The morning after Ben’s death, I had expected to find Benjamin Paris’s name in the obituaries, but not in the news. And not like this. After all, suicides didn’t usually make the front page. But murder did.
Durham police are looking for multiple suspects in an armed robbery and murder investigation, the police department announced earlier today. Benjamin Paris, 39, was fatally stabbed following a home invasion on Hendricks Way late last night. Paramedics arrived on the scene to find Paris already dead, the perpetrators having stolen thousands of dollars in valuables and artwork. The police believe two suspects are involved in the murder and ask that anyone with any information please come forward.
How the heck had the cops figured it out so quickly that it wasn’t a suicide? What had happened to the note? To the staging? And what’s this about multiple suspects stealing stuff? What was going on?
As the significance of the article sunk in, I knew I was in it deep. A murder meant a lengthy investigation. It meant forensics and DNA and looking into Ben’s extracurriculars and phone call logs and credit card charges. The risk was high that I would end up dragged into this. Someone would recognize me. Or had seen my car parked down the street. Or caught a glimpse of me wandering through their backyard. A new hairstyle and dye job could take care of some of that, but I needed more. With a baby growing inside me, I couldn’t risk going on the run. I needed health care and security. I needed to stay just inside the outskirts of the investigation so that I knew how to protect myself and the baby.
It was possible Harper had restaged all my efforts. After all, she had the most to gain from a murder. A suicide meant no insurance payout, and men like Ben—no matter how much of a cheating jerk he was—always provided for their family. Men like Ben were prepared. Men who lived in mini-mansions with six-figure incomes bought the best death benefits. That, at least, could be to my advantage. Harper would be suspect number one. It was only fair that if I didn’t get a dime for my child’s future that Harper didn’t get one either. I refused to be left with nothing while Harper buried her husband and got rich doing it.
My brain rumbled through every step, every touch, every action at the crime scene. What had I missed? I had been so careful, thoughtful. I didn’t know what the investigators had found that would suggest anything but suicide—the window I had broken, most likely—but I would find out. Lane Flynn was my inside source.
I could never forget the day I met Lane, the first day I arrived in Durham, North Carolina, after a grueling bus ride. After leaving Pennsylvania, I had bled the entire trip, until finally arriving in the town described as having the best medical facilities in the South, and being “culturally dynamic while holding on to its historical significance.” The town had good medical care and was small and clean and modern and cute. It was the perfect mix of youthful innovation and mature taste. Welcome home!
My first night at the cheapest motel I could find ended with a night in the hospital when the spotting gushed into bleeding. That day I lost Noah’s baby but gained a friend. The miscarriage made me a wreck, but my attending nurse, Lane Flynn, was kind, compassionate, and sincere. He helped me through the loss.
We exchanged small talk and deep talk. He liked to unwind with karaoke, and I liked to unwind with swimming. He shared his desire for a family, and I confessed my knack for screwing such things up. He told me I was perfect, and I told him he would make someone a lucky wife one day. He stood by my side as I prayed for the life of my baby, then wept as I lost her. He hugged me when the loneliness crushed me, and brought me flowers before I was discharged with empty arms that should have held my child.
I hadn’t thought much about Lane in the following months, only that he was the perfect example of what a man should be, but I was stupid back then. I hadn’t yet figured out that there were only two types of men—the Noahs who crushed you, and the Lanes who built you up. I was still stuck on adventure and bad boys. I hadn’t yet been awakened to security and love. My stupidity had instead led me to Ben. But now that Ben was dead and I was pregnant with Ben’s baby, I needed someone with no baggage. Someone ripe for love and a family.
The answer to all my problems had been right in front of me on the day I arrived in this town, and he lived inside the four walls of the quaint, suburban three-bedroom house with its promise of better things. Lane Flynn wasn’t bad-looking either. And he made decent money as a nurse. And he wanted a family as desperately as I wanted to give my unborn child a father. He was perfect.
Months had passed since we had met, and I doubted he would remember me with my new hairstyle. If anything, it was better that way, starting fresh. All it took was a “chance” meeting at the karaoke bar that he often frequented, a lot of flirting, two chocolate martinis, and a little destiny to bring two lost souls together . . .