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Chapter 13 – Rick

 

“Do you dream often, Morgan?”

 

“Do I have dreams? You mean like goals?”

 

“Nah, at night. Dreams. Nightmares really.” I mutter, absentmindedly scratching at the scruff on my neck and chin. I need a shower and to shave, maybe just a shape up on the beard because Michonne likes it full, but not scraggly. Change my clothes. Kiss my wife.

 

“Hm. I can’t remember the last time I had one of those. You have a nightmare about something, Rick?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“About?”

 

Squinting behind the lenses of my sunglasses, the warmth of the sun is cascading through the car’s windows, warming my stiff bones. I’m thinking about whether or not I really want to resurrect the nightmare that has been dogging me since I woke up this morning.  Brooding, and not really ready to be truthful with my friend, I sidestep honesty, “I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know what your dream was about? You forgot it?”

 

“Something like that. It just left me with a bad feeling about stuff. Things.”

 

“I assume you told your wife about those things, Rick? Is that what your nightmares are about? Stuff and things?”

 

Morgan’s voice is its usual patient and kind tenor, though my own carries more irritation and indignation at the persistence of his questions. We’ve gone round and round about this before and it’s starting to grate on me. “No! I haven’t told her. Not entirely, not yet.”

 

Tsking in a manner I’ve heard Michonne’s father do before when dealing with her brother Noah, Morgan’s obviously becoming impatient with my lack of full disclosure with my wife. “What does that mean?”

 

An exasperated breath escapes my lips involuntarily, before I get a chance to think about it, and that my good friend probably doesn’t deserve my ire. But I am frustrated. I’m tired. Agitated. “Well, Morgan, it means she knows I’m going to sell the house.”

 

“Does she know who you’re selling it to? That she’s already living there? In your house.” Morgan asks, inquisitively probing for the truth in my evasive response.

 

“In my old house, Morgan. I don’t live there anymore.”

 

Pointedly digging in his heels, apparently ready for this early morning back and forth, Morgan is prepared with his quick comeback. “You did last night.”

 

“That’s because she said her husband called and threatened her, and she was afraid. I just checked in on her, slept outside in my cruiser, and left first thing this morning. I’m a sheriff, I’m doing my job.”

 

“If you really believe that, why don’t you tell your wife the full truth, Rick?” Morgan inquires falling back on his usual calm, evenly paced tone, heavily laced with a heaping dose of southern charm that rivals my own. The characteristic concern he has been carrying around for me lately is still a subtle inflection in his line of questioning.

 

“She can’t have the stress and the worry right now. I can’t tell her just yet. In a few weeks, the house will be fully sold to Jessie, and I can put the money back in my savings that I used on the new house. Then there will be nothing really to tell. And Jessie’s paying rent so that is taking care of the mortgage for now. I’ve got this. Trust me.”

 

“What about after that? What about the next obstacle? And the next?”

 

“What do you mean the next obstacle? That’s it.”

 

“No it’s not. A marriage with someone is about trusting that together you will weather every storm as a team. Do you trust your wife, Rick? Do you trust that she can handle this thing, and the next? You have to trust that your relationship and your bond is strong enough for this. Otherwise you won’t make it when it gets really tough.”

 

“Of course I trust her. What kind of thing is that to say? This is not a matter of trust. I don’t know how she’s going to react to this is all. I can’t risk her not taking it well and it causing her stress.”

 

“You don’t think you know her well enough to gauge something like that?”

 

“I know her well, Morgan. That’s why I married her.”

 

“If you say so. But honestly tell me this. If you found out that your wife spent last night with another man, maybe another man like Shane who is clearly interested in her, and she was renting her house to him, and using that money as well as all of her savings to buy a house that you knew nothing about, you’d be ok with that? You would believe that her not telling you isn’t a sign of mistrust? I’m sorry, man, that just doesn’t clear with me.” Scoffing in disbelief, Morgan furthers his position, and if he and I weren’t such good friends I might have just hung up the phone. I’m still considering it.

 

Mainly because he might be on to something, and the premise is causing me to squirm in my seat at the prodding of the truth. I do trust Michonne. With my life. But can I say that I actually know her well enough to know how these kinds of decisions might affect her? Maybe not. And that’s why I don’t want to tell her anything. It’s the unpredictability of it all.

 

“Listen, Morgan, I know you mean well, but I don’t take chances with Michonne. The twins. It’s all very delicate right now. I just need a little more time with her. Can you lay off of me about this now?”

 

“Sure. I’m just trying to help you the way you have helped me so many times. When my Jenny left me, you helped me get her back. You helped me out of my depression, and to get my shit together. I almost lost everything, my temper was out of control, I was drinking, gambling, getting in bar fights, lying to my wife about all of it. All of that almost caused me to lose her and my boy. But, you helped me see how all of the lies and bullshit were going to cost me the best thing to ever happen to me. Hell, Rick, I’m just repaying the favor.”

 

“And I appreciate that, man, but… I need more time. That’s all. This will all be over soon, and until then I’m gonna play this my way. Matter of fact, I gotta run, I’m pulling up to the house now and I forgot some paperwork I received from Spencer’s attorney for this deposition I have today. I’ll talk to you later.” Hitting the end button, I turn into the driveway of Michonne’s house, then hit the garage opener to raise the door. Noticing that my wife’s car is missing, but Andre’s is not, I’m curious as to what exactly is going on. Mike’s truck is out front as well, and immediately I get the eerie feeling that this day is only going to get worse, and it’s only nine o’clock.

 

Actually it’s been a rough 24 hours period. It started last night when I got a call from one of my deputies letting me know that they received a call from my house, from Jessie Anderson, looking for me specifically. Something about her husband finding her. While I wasn’t immediately interested in whatever was going on with Jessie, and was more than happy to stay on the couch snuggled with my wife watching ‘The Flash’, while Andre reclined on the other end of the sectional texting and mumbling about how fine Iris is. But, after two more text messages from the deputy on duty to my work phone regarding the incident, I decided to head back to KC to see what was going on.

 

I didn’t want to lie to my wife, and at first it was like my body was preventatively attempting to stop it from falling from my lips. My throat almost closed up and choked down the lie about me needing to respond to an emergency at the station, and to get some rest for an early morning meeting, I would just stay the night at my house instead of driving back to the city. Even after the half truth struggled its way to the surface, Michonne’s tiny whimpers at me reluctantly dislodging her tangled limbs from around my own, nearly stalled me out, rooting me where I stood. Looking down at her beautiful face, playful displeasure scrunching her rounded features, and heart shaped lips into an animated frown, I almost just confessed it all. Everything. But I couldn’t let the wobbly house of cards fall apart just yet. I needed more time to fix this foundation, to make it steady, so that when it was all said and done, even the strongest disturbance wouldn’t matter. 12 weeks would come. The house would sell. I would get the money to put back in my life savings, and all would be as it should.

