Blessings

By Caroline A. Slee

An innocent woman, blamed for a murder. An inexplicable chain of events unfolding within her lifelong home.

To prove her innocence, she must first uncover the truth of what is happening around her: both seen and unseen.

Join Finola O'Bannion during the first novel in the Blood Curse series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caroline A. Slee
• Release date: Sep 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370153060

Caroline A. Slee

Wife, mother, writer, cancer survivor, owned by a highly neurotic dog, Caroline A. Slee has been writing poetry and fiction since childhood. During University, she was a regular contributing poet to Art/Life Magazine.In 2011, she was diagnosed with cancer and chose to pursue her writing full time.

Book preview

BLESSINGS

Caroline A. Slee

Prologue

The house stood silent in the gloom. The fog was rolling slowly across the lawn, up from the water, and the house surveyed it all with its blank stare. The world seemed to be holding its breath. The house was waiting, but it was not lonely. The air within sighed with ancient whispers, as it held its sentry post. It longed for the return of life, to purify what had passed there before. But for tonight, only the ghosts held residence in this quiet vigil. They, too, were waiting. The one would return before long, and each spirit reached out to find her energy, her mind, across the darkness.

They could not find her. She was unreachable, not even a thumbprint on the air around the land that loved her.

Chapter 1

There is a space reserved for those who are considered by society to be defective. Some call it an asylum, while others call it a hospital. Those who enter there rarely emerge well and whole, as would be considered the goal for most hospitals. Instead of curing ailments, the doctors simply medicated symptoms until they deemed their patients fit for a zombie-like return to the real world.

It was in this space that the one the house sought was kept.

Her energy made no mark, for she had none. All was blanketed in a haze of drugs and group, making crafts and preparing for a return that would hold no triumph. She waited, in a tiny space inside her mind, to reclaim herself. She knew that she didn’t belong in this space, but was canny enough to see that rebelling would not be the way out.

Her name was Finola.

Two years earlier, her husband had been murdered.

With no one else to blame, the police conducted a hasty investigation and found Finola as the only logical party. As he was found at home, with evidence of a terrible fight all around, and Fin unconscious upstairs, it was concluded that she must have bludgeoned him to death.

Fin had no memories of that night. None. She was left without even a coherent thought to present in her own defense, and was therefore committed to a psychiatric hospital. Every sordid detail of her married life had been aired out in the press. Every moment that should have been kept private was turned into a talking point for public consumption.

Fin had been insulated from all of it by the hospital.

She hated every minute within its confines, but knew enough to appear accommodating and acquiescent. Oftentimes, she found Peter Gabriel lyrics running through her head, in that old song he had about living a normal life.

Of course, that was vastly preferable to the horrible soundtrack of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest that she found herself humming at night. Every day, Fin’s skin would crawl with the sheer disturbance of being locked in with the crazies. She understood why she was there, but still couldn’t find any memory to justify her sentence.

That was why she waited, wearing the mask her doctors and attorneys wanted to see. Those who studied her and treated her found an acquiescent, pleasant woman. Her gray-eyed gaze was often distant and glazed, but that was well within the norm for the hospital. They saw a slight, dark-haired woman in her late twenties, well-groomed, well-mannered and with a quiet disposition. She was waiting for a reprieve from the absolute tedium and numbness of her days.

That reprieve came with a car meandering up the driveway one autumn afternoon.

Fin was playing checkers in the common room, making sure to lose as often as she won, when a nurse walked in.

Miss O’Bannion, you have a visitor.

Fin gave a vacant smile and excused herself from her game.

Who is it, Nurse? she inquired politely.

An attorney. The nurse replied soothingly. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.

Inside, Fin felt her hopes begin to rise. She quieted that voice and schooled her face to be blank. She knew that everything would depend upon this next interview, these next thirty minutes or so would be crucial to her escape plan. There would be time later to laugh at herself for considering a way to process out of the system as an outright escape.

Has something more happened? she asked tonelessly.

