Death by Trial and Error (A Legal Suspense Short) Read online

  DEATH BY TRIAL AND ERROR

  A Legal Suspense Short

  By R. Barri Flowers

  Death by Trial and Error is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEATH BY TRIAL AND ERROR

  A Legal Suspense Short

  Copyright 2016 by R. Barri Flowers

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Image Copyright Racorn, 2016

  Used under license from Shutterstock.com

  CRIME AND THRILLER NOVELS BY R. BARRI FLOWERS

  Before He Kills Again

  Dark Streets of Whitechapel

  Dead in Kihei

  Dead in Pukalani

  Dead in the Rose City

  Fractured Trust

  Justice Served

  Killer Connection

  Killer Evidence Legal Thriller 4-Book Bundle

  Killer in The Woods

  Murder in Honolulu

  Murder in Hawaii Mysteries

  Murder in Maui

  Murder of the Hula Dancers

  Murdered in the Man Cave

  Murder on Kaanapali Beach

  Persuasive Evidence

  Private Eye Bestselling Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

  Seduced To Kill in Kauai

  Serial Killer Thrillers 5-Book Bundle

  State's Evidence

  * * *

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Death by Trial and Error

  State's Evidence – Bonus Excerpt

  Justice Served – Bonus Excerpt

  Dead in Pukalani – Bonus Excerpt

  About the Author

  DEATH BY TRIAL AND ERROR

  She wanted to kill the bloody bastard.

  But how?

  Should she run him down with her car?

  She could imagine him begging for his life as he lay wounded in the street, bones broken from head to toe. She would make him suffer before once more rolling the car over the damaged goods.

  And again, and again, until the life had been snuffed out of him.

  Perhaps she should lace his chicken noodle soup with cyanide.

  She would get a great thrill out of seeing him clutch his burning throat in a desperate attempt to relieve his agony. Or roll his eyes from a combination of the poison taking effect and the sheer disbelief of it all.

  She would dance with delight watching him squirm on the floor as if he had been possessed by the devil himself.

  And in that final moment of distress between life and death, she would laugh at him spitefully, the way he surely had been laughing at her for the last six months. Or however long it had been since he'd decided sharing another woman's bed gave him more pleasure and passion than sharing hers.

  It was exactly one week ago that Harrison had told her about his affair. His intonation, usually deep with assurance and rich with confidence, had come across as flat and unrepentant. She felt as if she had been lowered into molten lava. Or told that she had a malignant brain tumor. The pain could not have been any worse.

  "What—?" The word had shot from her mouth like a cannon. She was certain she had misunderstood him. Or even if she had understood him correctly, he surely couldn't have meant that which she feared most.

  Maybe he was only playing with her, looking for some sort of reaction. He often liked teasing her, telling her things that would incense her, only to laugh playfully like a schoolboy who had pulled up a schoolgirl's dress merely for the sake of fun and frolic.

  She hated that part of Harrison, the power he had over her to bring her to the brink of tears, to make her feel her whole world was about to collapse; then just as easily make her believe she had the whole world and all its blessings in the palm of her hand.

  With him being her most cherished blessing.

  Yes, he brought out the best and worst in her, often with merely a gesture, a smile, a frown, a comment, or some other manner of communication that could only exist between a husband and wife.

  She looked at him standing in the doorway of the bedroom. For an instant, it was as if she had traveled back in time some two decades earlier when she first met Harrison Kincaid and fell in love with him the moment he flashed his megawatt smile at her. He was tall and solidly built, as if to her specifications. Dark, wavy hair was swept to the side and his eyes were a deep shade of blue. They were the kind of eyes that penetrated to the depths of your soul when he looked at you. She thought he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

  And he still was.

  It had been a childless marriage, borne as much from genetic mismatches as the decision to forgo having children in favor of their careers and each other.

  He had gotten up, careful not to wake her, and dressed as if it was just another day in the life of Harrison Kincaid: author, lecturer, philanthropist, and asshole. She wondered how long he had stood there watching her, probably replaying his revelation over and over in his mind, trying to think of how best to let her down easily. For all Harrison's faults, he had always tried to cushion the blow when he had something bad to tell her, as if he could somehow come across as an angel of mercy rather than the devil in disguise.

  Sitting up in bed, Emma suddenly felt more vulnerable than she ever had in her life. She saw herself as a forty-five-year-old hag with breasts that had begun to sag, hips that had expanded every year, and thighs that were beginning to resemble something akin to cauliflower. Her hair, once a lustrous shade of crimson, had become thin, flat, and seemed determined to remain a convoluted gray no matter how many different dyes she applied to it. Crow's feet had taken up permanent residence at the corners of her rich green eyes. Her taut porcelain skin was now dull and wrinkled.