 

Nothing is ever as easy as it seems it should be, and as soon as I got to my house I knew I had made the wrong call. Jessie answered the door and none of the theatrics that I would have expected had an abused woman’s husband been threatening her, was present. Pete’s release from county had come. I knew about it. It was something I was quite vocally opposed to, and discussed the negative implications of it with Mayor Monroe. It was obvious to me and anyone else who dared to pay attention that his quick release was heavily influenced by his status in the community, and his relationships with those in charge.

 

The disregard of the law and true protection of the public that has gone on in KC for years, is something that I have been trying to address during my short tenure as sheriff. I haven’t seen great strides, but I am proud that I have been able to get Deana to see the error in how some things have been handled around here. One of which has to do with her own son, which is why I stopped into Michonne’s this morning for my paperwork before my deposition hearing.

 

As my thoughts travel back to last night, and the problematic situation I backed myself in to, I have to concede that there is no one to blame for any of this but myself. The way Jessie ended up in my house seemed so innocent at first. It was almost like it was just another indicator that fate was working things out in my favor again.

 

Lori’s and my divorce left me with my savings in tact, but not the house, which I let her keep free and clear. It was a small modest cottage and was completely paid for. But after the divorce I had to buy another house for myself, and to accommodate Carl’s weekend stays. With alimony and child support added to the mix, my sheriff’s salary doesn’t quite stretch as far as it seemed like it should. Confronted with the problem of what to do about Michonne and I living together, I knew the best solution would be to get rid of my house. It was too small, and with two near grown boys, and twins on the way, we needed space for our growing family. And I didn’t want to just move into Michonne’s house. I wanted a place that was truly ours. Something that wasn’t in either KC or Atlanta, but in between both locations, and far enough away from both of our pasts. A symbol of the fresh start that our family was embarking on. Of course that would require money. A lot of money.

 

Michonne is a classy woman. A woman of means. A woman that is used to nice things. We may have only been together a short time, but I know this to be true. I’ve seen the price tags from her shopping sprees at Saks. I’ve heard the compliments from my mother on Michonne’s $1200 Gucci purse. I know about the private prep school that Andre attends.

 

It’s a drastic difference from the modest life I’ve lived, and the public school that Carl goes to. Though I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done for myself and for my family, I feel like I have to do better for Michonne. Not just because she’s used to it, but because she deserves it. Because this thing between us feels serendipitous and magical, given how unlikely it is that a woman like her would ever settle for a guy like me.

 

So, when my admin brought a new listing of foreclosure orders that the deputies would need to act on, and Jessie Anderson’s home was on that list, it seemed like the universe was telling me something. Pete was still in lockup, and her and her kids needed somewhere to go, so I reached out to her. My brain did give me a moment of pause. It did. But, again this felt like a sign. I had a house I needed to hurry and get rid of, and she needed a house immediately. Fate right?

 

I called Jessie who seemed very happy to hear from me, and she said that her parents were going to help her get away from Pete, and that buying my house would be perfect. But, I needed the money now. I couldn’t wait weeks for her to apply for and obtain a mortgage loan. And she understood that, so we compromised. Most of my clothes were already at Michonne’s, so I allowed Jessie and her kids to stay at my house immediately, provided she could pay rent until she was able to obtain a mortgage with her parents’ help. Her parents paid for two months’ rent on her behalf, and that solved my immediate concerns for my own mortgage. With plans for my house to be sold, I began looking for a new one for Michonne and I, realizing that I would have to use the only other cash I had, my savings as a down payment.  

 

Yes, I could have discussed this with Michonne. Yes, I could have done so many things differently. Standing on my own porch, staring down at Jessie, that all became painfully clear.

 

Regardless of how undisturbed Jessie appeared when I arrived, I stepped in the house and took the time to listen to her complaints. No Pete hadn’t actually shown up at the house, but he did call and say he would kill her for leaving him if he found her. I could understand why she was shaken by him contacting her, and the threats he levied her way. I understood that. What I didn’t understand was why she didn’t allow one of my deputies that was on duty to assist her. It wasn’t until she commented that I was her savior, and that I had come to her rescue so many times before that she wasn’t sure who else would take as good care of her as I did, that I had to physically, not just figuratively take a step back. From her. From this situation.

 

Warning bells, loud and clear, began going off in my head, and I listened. I knew better. I’m pushing it. I know that now. Women who have never been shown kindness from men are easy to latch on to men who finally exhibit it. And that’s what she’s doing. Me helping her out with the house, in combination with me arresting her husband, and the ill-fated hookup with her that my mother tried to foist on me a few months back, all draw a picture that I’m not proud of.

 

I can see why Jessie has this all wrong. This is partially my doing. Hell it may be entirely my fault honestly, and I guess that feeling of guilt is what kept me from literally telling her to her face how wrong she is, and going home to my wife. Instead I explained to her that while Pete was legally wrong for threatening to kill her, he hadn’t shown up, and we had no reason to believe that he even knew where she was. I told her that I am a married man now, and it would be improper for me to stay in the house with her. Instead I let her know that I would have one of my deputies posted for the night just in case.

 

The shocked frown that deepened across her pretty petite features began to grow, traveling from the downturn of her thin pink lips, to the crease of lines across her forehead. Her body’s posture, at first flirty and light, a hand lightly playing in the silky strands of her golden blonde hair, quickly transitioned to a tension filled, ramrod straight posture with her hands on her hips. Though it did nothing to diminish how attractive she truly is, it definitely served as a warning alert to the escalation of her emotions that came next. Jessie’s tears showcased how upset she to find out that I had married Michonne.

 

My refusal to be enraptured by her scheming seemed to send her into overdrive with her outlandish moans and hysterics. Pretending as though she was feeling faint, she took a seat on the couch in the front room, falling upon the couch in a graceful collapse. A regretful sigh escaped me and it occurred to me that not only is she playing me, but that she honestly thought this would work. That she would use her ex as an excuse to get me here, and then what? Seduce me? Giving it thought I realized that she never even bothered to mention anything about the kids who were apparently not even there. And she didn’t appear distressed by the thought of Pete finding her any longer, instead it was now crying that somehow focused on me. Wringing her hands, she told me how good of a man I am. That of course I had found another wife. But she wondered all the same about what I thought of her. Asking me if I ever thought of her.

