Accused Criminal
7
Lana slept with a thin sheet resting over her waist and a single pillow propping her head up. With anything more than the sheet the weight irritated her legs. Sleep didn’t come easy and it did not stay long.
She awoke before the sun lifted beams of light into the sky and slowly she turned her head to the left. Howard was snoring faintly, a hand over his chest. For a couple of minutes she watched the rise and fall as his chest; then her gaze drifted. The intense creases of his sharp face where smooth in the hours he slept, his lips flat and the pinch of his brow gone. When Howard awoke the lawyer would return. There were other moments of serenity when her husband’s thick lawyer hide was dismissed, but those times had grown sparse over the years of their marriage.
After light spilt onto the floor, finding its way past the bottom of the curtain, Lana worked her way out of the bed. Careful not to wake him, she stepped out of the bedroom.
Hoping she would be able to return to some level of normality, Lana began a descent to the kitchen. About half way down the cold flight of stairs, she realized that would be impossible. The pain in her legs was intense and her breaths became rapid as a cold sweat trickled down her forehead. All of her concentration was spent on the management of her limbs.
The bottom of the flight of stairs welcomed her and a wave of relief swept through her body and mind. A comfortable spot on the couch was only steps away. Most of the previous night had been passed on the couch and her laboring body was beginning to insist that the day would be passed in a similar fashion.
When she had returned home, her daughter had been stiff and rushed off to her room. Howard had gone to comfort her and left Lana on the couch. Today Cameron would be busy with school and her husband hard at work on her case in addition to the others he was in the process of handling.
She slid onto the edge of the couch, relieving the pressure from her sore feet and placing it on the back of her thighs.
In an hour, her husband climbed down the stairs followed by Cameron. They both bypassed the living room and entered the kitchen. Banging of pans followed by the sweet aroma of hot-cakes flowed into the living room where she remained, her position hardly shifting from its original form.
When her daughter rushed by, Lana managed a hoarse good-bye-sweetie-have-a-good-day. She received a quick over the shoulder smile, Cameron’s hair shielding part of her face, and then the girl was gone. The front door bounced shut with a thud Lana felt in her bones and the sounds in the kitchen came to an abrupt halt.
“There are dishes in the sink,” Howard spoke from behind her, his voice sending a chill down her spine. Things were different in her home now. “I’m going into the office.”
She said another long winded goodbye and the front door banged once more. Eerie, like a clawed hand creeping over her tender skin, a silence haunted the room. In the hospital at least there had been the constant voices of employees and visitors in the halls and the range of beeps and humming of machines. Her own shallow breaths now seemed out of place.
Standing with sudden energy, Lana pushed past the pain in her heels and toes, the protests of her claves and the sharp pain in her side and began moving her aching body to the kitchen. There were dishes to be done. She glanced at her hands, white bandages covering each finger. Still, there were dishes to be done. More than anything, Lana longer for the return to normality; she desired nothing more than the life she had before the torture.
Inhaling, Lana reached the kitchen. Howard hadn’t been joking when he said there were dishes to be done. The sink was overflowing with plates, cups and bowls. A frying pan was still sitting on a filth covered stove top and the counter, well the counter had food splatters masking the majority of the marble counters. A smile pulled at the corner of her lips.
She was a good wife. Cleaning and cooking, those were things she could handle; those were things of normality. So, Lana hobbled into the kitchen and reached for a sponge and bottle of cleaning spray.
The hours past and a small dent of counter space had been cleaned along with a portion of the dishes. Lana was fairly certain that she had broken open cuts that the bandages obscured and they were now bleeding again, but she ignored that. She ignored the protests of her body, her mind determined to rediscover her life.
At 7:45, Howard walked through the front door, kicked it shut and dropped his briefcase onto the floor. Lana was still in the kitchen, but each sound stirred the old memories of everyday common life. Since they had been married, Howard had been dropping a briefcase onto the floor, papers packed neatly inside, so that he may remove his jacket and hang it in the proper place. She could form the picture in her mind, but Lana wanted to see it for herself, to reassure herself that this had not changed.
“Howard,” she greeted her husband with a smile and a warm kiss to the cheek. He was striping a scarf from his neck, jacket already sling over a hook beside the door.
“Lana,” his eyes slipped over her. “Carmon will be spending the night at a friend’s house.” A heavy hand dropped onto her shoulder and Lana held back a cringe. “What is for dinner?”
She danced back with as much grace as she could muster and lead him by the hand. The kitchen, improved from the morning but still in poor condition, smelled primarily of lemon and bleach. During her break from dish washing and counter scrubbing, Lana had pulled two containers of leftovers from the fridge. There weren’t many ingredients for cooking, and it appeared that during her time in the hospital and while she had been…away… Howard had taken to feeding their daughter and himself takeout.
