All of Our Secrets

By Rick Bylina

Bruce Neumanski's life crumbles when he wakes one morning to find his wife, Heather, dead. Immediately, Detective Mort Meeker accuses him of murder. The coroner and district attorney agree. Bruce must fight the legal system, hell-bent on convicting him, as he seeks the truth about her death.

While Bruce struggles through shock, denial, anger, and acceptance, he must sort through conflicting advice from an overly comforting counselor, support a neighborhood girl who viewed Heather as a role model, and cope with an estranged sister who re-enters his life with a shocking family revelation. And though removed from the investigation, Meeker pursues Bruce with a fervor bordering on criminal. As Bruce uncovers Heather's secrets, he wonders if Meeker has a hidden agenda.

Bruce navigates his journey of self-discovery while hoping his determined efforts save him from prison or worse. Can anything prepare him for the truth about Heather’s death and the young girl’s soulful observation about his true nature?

Set in Big Woods, North Carolina, a New Jersey man’s true-life story was the inspiration for All Of Our Secrets and Bruce’s quest to prove his innocence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Bylina
• Release date: Oct 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301885596

Rick Bylina

Rick Bylina lives with his wife, Carrie, and their 20-year-old cockatiel, Sydney, near Apex, North Carolina. Ongoing corporate downsizing convinced him to tap into his passion. He scribbled down any crazy idea that crossed his mind. After gaining discipline, he wrote his debut mystery novel, "One Promise Too Many", the first in a series featuring Detective Roger Stark. Writing happens spontaneously between housework, gardening, cooking, fishing, and wrestling alligators. "One Promise Too Many" - available everywhere. "A Matter of Faith" - available everywhere. "All of Our Secrets" - available just about everywhere. "Bathroom Reading" - coming November, 2012

Book preview

Chapter 1

Terrified, I counted to six, and then begged Heather, Just Breathe. I pinched her nose and covered her mouth with mine. Each time I did this, her cold lips almost made me retch from the reality of why I was doing this. I blew again. No response. My breath was returned without the hope with which I had sent it. Again.

Please. I’ll be lost without you. I counted while stroking her hair. Outside, the siren of an approaching ambulance pierced the pre-dawn quiet. The 9-1-1 operator kept calling my name over the phone I’d dropped onto the floor.

I blew again. God, help me. I rechecked her pulse. Nothing. I shook her and small items on the shelf tipped over from the force of my shaking. Breathe, Heather, breathe.

Desperate, I tried chest compressions on the sloshing waterbed, trying to recall first aid from Army basic training thirty years ago. Stay calm. Think. Move her to the floor.

Someone knocked on the front door I had left ajar. It squeaked open. EMS, a male voice said.

In here, quick! I yelled.

Two paramedics rushed from the foyer into the bedroom.

Please. Help her.

Come, sir. The short paramedic pulled me away. I didn’t want to leave her, but they were the experts. He sat me at the bay window seat facing the foot of the bed. I was shaking.

A large, heavy-set man in a rumpled brown suit entered the room and stood barely inside the door frame. His walrus face was droopy and whiskered. Was he here to help?

The short paramedic waved his hand in front of my face to get my attention. Sir, what’s your full name?

Bruce Wayne Neumanski.

The heavy-set man by the door looked at me.

And hers?

Heather Rachel Neumanski, my wife. Please, save her.

My eyes shifted focus to the tall paramedic bent over Heather, shining a penlight in her eyes.

Well? the man in the brown suit asked. His eyes were sloe-eyed, sleepy dull.

The short paramedic spun around and stepped towards him. Detective Meeker. Where’d you come from?

Meeker waved him off. I was in the area and heard the emergency call.

The tall paramedic leaned over to Meeker and spoke in a hushed manner. No pulse. No respiration. Gray pallor, and cold. No blood or obvious wounds, but some petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. I can’t declare her, but….

Despite his whisper, I heard his words to Meeker.

Oh God, it can’t be. I folded my arms across my chest and rocked in place. "She was so full of life. She was my life."