 

The swing of the pendulum from battered wife, to whatever this fixation on me was, disturbed me. I wanted to go home to Michonne, where I belonged, or at least not be here with Jessie. This wasn’t right. But, when she began to squeak out pleas for me to stay with her in between her hiccupping tears, I relented in some respect, just wanting to put an end to this production. I decided to stick to doing my job as best I could, and to take up post outside of the house in my cruiser where I stayed for the first time in my newly married life, without my wife.

 

Without even waiting for a response, I hurried back out my car and radioed back to the station that I resolved the call, and would post outside for the night. This way there would be documentation of what occurred to cover any further machinations that might pop up into Jessie’s mind. More trouble from her, given the tenuous nature of things with the house, is not what I need right now.

 

Slumping down into my seat, things felt odd, disconcerting. Darkness, the somber shroud of a starless night blanketed me. Hid me from whatever it was I had gotten myself in to. An unwelcome coldness settled into my bones without the press of Michonne’s supple body pressed into mine. Her fat bottom up against my groin. Her lithe limbs kicking the heavy comforter from our bodies one moment, then flipping herself to burrow into my chest, tucking her head beneath my chin. Her steady, rhythmic snores tickling across my chest, and lulling me into a soundless slumber, accompanied by her sleepy lullaby of white noise. Instead of my wife’s cozy, familiar presence all I had to cling to was the discomfort of my squad car’s stiffly reclined seat, my own racing thoughts, and finally a nightmare that started off as unassuming as these things often do.

 

Michonne was there, as she usually is, but in this dream she is not real. She’s a painting of her real self. Like one of those old Catholic paintings of Mary holding Jesus. Michonne is nude, her only her umber skin glistening with a bronzed sheen covers her. She’s posed with her eyes downcast, seemingly averting her gaze from my own. Instead of one divine child, there are two pale babies in her arms, each suckling from her breasts. The likeness in the painting is so realistic and lifelike that in my dream I try to touch her. But instead of the creamy softness of her real skin, it’s only the flat canvas. And then from the eyes of the painting Michonne, tears of blood begin to rain down. Constant, silent weeping. It’s a stream that creates a thick coagulated veil of scarlet red that eventually floods the painting and obscures her and the babies from my vision. That’s when I woke up a sweaty mess. Startled by the realness of the dream, its semblance to all things considered by my mind to be authentic, my pulse begins racing. My heart nearly tearing from my chest in a drumming pound of destabilizing fear. Terror unlike any I’ve ever known. Anxiety caused me to thrash about, ripping at my own clothes, yelling my wife’s name.

 

When I finally fully came to and realized I was asleep in the driveway of my own home, and remembered why I was there and not with her, the sorrow muddying my emotions was at inconsolable heights. Not until I called her to tell her I love her, and to remember to make herself some tea before she headed out for work, did my pulse finally begin to lessen its dramatic quickening. The soft dulcet twinkling of her voice brought me back from the horror of my nightmare, calming me like a soothing balm to a wound.

 

As I turned on my car, and directed it back towards Atlanta, so many thoughts came to me. Clarity was fighting, jockeying for the spotlight in my brain. An attempt to offer some semblance of levity. Something to anchor me, a lighthouse to find my way home.

 

My mother is Catholic. Comes from an Irish family, and as such when my brother Jeff and I were younger she made us go to church. Sunday school. Catechism. The seven sacraments, and the signs of God’s Grace. I remember sitting in church one Sunday, studying a photo of the Virgin Mary and Jesus on one of the stained glass windows, and listening to the Priest talk about how the Madonna is a sign of hope. That we could call on her when we feel lost.

 

Watching the rapidly greening landscape of Georgia whizz past my car windows, the world greeting me anew despite the anguish of my bloody nightmare, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel to the sounds of Ray Lamontagne’s ‘Trouble’, and wonder if my dream of Michonne and my babies as the Madonna is a sign of hope. But if that is hope, what does the blood signify? What’s it all mean? Is it a sign that telling her my truth, revealing my insecurities regarding my finances, how unworthy I am of her, will be the end of the hopefulness this new life offers?

 

Trouble
Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble
Trouble been doggin' my soul since the day I was born
Worry
Worry, worry, worry, worry

Worry just will not seem to leave my mind alone…”

 

The growing need to confess everything to Michonne about the house, about how Jessie buying my house is helping me afford the new house, continued to dig into me, allowing me little rest from the nagging of my conscience. She might be disappointed, but at least I could be honest that my intentions have always been to show her what I can do for her, to prove that I am the man who loves her, adores her, a man that deserves her. Whatever faults I may have, whatever deficiencies in my character I may succumb to, my love for Michonne is the unwavering thing that animates every fiber of my being to make a life with her. The counterpoint of stubbornness is overbearing, and often tamps down my drive to be honest with her, with a more powerful one that rigidly rejects my deep seated need for transparency with the woman I love.

 

I've been saved
By a woman
I've been saved
By a woman
I've been saved
By a woman…”

 

It wasn’t that I didn’t have the will or the courage to tell her, it wasn’t the lack of something within me. It was too much of something else. Pride. Pride wouldn’t let me forget how easily Mike bought my wife a $78,000 car. Or how effortlessly he bought a new condo, and furnished it, just to move back to Atlanta to try and be near her. Mike, and to an extreme degree, Michonne, have a relationship with money that I simply don’t have. Often I submerge the niggling tick in the back of my head that tells me that I don’t belong in her world, that I can’t compete. But sometimes…like when she showed me all of her finances after the wedding, the truth is hard to deal with. The zeros on her bank statements kept going, adding up to a dizzying amount that I couldn’t match on my sheriff’s salary if I worked every day for the rest of my life.

 

Once I knew Michonne was pregnant with my babies, twins, and how fragile she is, it hit me like an epiphany. A blinding truth that it was up to me, with whatever means I had, to make things right for my family. And that’s what I’m doing, hell or high water, by whatever means necessary. Regardless of what Morgan thinks, it’s so much more than a matter of simply trusting that she can handle the truth about the house. It’s also can she handle the truth about me?

 

She good to me now
She give me love and affection
She good tell me now
She give me love and affection
I said I love her
Yes I love her
I said I love her
I said I love
She good to me now
She's good to me
She's good to me…”

 

Now, as I walk into the house that has quickly become my home, and I find Mike seated at a bar stool in the kitchen, I roll my eyes at his intrusion. The familiar kick of displeasure to my gut that cloaks every interaction I have ever had with him. It’s a mixture of what I know about his history with Michonne, and what I have witnessed so far.

