Mac Peterson acknowledged now, while looking at the letter, that he still wouldn't have been pleased had this happened seventeen years earlier. He knew she would do something drastic; she was extreme like that but she knew how to hide it well. As usual, he would eventually emerge as a culprit. He swallowed hard a sharp gulp of pain. He understood why she ran away from him all those years ago –he was bad omen for her. He shouldn't have come. He wouldn't have if it weren't for the exchange programme; so much for gaining experience in a different jurisdiction. He should have just kept to field work. If he was being honest, that wasn't the only thing that took him to New York. Immediately he saw the list of persons that will be responsible for the training – and her name… 'Sheila Graine' was third on that list – he didn't hesitate to pack his bag.
He slipped the thick envelop into his file immediately he heard footsteps. A group of men dressed in white plastic bags, red gloves and holding trash bags came in; definitely the call-out service to dispose of the bodies and clean up. Following them was Inspector Bustaine. He eyed the bodies sprawled lifeless on the tiled floor and turned to grin at Pete.
"What made you come here?"
His voice was cold when he answered, still consumed by the shock: "She called me right after."
Bustaine dragged one white clove from his back pocket. "She planned this!!!"
Pete's laugh was low. "Shocking?"
Bustaine turned to eye him after observing the bodies, probably trying to read his body countenance.
"You tell me Peterson, you were the one she decided to call out of all of us before doing this."
Pete glared at him. That statement was very sarcastic and definitely accusatory. "I had nothing to do with this."
"Explain that to the police. Any suicide note?" Bustaine's eyes continued to scan the now very empty large suite.
"None that I've seen." Pete answered without meeting his eyes.
"Interesting… so what are we ruling this as? Homicide… or suicide?" He stooped down to take a sample of the semi-dry bloodstain on the tiled floor, then continued "Where is the boy?"
"With Agnes," answered Pete.
"You're Girlfriend?"
Pete nodded.
Bustaine woke up swiftly. Something was up, and Pete definitely knew why – one of the best attorneys in his firm was lying breathless, having believed to have committed suicide and murder. Why was his first instinct to send the boy to his place instead of calling the police? Something was definitely up.
With a shrug, he removed the handcuffs from his back pockets and motioned towards Pete. "Sorry boy, but you need to come to the station for questioning."
He didn't put up any protests; there was no strength left in him to do so. "Okay," was all he could mutter.
***
It didn't take long before Mac Peterson was released from questioning. The bereaved six-year-old, still in shock, gave his statement. Apparently, he was hiding in a closet, placed there by his mum, when Pete found him. He said Pete hurriedly called Agnes to come and take him away from such a scene before calling the corps. Agnes' statement matched his, so did his call history. Agnes waited for him outside with Bran. He walked out of that station looking lifeless. The two men in her life both looked lifeless; and, as usual, it was her responsibility to nurture and bring them back without ever getting the same energy in return. She opened the door for the poor six-year-old before getting into the driver's seat. Pete was definitely not in a state to drive. "The envelope?"
"You got to be kidding me," she muttered as she looked at him.
Barely sitting properly and that was the first thing on his mind. Anyway, she wasn't surprised. She should have known. Curiosity crept in as she removed the thick envelop from the glove compartment.
She just realised she had not beheld its content, but she was sure it was the last words of Sheila Graine. Why he would decide to further implicate himself like this beats her. That was all the evidence required to rule the case as a suicide. Maybe its content would have implicated him as well. Meaning she might be getting herself mixed up in a murder. She came to a scene of two dead bodies, a gun on the floor and a man in shock holding a traumatized kid. She didn't know what to think.
For the little time she got acquainted with Mrs Sheila, she didn't look like the type who could take her own life. Anyways, how many of them ever do. That was too drastic and she certainly didn't look like the type who could commit a murder, especially not that of her husband. She was an attorney for crying out loud, one of the best! Pete never failed to rub that in her jobless face. Whatever issues they were having should have been left in the hands of the law. She handed the envelope to him. She watched him asses it keenly, probably trying to see if it had been opened up. The clip was still strong and clean.
"What did you think? That I will snoop around your love letters?" As she pushed down the breaks, sudden panic gripped her stomach. Bran said he hid in a closet before Pete came to get him, meaning he didn't witness the events of the scene to see exactly what went down with his parents. She turned to the man on her right who wasted six years of her life without even the hopes of a promise ring. She didn't want to believe it. It's best to wade off the thought.
Dinner was quiet. Pete and Bran barely touched the eggs and bacon on their plates. They played with it in circles. Agnes's eyes scanned the two men. They moved to the orphaned six-year-old sitting adjacent to her. Never in her life did she think she was going to have anything this close to do with Graine. With sudden shame to admit, she was low-key happy about her death. It meant her own relationship could finally have peace – or so she thought when she first saw her lifeless body sprawled on the tiled floor.
