With an effort, Kristi struggled to sit up against the building. She was wet, her head aching, attempting to stay conscious, wanting to give way to the blissful blackness of not knowing, of being oblivious to this garish, harrowing night. She slumped again, her voice failing her, the dark night swirling around her, the palpitating sadness reverberating through her. “I have to be with him. Oh, please, God—” And then she let go, was vaguely aware of the cop giving orders. She felt her body being lifted and was barely able to hear voices and feel movement, heard the scream of a siren, though it was faint. “We’re losing her,” she heard, though the voice was distant, almost muffled.
She was in an ambulance? Was someone talking to her?
“Mrs. McKnight? Ms. Bentz. Can you hear me? Stay with me, now. Kristi? Kristi?” But the sound was far away, as if it were coming from another universe, and she was floating, gone again, giving in to the sweet unknowing, letting the grip of welcomed blackness surround her.
* * *
Over a week passed.
Kristi Bentz McKnight shivered. She was a widow.
And was barely aware of her father’s arm as it tightened around her shoulder. She should have felt pain from her wound, but she didn’t as she stood in the dismal cemetery. She couldn’t feel, couldn’t think, could only stare at the grave site where her husband was to be entombed. Numb to the October weather, heedless of the wind and prayers intoned solemnly by the parish priest, she waited, feeling nothing. Friends and family had gathered, all in black, all with sorrowful faces, all expressing grief and sympathy, but whose families were still intact. She saw it in the way a husband and wife would catch each other’s gaze and link fingers, reassuring each other that they were still together. They were still alive. They still had a future together.
Kristi hated them for their normalcy. For their safety. For their feelings of relief that the tragedy that had befallen her hadn’t befallen them. She blinked back tears of sorrow, yes, of anguish, but they were also tears of repressed fury.
Why Jay?
Why me?
Why us?
Dear God, why, why, why?
Closing her eyes for a second, grounding herself, she heard the priest’s intoned prayers droning over the rush of the wind rattling through the branches of the live oaks lining the cemetery walls, felt the breeze against her skin and wished this had all never ever happened.
It was her fault Jay was dead.
She should be lying in the casket right now, not he.
It had been nearly two weeks since the attack, eleven days to be exact, where she’d gone through the motions of life, spending two days in the hospital after surgery to repair her shoulder. She’d gotten off easy, the doctor had told her; no artery, vein, or nerve had been severed and her muscles would heal, though scar tissue might develop. But if she worked at it, did her exercises, didn’t let the muscles atrophy, she would be “good as new,” the bright-eyed surgeon had pronounced.
She didn’t think so.
And, Jay hadn’t been so fortunate.
He’d given his life for her, leaping onto her attacker and bleeding out in her arms as the murderer had fled into the night. Jay’s wound to his femoral artery had been fatal and no amount of guilt, nor prayers, nor feelings of ultimate despair had been able to bring him back.
Now, he was being laid to rest.
Another victim of a violent homicide.
Even the fact that the hospital had confirmed her pregnancy hadn’t lifted her spirits.
The breeze lifted her hair from her shoulders and she looked up from the casket to the field of graying tombs and mausoleums that filled the cemetery, all mirrored by the gloomy sky and burgeoning clouds scudding slowly over the city.
She’d barely been able to function. She’d suffered a concussion and the muscles in her shoulder ached despite the fact that, in theory, there would be no permanent damage.
She’d been lucky.
That’s what she’d heard.
Over and over again.
But it was a lie.
Food held no interest for her and her nights were sleepless, filled with nightmares of those horrid, panicked moments in the alley next to St. Louis Cathedral, a glorious edifice that had once been comforting to her, a landmark that helped her in her struggle with her faith, a symbol of God here on earth.
Now she avoided it, hated the huge white cathedral with its three spires knifing into the heavens as if reaching up to God.
Her heart shredded.
Each night as she fell into a restless sleep, she found herself once more in that fateful alley, again fighting for her life, the nameless attacker slashing brutally with his knife as the rain poured over them. Then she would see Jay, lunging forward, trying to save her as their assailant fled. Finally she would crawl over to her husband, cradle his head in her arms, and realize it was over as she witnessed his features fade to black and white. She heard herself screaming her denials. Not Jay. Not her husband. But she’d known his soul was leaving, had witnessed it so many times before, and each night, over and over again, while stroking back his hair with her bloodstained fingers, she watched him die.
A horror film forever on rewind.
It was so wrong. So very wrong. Her soul should have left the earth that night—not his. Not Jay’s.
Except for the baby. Remember the baby.
God help me.
The truth was that as he’d lain bleeding in her arms, she’d vowed her love, begged him to hang on, that they had so much life yet to live. Together. But had he heard her? Over her cries for help and tears and his own labored breathing, had Jay known she loved him, had always loved him? Despite the ups and downs of their relationship, the passion and the pain? There had always been doubts, she knew, a past of breakups and reconciliations, but deep down, she’d always loved him. He’d known that.
Right?
While drawing his final breaths he’d had to have heard how much she loved him. Oh, God, she hoped so.
She surmised that he’d come to surprise her with flowers, that the strewn red roses he’d dropped had been his way of making amends for the fight they’d had.
Her throat swelled at the thought and she blinked against fresh tears.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, her father squeezed her shoulders and she sent a glance his way. He stood ramrod straight, his hair more salt than pepper these days, his jaw square, fine lines evident near his eyes and mouth, his gaze filled with concern. Beside him was his wife, Olivia, a gorgeous blond woman who stood stiffly in a long, black coat, her daughter balanced on one hip. The child, Ginny, Kristi’s curly-haired half sister, so innocent, was turning one at the end of the month. Too young to be here, Kristi thought. Too little to recognize the enormity of it all. Perhaps best if Ginny didn’t understand the life-altering sadness that would always exist, a dark cloak that would pale with time, but would forever be close, invisible but pervasive.
Kristi fought tears and failed. Unbidden, large drops filled her eyes to drizzle down her cheeks. Her relationship with Jay had not been perfect, they’d shared ups and downs, but she’d loved him fiercely and still did.
But now, he would never know.
Her throat was raw with the pain of that knowledge and the harsh words that had been said. At that thought her knees sagged and her father’s strong arm held her upright.
She was aware of the final prayer, felt the priest’s hand on her shoulder as he whispered condolences and reminded her that Jay was with God. She noticed the small group of mourners breaking apart, individuals and couples hurrying across the wet grass and concrete to their waiting vehicles, obviously relieved to have finished with this final good-bye, this obligation to the departed and his family. Now they could get on with their lives. It would be Halloween soon, and the holidays filled with good cheer and friends and family were on the horizon.