 

“What are you doing here?” I grunt towards Mike, not even bothering to use his name or look his way. I hate this guy. I hate that he still has so much access to Andre and Michonne. Realizing that it’s one of those thorns in life I have to make peace with, I steel my temper against the snarky response I’m certain he has waiting.

 

“Well I had breakfast with my son and ex-wife this morning, kind of like the old days. Now my son and I are heading to my office for a bring your kid to work day. I guess they don’t have those out in Bumfuck, Georgia.” Mike takes a sip of his coffee, and shrugs nonchalantly as though he hasn’t just insulted me and everyone else in KC.

 

Already on edge, I take a deep breath and attempt to control my rising temper, and simply grunt out a non-committal response. Why would Michonne be having breakfast with him? Did she tell him about us being married yet? About the babies?

 

Setting down his coffee mug, my favorite mug, the one I usually drink from, his often present smirk ghosts his lips, and he settles his dark brown gaze on me. As though speaking to a friend instead of the exact opposite, Mike blinks a few times then gives me an uncharacteristic smile, and folds his hands in front of him on the island. “You know, Rick, I have to give it to you, you’re working this thing with Michonne like it’s your job. I respect that, I get it. It’s where I failed her before. Where I failed my son. But, what you don’t understand is, that woman is in my blood, my bones. There will never be another woman for me. I see that now. Her and Dre are all I have left now.”

 

“Listen, Mike, I’m not in the mood for this shit this morning, ok? I think it’s really too late for all of that.”

 

“Yeah, in some ways it is. But, this morning as she and I were sitting here, sharing breakfast together, I saw what my pride blinded me to. Michonne is this beautiful, glowing, smart woman. She’s tough. She’s better than me. I didn’t see that before. She was right here in front of me all that time. But do you know what I mean when I say I couldn’t see her? I couldn’t recognize her. I didn’t trust her with my faults. Had the wrong folks, my family in my ear, other women in my sights. That’s all on me.”

 

“I know what you mean, but there’s no reason for you to be looking to see her now.”

 

With a far off stare, as though he can still see the visage of my wife moving around the kitchen, gathering her things, making her tea, her heels clicking across the hardwood floors, a softer, almost whimsical tone of admiration takes over his voice. “My love for her has not diminished one bit, Rick. This morning she was so beautiful in this tight pencil skirt, snug blouse fitting across her breasts. Heels lifting that booty just right. You know what I mean, Rick? I’m sure even you know what I mean about that booty. She’s gaining a little weight, but it’s making her even sexier to me. Yeah. I see her now. It’s like I had blinders on before, but with everything I’m dealing with…” He sighs, followed by an immediate drop of his lips into a sad frown.  Mike’s gaze falls to his hands, threaded together on the island in front of him, then looks back up to me and gives a tiny laugh, apparently completely unaware of the steam coming from my ears, or the way I’m sure my face is reddening at hearing him talk about my wife like this. Heat and anger is unfurling in my chest, warming my ears, banging a staccato beat in my head. It’s like he’s talking to me, but not really. More to himself than anything. “She was a little frustrated about this case she’s working, a real tough one. Some hillbilly cop beat up a civilian. She’s stressed. I had to tell my girl she’s got it, whatever it is. Build her up you know? I didn’t do that before.”

 

“Mike, you need to stop. Right now.” Gritty, raspy, the initial warning rumbles from my chest and out, hanging in the air between us. Why would she discuss this case with him, but not with me? Hillbilly cop? Is he talking about Spencer’s case? Could it be…? Turning away momentarily to try and arrange my thoughts in some order that makes sense, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been blindsided by a truth that was probably right in front of me all along.

 

“What?” Tilting his head in confusion, almost as though he has finally remembered who I am, and that I’m standing right here, he squints his eyes at me.

 

Standing up straight, erect, steel in my spine, hands fidgeting at my sides, I center my focus on him because I don’t want him to misunderstand me. “Stop talking about my wife. Now. I won’t warn you again.”

 

“Ha! Your wife? That’s premature isn’t’ it?”

 

My wife. Michonne and I have been married for two weeks now.”

 

Jerking his head back in disbelief, he responds on a small laugh. “Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

Tossing up his hands in a dismissive wave, he offers his quick assessment of my declaration. “Hm. She didn’t mention it to me. Maybe you should be worried about that.”

 

“Nah, I’m not worried about that at all, I think you’ve heard why I’m not worried before.”

 

“Cowboy, you don’t know shit about Michonne do you? Sex isn’t love. She and I have a history of sex, but also love, marriage, family-”

 

“Michonne is my wife, and she’s pregnant with my babies.”

 

“What? Bullshit! Michonne can’t have anymore babies. We tried.” The delighted smile finally begins to slip from his face, betray the practiced cool he usually seems to employ when interacting with me, which is not very often. The disbelief banked in his glaring stare is more satisfying than I ever imagined it would be.

 

Narrowing my eyes on him, and leaning back on the counter, my arms folded across my chest, I continue despite his outburst. “Maybe she couldn’t get pregnant with your babies.”

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

“Ya know, Mike, I am worried about you. You’re not nearly as smart as you think you are. You keep coming in here trying to push your way back into Michonne’s life, and she’s been pretty clear that she doesn’t want that. She’s moved on from the way you abused her, mistreated her-”

 

“I never hit her!” Slamming the palm of his hand flat against the island, then clenching it into an angry fist, he yells his own version of the truth. But I know better. I’ve seen the emotional scars he left behind, that zig zag across her psyche.

 

Snarling, baring my teeth at the very idea that he would ever lay a threatening hand on her, words laced with venom fall from my mouth. Pointing at him accusingly I confront him with the truth. “You abused her with your words and your actions, and that is harmful, and dangerous, and just as bad as if you had. And if I ever even had the inkling that you had ever touched her in a threatening way, I would kill you and happily spend the rest of my life in jail for the pleasure of ending you.”

 

Jumping up from his stool, advancing on me as though he’s ready for a fight, Mike’s voice is a booming thunder of anguish. “I love her! I love her! I would never ever hurt her-”

 

“You don’t love her! You love how she made you feel. How she loved you. How talking down to her, abandoning her, made you feel powerful. But you were a coward who didn’t deserve her anyway.” I spit, growing angrier and angrier by the minute.