The paramedics looked at me. Meeker pushed through them and stared at Heather. His eyes widened. Holy shit. He backed away, grabbing the tall paramedic by the shirt. Bring her back!

But she's dead.

Do it.

It was the truth too horrible to fathom: Heather dead. Hearing him say that was the punch to the gut, the pain too big to bear. My stomach churned.

The paramedics ripped open her pajamas and rolled her onto a board. Her dignity was stripped away for the sake of salvation. Meeker stepped in my direction. I bowed my head and prayed for a miracle. Jesus, save her.

Meeker planted himself in front of me and shook me by the shoulders. What happened?

I don’t know. I stammered. She stopped breathing. His face filled my view. His alcohol-soured breath filled my nasal passages. A sensed of menace emanated from him. I scooted backwards against the bay window.

He grabbed my chin, cupping it with his meaty hand, forcing me to stare at him. The blackness of his pupils nearly eclipsed his brown eyes. They strained against their sockets as his stare bored into me. I couldn't look away. Did you kill her?

I shook my head despite his grip. I didn’t kill her. I love my wife. I broke his hold. What’s wrong with you?

Don't wet those baby blues. Just tell me why you did it.

I moved sideways to see behind him, but he clamped down on my shoulders again.

Sit still. You’ll answer my questions. Red-faced, he straightened up and yanked his tie loose. I shifted my position to see the bed better.

I told you to sit still.

I froze. His actions confused me.

He unwrapped two sticks of gum and slammed them into his mouth. Seconds later, a whiff of cinnamon reached me as he swayed on his heels.

Heather's stuffed animals covered the bay window seat and bunched up against me. This was her favorite spot. She would scrunch her brown hair into a bun to cushion her head, wrap herself in an old Pennsylvania Dutch quilt, and read.

I shifted my position. Checkers, a stuffed white rabbit wearing a green and brown vest, plopped onto the floor. I reached for him. Meeker growled his displeasure. I sat back and refocused my gaze outside instead, leaving Checkers to his own devices.

The leafless dogwood Heather had planted, shivered in a dying gust of wind. Its silhouette stood against the barely perceptible pinkish hue of morning. Goose bumps rose on my bare arms. When the grandfather clock in the great room chimed six times, the sound pulled my attention back into the room. Although it seemed like forever since I’d dialed 9-1-1, it had only been a half hour.

I focused on the EMTs across the room and their swift actions. If she was dead, why were they still working on her? Maybe there was still a chance. Save her, I said. My voice sounded weak and pathetic.

Meeker grabbed my arm. How did you get these scratches?

I looked at my arm as if seeing it for the first time. The next questions flew at me before I could answer.

Did she struggle? Did she scream? Answer me. He lowered his voice and leaned closer, brushing my ear with his mustache. Did you do it for the money?

What money? This is insane. What the hell do you want from me?

He straightened up. My breathing quickened, as my blood pulsed at my temples. Two uniformed cops squeezed into the room. Meeker shifted his stance. He leaned closer again, occupying what little room had existed between us. I put my hands in front of me to create space. Meeker drew back.

I stood.

Don’t you dare try to touch me. Meeker reached out to force me to sit.

My anger erupted. I pushed him. He stepped on Checkers and lost his balance, toppling backwards onto the waterbed beside Heather. Everyone froze as the waterbed rippled.

Get off the damn bed! The forcefulness of my raspy voice surprised me. The sight of him next to Heather’s naked body ripped a hole in the fabric of my self-control. I wanted him dead for no reason other than his being there.

He floundered, glancing first at her, and then me.

Sit down! He struggled to roll off the waterbed.

In that breathless moment, her lifeless hand, suspended from her body on the stiff board, moved in syncopation with the bed's undulations as if waving goodbye.

