Debra sat on a polished granite headstone. She leaned her elbows on her knees and stared at the pile of red roses resting on that mound of earth. They’d shrivelled and rotted. Clumps of mud were dangerously close to staining the white laces that dangled from her runners. The wind whispered her secret as it rustled the leaves of those soaring maples that had assembled. Henry was gone — and she felt nothing.
Debra looked up to watch a large crow fly into the distance, perhaps to escape the rain which had begun to fall again. It was a refreshing summer shower she welcomed. She never noticed the approaching footsteps until they were upon her.
“Enjoying the rain?” Detective John’s voice boomed between the fat water droplets that pattered.
“Yes… I mean, no. I’m leaving for New Hampshire tomorrow to visit my sister. I was saying goodbye to him,” Debra stammered.
Detective John opened his umbrella and welcomed Debra; she obliged and huddled under the canopy he’d provided, yet… she felt uncomfortable as he spoke.
“It’s an absolute coincidence that Henry fell off that cliff where he did. That trail you were jogging has few danger spots; he tumbled in the only prohibited area. It was marked and blocked off by warning signs everywhere. You guys didn’t see them as you ran?”
This question had become repetitive and irritated Debra.
“He was ahead of me, I’ve told you already.”
“Yes, you have. What I can’t figure out is how an experienced runner like Henry could have slipped from such an obviously dangerous path.”
“I warned him not to go, but he wouldn’t listen. He was stubborn.”
Detective John paused, looked at Debra and nodded. “Walk you back to your car?”
They walked. The detective spoke again.
“I’ll need your address in case anything else comes up.”
“Sure, but you could have called me. Why are you here?”
“The autopsy revealed something interesting. Henry died from his fall, but he was also high as a kite. Did you see him take any pills that day, Rohypnol, Ecstasy perhaps?”
“I don’t know if he took drugs. He never told me, and I never noticed, and it’s too late to ask him, isn’t it?” She’d reached her car, drew the keys out of her pocket and impatiently waited for Detective John’s reply.
“That’s true. We might never know, will we?”
Debra slipped into her seat, closed the door and listened to the calming pitter-patter of raindrops as they tapped on her roof. She watched as that detective slowly drove away — hoping she’d never see him again. Then rested her forehead against the steering wheel, precisely as she’d done two weeks ago — in her own driveway.
The memory of those moments flashed in her head as if they had just happened.
A sharp rap of knuckles against glass had startled her. It was Henry. He spoke to her in his usual belligerent tone.
“Hey, Debra, the rain has stopped. Are you going for a f##king run or not? Otherwise, I’m leaving without you.”
“Uhm… Yes, of course. I’ll get our water bottles from the fridge. Why don’t we try that park by the seashore? It’s got an impressive cliff to jog along,” Debra replied, stepping out of her car.
The first time Henry had beaten her, Debra knew she’d have to find a way to escape; she’d tried for five years. She trembled nervously as she walked into the house and towards the fridge. Debra reached for Henry’s water bottle and placed it in his hands; that new jogging route had been memorized.