 

“You don’t know anything about me, about Michonne’s and my relationship. That woman was…my dream. I was selfish, stupid, careless, but don’t you ever say I didn’t love her. Michonne was the embodiment of everything that was ever good in my life. I wanted to see that love between us, the manifestation of that love, a family, grow with her. I needed that. And it broke my heart when she couldn’t do that. When we…” blowing out a shallow breath that trembles over his lips, Mike’s chest is heaving against the green wool sweater he’s donning. Turning the torrent of his enraged features towards the ceiling then back to me, he shakes his head as though his thoughts torment him too deeply to agree to free them from his mouth. “I… I did abandon her, and I did sleep around. I did that! And I live with the truth of that treachery every single day. I’m constantly tortured by it.” Pointing his own accusing finger at himself, into his chest, Mike finally confesses his own brand of treachery.

 

“Then like I said, you never deserved her anyway.” Shrugging my shoulders, and raising my chin, I callously dismiss the wounded man behind his words. I don’t care. His pain is nothing in comparison to what he did to her. “And it doesn’t matter now. She’s my wife. She’s pregnant with my babies. I just bought her a house. So all of that love you think you had for her, you can just throw it away with everything else from that old life you had with her. She’s mine now.”

 

Standing up straight, moving out of my lean against the counter, I turn on the heel of my boots, headed towards the stairs.

 

“You’ll lose her too. Eventually she will see past this whole knight in shining armor act, and she will see you for exactly who and what you are, just like she did with me. The truth is that she’s a goddess, Rick. And neither one of us mortals deserve her. But I came damn close. Closer than you, because she may be married to you and pregnant by you…now, but there is no amount of sex and running around after her that is ever going to allow you the place in her world that I had. We share a son, we share an experience as black people that you can’t relate to, and I have the money to give her the world. I need this time with her, cowboy. You can’t possibly ever be enough for her. And you know I’m right.”

 

Halting at the words from this man, a man who continues to persistently confess his undying love to my wife, speaking to life many of the same issues I have wrestled with regarding my place in her life, I grip the banister in my clutches, just before I swivel around and catch Mike’s jaw with my fist.

 

The momentum of me turning into the punch sends me lunging into Mike, catching him in the abdomen with the force of my shoulder driving him to the hard wood floors. Mike is taller than I am, but in that moment, when all I can hear is the echo of his words dismissing my worth, my right to a place in Michonne’s life, his physical stature doesn’t matter. I’m a ball of rage, anger, coated in the sickly stench of self-consciousness.

 

Suddenly, after landing another blow to Mike’s face, and catching a few from him as well, I feel someone’s hand on my shoulder, yanking me backwards. Despite the lust of the fight, mixed with the adrenaline, and the satisfaction at finally getting to deliver to Mike some payback for everything he has ever put Michonne through, I allow myself to be pulled away from him. Pulled up, standing over Mike, I whirl around and recognize the force pulling me back into the realm of self-control. It’s Andre. Instantly I regret this move. This bit of savagery, a loss of my wits. Disappointed with myself, I begin to pace away from them, as Andre tries to help his father up from the floor.

 

Thrashing my hands wildly through my hair, licking at the speck of blood dotted on my busted bottom lip, I’m trying to bring my emotions down from the rafters. What have I done? I fell for his trap, I let my feelings get the best of me. Shit.

 

“Rick, hey. You, ok?” Andre rushes to where I have retreated to my corner, a raging bull considering one more round with the matador.

 

“Yeah. I’m fine. You ok?” I ask, my eyes scanning over him from head to toe, checking for signs of distress. Andre is my son too, and the idea that he might be injured emotionally or physically by this makes me cringe with disappointment in the way I reacted.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Marching over to the foyer where Andre and I are convened, Mike approaches with an invigorated pace to his movements. Twisting his neck as though he’s loosening up for round two, his fists are clenching and tightening at his side. Bring it. The thirst to continue this fight begins to well up again, lighting a recurring snarl across my lips.

 

“Dad! No! This has to stop. Stop!” Putting his body between his father and I, Andre keeps his back to me, and softens his voice. “Dad. Dad, listen to me, please. Tell him. Please.” Taking on a nearly plaintive plea, Andre’s words seem to halt his father’s rage in some way, as the steely focus of Mike’s eyes ebbs from where he’s latched on to me, and dart over and land on the face of his son. “Tell him what’s going on, Dad. I don’t want you guys to fight. I love you both. You both mean a lot to me, and I need you to explain it to him.” With his hand to the center of his father’s chest, Andre displays more maturity and poise than either Mike or I, men twice his age.

 

A blanket of shame covers me, and condenses my guilt into a heavy weight, freezing me to the spot where I stand. Hands on my hips, I wait. Silent. Only the huffs and heaves of heavy masculine breaths are heard as we all seem to be preparing ourselves for what’s next.

 

“Ok, Dre.” Nodding towards his son, taking a hold of his arm and pulling him into his body for a hug, Mike has had the wind taken out of his sails by the words of the young man we both call son. The son who looks so much like him, stands so close to his size. The son who also bears a striking resemblance to the woman we both love.

 

Embracing Andre in a strong hold, Mike turns his attention to me. “I’m not as stupid as you think, Rick. I love Michonne still. I do. But, I admit that I was smug, and selfish, and mean, and I abused and hurt her, and it would seem that life is paying me back for that. Tenfold.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“I’m dying.”

 

“What?”

 

“I have six months, maybe a year left.”

 

“I don’t believe you. This is pathetic-”

 

“It’s true, Rick. My dad is telling the truth.” Swiveling around towards me, outside of the tight hold of his father’s arms, Andre addresses me and it nearly breaks my heart. Tears glisten, glassy and clear in his eyes, then stream in steady lines, crossing the planes of his young face.

 

“Testicular cancer. I had it before, when Michonne and I were married. We were trying to have another baby. Michonne had some issues with scarring from Dre’s birth, and we had two miscarriages, so I wanted to get checked out as well. The doctors found a lump during a testicular biopsy. It was only a stage one germ cell, so instead of having my testicle removed, I opted for low level radiation therapy every two to three weeks. I would leave Atlanta, go home to Jersey, stay with my folks, then come back. Some nights I was weak, still tired from the after affects, I would sleep on the couch, or not come home at all. I thought I was shielding my wife and son from having to see me weak, having to deal with something that I could take care of on my own. But, I didn’t do that. Instead I abandoned them. When the doctors said I would survive, the lump was gone, and they couldn’t detect that the cancer had spread, I divorced her. My father had convinced me that God had given me my life back, and that I should start over brand new. Without the love of my life. I was a coward.” As though telling his truth defeats him, Mike deflates, withers against his son, the heft of honesty bearing down on him.