The two cops put their hands on my shoulders and forced me to sit. I didn't resist. My adrenaline rush dissipated as fast as it had risen, and along with it, my anger. Heather took it from me with her wave goodbye, as if suggesting that everything would be all right. My shoulders slumped. I covered my face with my hands and sobbed. How will I live without her?

~~~~~

Chapter 2

Detective Meeker regained his footing. He stood before me. I looked up, expecting more accusations. He looked disoriented and rubbed his chin. His gaze alternated between the cops and me. Finally, he snapped his fingers at the two cops. Yates. Murphy. He pointed at me. Get him out of here.

Where to? Yates asked.

Just out of here.

Each cop took me by an elbow. They guided me toward the door as if I didn't know my way around our house. I had designed it. Heather and I built it with eighteen months’ worth of sweat. The deck stood despite the hammer's continual attacks on my thumb. The garage was blessed by Heather's fall into a drying cement floor, which she turned into a snow angel. We were this place.

My annoyance grew at being led away. I need to say goodbye to Heather.

Don't you touch her, Meeker said.

I jerked an arm free but they quickly restrained me with firmer grips.

Get him the hell out of here! Meeker yelled.

I was force-marched from the master bedroom through the great room and into the expansive kitchen. They dumped me on a stool at the kitchen island countertop, my back to the great room.

Murphy left. Just chill, Yates said, straightening his uniform and nameplate.

My wife's dead. The word physically hurt when I said it. I'm being treated like a pariah. I rubbed my temples and drew in a shuddering breath. And why did he accuse me of killing her?

Yates shrugged. He’s the detective. Thin and taller than me, he had short-cropped hair, wire-rim glasses, and lingering zits. He looked more like a high school nerd than a cop. He flashed a concerned look in the direction of the bedroom. Something was wrong with these cops, with Meeker.

I slumped at the counter in my despair, my head in my hands. This can't be happening. A part of me began dying, closing down: my emotional distress sublimated to a rational understanding of what was happening. The overriding need to focus on what happened muscled out my instinctive reactions to rage against---

Raised voices erupted in the foyer outside the master bedroom suite. I turned around to face the spacious great room and listen, but the discussion faded as fast as it had started. A couple minutes later, a tall, lanky man crossed the great room to the windows overlooking the backyard.

His breathing was labored as if he had climbed several flights of stairs. His shoulders rolled as he sucked in air. His wheeze was audible from here, twenty feet away. He gazed out into the woods. Another cop, I suspected. In the midst of what I couldn’t do to save Heather, I felt strangely compelled to focus on him, a stranger in my world at the worst possible moment.

Brown suits seemed to be the dress code. His was a shade lighter than Meeker's. It hung loosely as if it belonged to a larger man. He had a clean-shaven, youthful appearance, but lingering nighttime shadows concealed his true age. An air of calm formed about him as his breathing returned to normal. He surveyed the landscaping bathed in outdoor floodlights. He nodded nearly imperceptibly on several occasions, appearing to listen to the household activities: the click and whirl of a camera, the paramedics' words, a strained and muted conversation in the foyer, and the squabbling of cardinals in the winter-hardy gardenia bush outside the window. They all vied for attention. His arms dangled at his side, and his gaze out the window never wavered. He could be waiting patiently in a confessional line contemplating his sins, looking for guidance and forgiveness, but he wasn't. He was in my house with my wife dead in our bedroom.

He carried a notepad. I didn't see the pencil until he tapped the pad with the eraser as if he'd made a decision.

Mr. Neumanski, he said, looking at me, it's going to be a long day. Is it okay for us to brew some coffee?

I nodded.

Officer Yates. Take care of that.

The young cop snapped to attention. Yes, Lieutenant.

Mr. Neumanski. May I call you, Bruce?

Yes. I turned to Yates and made a sweeping motion with my hand in the general direction of the refrigerator. My instructions were rote. Coffee and filters are in there. Use a half-cup, plus twelve cups of water.

