Body Of Evidence. Debra Webb
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his mental health. Twenty-three months and two weeks ago, he’d finally snapped and he’d turned physical. Marissa had ended up with a concussion and a fractured arm much like little Jeremiah’s. At her ex-husband’s trial, the judge had been particularly peeved by the fact that William was a doctor, and subsequently sentenced him to a year for felony domestic violence. He’d been released six months ago.
The first thing he’d done was come to Marissa and apologize for his behavior. Since that time he’d been volunteering in the community and appeared to be working hard to redeem himself. Marissa had no idea how he was earning any sort of income. He’d exhausted the meager savings they had managed prior to the divorce with his need to prove his status with a new car every year. Unfortunately, his salary as a general practitioner was not that of a cardiothoracic surgeon, as he appeared to want the world to believe.
However much he wanted to act as if he had learned his lesson, Marissa knew better. He was still drinking. Before and, foolishly, even after the divorce, she had tried to help him, but she’d soon recognized that she could not help a man unwilling to help himself. No matter that they had been officially divorced for eighteen months and twenty-two days, he never left her alone for long.
In part, she blamed herself. If she’d made a clean break after he attacked her physically rather than attempting to help him, things might have been different. Now, no matter how many times she told him to back off, he always found a way to insert himself into her life. He discovered something among his things that belonged to her. A letter addressed to her had come to his apartment. A relative was ill and he thought she might want to know. When he’d run out of legitimate excuses, he’d started showing up simply to argue about how she had ruined his life.
She suspected this evening’s visit was the latter, though he had never showed up at her ER before. Too many potential witnesses.
Once they were a few yards from the ER entrance but still within sight of the security guard who monitored that entrance, William lit into her.
“Why would you change your phone number? You’ve had the same number since we moved to Chicago.”
He stood very close to her, his face so near she could feel his breath on her cheek, could smell the liquor when he spoke. William was a handsome man still. Classic square jaw, straight nose, nice lips, assessing brown eyes. But once things started to fall apart, his eyes were always bloodshot from the sheer volume of alcohol he consumed daily. The final year of their marriage, he would come home from work and drink until he passed out in his chair or on the sofa or wherever he happened to be when the saturation point of alcohol in his blood took control. It was as if he couldn’t bear his life, so he attempted to wash away each day’s memories with booze. Every month or so he would promise to join Alcoholics Anonymous. He even went once.
So ironic. He’d been the best all through high school. Best GPA. Best player on the football team. Best all-around student. Class president. College had been much the same. Even in medical school, he had been the golden boy among the professors and his peers. Never had to work very hard to achieve his class ranking.
Whether it all merely caught up with him in the end or he just couldn’t keep up the pace any longer, he plummeted. From all reports, once he went into practice he was a satisfactory doctor. There had never been any complaints from patients. Certainly no malpractice suits. It was his colleagues who couldn’t tolerate his bullying and bad behavior.
And his wife. For a while, Marissa had taken his mental abuse and, ultimately, his first and only departure into physical abuse. But that mistake would never be repeated. She refused to be a victim like that ever again. Granted, he had been drunk out of his mind at the time, but she would not allow him to use his drinking as an excuse. He had hurt her and that was that.
“I changed my number because I would like you to stop calling me.” She kept her gaze steady on his. It was important that he understand her decision was not up for discussion. She knew this man intimately. At the moment he appeared reasonably sober, and she wanted him to see and to hear that she meant business. The life they had once shared was over. They were not friends, and they never would be.
“You’ve finally found someone else, haven’t you?” Rage blazed in his dark eyes.
An alarm she knew better than to ignore triggered. There was something about his eyes, his tone that seemed different tonight—colder, harder. “This is not about anyone else, William. This is about you.” She kept her voice steady, her tone firm. A year of counseling had helped her to overcome feelings of guilt about the breakdown of their marriage and to stand up for herself, even against the man she had once loved and with whom she had expected to spend the rest of her life. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my patients.”
“Is that another kick in the teeth?” he growled. “I don’t have a career anymore. No patients. No nothing.”
She braced herself and summoned her waning courage. “You don’t have a career anymore because you drink too much. You need help, William. I can’t help you. Until you commit to changing your life, this is how it will be.” She backed away a step. “You should go back to AA and seek private counseling.”
He grabbed her arm, his fingers clutching like a vise. A wave of panic flooded her.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he warned. “If you had been a better wife, maybe I wouldn’t have needed to drink. You could have helped me, but you chose to throw me—our life—away.”
It was the same exchange every time. When he grew angry, he always blamed someone else for his mistakes. “Goodbye, William.” She yanked her arm from his grasp and turned away.
One day he would surely come to terms with the reality that he made his own choices, and he executed those choices.
“Issy.”
She hesitated. Shouldn’t have. Damn it.
“Look at me. Please.”
How was it that she could still feel sympathy for this man? He had made her life miserable for four years before the divorce. He’d done his damnedest to do the same thing the past six months since his release from prison, but she had managed to handle it better. It was always easier to deal with issues from a distance. And though he insinuated himself into her present every chance he got, they did not share a home...they did not share a bed. He was no longer her responsibility, legally or morally.
She took a deep breath. Turned to face him. “First,” she said, “if you ever touch me again, I will take out a restraining order, and then you’ll have yet another black mark on your record. Now, what is it you want to say?”
He stared at her for a long moment. Even from several feet away, she could feel the sheer hatred emanating from him. The bright exterior lighting allowed her to see the desperation in his eyes. She shook her head and started to turn away but his lips parted and, once more, she hesitated.
“I’m going to kill myself.”
Shock slammed into her gut. She sucked in a sharp breath. “You don’t mean that.”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Please, William, you need help. See someone before you destroy any chance of ever rebuilding your life and career. Everyone deserves a second chance. Give yourself one before it’s too late.”
He shook his head. “I’m going to kill myself. But first—” he stared at her so hard she could feel the cold, ruthless pressure of his fury “—I’m going to kill you.”
He walked away.
Marissa’s knees buckled, forcing her to grab for the sleek limestone wall to steady herself. She watched him settle behind the steering wheel of his car and drive away. As much as she wanted to believe that he was only attempting to frighten her, she knew better than to be that naive. As a physician, she was well aware that people could snap and do unspeakable things.
William had been teetering on the precipice of total self-destruction for years now. Her first obligation as a physician