 

“Yes you were a coward. Michonne loved you so much, saw you as someone so much better than what you really are. That woman suffered right along with you, regardless of why you left her. The fact is that you did. Do you think she wouldn’t have been able to fight through that with you? That she wouldn’t want to? Did you actually think it was better for her to think that you just checked out of your marriage? Made her doubt herself.” Disgust colors my words, and I have to catch myself from lunging at him again. I don’t care that he’s a man with few days of life left. I care that he made a choice that has hurt two of the people I care most about in this world.

 

“I didn’t really think it through I guess. We divorced, and I did try to move on. I had already been spending time with some other women from my father’s church. Women he would slyly comment were looking for good husbands. I got caught up in the fantasy of a do-over. A few months ago I went back to the doctor for a checkup, to ensure that I am still cancer free, and this time, I’m not. It’s a recurrence, and it is too far gone and has spread. The survival rate is normally quite high, but apparently not for me.”

 

“Rick, my dad has made mistakes, but he’s trying to make up for them now.”

 

“He’s right. I came back here because I wanted the rest of my life to be lived with my family. With my wife and son. See, Rick, I told you I’m not as stupid as you think. I’m just a lovesick fool, who finally figured out what really matters. That’s why I’ve been pushing so hard. I need this time with her.”

 

At this point I honestly don’t know what else to say. There are no words sufficient to capture the warring emotions and thoughts banging around inside of me. Instead of trying to find the right words, I decide to simply leave. Stopping to give Andre a hug, I head back out into the garage where my car is parked. For a moment I’m still, absorbing the shock of what I’ve just heard. My bruised hands rest on the steering wheel, tapping out a steady rhythm as I try to focus my thoughts. Finding that I’m still unable to put together what this means, that Mike’s situation is deeper, more nuanced than I originally thought, I am suddenly reminded by the alarm on my phone that I have somewhere to be in thirty minutes.

 

XXXXXX

 

Stepping off the elevator I’m met immediately by a bespectacled, nebbish man, a little shorter than I am. His sandy hair is perfectly coiffed in that side swept manner that all men who work in an office seem to have. It matches the stoic somberness of his charcoal colored suit.

 

“Good afternoon. How can I assist you?” He asks, looking up at me through the lenses of his thick framed glasses.

 

“Hello. I’m Sheriff Rick Grimes. I’m here for a deposition.”

 

Nodding, and with a pleasant, but wooden smile, “Of course. Sheriff, can you please follow me this way, sir?” Standing from where he’s seated behind his tall wood desk, with the name Anthony & Associates in slanted nickel letters adorning the wall behind him, he sweeps his hand in the direction of an all glass barrier that leads to a hallway. Following him, I’m led past a series of offices and conference rooms. At the end of the hall, is a large corner office, also with see through glass walls. With a slight bowing gesture, my guide opens the office door and asks me to wait here.

 

This is not what I expected for a deposition. I have taken part in my fair share over the time I’ve been in law enforcement, and they usually take place in a conference room of some sort. This is different.

 

Still amped up and agitated from the series of events over the last 24 hours, I don’t immediately take a seat. I’m tired from a lack of sleep. I’m on edge because of Jessie’s antics, and the secrets I’m keeping from my wife. And I’m confused about how to handle the information Mike laid in my lap. More than anything, I’m off center from a night without my wife. It’s all a bit much for me right now, as I’m also irritated that I have been summoned to clean up Spencer’s mess. While Deanna and I have an agreement on how to handle the situation, I’m nonetheless upset by the fact that I have to play a role in this at all.

 

Running my thumb across my eyes, fingers massaging my forehead, hoping to relieve some of the tension banked there, I take stock of my surroundings in an attempt to calm my nerves. There is what appears to be a very expensive charcoal colored, leather couch on on side of the room, where there is also a conference style table and chairs setup. Numerous equally expensive looking pieces of art, and a large glass desk, back up to a wall of books. The total look of this office reeks of big money and power, and for a moment it reminds me of Michonne’s office at home. Especially with the African art pieces and the voluminous amount of books, as well as the vase of fresh peonies resting on a side table by the couch. And that feels like a clue. A hint to something that is making itself transparent, but that I haven’t completely sorted yet.

 

Ambling around, pacing across the office floors, I take out my phone as thoughts of my wife begin to surface. I need something to anchor my emotions. To help me survive this cyclone of events keeping me off center. First I pull up my photos and browse through the series of pictures, taking particular note at how the tone and number of them has changed. A few months ago the pics I had were few and far between. One of Carl and I from a fishing trip last summer where we caught a pretty good size fish. One of a video game that Carl texted to me because he wanted it for his birthday. Nothing remarkable. Not until I got to the photo I took of Michonne asleep in my bed, the very first night I met her. She probably would have killed me if she knew I took it, but even as she laid next to me, peacefully slumbering in my arms, with her face resting softly against my arm, cradling her head, I knew. I knew this woman was special, and that I had to have her. I had to.

 

I suppose also though, that I could sense how fleeting that moment might have been. She had tried to leave earlier that night already, and it took a little begging to get her to stay. I guess I just wanted to keep as much of that brief time with her alive for as long as I could. She was so sexy and beautiful. My need for her immeasurable, and unexplainable. Who would have known that I would have many more nights with her like this? Chuckling at the thought and the variety of pictures of her that grace my photos library, I continue to browse through the album. Candid pics of her gazing out of the car window as the world passes by. Curled up in her bedroom’s window seat with Teeny, reading a book. The top of her head as she lies on my chest resting. A side profile, capturing the alluring slope of her neck, and the pleasure of her laughing at a TV show as she sits on the couch beside me. Cooking, leaning over the counter telling Carl and Andre something. And my favorite three end the slideshow of images. One of the grainy black and white ultrasound, showcasing the two pods that house my babies, carelessly floating about. One of a mingling of our essence, pearlescent and white, creamy, strewn across the juncture of my wife’s womanhood. And lastly, a full on shot of Michonne, lying underneath me. Completely nude. Her breasts full and high. My hand, pale in comparison, laid flat against the soft swell of her stomach. All treasured memories of my new life, stolen from the passage of time, now securely housed in the palm of my hand.

 

A grin, something so much greater than a mere smile, befalls my lips, and my heart begins to race. I missed her desperately last night, and I’m not keen on the idea of letting another moment or night go by without her with me.

 

As the thought passes through my mind, and my thumb continues to swipe across my phone’s screen, replaying the joy of the last few months like a silent movie, I decide to call her. I know she’s busy today, but the niggling idea in the back of my mind about her possibly being in on this deposition, and the similarity of the taste of the person that this office belongs to, animates my fingers to dial her number, which I memorized the moment Andre gave it to me months ago.