Looking at her six-year boyfriend now, she realised her relationship will be far from anything peaceful. Even in death, this woman will still be competition. He will never recover from this and no matter what she did, he will never have the same enthusiasm for her as he had for a ghost. Graine was an infuriating, overly-confident and bossy woman. She didn't have a likeness for her reputation even before meeting her, and an encounter with her didn't change that perspective; yet, that was the one for her man.
She used to hate the way she bossed him around and he will do her bidding like a humble puppy while she was left unattended to. She cleans cooks and satisfies his urges whenever he deemed it necessary, not caring whether she herself needed looking after. He didn't even ask her opinion about raising a whole kid, especially one that belongs to Graine. It was an automatic independent decision. That's how everything was run in her life. Under his decision!
She was getting tired. "Honey if you're full, you could go and wrap that up and store in the fridge, okay?"
"Ok Aunt."
"Will come and tug you in a bit. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Aunt. Goodnight, Uncle Pete." Bran motioned lifeless to his new foster parents as he received forehead kisses for bed.
Agnes's heart dropped as she watched him disappear into the shadows. She felt sad for the kid. In a single day everything he had ever known came crashing down. Just like that.
Turning to Pete, "What's in the envelop?"
"Not opened it yet."
"Why didn't you hand it over to the corps? You know this can help a lot with the case."
"In what sense?"
"Ruling her death as a suicide."
"Then that of her husband?"
"I don't know, maybe she killed him… or, you tell me."
"Tell you what?" he asked.
"What you think Pete. This could cause a lot of problems for us. Unless, maybe, you seem to have an idea of what's in the envelop."
"Agnes, I'm tired. Let's just eat peacefully please."
"When aren't you tired?" she muttered with disgust under her breath.
"Excuse me, do we have a problem?"
That statement struck a nerve. He couldn't be that nonchalant. Of course, they don't have a problem. He instructs and she obeys. Obedient, humble puppy… he instructed they moved to New York without reason, she packed her bags; he instructed they get a house in a neighbourhood inconvenient for her, she obeyed; now he instructed her to raise a kid, of course it was automatic. She has had enough!
"Pete why didn't you ever just end things with me?" she placed her fork down calmly without meeting his sceptical face. "You know it's that simple. I don't love you; I don't think I ever will. Let me stop wasting your time." She looked at him now squarely in the face with a queer expression.
"Where's all this coming from?"
He was still confused? Like seriously, he couldn't be that daft!
"From six years of resentment and hopes of having a future with you Pete. Do you know I graduated with a Bachelor's in Designing? Did you ever ask me what I wanted to do with my life? No, it didn't matter."
"No one asked you not to pursue your career, Agnes."
"Yes, no one did; but I gave it up for you. A sacrifice you have refused to acknowledge or even be grateful for. You think I don't notice how you always rub my joblessness in my face."
"Agnes – I honestly don't know where this is coming from, but I believe that you need some time off."
"No Pete, we need to talk about it once and for all. I really need you to tell me why you don't just let me go."
"Excuse me?"
"Pete, you don't love me; so why don't you let me go?" she waited for his reply in sudden panic. Usually in this type of moments, she was waiting for an overly dramatic 'no, I love you and I always have' from her man; but with sudden realization as she watched him slung his arms down in a fit of no strength to hide anymore, she immediately regretted asking that question.
"I never stopped you, Agnes, from doing what you want."
That was all she needed to hear and that statement suddenly gave her conscious awakening to her own low level of self-respect. Nobody actually stopped her from taking action for her own life. She consciously, out of her own free will, chose to be his door mat.
"You're right," she realised. "You didn't. I can't continue like this Pete. I'm leaving."
She packed up her utensils and moved to the kitchen sink. He didn't move an inch from his seat.
***
Pete had driven to church the following day. He was about to say his confessions and felt like that was the perfect place to finally read that letter. It was the place her remains were finally laid to rest. He wandered restlessly through the chapel and followed the dark corridor that led to the cemetery.
In order to ward off the dreading thought of reading the content of the letter, his mind drifted towards Agnes and her last words to him last night. He hoped they were the last – for her sake. If he was being honest with himself – and for once, with her – Agnes had always been a convenience. She knew it; he knew it, they both knew it but both parties weren't ready for that conversation. Love was really never going to be in the picture for them.
"Sorry," he excused himself as he collided with the shoulder of a mass servant. He went two steps down the terrace and into the neat courtyard where the embedded graves were lined up symmetrically. He remembered the direction of her tombstone; she was laid to rest some few days ago. He moved towards that area while holding the thick envelop. Finally reaching it, he swept off the scanty debris that already littered the small encampment of her grave and sat on it. He eyed the letter again in his palms, once again dreading its content. He finally loosened the flap and, as he depicted, the number of papers explained the thickness. There were seven full sheets of paper.