When we reached the threshold of the studio that led back into the house, Christos turned and took a long, meaningful look at the studio.
I wanted to cry, but I held back my tears, for his sake. This wasn’t the last time he was going to see it. It couldn’t be. The jury had to find him not guilty. Christos wasn’t a bad man. I knew it in my heart.
Christos sighed again and turned out the lights.
We walked quietly upstairs and got ready for bed in silence. We slid under the covers together and laid side by side, holding hands, staring at the ceiling.
I was miserable.
Christos was distant, almost like he was in shock. I couldn’t blame him.
I squeezed his hand, and he squeezed mine back.
I don’t know how long we laid like that.
At some point, I needed to talk. The stress inside me needed to be vented before I vomited up my dinner. If that happened, I knew I wouldn’t hesitate to run downstairs and fill my stomach with ice cream until I had to vomit that out too.
“Christos,” I whispered in the darkness, “are you sure there’s no way I can testify at your trial tomorrow?”
He didn’t answer.
“I mean,” I said, “I was there. I saw the guy. My version of events should make a difference, shouldn’t it?”
After a long time, a thin, tired voice said, “It’s too late, Samantha. Whatever happens, happens. I’ll deal with it.”
“But, what if—”
“I really need to try and sleep, agápi mou.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
He slid his hand out of mine and rolled onto his side, his back to me.
I felt like he was a million miles away. I almost snuggled up against him, but decided to let him sleep. I laid in bed quietly for awhile.
My stomach was churning like a sailboat in a super storm. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to do something about my stress. I slipped silently out of bed and went downstairs.
I passed right by the evil ice cream in the freezer.
I had work to do.
I skulked around the house until I found an office. It was lined with bookcases filled with art books. A beautiful, ornate wooden desk sat in the center of a Chinese area rug. Probably Spiridon’s office. There was a computer on the desk. I switched on a small desk lamp and a yellow disc of light fell onto the blotter. I clicked the mouse and woke the computer. I checked that I could access the internet. Yup, working.
For a second, I drummed my fingers quietly on the desktop while I considered what to do next.
I finally broke down and tiptoed back to the kitchen. I spooned two modest scoops of Peanut Butter Fudge Bomb into a small bowl then returned to the office. I was going to need at least a little sustenance while I worked.
I didn’t care what the stupid courts said. It was never too late to make a difference.
Chapter 7
SAMANTHA
I jolted awake.
Where the hell was I?
Ow! My cheek was killing me. Had I slept on a bed of nails?? I opened my eyes carefully, on the lookout for sharp objects. No nails.
But I had fallen asleep at the keyboard, my face resting on the keys. I sat up and rubbed my cheek. I felt keyboard grooves waffling my skin.
Nice.
I leaned back in the antique chair in Spiridon’s office. Something creaked and popped. I couldn’t decide if it was the antique chair or my antique back. When I stood up, more popping. Definitely my back. I would need to get it refurbished later.
Light slipped into the office around the window blinds. I yanked the cord and sunlight blared inside.
Morning already?
How late had I worked? There was no way to know what time I’d fallen asleep. But it didn’t matter. I’d found what I’d been looking for online last night. I now had a way to help Christos.
I couldn’t wait to tell him the good news!
The house was so quiet, I imagined Christos was still in bed. I tiptoed out of the office and back to Christos’ bedroom. Our bedroom.
The door was open.
He was not in bed.
I walked into the bathroom. It was empty, and all the roses from Valentine’s Day were gone, as if they’d never been there.
“Christos?” I called.
The house was silent.
I went from room to room.
This search felt eerily familiar. I’d done the same thing only days before, but it had been at night. Now the sun shone through windows all over the house.
Fuck! What time was it? I ran downstairs, hoping to find Christos and Spiridon eating breakfast together, hot coffee in the pot waiting for me.
The kitchen was empty. The clock on the stove said 8:30am.
“Christos?” I called loudly. “Spiridon?” My panic started to rise. Tears began dripping down my cheeks.
I ran to the studio and shouted, “Christos! Spiridon!”
Silence.
I even checked the back deck, but no one was outside.
I ran into the house and toward the front doors. A note was taped to one of them. It read, ‘Went to court’.
I opened the front door and sprinted down the driveway.
I screamed when I reached the street. “Christos!” I started sobbing uncontrollably. “Noooo!!!!”
How could I help my man when I didn’t know where to find him?
I fell to my knees on the cement of the driveway and wailed.
CHRISTOS
The sky was clear blue as I drove my ’68 Camaro south on the 5 freeway toward downtown. Great day for a trial, right? What I wouldn’t do to strip out of the shirt and tie that were strangling me so I could head down to the beach with my board and catch some waves with Jake instead.
Not today.
Maybe not for the next four years.
I grit my teeth, doing my best not to think about it.
Morning traffic was light and my car cruised along at sixty-five. I thumbed on the MP3 player mounted in the dash and skipped through songs until I hit Mouth For War by Pantera. I cranked the volume and the music rumbled the interior of the car. My left foot pounded on the floor board in time to the bass drum and my hands slapped out the rhythm of the snare drum on the steering wheel. Guitars screamed into my eardrums.
Yeah, I was going to fucking fight.
Time to testify, mother fuckers.
I desperately wanted to floor the gas pedal. Take my Camaro up to one-forty and start weaving through the cars on the road. But these people weren’t my enemies.
That’s what was driving me crazy.
There was no one to fight. No one to punch. No one to kick, claw or bite. Damn, I needed to punch someone in the face.
I glanced over at the Buick next to me. An old woman was at the wheel. She had the seat pushed way forward and could barely see over the dash. Her hands were at ten and two and her chin jutted forward, pinning her eyes on the road in front of her.
Yeah, not exactly what I had in mind.
Where was that Hunter Blakeley when I needed a punching bag? I’d barely scratched his nose the night me and Jake had run into him coming out of the downtown Hooters. He deserved a proper ass kicking for being such a shit magnet.
I took a deep breath and tried to release my frustration. I started shouting along with the lyrics of Mouth For War.
A couple miles later, I pulled off the freeway at the Front Street exit and headed toward the courthouse. I drove into a parking garage. The lower levels were already filled with cars so I hammered the gas and squealed tires up the next four floors, leaving trails of rubber around every corner, until my car was on the roof. Plenty of spaces. I parked in the far corner. After throwing on my suit jacket, I headed for the stairs.