When I turned back, the lieutenant's gaze had already refocused outside.

Paramedics wheeled a squeaky gurney into the house. They rolled it through the foyer and into my small office, which was nothing more than an alcove in the master bedroom suite.

Straps were unbuckled. Someone said, One, two, three. The sound of a zipper moments later almost made me puke. I squeezed my eyes tight, holding back the tears. They clicked the buckles together.

When I opened them, I knew Heather lay on the gurney to be taken away from me. I wasn’t ready to let that happen. I rose from my seat, my gaze fixed on the edge of the bedroom door where I could barely see into the room. Everything around me faded from view as I walked toward the gurney.

I was halfway to the bedroom, when the lieutenant stepped beside me. He laid a hand lightly on my shoulder. Not now. Let's talk. You can say goodbye later. He paused. Let them finish their job so we can find out what happened to Heather.

Nearly a foot taller than I, he could have easily exerted a sense of control like Meeker, but he respected my personal space even as he took my elbow and led me to the couch in the center of the room, facing the backyard. The thought that this morning was just a macabre nightmare from which I would soon awaken melted when he said her name. This was real. I couldn't save her. I dropped onto the couch, shaking as I released a deep breath. She was too young to be taken from me.

Beautiful house, the Lieutenant said.

Such an odd but truthful observation. I didn't respond to his words, but eyed the room, kitchen, sunroom, balcony, and deck outside as a stranger would. Everything Heather desired in a home now rechristened as a beautiful monument to her. The realization made me ache. I doubled over and moaned.

You and Heather do all the landscaping? the lieutenant asked.

I sat back up. This is not a tea party. The light-hearted insensitivity of his question confused me with its intent and angered me with its lack of compassion. Nonetheless, I felt compelled to answer, bend to his will not being able to think beyond the moment. Yes.

I leaned forward and propped my elbows on my knees, burying my face in my hands. A horrible reality check overcame me; I might not seem sincere. Maybe I wasn’t grieving in a manner consistent with this situation. Maybe I wasn’t shedding enough tears as if tears alone measured my distress.

The mere acknowledgment of this systematic check embarrassed me. I sighed. I had never lost anyone I loved so much, let alone having had her die next to me. To hell with their expectations, and with that, tears flowed. It was a relief to not care how others might perceive my emotions.

Big party here last night? the Lieutenant asked.

What kind of question is that? Was he trying to gain my trust, connect on a personal level? I ignored the question as I wiped my face with the hem of my tee-shirt. The cold had seeped into my bones. I was conscious for the first time that I still wore just boxer shorts and the shirt; I pulled the couch's afghan over me.

My fiftieth birthday. I didn’t elaborate for his benefit. The after-effects of last night's party were evident: balloons, confetti, a few leftover paper plates, and my presents still on the table. The mocking theme of black from last night now took on a sinister feel.

My stare settled on the wood stove. The fire had dwindled, and the heat pump hadn't kicked on. The lieutenant must have noticed my focus. He walked over to the wood stove and opened the flue, creating an updraft. He lifted the lid on the firebox. I blinked back a tear.

Heather had gathered leftover wood from building the house. Every night for a week after dinner, she worked secretly in the garage. Every night she covered her project and made me swear not to peek. I didn't. One day, the mystery project disappeared. On my forty-sixth birthday, I tore the wrapping off the present; a fireplace wood box she had built. On the front panel, Heather had painted two Carolina wrens, fat little birds with upright tails.

From this box, the lieutenant selected oak tinder. Through the side feeder door, he laid the pieces on the hot coals. Small flames danced behind the glass front portal. Over the next few minutes, he talked while putting in a succession of larger logs before shutting the feeder door for good.

