Chain Reaction 3.61: Drained

Emily

     The last time I was in this room was for a happy occasion. Dad was finally being sent back home from the prison system. They'd transferred him here before they finally released him, something I saw as one last kick in the pants to all of us.

    Today, however, is a much, much sadder time. It's a miracle the press hasn't caught on yet that I'm here. I managed to sneak out of my house and catch a cab to get over here. I've called for a driver to come pick us up. Extra security for the house has already been arranged. Ethan helped with the security, but I've been in charge all night. I'm tired.

    I keep hoping I'll wake up and realize none of this actually happened.

    "Emily," Alex's voice carries over to me. He sounds almost broken. "You came." He starts walking towards me, but I back up a step and put my hands up, making him stop.

      I hate the look of pain my gesture caused, and I collapse into my hands.

     I'm so tired! I haven't slept since night-before-last. How could I possibly sleep while wondering if it's true that my husband killed my father?

     "Emily, I didn't do it." It's like he's reading my mind.

     Pull yourself together! I straighten up and face him--only to find that he greatly closed the distance.

      "I promise you. It wasn't me." His hands hold my face, and his thumbs stroke the streaks on my cheeks.

      Ethan thinks it was you, and he has more crime solving experience than I do. I sniff. "That doesn't change the fact that he's dead." I bite my lip hard to keep from crying again. Saying it aloud was almost too much to bear.

     "I know. I'm so sorry." Both of Alex's parents are dead, his sister too. But he wasn't as close with his family as I was with my dad. At least--before I chose to be with Alex. Did I give everything up to choose my dad's murderer over him? How could I have done that to my own father? Be with his hated enemy? Of all the men in the world, why did I have to fall in love with Alexander Goth?!

     He kisses my forehead. "We're going to find out who did this."

     I almost whisper my reply. "Let's just go home."

     He tilts his head and lightly kisses my lips. "Okay."

     Alaric is still asleep when we get home. He'd cried most of the night. Alex wants to go wake him, but I ask him not to.
     I'm glad Alaric's room is on the back side of the house because the front is littered with press, paparazzi and legitimate. In a sad way, I understand them. This is big news. Graham Taylor gets released from prison only to be killed, shot, allegedly by his own son-in-law--a man who'd worked to get him released.

     Alex has told me repeatedly that he didn't do it, but I don't know what to think. All I can think is that Daddy is dead. My dad, a man who hated my husband, and I, his daughter, married the man he hated. I remember being so proud of Dad putting aside his differences for my happiness--or at least acting like he did for my sake. Alex says Dad was going to kill him, that Dad had the gun pointed at Alex.
    Dad hated Alex, and I betrayed him and became a Goth! I burst into tears--again. I've lost count how many times I've done that this morning.
    Alex walks behind me and holds my shoulders. "Emily, please talk to me."
    No. You don't want to hear my thoughts. "I can't."

     The household descends into a depression. I hire a private tutor (including a thorough background check performed by my husband before hiring) for Alaric since he can't go to school and face the ridicule alone.

     Alex, bored, takes up the piano. He says he took lessons as a child.
     He's done all he can to help his lawyer, cursing the fact that our security cameras had been scrambled before the dinner event. Wordlessly, I assume Alex blames Dad for that. There is no footage to back up his claim that Dad was trying to kill him.
     I sleep in what used to be the butler's room. Alex doesn't fight this, but his eyes are red-rimmed, indicating a lack of good sleep.

     I get a text. I assume it's Ethan again. I can't handle my brother's hatred right now.

I haven't heard from you in a while. PLEASE text me back and let me know you're okay.

     It's Drake! The last I'd heard from him was the day after everything blew up. He wanted to make sure I was okay and that I should call him if I needed anything. I told him I was fine.
     Alex is upstairs on his computer. I walk outside.

     "Emily?" he asks into the phone as a way to answer my call. He sounds pleasantly shocked. I guess that's understandable. I've not called anyone. Since I haven't replied yet, Drake speaks again, "Oh Maker, Emily. What is it? Do you need help?"
     I take a deep breath. "I'm... I'm okay." Then why did I call him?
     "What has he done?" He's not buying it.
     "Nothing! ... Nothing." My voice is calmer for the second one. "I'm just trying not to go crazy."
     "You and Alaric need to get out of there, Emily. I have spare rooms here. Or go to Ethan's! Even Charlotte and Chloe have spare rooms. Charlotte and Jarvis have that apartment above the store you could use temporarily. You don't need to stay in that house."
     "This is my home." It starts snowing.
     "It's a tomb. It's a prison. You don't deserve that. Alaric doesn't deserve that."

