A Guilty Mind by K.L. Murphy

change his life, give it meaning and correct past mistakes. His wife had not agreed.
    â€œIt’s all well and good for you,” she’d said one evening, arranging flowers, “to pour your heart out to some stranger, but please don’t publicize it. Lord knows what our friends would think, and then there would be the children. They’d be devastated.”
    Arguing was pointless. “But Mary Helen, it helps me. Getting it out, being able tell someone. It’s the best I’ve felt in years.”
    Mary Helen dropped the flowers in her hands. Her eyes narrowed. “Confession may be good for the soul,” she’d said through clenched teeth, “but it is not good for this family. Do you understand me?”
    After that, his sessions with Dr. Michael changed. Hope fell by the wayside, replaced by a growing fury. Dr. Michael may have sensed Mary Helen’s influence but he couldn’t understand the extent of her ability to control George, to crush his spirit when the need arose. George despised this weakness in himself, but most of the time he simply accepted his miserable life as his penance, his punishment for the things he’d done.
    He sat in the car and gazed at the large, traditional brick house in front of him, his house. The lush lawn, landscaped with bright flowers and evergreens, rolled past the drive. Giant pots filled with pink and purple blooms flanked the wide steps. The sun and color blinded him and he blinked. The front door opened. Mary Helen stepped out, ageless, as pretty as she’d been in college. Her blond hair, cut in a perfect bob, framed her delicate features and lithe figure. She skipped down the steps, her red lips turned down in a frown.
    â€œGeorge, what in God’s name are you doing sitting here in the driveway? I heard you pull in ten minutes ago.”
    He stared at his hands on the steering wheel. “Sorry. I’m just tired from the drive, I guess.” Pulling up the door handle, he got out and stood over her.
    â€œC’mon, George, you’ve kept Larry waiting long enough.”
    He stopped. “Why is Larry here?”
    â€œBecause I called him,” she said. “After we spoke and you told me about that doctor of yours, I thought maybe we should speak to someone, you know, be prepared.”
    His square jaw dropped. “Prepared for what?”
    â€œI’m sure I don’t know for what,” she said, waving a polished hand in the air. “When it comes to you, George, I think it’s best we consider all the possibilities.” His mouth closed into a thin line, the drumming at his skull gathering strength. “After all, George, cleaning up your messes has always seemed to fall on my shoulders.”
    â€œMary Helen, that isn’t necessary.”
    â€œNot necessary?” His wife’s words cut through the sweet spring air. “Which part? Not to remind you of your mistakes? Not to fix things so our lives and our children’s lives aren’t ruined? Or not to figure out what kind of a mess you’ve gotten us into this time?”
    â€œI didn’t do anything, Mary Helen.”
    Cerulean eyes raked over him and he flinched under her penetrating gaze. With only a trace of contempt in her tone, she said, “I think we should talk to Larry now.”

 
    Chapter Eight
    C ANCINI SHIVERED. M ORGUES with their stainless steel and white interiors gave him the creeps. Memories from long ago, distant but still so vivid, came bubbling up, leaving him with a dry mouth and stinging eyes. He blinked, but not before the image of his young mother, ashen and lifeless, flashed before him. Swallowing, he cleared his throat, eager to get on with it and get the hell out of the only place that succeeded in making him feel like a lost twelve-­year-­old boy. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and took deep breaths, the medicinal air nearly choking him.
    The coroner read from a