  She wondered if he saw her the same way. Had she grown too old and unattractive? Was she no longer enough for him now that he had begun to sense his own mortality at the age of forty-eight?

  Had he really betrayed her in the worst way that a husband could ever betray a wife?

  He seemed to be reading her mind as he stared at her without blinking. He remained wedged inside the doorway, as if to come closer would only make what he had to say that much more difficult. His lips were opened slightly as if trying to say words that wouldn't come out. She noticed the deep furrow on his brow and couldn't help but think that he suddenly looked every bit his age and some.

  Finally, he stepped into the room and up to the foot of the bed. He turned away, as if he could not stand the sight of her, before meeting her gaze head on.

  "I said I'm involved with another woman—"

  This time there was no mistaking his meaning. He was having a sexual relationship with someone else. He had forsaken their marriage vows to be with someone who was probably younger, sexier, able to bear his children, and brainless.

  Even then, painful as it was, she wanted to make him tell her in clear English what he meant.

  And tell her who this woman was.

  She was wearing a nightgown—a blue silk gown he had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary this very year. But she felt naked, as if she had just been violated, and pulled the covers up over her chest.

  "I'm not a mind reader, Harrison," she said as nonchalantly as possible. "What the hell are you talking about? You mean you're involved with a woman on yet another committee for dealing with substance abuse or illiteracy?" Aside from his writing, Harrison had practically made a career out of taking on various causes for making the world a better, kinder place to live.

  Now she wondered if he had
been thinking more about his world.

  His eyes hardened and his lower lip quivered. "For heaven's sake, Emma, don't make this any more difficult than it already is."

  She felt the bile rise in her throat. Glaring at him, she said, "If you expect me to make this easy for you, you're sorely mistaken." She could feel her heart slamming against her chest like a hammer. Did she really want to hear what he had to say? Might this all somehow turn out to be a bad dream—someone else's bad dream—if she refused to listen to any more of this?

  But Emma knew she must listen. She wanted to—had to—hear all the gory details of his betrayal. It was the only way she could possibly come to terms with it.

  And deal with him.

  * * *

  Maybe it would be better if she shot him between the eyes.

  She had become an expert markswoman thanks to him and his fascination with guns. She would make sure that the last thing he ever saw with those smug, deceiving eyes was the hatred he had created in her before she pulled the trigger.

  Then, for good measure, she would shoot him down there between his legs where he had taken what was hers and given it to someone else.

  Someone who had no right to him.

  Someone who hadn't been through the ordeals, stresses, and strains he had put her through.

  Someone who hadn't bankrolled his aspirations for years till they finally began to pay off.

  Someone who hadn't invested years in a marriage that was supposed to be till death do them part.

  She found him in the study that morning, having said that he would wait for her there while she got dressed. She had not argued, having no desire to hear about his infidelity in the bedroom of all places.

  Their bedroom.

  Had she slept with him in there?

  Had they made love in their bed?

  Over and under their sheets and blankets?

  Harrison had taken the liberty of fixing them both a drink. Emma suspected that this was probably his third or fourth this morning. He wasn't a heavy drinker by and large. But that didn't stop him from indulging whenever it suited his fancy, usually to calm his nerves.

  Or guilt.

  She took the glass he gave her, but didn't drink from it.

  "I never planned for this to happen," Harrison uttered pathetically. "It just did—"

  Nothing ever just happens, Emma thought, seething. It takes two selfish people to make it happen.

  She flashed hateful eyes at one of them. "How long?" she heard herself say, as if this would somehow make a difference in the way she felt.

  Had it been going on for years without her ever suspecting?

  Or had he decided practically overnight that having another lover was just what the doctor ordered to satisfy him?

  Harrison put the glass to his lips thoughtfully. "Is that really important?"

  "How long?" Her voice rose threateningly. She needed to know how long he had played her for a fool.

  How long he had abused her love and devotion to him.

  How long he had taken everything she had ever wanted in life and destroyed it in an instant.

  "Six months," he said matter-of-factly.

  Half a year.

  One hundred and eighty days.

  One hundred and eighty nights.

  When he wasn't with her, he was with her.

  When they made love, which wasn't very often in the past six months, had he really been making love to her?

  And what about when they weren't making love? Had he been sleeping with her when he claimed to be at his office or at the cabin writing?

  Or when he was supposed to be on a book tour?

  Or hunting?

  Had she been the first? Or was she just the latest?

  Emma felt sick to her stomach. She bent over in pain, as if she had been on the receiving end of a punch to the midsection. Harrison, feigning concern, put his hands on her.

  "Are you all right?" His voice was coated with sincerity. Or perhaps pity.

  She would accept neither. Whatever he was offering came too late.

  She willed herself to put aside the nauseous feeling, straightening up, and slapping his hands away as if they were hot coals.

  "Don't touch me, you bastard!"