     "It doesn't matter where we go; the press won't leave us alone. They're standing out there in the street risking frostbite just to get a glimpse into the house. I may as well stay here."
    He sighs loudly, showing his frustration. "But I can't help you as easily if you're there."
    "You needn't get involved." Again... then why did I call him?
    "You're indeed nuts if you think I'm letting you go this alone, Emily. You're trapped in a mausoleum with a murderer."
    "Don't say that. This is just... a difficult time."
    "Calling me to tell me not to worry is a pointless gesture. I'm worrying. He's a man who's gone so far down lunatic avenue that I fear for your safety. I don't like his unnatural way of using you. I never have, but especially now, he's dangerous and unpredictable."
    "I didn't call you to tell you that. Well, that specifically. I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice." Oh plum. That was bad. Very bad idea. Very bad thing to say. I can't let him get the wrong idea. "I, I mean just the sound of a different voice. And I can't call anyone else because they'll say the same thing you've been saying, but it's not a shock hearing it coming from you."
     "If you're reaching out, that means you want to escape. Please let me help you."

     "No, you're wrong. I'm not needing escape. This is my home. I just needed a little dose of variety."
     He gets quiet. Then, he chuckles, and that helps me more than anything. "Then I guess I'll be 'variety.' What do you want to talk about?"
     "It doesn't matter. Anything as long as it has nothing to do with my life." There. THIS is why I called Drake. I needed a link to the outside that wasn't my family, and in reality, he's my oldest friend. I need a friend.
     I sit down at the patio furniture, doing my best to stay warm. Drake makes me laugh as he tells me stories, most of which I assume are made up. I feel almost normal for a little while.
     Then I notice my laughter has caught the attention of my husband. He stands inside and watches me through the back door. A sullen expression shadows his face.
     "I gotta go."
     "Plum. It's him isn't it?"
     "I just gotta go."
     "Just remember everything I said earlier. Call me anytime, day or night."
     "Okay." We hang up, and I go inside.
     I sidestep Alex and visit the restroom, rubbing my hands to warm them up. After I leave and head towards the kitchen, Alex blocks my path.

     "Furston called. He claims I have a strong case. Other than how it looked when Ethan saw me holding the gun, they have nothing on me. He thinks they can't find any forensic evidence linking me to it."
     "Okay." It's all back. Everything Drake had lifted away has just thrown itself back onto my shoulders. I hate it. How am I supposed to deal with this?
     "Emily, talk to me. Look at me. Something!" He holds my face. "What is it going to take for you to believe me?!" He fists his hands on the lapels of my coat. "PLEASE!"
     I react violently, pulling at his hands which just tighten their hold. I don't say anything, but I fight him like a wildcat, scratching and clawing and pulling his hair. He just stands there and takes everything I give him.
    Then, I get two brain cells working at the same time and realize I just have to take off the coat.
    Alex sees my plan. "No!" He lets go of the coat and wraps his arms around my waist. So, I start kicking. I attempt some of the stuff I learned in my few self-defense classes, but I can't get anything to work right.
    "Let go of me!" I'm so pathetic. My husband is strong.
    My dad was strong too. That's why Alex worked out. They used to get into fistfights, and Alex got tired of having the plum beat out of him.
    They hated each other.
    "I'm not letting go. I'm not going to hurt you, but I'm not letting go." His iron cage of arms don't hurt me like he said, but I can't get them to budge. "I love you, Emily."
     I lose it again. And he just takes it, not fighting back, not trying to block me. It's almost like he feels like he deserves it. That or he's relieved I'm showing a reaction of any kind. He cries out when I land a jab at the family jewels, but he maintains his damn grip.
    "Please, Alex, let me go." I'm crying.
    He bursts into tears and buries his face in my neck, in my hair, still not letting go. "I can't lose you, Emily. Please, I'm so sorry your dad died, and I know there are those who try to tell you I did it, but I didn't. I couldn't do something like that. Why would I do something like that? I've spent the better part of the past decade trying to make amends. Because I love you. Because you are my whole world. And I can't let this tear us apart."
    It all makes sense. It all makes perfect sense. Why would Alex murder my father? He wouldn't.
    I relax, and we just cry. I hold him as tightly as he holds me.
    "I believe you."
    Something in him relaxes, and he starts jubilantly kissing my face, my hair, my neck, my lips, everywhere he can reach while still holding me in his arms. He lifts me and carries me down into the living area. I know he's not after woohoo; I'm not emotionally there for that, and he knows. So we kiss on the couch until, drained, I'm worn out.