I had the same model, but now I live in an apartment with a gas fireplace. He paused, as if measuring out how much of his life he wanted to reveal. No chimney, just a short pipe out the wall. No muss, no fuss, but it's not the same. Some things I just miss.

He closed the damper, and the fire lowered. Backing up, he stepped onto a loose brick at the edge of the raised platform on which the wood stove sat. He teetered, arms stretched out from his sides to catch his balance. In the nearby bush, a cardinal must have been spooked by the commotion and took flight, slamming into the window as so many startled birds had done before.

What the heck? He seemed to immediately realize what had happened. You should fix that brick before someone gets injured.

I nodded. Smoke puffed from the front vents. Whenever it happened, Heather always said, in her mellow female baritone voice, The dragon's sighing.

The single puff of smoke rose into the ceiling fan's soft breeze. Its visible form vanished, but the smell lingered on as it always did. The fire soon took on its familiar appearance as if a high-speed camera had captured the rolling flame and played it back in slow motion.

I had sat here with Heather several hours ago. Her perfume lingered on the afghan, filling me with the memory of our fight. I couldn't even remember its cause; however, I remembered her conciliatory tone before falling asleep when she told me she loved me. Guilt embraced my inadequate response, I know. I should have said more, should have done more. I failed her.

The lieutenant left the room and brought me sweat pants and a flannel shirt from the coat rack in the laundry room just off the great room. I pulled them on. He sat at the other end of the couch, his long legs extending almost beyond the coffee table. Stoking the fire and getting my clothes seemed to have tired him.

I buttoned the shirt while eyeing him. Who are you?

I'm Lieutenant Tony Dobson with the Big Woods Police Department. I caught the call on the way into work. I didn't expect to find Meeker here. He's off on Fridays.

Are you in charge of that Neanderthal?

A dimpled smile, which didn't bend up all the way, creased his face. I hadn't expected that response. I suspected he'd had to apologize for Meeker on more than one occasion. He stared at me with light blue eyes that mirrored my own. He appeared older than I originally had assumed, maybe late-forties.

Yes. I'm in charge of him. He paused. "Detective Mort Meeker can get excited, but he gets the job done. You won't have to deal with him anymore." His words hinted at an apology.

He's distasteful. I wanted to vent my rancor, but it hardly seemed worth it now. He accused me of killing my wife.

I know. He paused. Bruce, sometimes we have to ask hard questions at troubled moments in people's lives. It's not our intention to be insensitive, even if at times the questions seem that way.

I nodded. Yates put two coffee cups and napkins on the table in front of us. He'd make a good butler, arriving with no fanfare before fading into the background. I'd forgotten he was in the room, listening to us, observing, no doubt taking notes. The coffee's aroma overrode the smell of the dissipated smoke.

The fire crackled and startled me. Heather's disposition had changed last night after the fire popped. Again, why’d we have to fight? I thought I’d find the note she wrote. Maybe it was elsewhere in the house. I blew my nose with a napkin.

Bruce, you're not under arrest, but I'm going to read you your rights so it's perfectly clear to you what they are. We are investigating a suspicious death. It's procedure.

He read them. I stared straight ahead at the wood stove and beyond, out the windows into the yard, the woods, down the knoll to the swampy edge of the Lake Jordan flood plain.

Do you understand these rights as I've read them to you?

I do. I'd heard those words in movies and on television hundreds of times. Reality's impact trumps any emotion imagined while watching a show. Before he could ask me any of his questions, I had one for him. Why did you call her death suspicious?

Until the coroner rules on the cause of death later, this is how we must proceed. He tapped his pencil on his pad.

I took a deep breath and let it out. In my mind, I'm not ready for this battled against let's get this over with. I thought maybe I should call a lawyer, but I didn't want to appear guilty of anything.

Okay, let's talk. I sipped my coffee.

Dobson cleared his throat. Did you kill your wife?