 

Letting it ring a few times, the call quickly bounces to her voicemail, and instead of leaving a message I just hang up. As I’m hanging up I find that my aimless wandering has led to me standing in front of the large glass desk, adorned with a wide array of papers, books, and a few picture frames. Curiosity catching the best of me, I take a hold of one of the heavy silver frames, and I’m instantly greeted by the grinning smile of my stepson. Andre Anthony.

 

Anthony.

 

Anthony.

 

Anthony & Associates?

 

Anthony & Associates.

 

But Michonne’s last name was Alexander…

 

Then, like the opening of a window on a spring day, there is an electric charge in the air. A light wafting of her floral scented perfume. An introduction of new energy laced with the subtlety of of the fragrance of Moroccan jasmine and bergamot. Michonne.

 

“So, you’re Anthony & Associates?”

 

“I am. I started the firm while Mike and I were married. I haven’t worked here fully in years though.”

 

Still not turning around to greet her, my hand won’t let go of the death grip it has on the picture frame. I can’t. The vise grip of tension squeezing my brain won’t let me as the realizations, my sudden epiphany that’s putting this all together, all begin to rush from my mouth in a stream of consciousness series of utterances. “You’re the attorney suing Spencer. You sent me the deposition. This is the case you won’t discuss with me.”

 

“Rick-”

 

“Right? This is the case you wouldn’t discuss with me! But, you talked to Mike about it this morning?”

 

“What are you talking about. Can we sit for a second and talk?” Closing my eyes to her touch, her delicate fingers land on the nape of my neck and begin a soft stroke of the curls there. Taming my slowly churning temper. “Rick, baby, let me explain.”

 

“I just need a second.”

 

“Let me explain. Please?”

 

“Michonne! Just a second, ok? I’m trying to process all of this.”

 

“Will you at least look at me? Give me a chance to explain?” Her words are as soft and pliant as her cloudy perfume, bending me, molding me to her will. And I can’t fight her. I can’t be angry at her when I see her, how exquisite and sexy she is. Make up on. Lips brushed in my favorite red color. The expensive silk of her cream colored blouse, hugging her petite frame, dipping and cinching tightly across her breasts. Her black skirt pulling across her tiny bump, barely concealing the little rise of her tummy. Then spreading across the wide set of her sexy ass and hips. My God, Mike was right, which angers me to think that he would share the same passionate need for her. That he has had the pleasure of her in this way, for much longer than I have. It’s unreasonable I know this. My jaw clenches and my teeth grind as the thoughts unfurl and create their own field of possibilities. Did she ever scream for him like she does for me? Beg for him to fuck her harder? Does he remember the sensation of her silky pussy clenching and dragging? Her smooth, sable skin gliding across his own matching umber cast. Did she prefer that to my paler tone?

 

Shaking my head in an attempt to drive away the coarse irritation of Mike’s words, his recall of Michonne’s beauty that morning, grating on me, even as I know that she’s mine, and he is no longer a threat. He’s a man living on borrowed time, wishing for a reprieve in the arms of my wife. An absolution or forgiveness of his sins that may never come. It doesn’t matter. I can close my eyes to it, blink away the memory of it, her with him. Him with her. Him still loving her. But it doesn’t change the way that I feel, because it doesn’t change the way things are.

 

Rage is warring with my own arousal for her, a resolute desire to bend her over her desk, lift that tight skirt, and have my way with her sexy ass. We have connected sexually so many times that I can almost see it in front of me, feel her beneath me. My hands on her full hips gripped in my greedy palms. Her teetering on the tips of her toes. My hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back so that I can taste her lips as I drive my cock in between the puffy, slippery folds of her dusky pussy lips. A handful of her rounded breasts in my hand…

 

Damn. My wife is so beautiful. So much more than pretty. So much more…that it pains me. It hurts to think that there might ever be something foul brewing, clogging the air between us with its pungent sting. Lies. Mistrust. My head can’t fathom it. My heart won’t survive it.

 

This woman owns me. The instant she breached the safeguards strategically placed around my heart after my divorce, I belonged to her. And for that reason, and numerous others, I watch as her hand brushes over my shoulder, down my arm, and to my hand, that she clutches in her own and leads me to the couch. My temper is waning as she commands me, pliant and willing in her hands, aroused by her touch and my own lustful visions of passionately having my way with her right here, as I have so many times before in my own office.  

 

Sitting on the couch next to me, Michonne crosses one elegant leg over the other, her body turned towards me. Looking down I observe her calm demeanor, and notice that she’s wearing a very high pair of heels. Pointed at the toe. Stilettos I think she calls them. Red bottoms. They hug the arch of her tiny feet, poise them in a very seductive manner that reminds me of our wedding night, and the way she balanced on tip toe in these very same shoes as she was bent over her bedroom dresser as I fucked her.  

 

She was exquisite then. She’s just as devastating and commanding right now, and despite the fact that I’m upset, her hold on me physically and emotionally still has me aroused by the sight of her.

 

“Rick, I don’t want to argue with you.”

 

“I don’t want to argue with you either. I just want to know why you couldn’t tell me about this, but you told Mike. I’m your husband, Michonne, not him. Do you trust him more than you trust me or something? You think because I’m white, or I’m a sheriff that I couldn’t understand? What?”

 

Pursing her lips at my questions, as though the thought of what I’ve asked is distasteful to even utter, she “No, it’s none of that. Glenn’s case is very important to me, Rick. It’s imperative that the outcome is favorable for him. I simply couldn’t risk anything going wrong. That includes me breaking privilege, or any type of conflict of interest.”

 

“But you told Mike?”

 

“No. What makes you think that?”

 

“I saw him at the house a little bit ago. Couldn’t wait to tell me about the case you shared with him.”

 

“He was at the house this morning eating breakfast with Andre while I was on the phone with the new lawyer handling Glenn’s case. He must have overheard me. I promise, I would never trust Mike. Especially not with something so precious. If I could have told you, Rick, I would have.”

 

“You sure about that?” I ask, wanting to better understand her motives, but still upset that we are here.

 

“I’ve been a lawyer for a long time. In that time, I’ve seen cases get dismissed on technicalities like this. Listen to me, Rick, Glenn, the victim in this case? He was using my app to try and protect himself. I owe him. I owe every person of color who has ever been victimized by a system that doesn’t see them as citizens, as human-”

 

“Wait a minute! Are you trying to say that you think that all law enforcement is like Spencer? That I’m like Spencer? Is that what you think of me?”

 

“That’s not-”

 

“The love birds. How nice to see you both here, together.” I look away momentarily from Michonne at the sound of his voice. Shane. Somehow this just keeps getting better and better.

