance from me.

  My phone ringing startles me and for a moment I can't tell where the sound is coming from. But then I notice it's muffled and realize it's in my purse, which is on the floor in the bedroom. I run back to it, figuring it's Beck and I intend to say "I'm sorry" when we connect.

  When I pull my phone out, a tiny thrill of excitement flushes through me at the prospect of making things better for him with a genuine apology and hearing his beautiful voice on the other line, but instead I see an unrecognizable number with a 408 area code. That's Santa Clara, my home county.

  "Hello," I say hesitantly after I tap the answer button.

  "Sela?" a man's voice asks me just as hesitantly. "It's Detective Bruce Remmers."

  I immediately recognize the deep baritone voice of the incredibly nice detective who investigated my rape ten years ago. I called him on Friday afternoon and left a message for him. Calling Dennis was out of the question so we could keep him off the police's radar, and Beck and I knew we needed to push forward with verifying that JT was indeed Caroline's rapist. Thus we had to match him up to the DNA in my case.

  "I got your message," he says jovially. "Had to come into the office and catch up on a few things. It's nice to hear your voice. You doing okay?"

  "Yeah," I say with a breathless murmur, both relieved he called me back but also nervous to be opening up this can of worms. "I'm doing fine, actually."

  "That's good to hear," he says kindly. "Always knew you were a tough girl and that you were going to make it. So where are you now?"

  "I live in San Fran," I tell him, not wanting to waste time with the necessary small talk, but knowing that because he's a nice guy and he's truly interested in me, that he deserves it. "Going to Golden Gate and working on my master's in counseling psychology."

  I can hear the pride and respect in his voice. "That is fantastic. Just really amazing, Sela."

  "Yeah...so, um...listen," I say nervously, even though Beck and I thoroughly talked through how to approach my inquiry. "I wanted to ask you about the DNA that was retrieved off me. I mean...it's been over ten years now and there's not been a match, and I was just worried...you know...that maybe something got messed up in the system."

  "Sela," he says with that pastoral tone he'd used on me in the past when he was delivering hard news. "You know sometimes rapists just aren't caught. They become more careful. Or maybe they don't rape again because that could have been a one-time-only thing fueled by drugs and alcohol."

  I know he's right. He's told me that before. But I press him anyway. "I know. It's just been bugging me lately, and what if it didn't get put into the system properly? I mean, those things can happen, right? Do you think you could maybe check, and just ensure that everything is good on your end? Then I could just put this out of my mind and move on."

  Detective Remmers gives a tiny sigh but it's not irritation with me. The man knew how to handle rape victims with the softest of gloves. No, his sigh is because he'll do it for me, and in his heart of hearts he believes he's going to find everything done according to protocol and that he'll be delivering bad news to me yet again that they have nothing on my rapist.

  "Sure," he says softly. "I'll head over to cold storage now and
pull the file. Call you back soon."

  "Thank you so much," I tell him with immense gratitude. After spinning my wheels for two days, feeling utterly helpless about everything, I feel energized now that something is moving. Even if it doesn't directly impact Beck's case, it's one step closer we have to verifying JT raped both me and Caroline, and then we can tell her the truth.

  When I disconnect, I immediately dial Beck. He answers after the first ring. "Hey."

  "Hey," I say softly. "I just wanted you to know that Detective Remmers just called me. He's going to pull my file and check to make sure the DNA was submitted properly."

  "That's great," he says, and his voice sounds lighter. I'm thinking the anger's dissipated.

  "When are you coming home?" I ask hesitantly, because I really, really want him to come home.

  "In about ten seconds," he says, and I can hear a slight smile in his voice. "I never made it past the elevator."

  I disconnect the call, run down the hall, pausing long enough to throw my phone on the dining room table. I scurry to the front door, open it, and see him standing there.

  "I'm so sorry," I tell him before flinging my arms around his neck. "I'm sorry I've been such a pain in your ass this weekend."

