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Authors: J. A. Jance
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that were essentially notes of condolence to her. One in particular stood out.
Dear Babe,
I understood exactly what you meant when you said you didn’t know what to feel and that you couldn’t cry. My divorce had been final for only two weeks when my husband committed suicide. He always said he would but I didn’t believe him. I needed him out of my life. He was into meth and gambling both, and watching him destroy himself was killing me. But I didn’t mean for him to die. For a long time I thought his death was my fault. It took three years of therapy for me to come to terms with what happened.
So please accept my condolences. I’m sure you loved Fang once. According to my therapist, I had to grieve not only for the man who was gone but also for the man who never was—and for the dream I once had about how our life together would be. Grieving for the dream is as hard as grieving for the person. Don’t be afraid to seek help if you think you need it. But it’s hard work. Harder than anything I’ve ever done.
I’ve been a cutloose fan for a long time. Through the months I know you’ve focused a lot of your anger on Twink even more so than on Fang. I understand that, as far as you’re concerned, Twink is “the other woman,” but I also suspect that she’s much younger than you are and not nearly as smart. She isn’t going to have the emotional resources you have to deal with this tragedy. Try to remember that her dreams are in ashes today, too, right along with yours.
Since your divorce from Fang wasn’t final when his death occurred, I expect that you and Twink will find your lives intertwined in unexpected ways. I hope you can find it in your heart to be kind to her and to her innocent baby as well.
Remember, God will see to it that you reap what you sow.
P HYLLIS IN K NOXVILLE
Ali was in tears by the time she finished reading Phyllis’s note. There was so much hard-won wisdom in the words and so much caring that it took Ali’s breath away. She posted the note in the comments section and then sent Phyllis a personal response.
Dear Phyllis,
Thank you for writing. Thank you for your kindness—for knowing what I was feeling and giving me comfort; for giving me much needed guidance when I was in danger of losing my way.
B ABE
Several of the other notes were in the same vein. Ali responded to them all, but the one from Phyllis was the only one she posted. That was the one that said it all and said it best. When her cell phone rang a little later, she expected the caller to be one of her parents or maybe even Chris. She didn’t expect to hear the voice of Dave Holman—Yavapai County homicide detective Dave Holman.
“I just talked to your mom,” Dave said grimly. “Is it true? Do the cops out in L.A. think you’re involved in Paul’s murder?”
In the years before Sedona had built its own high school, kids from Sedona had been bused to Mingus Mountain High School in Cottonwood. Dave Holman had been a tall skinny kid a year ahead of Ali in school. After graduation, he had joined the Marines. He went to college later, studying criminal justice. He was both a detective in the sheriff’s department and a captain in the Marine Reserves who had served two tours of duty in Iraq. He was also a much valued breakfast regular at Bob and Edie Larson’s Sugar Loaf Café.
Ali felt an initial stab of resentment that her parents had spilled the beans about what was going on in her life. Then she remembered her blog. Maybe Dave read cutlooseblog.com the same way Ali’s mother did. Maybe that was where he was getting his information—everything but her phone number, that is.
Why was it I wanted to have a blog? Ali asked herself.
“They didn’t come right out and say so,” Ali replied. “Not in so many words.”
“What words?” Dave asked. “Tell me exactly what was said.”
“They took my statement,” Ali said.
“With your attorney present, this Angel guy?”
Obviously Edie had given Dave a
Dear Babe,
I understood exactly what you meant when you said you didn’t know what to feel and that you couldn’t cry. My divorce had been final for only two weeks when my husband committed suicide. He always said he would but I didn’t believe him. I needed him out of my life. He was into meth and gambling both, and watching him destroy himself was killing me. But I didn’t mean for him to die. For a long time I thought his death was my fault. It took three years of therapy for me to come to terms with what happened.
So please accept my condolences. I’m sure you loved Fang once. According to my therapist, I had to grieve not only for the man who was gone but also for the man who never was—and for the dream I once had about how our life together would be. Grieving for the dream is as hard as grieving for the person. Don’t be afraid to seek help if you think you need it. But it’s hard work. Harder than anything I’ve ever done.
I’ve been a cutloose fan for a long time. Through the months I know you’ve focused a lot of your anger on Twink even more so than on Fang. I understand that, as far as you’re concerned, Twink is “the other woman,” but I also suspect that she’s much younger than you are and not nearly as smart. She isn’t going to have the emotional resources you have to deal with this tragedy. Try to remember that her dreams are in ashes today, too, right along with yours.
Since your divorce from Fang wasn’t final when his death occurred, I expect that you and Twink will find your lives intertwined in unexpected ways. I hope you can find it in your heart to be kind to her and to her innocent baby as well.
Remember, God will see to it that you reap what you sow.
P HYLLIS IN K NOXVILLE
Ali was in tears by the time she finished reading Phyllis’s note. There was so much hard-won wisdom in the words and so much caring that it took Ali’s breath away. She posted the note in the comments section and then sent Phyllis a personal response.
Dear Phyllis,
Thank you for writing. Thank you for your kindness—for knowing what I was feeling and giving me comfort; for giving me much needed guidance when I was in danger of losing my way.
B ABE
Several of the other notes were in the same vein. Ali responded to them all, but the one from Phyllis was the only one she posted. That was the one that said it all and said it best. When her cell phone rang a little later, she expected the caller to be one of her parents or maybe even Chris. She didn’t expect to hear the voice of Dave Holman—Yavapai County homicide detective Dave Holman.
“I just talked to your mom,” Dave said grimly. “Is it true? Do the cops out in L.A. think you’re involved in Paul’s murder?”
In the years before Sedona had built its own high school, kids from Sedona had been bused to Mingus Mountain High School in Cottonwood. Dave Holman had been a tall skinny kid a year ahead of Ali in school. After graduation, he had joined the Marines. He went to college later, studying criminal justice. He was both a detective in the sheriff’s department and a captain in the Marine Reserves who had served two tours of duty in Iraq. He was also a much valued breakfast regular at Bob and Edie Larson’s Sugar Loaf Café.
Ali felt an initial stab of resentment that her parents had spilled the beans about what was going on in her life. Then she remembered her blog. Maybe Dave read cutlooseblog.com the same way Ali’s mother did. Maybe that was where he was getting his information—everything but her phone number, that is.
Why was it I wanted to have a blog? Ali asked herself.
“They didn’t come right out and say so,” Ali replied. “Not in so many words.”
“What words?” Dave asked. “Tell me exactly what was said.”
“They took my statement,” Ali said.
“With your attorney present, this Angel guy?”
Obviously Edie had given Dave a
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