~~~~~

Chapter 3

Household sounds faded into background noise while Dobson’s question hung in the air between us like a foul odor. We stared at each other.

I did not kill her. I could not say it more clearly. She was cold...unresponsive...not breathing when her alarm woke me this morning. I called 9-1-1 then did CPR. The words barely came out.

Fine, he said, as if that settled the matter and cleared the air. He faced the fire as though looking at me might tip his hand about his belief in my answer. My hands shook, fearing he might not believe me. I grabbed my hot coffee cup to warm them. He tapped his pad.

I examined Heather briefly before the coroner arrived. Like me, he heard the dispatch call. The marks on her face are petechial hemorrhages. You can also see them in her eyes. People who have been smothered often have those marks. I also noticed a small bump on her rib cage, but no bruising yet. She may have a fractured rib. You have scratches on your arm. Combined, these factors indicate a possible struggle.

I stopped drinking and set the cup down. He hadn't asked a question, but phrased his words for me to answer. "I did not smother Heather. I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips. It's possible I may have broken her rib doing CPR. It’s been thirty years since I learned how to do it. I winged it. I wouldn't hurt her. I loved her."

And the scratches?

She tripped last night and almost fell. When I reached out to grab her, she accidentally scratched me.

I lied. It was a tiny lie, an interpretation of the truth really. He stared at me as though he could gauge the truthfulness of my statement by intuition alone. My trouble was I believed he could. As he wrote on his pad again, I flushed with anger about the lie. I hesitated that infinitesimally small moment when correction is possible without appearing deceitful. However, sometimes a lie holds true to its intent.

Do you mind if we take samples from under your nails?

No. I have nothing to hide.

I expected the cliché retort, "We all have something to hide," but he didn't say anything. Instead, he signaled for Yates and told him what he wanted done. I sat on the edge of the couch while Yates took the samples. I was sure they would do the same to Heather.

Yates finished and retreated into the kitchen.

Were the two of you home alone after the party? Dobson asked.

Yes.

Always leave your doors unlocked?

Trick question? The front door is usually locked. We’re inconsistent with the others. It's a safe neighborhood. Even as I said it, Vance's warning last night about the prowler surfaced and sank just as quickly.

When was the last time you saw Heather alive?

I flinched. He dropped those words into the interrogation as softly as the snowflakes drifting to the ground outside. Inconspicuous at first, the overall effect was cumulative. The questions piled on, and this last one proved too much. I slumped back into the couch. Was my life going to become a succession of last times? Last time we vacationed at the cabin, last time we went to the movies, last time we fought, last time we kissed, made love, forgave each other. The last time for everything.

I stared at the ceiling. About four in the morning, I had to go to the bathroom. Later, I heard a noise.

Can you describe the noise?

A soft thud. I hit my hand against the arm of the couch. Heather mumbled something.

What did she say?

I don't know.

What happened next?

Nothing. I stumbled back into bed.

How long were you out of the bed?

Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. I wasn't feeling well. I had irritable bowels. I didn't notice anything odd when I came back to bed. Maybe if I had paid more attention, she'd still be alive. Maybe she had a heart attack, and I didn't even notice.

My frustration played out in my tone. He wrote on his notepad as if he were taking dictation.

I imagined his notations: no intruder, suspect home alone, victim appears to have been smothered, possible struggle. I had done nothing wrong, but I had a hard time convincing myself her death wasn't partly my fault. Had I inadvertently contributed through inaction? I tried to regain my composure. The question that rose like bile in my throat remained, would anyone else believe me?

Minutes slipped by. I fretted not knowing what I should or could do. Lieutenant Dobson wrote on his pad. I sipped my coffee. Looking over the cup's rim, I saw the bird feeders in the dull gray dawn. I put the cup down.

Black-capped chickadees, yellow goldfinches, juncos, tufted titmice, and cardinals competed for spots on the nearly empty feeders after the cold North Carolina night. I imagined the area below the feeders held the same flock of confusion. I had to do something other than sit here. Feeding the birds seemed appropriate. As Dobson wrote, I rose to go to the garage as though pulled by a daily routine.

Movement caused me to look diagonally across the great room into the alcove that I used for my office in the master bedroom suite. The body bag containing Heather lay on top of the gurney. I almost gagged. I touched my ring and thought about hers. My mind held the image of the inscription: Forever. I had to get the ring. I stepped toward her.

Murphy stepped out of the bedroom. Sir, you can't go in there.

I just want to say goodbye to her.

Sorry.

Can I get her ring?

Perhaps, after she has been processed. Murphy grimaced. Released.

Processed? I flinched. The word punished me with horrifying images of what they would be doing to her.

Bruce. Dobson walked towards me.