Back when Howard had been a young law student, an intern, and a young lawyer, his preference had been Chinese takeout. It was common amongst the lawyers he associated with to have a diet of noodles and various other oriental foods with high MSG, but at home, she had provided home-cooked meals. Some days there were even packed lunched or dinners for him to take to the office prepared for him by a loving and devoted wife. The luxury of home cooking was just out of reach for the time being.
A lump rose in her throat.
She hadn’t been able to make it to the store. Even the thought of it chilled her, made her want to crawl into a corner and cower, but Lana forced a smile onto her face. “I wanted to make something, but,” she swallowed another lump, “I didn’t get to the store.”
Howard moved towards the white and red Chinese food containers she had placed on the clean portion of counter space. “You can get groceries tomorrow.”
Nodding, she handed her husband a fork and pulled a container towards herself. They ate in silence, Lana fighting down the urge to gag on each bite of food she forced down her throat and silencing each question about what was on Howard’s mind as it arose in her head. Howard leaned against the counter, a pinch in his brow and the fork quickly lifting noodles from the container to his mouth.
Most of dinner passed in silence, and when Howard had finished the white and red box of Chinese food, he slipped out of the kitchen. The door to his office quickly opened and closed with a faint thud and Lana was alone.
With her joints aching and her sore hands protesting the effort it required to hold the box and silverware, she wanted nothing more than to sink down and sit for a while. Her body protested that as well. She knew there was more work to be done and that while she scrubbed at the counters and put dishes in their proper place, her mind would be blank; she would have peace and not have a fear crawling up her spine. However, Lana’s body objected physical exertion.
In the end, her body won the fight and she stood, limped out of the kitchen.
Passing the door to her husband’s office, she sighed. Lana pressed an ear to the door and raised her hand to knock so that she could inform him that she was headed for bed. His voice, thick with a controlled anger, stopped her. “There has to be a change in plans. Your man screwed up Shannon, and I’ve had to think fast to correct that mistake. Those two detectives have thrown out wild ideas. None of them are going to stick. If your guy had just done the job right we would have this problem. This is a real conflict in our relationship, Shannon.”
There must have been a lengthy explanation on the other side of the line because her husband spoke again after a pause and he had recomposed himself. Lana’s chest was tight and she let out a long breath that she had been holding. The conversation shifted and Lana stepped away from the door, lifting a hand to her quivering lips. Could he have meant what she thought? Were they speaking about what had happened to her?
Lana struggled to move across the hall and up the stairs, a cold anger growing in the pit of her stomach. By the time that she reached their bedroom, she was flushed and the anger was threatening to spill from her in the form of an anguished scream.
She awoke before the sun lifted beams of light into the sky and slowly she turned her head to the left. Howard was snoring faintly, a hand over his chest. For a couple of minutes she watched the rise and fall as his chest; then her gaze drifted. The intense creases of his sharp face where smooth in the hours he slept, his lips flat and the pinch of his brow gone. When Howard awoke the lawyer would return. There were other moments of serenity when her husband’s thick lawyer hide was dismissed, but those times had grown sparse over the years of their marriage.
After light spilt onto the floor, finding its way past the bottom of the curtain, Lana worked her way out of the bed. Careful not to wake him, she stepped out of the bedroom.
Hoping she would be able to return to some level of normality, Lana began a descent to the kitchen. About half way down the cold flight of stairs, she realized that would be impossible. The pain in her legs was intense and her breaths became rapid as a cold sweat trickled down her forehead. All of her concentration was spent on the management of her limbs.
The bottom of the flight of stairs welcomed her and a wave of relief swept through her body and mind. A comfortable spot on the couch was only steps away. Most of the previous night had been passed on the couch and her laboring body was beginning to insist that the day would be passed in a similar fashion.
When she had returned home, her daughter had been stiff and rushed off to her room. Howard had gone to comfort her and left Lana on the couch. Today Cameron would be busy with school and her husband hard at work on her case in addition to the others he was in the process of handling.
She slid onto the edge of the couch, relieving the pressure from her sore feet and placing it on the back of her thighs.
In an hour, her husband climbed down the stairs followed by Cameron. They both bypassed the living room and entered the kitchen. Banging of pans followed by the sweet aroma of hot-cakes flowed into the living room where she remained, her position hardly shifting from its original form.
When her daughter rushed by, Lana managed a hoarse good-bye-sweetie-have-a-good-day. She received a quick over the shoulder smile, Cameron’s hair shielding part of her face, and then the girl was gone. The front door bounced shut with a thud Lana felt in her bones and the sounds in the kitchen came to an abrupt halt.
“There are dishes in the sink,” Howard spoke from behind her, his voice sending a chill down her spine. Things were different in her home now. “I’m going into the office.”
She said another long winded goodbye and the front door banged once more. Eerie, like a clawed hand creeping over her tender skin, a silence haunted the room. In the hospital at least there had been the constant voices of employees and visitors in the halls and the range of beeps and humming of machines. Her own shallow breaths now seemed out of place.