  His arms come around my waist and he hugs me tight to him. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

  "I deserved it."

  "No, you didn't."

  He pulls back and then kisses me sweetly, a little tentatively. He's right...I told him I wasn't in the mood for sex the last two nights. Not that we have sex every night, mind you, but we do most nights. Or days. Whatever. So I get why he's hesitant and I don't want him to be.

  I press my body in tight, my signal to him that I want more than just a kiss.

  He doesn't hesitate further. Within moments, our clothes are gone and he's got me on top of the dining room table, pushing my phone down toward the other end so we don't knock it off. He's hot and hard, lodged deep inside of me. He rocks slowly against me, holding my arms pinned above my head while my legs are clamped tight against his ribs. Beck kisses me leisurely while he fucks me, but soon, as with most times we are wrapped up with each other like this, his moves become more forceful.

  His thrusts a bit deeper.

  When he can't concentrate on the kiss anymore because I know he wants to concentrate on getting us off, he pulls his mouth from mine, releases his hold on my arms, and puts one palm on the table for leverage. He pushes up slightly and then he's able to really let me have it.

  The condo is filled with the sound of the table creaking as we fuck and our heavy pants, and I get closer and closer to the finish line.

  So close, almost there.

  Then my phone rings.

  Beck doesn't even stop pounding inside of me, but does look above my head at my phone. "It's a 408 area code," he grunts at me.

  "That's Detective Remmers," I manage to gasp out as his cock consumes me. "Should we answer it?"

  "No," he groans as he slides in deep. "Let him leave a voice mail. More important things right this minute."

  My phone rings three more times but then Beck's hand is in between my legs, rubbing my clit while he fucks me and I don't hear the phone anymore.

  "Beck," I cry out as I start to come, my back arching off the table.

  "That's my girl," he mutters, and then he starts jerking inside of me with a long groan.

  He immediately rolls us to our sides, legs still intertwined and his dick still wedged deep inside me. With his long reach, he grabs my phone and hands it to me.

  We're both still breathing heavy and layered in sweat, but I manage to access my voice mail, put it on speakerphone, and we listen.

  "Sela...Detective Remmers. I pulled your file, and just wanted you to know, everything was done properly. It was submitted to CODIS and we have a receipt for it. I couldn't find it at first, but it was mislabeled. So yes...the DNA we collected is in CODIS, and if the man that raped you gets put into the system in the future, we'll get a match. It was great hearing your voice today. Stay strong and call me if you need me again."

  My eyes snap to Beck's, who looks just as perplexed as I feel.

  "JT didn't rape Caroline," I murmur, as the implication of what I just learned sinks in. JT's DNA from my rape is in the database. It should have triggered a hit with Caroline's case but it didn't.

  "He was saying that just to torture you," Beck says. "But thank fuck...thank fuck we didn't say anything yet to Caroline."

  Yes...thank fuck. We would have destroyed her for no reason whatsoever.

  The relief I felt over finding out that JT didn't rape Caroline only lasted for a bit. Sela and I dragged ourselves off the dining room table and spent the rest of the day in bed, both of us buoyed by that news.

  But now, as I sit back in the same courtroom and listen to the proceedings around me, my stomach gets knotted back up with anxiety again. Periodically, I'll look behind me to see Sela and Caroline there, giving me looks of encouragement. I dared to glance only once at Candace and Colin Townsend, who thankfully weren't glaring at me but were talking quietly with ADA Hammond as she leaned over the gallery wall before court started. Still haven't heard a word from my parents, and that neither surprises me nor makes me feel bad. They're a nonissue in my life.

  Doug had said the preliminary hearing could take anywhere from half an hour to several hours, depending on how good their evidence was. If they were building a circumstantial case, it would take longer so they could lay it all out. It was up to the judge to listen to it and determine if there was probable cause to move forward. As Doug explained, it was a low threshold for the district attorney to overcome, the standard being if the facts presented would cause a person to have an honest and strong suspicion that a person is guilty of the crime.

