Her Final Confession

Chapter Fifty-One

MAY 2004

Seattle, Washington

Amy Neal shrieked when her husband tore the bed covers from her body. The flashlight she’d clutched in one hand tumbled into the pillows behind her, its beam lost. Her other hand pressed a photo to her chest. “Dammit, Justin,” she said. “What the hell are you doing?”

His six-foot frame loomed over the bed, a shadowy figure in the darkness of their bedroom. Her bedside clock said it was 2:13 a.m. As usual, Justin had fallen asleep on the couch. She had left him there after watching the evening news. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the hand he held out to her.

“Give me the picture, Amy.”

She pushed it into the folds of her nightgown. “No.”

He gave a heavy sigh. Frustration or defeat, she couldn’t tell. The next thing she felt was his weight settling onto the edge of the bed. His voice was softer this time. “Amy, he’s fine. We did the right thing.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Did we, Justin? Is he fine with those… those strangers?”

His fingers found her bare knee and squeezed gently. “They’re his parents now, Ame. You’re the one who keeps obsessing over the photo. Does he look unhappy to you?”

A sob lodged in her throat. No. Their son didn’t look unhappy. He looked free and healthier than he ever had under their care. “It makes me want to use again,” she squeaked.

Justin’s fingers squeezed again. “I know. Me too. That’s why I think we should put the photo away. We need to move on.”

Now the tears fell, streaking her cheeks. “How? How do you move on from your own son?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you really ready to move on?” she asked.

“No, but we can’t stay like this—in this constant state of…”

He trailed off. Grief. Loss. Doubt. Those were the words she knew he couldn’t say. They’d only been clean a few months. They had criminal records, and Justin was still on probation. They’d given their son’s foster family permission to adopt him. They knew it was best. What they hadn’t known was how hard it would be.

“I saw the knife,” Amy said, her voice thick and husky with tears. “What are you planning to do?”

Justin’s head snapped up. “Knife?” he said. “What knife?”

“The bowie knife. You left it on the kitchen counter. Where did you get it? Who’d you steal it from?”

“Ame, I didn’t bring a knife into this house. Are you crazy? What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t lie to me. We said we weren’t going to lie to each other anymore.”

The bed creaked as Justin stood. “This is bullshit,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then go look!” Amy said.

Justin took one step, and then a blinding light swept suddenly across the room, cutting into both their lines of vision. The sound of a man’s laughter followed it. “I have a better idea,” said the strange voice. “You both stay here, and we play a game.”