I didn't argue. I knew from his tone the answer meant, "not now." It wasn't about to stop me from getting her ring.

I just can't sit. I need to move. Let me feed the birds and the goldfish. I pointed to the feeders.

Dobson eyed them, and then turned back around and faced Murphy. Did you check out back like I asked?

Done.

Dobson signaled Yates. Go with him. He looked back at me. Backyard only.

I walked away without answering. I didn’t want to lose my nerve and was thankful he must like animals.

In the laundry room, I slipped on my sneakers and grabbed my coat. The bird and fish food were stored in the garage. Yates trailed behind me like a trusted sidekick, except he wasn't. I hadn't counted on a guard. The morning routine was the same, but going forward, it would be mine exclusively.

You don't even know where the bird food is, I had told Heather one night this past summer while waiting for sleep to overcome us. We spooned, melting into the bed, her arms wrapped around me from behind, waiting for sleep to overcome us.

Of course I do. It's right where you put it.

That's what I thought.

That's what I like about you, always thinking. She giggled, pinched my butt, and rolled over, facing away from me, leaving us back-to-back. Five minutes later, she was sound asleep like every night. I waited as usual for the sandman, always inconsistent in his duties as a whippoorwill began his lonely, repetitive chant.

It was I who always fed the birds and fish, cleaned their feeders and checked the pond's water pump, shopped online for the best-priced food, boiled the sugary hummingbird food in the summer, cleared a feeding zone when snows fell, made homemade suet, learned the different types of birds and could mimic the calls of a dozen varieties. Despite doing all this, they were always her birds and her goldfish when visitors came to the house. It became a source of friendly needling between us.

But I had my revenge. I could stand next to the deck feeder and fill it while the resident chickadees waited patiently on the nearest branch calling to me chick-a-dee-dee-dee as if to hurry me through my task. Heather couldn't step onto the deck without them fleeing. Their tameness with me made her jealous, but they were still always her birds and her goldfish.

Yates and I entered the backyard. The birds scattered to their nearest perches in a noisy whoosh. They betrayed me in my time of need.

The birds' unwavering support would be nice, but I knew they only viewed me as a provider of food, at best. I existed as just another part of their world of eating, pooping, and sleeping, interrupted only by moments of propagation. I smeared chunky peanut butter on a large stick shaped like a T for the red-chested woodpeckers. The birds had emptied the oak tree feeder, which hung by the deck. I filled it with sunflower seeds. I dumped the remaining triple feeder's contents on the frozen ground and refilled each seed compartment: sunflower, wild mix, and thistle. I paced my efforts.

From the front of the house, voices echoed off the freshly frozen landscape and reached the backyard in diminished intensity.

The waterfall's flow kept the pond ice-free. I threw a dozen food pellets on the surface. Yates bent over and watched the slow-moving goldfish rise to the surface and mouth a pellet or two as though questioning the wisdom of feeding them on a cold winter's day. I surrendered the feed cup to him with instructions to drop one or two pellets at a time.

That goldfish is huge. Yates pointed to the giant white fish almost eighteen inches long.

That’s Moby Dick. He’s a freak. Most are normal-sized. In the summer, they thrash the surface like starving piranha. In reality, they're messy pigs. That's why they're out here and not in an indoor tank. The sound of a squeaky gurney wheel echoed in the stillness. My heart raced.

How many fish?

About a hundred. I shook my empty bucket. I need more bird seed from the garage. I'll be right back.

Okay, he said.

Over my shoulder, I saw him drop pellets into the dark, clear water, talking to the goldfish.

I headed around the side of the house toward the garage and kept on walking. I sidestepped our cars, and walked past an older model, brown, four-door sedan.

The paramedics wheeled Heather to the back of an ambulance. As I expected, the frozen morning had kept everyone else inside until Heather could be taken away from me. I didn't even want to think about what the coroner would do to her.

As I approached, one paramedic seemed to be working on an uncooperative gurney wheel while the other one was inside the ambulance. I would have only a few moments. Nobody was