  This doesn't bode well for me, because all of the financial motives they think are driving me are enough for most people to have a strong suspicion that I did it.

  Currently, an evidence tech is on the stand while ADA Hammond leads her through a series of questions about what was found at the crime scene. I watched as they identified color photos of JT's body and bags of hairs and fibers. Doug had told me that it could take weeks for that to all get analyzed forensically, but that doesn't hold up the criminal justice process.

  After the tech comes the medical examiner, but his testimony is short and sweet, and nothing surprising. JT died of massive blood loss due to a single stab wound to his carotid artery. The other stab wound was inconsequential. Although a murder weapon had not been identified, they believe it was a letter opener that JT's housekeeper said he keeps on his desk but had never been recovered. The medical examiner opines that the wounds look to be caused from an instrument such as a letter opener.

  Then we get to what I believe to be the meat and potatoes of their case. ADA Hammond calls Detective Amber Denning to the stand. She leads her through some questions regarding investigative protocol, eventually leading her up to her interviews with me.

  "And how many times did you interview Mr. North?" Hammond asks.

  "Twice," Denning replies. "Once at his condo the evening we found Mr. Townsend's body, and then again last Wednesday when he came into the station voluntarily with his attorney."

  "What was his demeanor during those interviews?" Hammond asks.

  "He did not seem surprised when we arrived at his condo to advise him of Mr. Townsend's death," Denning says as she flips through her written reports she must have made after. "But he was cooperative and answered our questions. He was also cooperative during the second interview."

  I'm glad she doesn't mention the fact I got pissy with her at the end, but I expect that's because she's a professional and wouldn't stoop. Probably irrelevant anyway.

  "And in the course of those interviews, did you learn anything that would lead you to focus in on Mr. North as a suspect with a sound motive for murdering the victim?" Hammond asks smoothly.

  Denning nods. "Two things stood out. Mr. North had tried to buy
Mr. Townsend out of their business on a few occasions and Mr. Townsend would not sell out. He seemed to be battling issues with drugs and gambling, but those weren't factors that could cause Mr. North to terminate their agreement and force Mr. Townsend out. We were able to gather all of the financial records of Townsend-North, and the estimated worth of the company was right at three hundred and seventeen million dollars."

  Hammond makes a low whistle sound, like she's astounded to hear that amount, when everyone in this courtroom knows damn well it wasn't news to her. "And what was the other thing that stood out?"

  "We discovered that Mr. North and Mr. Townsend were actually half brothers, both sharing Beckett North, Sr., as a father. We learned that Mr. Townsend was going to get half of Mr. North's inheritance."

  I can't help it. I look over my shoulder at Colin Townsend, and I can tell by the look on his face that this is not news to him. Either he's always known or the ADA told him so he could be prepared to hear those things in court, but he sits ramrod straight on the wooden pew-type bench and listens with rapt attention.

  Then I turn even further in my seat to look at the other person that this will be shocking news to. Caroline stares right back at me, her eyes accusatory that I would keep something like this from her. I'm going to have to answer for that secret once we get this shit behind us. Hindsight is twenty-twenty and all that, but clearly, this is something I should have told Caroline a long time ago. Just never thought it would ever have any bearing on either of our lives, but it turns out it's a fact that could end up tearing all of us apart.

  ADA Hammond asks a few more questions about her interviews with me, including my alibi. She also brings up the fact I suggested this was done by a disgruntled Vegas bookie who didn't get paid. Denning merely testified that they searched JT's house and office, including phone records and bank transactions, and simply could find no evidence other than the fact he'd been assaulted by unidentified assailants the day before his death.

  "Detective Denning," Hammond asks bluntly. "Do you believe Mr. Townsend's death was related to this alleged gambling debt?"

  "I do not," she says firmly. "We could find no evidence, and even Mr. North admitted to us that Mr. Townsend was given a few days to come up with the money. It made no sense for this alleged bookie not to honor the deadline, as he stood to get a lot of money."