Standing with sudden energy, Lana pushed past the pain in her heels and toes, the protests of her claves and the sharp pain in her side and began moving her aching body to the kitchen. There were dishes to be done. She glanced at her hands, white bandages covering each finger. Still, there were dishes to be done. More than anything, Lana longer for the return to normality; she desired nothing more than the life she had before the torture.
Inhaling, Lana reached the kitchen. Howard hadn’t been joking when he said there were dishes to be done. The sink was overflowing with plates, cups and bowls. A frying pan was still sitting on a filth covered stove top and the counter, well the counter had food splatters masking the majority of the marble counters. A smile pulled at the corner of her lips.
She was a good wife. Cleaning and cooking, those were things she could handle; those were things of normality. So, Lana hobbled into the kitchen and reached for a sponge and bottle of cleaning spray.
The hours past and a small dent of counter space had been cleaned along with a portion of the dishes. Lana was fairly certain that she had broken open cuts that the bandages obscured and they were now bleeding again, but she ignored that. She ignored the protests of her body, her mind determined to rediscover her life.
At 7:45, Howard walked through the front door, kicked it shut and dropped his briefcase onto the floor. Lana was still in the kitchen, but each sound stirred the old memories of everyday common life. Since they had been married, Howard had been dropping a briefcase onto the floor, papers packed neatly inside, so that he may remove his jacket and hang it in the proper place. She could form the picture in her mind, but Lana wanted to see it for herself, to reassure herself that this had not changed.
“Howard,” she greeted her husband with a smile and a warm kiss to the cheek. He was striping a scarf from his neck, jacket already sling over a hook beside the door.
“Lana,” his eyes slipped over her. “Carmon will be spending the night at a friend’s house.” A heavy hand dropped onto her shoulder and Lana held back a cringe. “What is for dinner?”
She danced back with as much grace as she could muster and lead him by the hand. The kitchen, improved from the morning but still in poor condition, smelled primarily of lemon and bleach. During her break from dish washing and counter scrubbing, Lana had pulled two containers of leftovers from the fridge. There weren’t many ingredients for cooking, and it appeared that during her time in the hospital and while she had been…away… Howard had taken to feeding their daughter and himself takeout.
Back when Howard had been a young law student, an intern, and a young lawyer, his preference had been Chinese takeout. It was common amongst the lawyers he associated with to have a diet of noodles and various other oriental foods with high MSG, but at home, she had provided home-cooked meals. Some days there were even packed lunched or dinners for him to take to the office prepared for him by a loving and devoted wife. The luxury of home cooking was just out of reach for the time being.
A lump rose in her throat.
She hadn’t been able to make it to the store. Even the thought of it chilled her, made her want to crawl into a corner and cower, but Lana forced a smile onto her face. “I wanted to make something, but,” she swallowed another lump, “I didn’t get to the store.”
Howard moved towards the white and red Chinese food containers she had placed on the clean portion of counter space. “You can get groceries tomorrow.”
Nodding, she handed her husband a fork and pulled a container towards herself. They ate in silence, Lana fighting down the urge to gag on each bite of food she forced down her throat and silencing each question about what was on Howard’s mind as it arose in her head. Howard leaned against the counter, a pinch in his brow and the fork quickly lifting noodles from the container to his mouth.
Most of dinner passed in silence, and when Howard had finished the white and red box of Chinese food, he slipped out of the kitchen. The door to his office quickly opened and closed with a faint thud and Lana was alone.
With her joints aching and her sore hands protesting the effort it required to hold the box and silverware, she wanted nothing more than to sink down and sit for a while. Her body protested that as well. She knew there was more work to be done and that while she scrubbed at the counters and put dishes in their proper place, her mind would be blank; she would have peace and not have a fear crawling up her spine. However, Lana’s body objected physical exertion.
In the end, her body won the fight and she stood, limped out of the kitchen.
Passing the door to her husband’s office, she sighed. Lana pressed an ear to the door and raised her hand to knock so that she could inform him that she was headed for bed. His voice, thick with a controlled anger, stopped her. “There has to be a change in plans. Your man screwed up Shannon, and I’ve had to think fast to correct that mistake. Those two detectives have thrown out wild ideas. None of them are going to stick. If your guy had just done the job right we would have this problem. This is a real conflict in our relationship, Shannon.”
There must have been a lengthy explanation on the other side of the line because her husband spoke again after a pause and he had recomposed himself. Lana’s chest was tight and she let out a long breath that she had been holding. The conversation shifted and Lana stepped away from the door, lifting a hand to her quivering lips. Could he have meant what she thought? Were they speaking about what had happened to her?
Lana struggled to move across the hall and up the stairs, a cold anger growing in the pit of her stomach. By the time that she reached their bedroom, she was flushed and the anger was threatening to spill from her in the form of an anguished scream.