 

Darting her panicked eyes from me to Shane, then back again, Michonne releases a deep sigh. “Shane, this is my private office. If you need something Andrea or Milton can assist you.” She points her finger at him then away as though ushering him from the doorway.

 

“I just saw you both in here and decided to say goodbye.”

 

“You were deposed too, right?”

 

“Yep. And I must say your wife here was very gentle. I appreciate that. And I gave her some food for thought. Let her know a little bit more about the real Rick Grimes.”

 

“What the the hell is that supposed to mean?” Standing from the couch, I tilt my head, wondering at what Shane is talking about.

 

“You’ll find out.” He levies my way a terse comment before turning his eyes and a leering smile on Michonne. “As usual it was a pleasure, Michonne.” Bowing towards her, he gives her a sweeping browse, then leaves.

 

As though I haven’t already been in one fight today, I’m two secondss away from getting in another. Before I have a chance to, or to discuss anything else with Michonne, the guy from the front desk appears in her doorway right behind Shane. “Andrea is ready for you both to proceed with the depositions, Ms. Alexander.”

 

“Grimes. Her name is Mrs. Grimes.” I indignantly offer to him, and with a brief glance back toward my wife, I nearly miss bumping into him as I briskly stalk past to exit her office.

 

XXXXXXXX

 

“Thank you for coming in today, Sheriff. This shouldn’t take long. I’m Andrea Turner, the attorney representing Mr. Rhee in this civil suit against Deputy Spencer Monroe, who I understand is on your staff.”

 

“He is.”

 

“Ok. Today we are-” this blonde lady begins, and unfortunately my temper and patience are at their very end. There is no reserve of professional decorum that will permit me to participate in this charade any longer. I’ve played enough poker to know that when you have the winning hand, there is no need to bluff. So I don’t.

 

It’s rude, and as soon as I cut this lady off I can see the tension spread across my wife’s lovely features, tightening the frown lines around her mouth and eyes. “Ms. Turner I don’t think you need to go through all of that. We are all aware why we are here today. So I’m going to get directly to the point. I was notified by Deputy Monroe’s attorney that he will be offering a settlement to Mr. Rhee, that should be delivered to you and Ms. Alexander today.” My eyes momentarily dart to Michonne when she tersely sniffs at my use of her maiden name.

 

“Oh, ok.” The woman who introduced herself as Andrea responds, shock clouding her features, and bucking her blue eyes as they quickly move from me to Michonne, then back to Michonne, silently asking how to proceed.

 

Again, my impatience urges me to surge ahead regardless of how my news has shaken things up. I need to get this over with. “There is an unfortunate history of unlawful misconduct and corruption among the government and law enforcement gatekeepers in King County. It is not a new occurrence. Its tentacles run deep into the very soil that the town is built upon. But with my election to Sheriff, and Mayor Monroe’s ascension to public office, following in the footsteps of her deceased husband’s family, change has come. Mayor Monroe backed me as Sheriff for this sole reason. I am not proud to note that even though I have always tried to do the right thing according to the charge of responsibility given to me by the citizens of King County, I have not always behaved in the most honorable manner. My failings are my own, and every day I work to rectify that.”

 

Glancing down at my notes, and the paperwork that I’m clutching in my sweaty hands, I take a moment to gather myself. My eyelids fall, shielding my soul from the piercing gaze of my wife, the only person in the world whose opinion matters. Whose dark stare, flat and devoid of the warmth I am accustomed to, filets my already open wounds. There is nowhere for me to hide now, and this look of censure is the very thing I have been hoping to avoid with all of my maneuvers regarding the house. My heart may falter in my head’s belief that the whole truth is too heavy a burden to unload, but the judgmental look she’s levying on me right now, as the cool, stagnant air, manufactured by the cold machinery that enlivens this office building, gives the sweat beading on my forehead a sickly sheen, and confirms that my inclination to not tell her everything about my finances was correct.

 

Pulling my lips into my mouth, I drag my hand over my face to try and rid it of the guilty cast that is surely evident. Clearing my throat, I prepare myself to continue despite the pleading warmth and softness of my wife’s wide chocolate brown eyes pulling me to gravitate back to her. It’s easy to do. To allow our magnetic connection to keep us linked. Right now I need to get this out though. “While I am of the mind that law enforcement and public service are not as black and white as some may believe, there is right and there is wrong. Had anyone spoken to my department in the vein of transparency and information sharing, instead of private investigations, your office would have known that I was digging into the situation concerning Deputy Spencer and Mr. Rhee. And I would have shared that this all stems from not just an abuse of power, and abhorrent privilege, but also from jealousy.”

 

“Jealousy?” Quirking one blonde brow, Andrea again looks between Michonne and I as though this story is getting more intriguing than she expected. It is I suppose.

 

“Jealousy. Deputy Spencer and Mr. Rhee’s fiancée, Maggie Greene, used to date. She broke up with Deputy Spencer when she met Mr. Rhee. Deputy Spencer was not as over their relationship as Ms. Greene was. He had been watching her, keeping an eye on her as he puts it. Stalking her as she puts it. Given what I have found out about Deputy Spencer’s activities, including the amount of time he spent watching her, stalking is the apt description. The night of the altercation with Mr. Rhee, Deputy Spencer had been watching Ms. Greene’s apartment, and saw Mr. Rhee leave. He pulled him over and confronted him on purpose. He admits freely to what the camera footage suggests, he did overstep the reach of his authority, and he did assault Mr. Rhee. With encouragement from his family, he is turning himself in today.”

 

“Well, I suppose that there isn’t really much else to cover then. Once the settlement offer is received I can confer with my client. Thank you for coming in, Sheriff.” Andrea proclaims, still seemingly awed by the truth of the full story.

 

“You’re welcome.” Respectfully nodding at both Andrea and Michonne, I rise and beat a hasty path back towards the elevators.

 

Instantly I can hear the hurried click of my wife’s footsteps behind me. Her pace is no match for my long determined stride, and I reach the elevators before her, catching a glimpse of her right before the doors close.

 

Once I reach my car, and pull away from the parking garage of the fancy downtown office building, with its smoky glass windows, concealing the business of the movers and shakers like my wife who work inside, I feel every ounce of the weight that rests heavily on my chest, my heart. An inconvenient and truth is making itself transparent, and its as ugly and painful as I had feared. As my dream last night prophesied. There is a chasm between us. Perhaps a mountain too high, a valley too low…littered with deceitful machinations that bear the hefty brunt of reality. Michonne doesn’t trust me. And maybe…just maybe I don’t trust her either.

 












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