Wolfe She Cried

By Bliss Addision

The day Chief of Police Simon Wolfe anxiously awaited arrives—the only woman he has ever loved and fellow police officer, Evie Madison returns home. When an island resident is heinously murdered, Simon enlists Evie's help in the investigation. What trace evidence is left behind is virtually useless, at least until they have a suspect. Soon after, two men are identically murdered on the mainland. As Simon and Evie become closer and the investigation progresses, he uncovers evidence that lead him to believe Evie is the killer. Will Simon have the courage to arrest her?

ISBN 1-59431-521-3 Mystery /Romantic Suspense

Cover Art Shelley Rodgerson

Also available in RTF and HTML formats.

Chapter 1

With nothing more on his mind than crank baits and a frosty brew, Simon Wolfe, a lumberjack of a man of Irish and Native descent, opened the door to his work shed. He flicked on the fluorescent desk lamp on the workbench, adjusted the magnifying ring and examined a four-inch length of cedar, savoring the swvie Madison stared into the darkness that engulfed the island like an ebony blanket. The wind whistled through the trees on its approach to the cottage. Now, it howled and pounded against the windowpanes like a ferocious beast.

She turned from the living room window, curled up on the rattan double Pappasan chair and took the journal in her hand. After a moment of hesitation, she opened it and wrote:

Journal Entry—Evie Madison—Thursday

I’m taking Gaston’s suggestion and jotting down my thoughts, feelings and questions. It seems silly, but here goes.

I’m cold. I shouldn’t be. A fire burns steadily in the wood stove and an afghan covers my legs. The dampness from the bay seems to seep to my bones, making me feel like I’ll never be warm again.

Why did I move back home? I shouldn’t have to ask myself that question. Home is where you come when you have nowhere else to hide. I can’t go back and undo what I did. I can’t go forward because of what I did. Maybe this place I’m in right now, this place between emotion and lethargy, is where I’m most comfortable, or where I want to be.

I had another unproductive session with Gaston today. I shouldn’t complain. It’s not his fault. I can’t stop myself from going through the motions, answering his questions as he wants them answered, agreeing with him when normally I’d disagree. He’s trying to help, but I don’t want his help. Guilt and shame are my punishments. No one should try to take that away from me. Of course, I can’t tell him that. Sometimes, though, I want to, but that would only extend the length of the therapy, and I can’t have that when all I want is to be left alone.

If I had a reason to live, I might feel differently. Oh, I know I would. But it’s too late. Everyone I once held dear is no longer mine to treasure and enjoy. Funny, though, the one person who makes me feel good about myself and who might help me recover from the past is the one person I can never be with. Not anymore. Not after what I did.

Suddenly, I’m feeling depressed. If depression had announced itself, I might have prevented its coming. But that’s the way it is with depression. It sneaks up on you, then Wham! It latches onto you like a leech.

I’ll function through it. I always do. If I didn’t, Gaston, Simon and my coworkers would notice. Then there’d be questions, questions I’m too ashamed to answer. They’d offer to help which would only make me feel deeper regret, plunging me into that dark, bottomless pit again and wishing if onlys.

Images flash in my brain—my gun trained on Brad, my finger on the trigger, temper running wild as a brush fire through me, the cries of his children, the fright in their eyes, two uniformed police officers my colleagues shackling me in handcuffs like some thug.

He didn’t tell me he was married. The bastard. How could he do that to me?

Don’t think, Evie. Don’t listen.

My reaction still puzzles me. I’ve been over this a thousand times in my head, yet I’m no closer to an answer. What possessed me that day? To cast blame on someone or something would be easy, but I can’t. My parents taught me to take responsibility for my actions.

Now, I feel tired. A symptom of depression. There are many symptoms of depression, so I’m told, and I experience them all¯heart palpitations, tightness in my abdomen, nervous fatigue, no appetite, blurred vision, numbness in my arms and legs and pressure in my head. The noise in my ears almost drives me insane. Of course, that would be saying I am sane. Sometimes, I wonder—.

I have no interest, zest or initiative for life and cannot plan or make decisions. Simple tasks, ordinarily done without forethought require the greatest effort. Sleep won’t help. What sleep comes is plagued with dreams, bad dreams from which there is no escape.

Maybe death is my only alternative.

Maybe—