The nurse shook her head and patted her patient gently on the shoulder. In her daily life, this nurse had seen violent tendencies, victims, catatonia, and every shade in between of mental disease and disorder. This patient brought out her softer side. No one could be in a room with Fin for very long without feeling sympathy for her plight. She was the poor abused wife of an older man. When he turned up dead after what surely must have been a very violent scene, many people felt his victimized wife should be canonized.

Feminists took to the talk shows, on both sides of the argument. Could murder truly be justified?

A dialogue began, covering everything from Battered Woman’s Syndrome to the true definition of premeditation.

Nurse Thomas didn’t care a whit for any of that. She cared for this poor, delicate patient who still hadn’t been able to reclaim a single memory of the night that had changed her life.

Here we are. she announced quietly, as they reached a conference room door.

Fin hesitated before quietly murmuring, Thank you, as Nurse Thomas ushered her into the meeting.

Prosecuting attorney Tyler Simons waited impatiently for Fin. He had a busy afternoon ahead, and would have preferred to pass this meeting off to an associate. The District Attorney felt differently, however, and so Tyler found himself in a conference room.

Hospital environments gave him the willies. Tyler was the first to admit that. He hated the clinical smells, the colors designed to be soothing to the inmates.

Patients, Tyler corrected himself. In these facilities, the inmates were called patients as if they were suffering from no more than a terrible bout of some sort of flu. A flu that turned them into homicidal, criminal maniacs.

He looked up when Fin entered the room. The last he had seen her was in a courtroom. His side had been aiming for life in prison. The defense team had been pushing for a complete exoneration. Neither of them had gotten their wish. Fin O’Bannion had been found guilty, but with the extenuating circumstances of mental defect. Apparently, a psychotic break with reality had pushed her into bludgeoning her husband to death, and then left her with no memory of the event. Tyler felt that a criminal nature was what pushed people into murdering other people. He had strongly felt that Fin’s quick wit had left her pretending amnesia.

He had also listened to the news reports. He had interviewed witnesses who came forward to testify that Fin had been brought to dozens of different emergency rooms for injuries resulting from a series of accidents. For the defense, this could have presented an argument for justifiable homicide. For Tyler, it proved his argument that Fin had planned and schemed to take her husband’s life.

The district attorney had sat in on some of Tyler’s interviews with the accused, and had told him that it was a stretch of the imagination to picture her cold-bloodedly planning a murder. Tyler had doggedly insisted that it wasn’t a stretch, that it was not only plausible, but what had happened. He was alone in that perspective, as it turned out.

Looking at her now, Tyler couldn’t help but think he was facing some sort of adversary – ancient or otherwise. There was a primal response along his skin, in his gut. Without the ability to intellectualize the sensation, Tyler was forced to shrug it off.

Fin appeared as she always had: creamy-skinned and fine-boned, she looked as though she would tumble away in a strong wind. Looks not only could be, but were, deceiving. Tyler knew for fact that this bird-like creature had withstood physical hardship that would have felled someone twice her size, easily. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, Tyler found it difficult to reach down for any compassion. Something about this particular criminal didn’t sit well with him.

Finola, how are you? Tyler attempted to infuse his voice with some warmth.

I’m fine, Mr. Simons. And you? Fin’s monotone made Tyler’s skin crawl.

Very well, thank you. I need to do a final interview with you to begin the next process in your case.

My case? I thought I was supposed to stay here now? Fin kept her voice toneless, and focused her energy on keeping her heart rate slow.

The Judge only wanted you here until you had received treatment, Finola. Based on the reports he’s been getting, he feels that you may be able to return home safely now. Do you understand?

Home? I miss home. But I can’t really help you, Mr. Simons. I don’t remember anything. I’ve seen all of your photographs of my crime scene, and they’re horrible. I just can’t find any memory of it, I can’t feel it. Fin sat back a bit, and began worrying at her lip.

We don’t require your memories, Finola. Tyler tried to school the impatience out of his tone. Do you understand what your doctors have told you?

As if reciting a grocery list, Fin began: I suffered a psychotic break with reality brought on by extreme mood swings associated with PTSD. With appropriate medication and talk therapy, I am assured I can live a full and rewarding life, posing no further threat to others.

Tyler made notes before looking up. What does that mean to you?