  He looked as if it was he who had been crushed, betrayed, and humiliated. "I know how you must feel—"

  Her eyes became razor slits. "You can't possibly know how I feel! How could you? I've given my life to you. I've been faithful to you. I've allowed you to lead a life often separate of our life. All I ever asked in return was that you remain loyal to me, in and out of bed. But you took advantage of my love and naivety and I hate you for it."

  Did she really hate him?

  Could she ever truly hate the only man she had ever loved no matter what he did?

  But how could she ever love him again, in spite of her feelings?

  Her mouth felt dry, as if she had been in the desert for a month. She lifted her glass of wine and took a sip, if only to wet her throat.

  Though she wanted only to drown herself in sorrow, there were still other questions, other answers that she needed to concern herself with. Because she'd had no experience with a cheating husband, she had not been prepared to face all the implications that came with the territory.

  Why had he told her of his affair? To absolve his guilty conscience?

  To cruelly hurt her in the worst way possible?

  Or was he was planning to leave her for this other woman?

  The mere notion sent a shiver up and down Emma's spine. Somehow in her shock she had not considered that it was he who might want to dump her rather than the other way around.

  Was he even worth fighting for? Or should she be grateful that he had revealed his secret life, thereby making him worthless to her?

  Maybe he was telling her this because the affair was now over and he wanted her forgiveness.

  Could their lives ever possibly be the same again?

  Or had his admission made trust impossible from this day forward, no matter what else happened?

  "Who is she?" Emma asked him pointblank, as if she needed to know in order to put a face and body to this nightmare where there seemed no escape.

  Was it Doris Applegate, his editor that he had been spending an increasing amount of time with over the last year? She was an attractive bottle blonde, a few years younger than Emma, and couldn't seem to find enough reasons not to see Harrison.

  Or perhaps it was Lena Richardson, the thirty-something vivacious organizer of the nonprofit group offering assistance to runaway children? Against Emma's wishes, Harrison had insisted on volunteering his services in raising money and counseling youth on the pitfalls of running away, though he himself had come from a functional family and never saw fit to run away. For this Lena Richardson was eternally grateful.

  Then there was Samantha Winningham, their newly widowed next-door neighbor. She was barely forty, lonely, rich, and made no secret of her attraction to Harrison. He, of course, scoffed at the notion, insisting that she meant nothing to him. But that didn't stop him from feeling obliged to assist her with household maintenance now that she was left without a husband to do it. Or apparently the will to hire professional help.

  Harrison hastily poured himself another drink. "It's not anyone you know," he said, as if she should somehow applaud him for this consideration. "We met at a book signing earlier this year and we hit it off right away. Like we were—"

  He checked himself, as if the weight of his words was too haunting for even him to say.

  "Meant for each other," Emma finished for him.

  He drank more wine and sighed. "She's young...in her early twenties. She's actually read everything I've ever written. Even those pieces that appeared in obscure magazines—"

  He was obviously flattered by the ego-tripping worship from his young tart, Emma thought disgustedly. She too had once fed his ego till it had become more accommodating than honest.

  Harrison's eyes alighted a
s if he was floating on a cloud of energy. "She makes me feel young, alive...needed—"

  But she needed him, Emma thought. She had always needed him. Why couldn't he see and respect that?

  When had he stopped needing her?

  "Do you love her?" The words played back in Emma's mind like a broken record. Waiting to hear the answer was like being strapped to the electric chair and waiting to see if there would be a last second reprieve or a violent, painful death by electrocution.

  Did she want to hear his reply?

  Could she stand it if he actually loved this girl toy that had made him forsake his marriage vows?

  The thought of not being loved was the worst thing Emma could think of, with the possible exception of loving a bastard who had ripped her heart to shreds.

  * * *

  She should hack him up into little pieces and send his remains to his starry-eyed little whore.

  Along with the burned pages of his damn manuscripts.

  Or perhaps it would be more appropriate and painful if it was he who burned to death. Emma was surprised by the wickedness of her thoughts. She could imagine pouring gasoline or cooking oil over him and his mistress while they were asleep after making love. She would wake them so they could see the revulsion in her eyes, just before she dropped the match.

  Their inflamed bodies would light up like a torch. Deathly screams would roar from their mouths while the flesh melted on their limbs. Soon they would be reduced to nothing more than charred bones and ashes.

  All the while Emma would watch this horror unfold and curse Harrison for turning her into an unforgiving beast who no longer cared about life, living, and compassion.

  "I hope we can still be friends," Harrison told her.

  He was putting clothes in a bag atop the bed two days after telling Emma that he was in love with another woman. She had slapped him, but felt as if it was she who had been hit harder than she could ever have imagined. She had told him to get out, hoping that he might somehow come to his senses, tell her it was all a mistake, and beg her forgiveness.