Fin shrugged uncomfortably. I suppose it means there’s a reason for the horrible thing you say I’ve done. It sounds like an excuse, mostly.

Tyler was no longer focused upon Fin’s tone of voice, but on her choice of words. He had the sense that there was very little she said or did that was not entirely deliberate. He wished he could pin down the deep disturbance he experienced every time he was around her. There was no logical reason for it: just some level of his mind recognized danger, in a way he couldn’t explain or fully grasp.

Do you agree that medication and counseling will help you, Finola? Have they helped you so far?

I don’t know. She replied.

Tyler waited her out.

I suppose I feel calm. I know I don’t have nightmares as much now. I sleep through the night. Fin offered.

Tyler said nothing.

Mr. Simons, I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t understand your questions. I’m trying to answer you, but I feel like I’m not really answering you.

Finola, this isn’t a test. Tyler lied, smoothly.

She stared at him, and for a moment he swore that something behind her eyes was looking right through him. The room began to feel warmer, uncomfortably so. Tyler’s skin tightened, and a shiver ran through him. A memory tried to surface, but slipped away before it came into clarity.

I think it is a test, Mr. Simons. Fin said softly. Let’s try not to lie to each other. Would that be agreeable?

Tyler found himself nodding in agreement without any hesitation.

Alright, then, Finola. Let’s be honest. I need to know how you are feeling, what you think of your crime, what your future plans might be.

For the first time, Fin smiled sincerely.

She leaned in. I feel medicated, heavily. I don’t have nightmares because I don’t believe I dream. This entire conversation is a huge effort, because I already want to take a nap. I absolutely hate arts and crafts, and I can’t get any sense of the women here with me. It feels like we are all wandering through the day, buffered by the fog of drugs. I don’t remember killing Richard. I don’t remember a bit of it. But I believe you when you show me the evidence. I believe that no one else could have done it. She paused for a long moment. And I’m afraid.

The monologue ended there.

What makes you feel that way? Tyler asked.

I killed someone. I killed my husband! I didn’t know I had that inside of me. I can’t connect to it. There’s nothing! Helplessly, Fin lifted her hands.

Tyler steepled his hands and stared before speaking in measured tones.

There are two main ways to look at this. The first way is obvious, to simply take you at your word. It’s what the judge and jury did. I didn’t. The second way is to assume that you have missed your calling as an actress. I’m beginning to have my doubts. You tell a convincing story, and this is a very long con if that’s what you’re trying to do.

Fin hardly dared to breathe.

The court feels, along with your doctors, that it is time to release you. I don’t necessarily agree. It’s not my call, though. What happens next is that you will be sent home under close supervision. You will have daily check-ins, and your doctors here are arranging for a continuation of your therapy and medications. What do you plan to do?

Fin’s gaze had drifted outside the room, to a place Tyler couldn’t see.

I want my house, my gardens. I want time to…collect myself, I suppose. I want time to try to remember, to understand. What I’ve done? It makes me a monster. No amount of medication or therapy can take that away.

Chapter 2

The car was turning into the drive when Fin leaned forward.

Stop a minute, please.

The driver slowed to a stop and waited for his strange and silent passenger to give him the go-ahead.

Fin stared at the house. She dropped her blocks, just a moment, and felt it waiting. She didn’t dare to analyze, but if she had to hazard a guess she felt happy. Not skyrocketing happiness, but that quiet warm glow inside.

It was a stately old house, facing North at that odd crook of the central coast of California, where North affords a view of the ocean. It was painted a soft cream color, with dark brown trim and shutters. It seemed Victorian to Fin, every time she looked at it. But the gardens were a fantasy. She could see her low stone walls, the walls she had labored to help place, with moss tucked between. It was too early in the year for flowers to be blooming yet, but Fin could see that the land had been well-tended while she had been away.

She nodded to the driver. Thank you.

The car resumed its journey to the house. Fin saw the waiting staff – medical and otherwise – gathered on the front porch. She only had a minute to compose herself before her car door was opening and she was alighting.

Welcome home! Fin’s housekeeper, Connie, was the first to speak. She stepped forward and