Title: Criminal by Proxy
Author: S.E. Smyth
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 10/25/2022
Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex
Pairing: Female/Female
Length: 75700
Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, Coming out, college, criminals, dark, doctors, enemies/rivals to lovers, established couple, friends to lovers, gender-bending, hurt/comfort, illness/disease, in the closet, law enforcement, lawyers, medical personnel, mental illness, over 40, prison, private detective, reunited, revenge, road trip, security guards, soulmates, tear-jerker, therapist, UST
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Description
Christine is on the hunt to find out more about her great aunt, Rose, hoping to decipher their severed relationship and the murder Rose committed, for which June is in prison. With a stroke leaving Rose incapacitated, it’s a rush against time to find the truth.
Things are doubly complicated when Christine’s girlfriend Terrie is accused of assaulting someone. Nervous about what she might do next, Christine and her friends avoid Terrie. With everything at stake, Christine must stick to the cold hard facts, reminding herself not to let her emotions get in the way.
Christine must evaluate everything happening in her life. The weight of the events buried by her aunt so many years before and the shame of the actions of the love of her life rest squarely on her. If the eyes of the law are always 20/20, how do love, emotion, and insecurities distort fact?
Criminal by Proxy
SE Smyth © 2022
All Rights Reserved
The single shot clapped, and June rushed over and stood motionless at the door. She didn’t dare turn the knob as all the scenarios flooded in, and blood rushed to her head. Rose caused the ruckus; without a doubt, the shooter was her. June realized this as she thought back to the moment Rose left the room. The glint in Rose’s eyes as she left, her smirk, in the shared room June was standing in, was embossed onto the plaster walls. June’s eyes strained, watching a ghost, focusing on the details, making sure it was true. The outline of the gun in her hand, which she held tightly, awkwardly in her loose pocket as she left, barely concealed, pulsed. The item didn’t draw her attention at the time because if it did June would’ve screamed or thrown herself in front of the door. But as she remembered what happened—Rose saying, “Be right back,” and turning to leave, with the outline of the bulge—she gasped. The thing in her pocket could’ve been a surprise for their weekend drive or a present for one of an uncountable number of anniversaries. No, it was a gun.
The pause at the door, hand on the doorknob, was thirty seconds, forty seconds at best. Darting into the hallway, June banged on the doors. A man in his bathrobe entered the hallway and gawked at June, ranting she belonged up the road in an insane asylum.
“What the hell are you doing?” the man shouted out. “I’m calling the cops. What the hell is happening?” He turned and looked back at his wife inside the apartment.
June swayed as if drunk. She stumbled and, in a garbled voice, muttered, “No.” Her lips trembled, barely coherent, not fully awake, spitting nonsensical utterings.
“Did you shoot someone?” He darted at June. “What’s your name?”
“Yes,” she said. The words were all that was articulated as she continued wavering down the hallway to impending doom.
June meandered farther through the corridor and stopped at the stairwell door. Going down would mean she’d find out what happened. Rose’s inconceivable act was irreparable. The truth would surface. She stopped still and rested her head on the door. She filled with grief but decided to descend.
When she got to the apartment, June waited at the entrance for her body to calm down. The scene only triggered more emotion. As soon as she saw Rose, her eyes filled with tears, and she could not control her shaking body.
Rose opened the door before June could enter. She came to meet June but only bowed her head and relaxed onto the floor speechless. Her spine rested against the doorjamb of Dr. O’Malley’s apartment, and she sat there a mess of unsettled emotions and collapsed frustrations. Her eyes rose up, and then she stood.
June hugged June. “Oh, my god. What have you done?” The blood transferred onto June’s body. “You didn’t really? How could you? It’s impossible.” She rocked with gentle sways even though Rose’s body resisted.
“He reached for the gun. I brought it with me to scare him.” She wiped tears from June’s face. “I went to talk to him to scare him. But he got the gun. He pointed the gun at me, but he got shot. He pointed it at me, but he’s dead.” Her sobs heaved.
June drew back her head with realization and understanding. “How could you?”
Rose’s sobs didn’t faze June. The evening, the murderous event, ruined everything for the rest of their lives.
“You’re so stupid. Why did you do it?”
“I told you. He almost shot me.” Rose stopped crying. “He deserved it.”
“Our life is ruined—in one fell swoop. You don’t even know.” Standing over Rose, June slowly relayed the impact to their lives. Her anger and accusations bellowed. These words came in heat, tension, confusion, misunderstanding, and panic. Rose’s bullet had left someone dead. Neither of them thought about running. June distanced herself more and more from Rose, stepping away in even steps.
“Why? How could you?” June asked.
In the heat of the moment, Rose spat, “I did it for you.” Her bitterness bubbled to the surface.
It was something June had never wanted, never conceived. June understood it for what it was, a lie breaking the silence in a moment of passion. Her feeling and meaning came out as a distorted utterance. The words injured. June was the only witness. Their lives separated forever.
“How could you be so stupid? How could you do this?” June’s choppy words were deafening.
Rose winced and jerked her head, sneering at her.
The police arrived, and there were four people in the hallway. “Hands up,” an officer in a crisply ironed uniform shouted.
June and Rose both raised their arms.
No one else had emerged from their apartments. Rose and June scanned the cleared area. The officer on the scene pushed June away from Rose, shuttered their voices.
June was first. She was the most subdued, an easy arrest. June even turned as one of them moved toward her. She didn’t want a struggle. What they did to lesbians in lockup was horrible. They taught them a lesson. But this, murder, was on different terms. And, even though June wasn’t the murderer, she turned for the officer. Fear drove her to it.
“What happened here?” He scolded them and sized up June for restraint before slapping cuffs on her. He waited for her to run. He didn’t wait for an explanation.
June and Rose were innocent, or they were part of an accident. They were two women, weak, standing still, confused, until Rose spoke.
“I don’t know. One thing after another happened. She told me to do it, officer. She told me to. I had to,” Rose said, covered in blood, crying. She moved her head from side to side as she struggled with slight jerks but didn’t look in June’s direction.
They cuffed Rose second. Rose cursed at the air, at June, as they put handcuffs on her. The cold countenance of a killer crossed her face and stayed there. June watched Rose move with an officer down the hallway. She didn’t turn around or catch one last glance as they separated. Rose wanted nothing more of her. The distance grew by miles as she left out the door.
In the parking lot, Rose was shoved into a car. How could Rose say the murder was her fault? How could she not be responsible for what she had done? Trapped in the same chain of events as Rose, June bobbed her head and rocked, ashamed and nervous. In a minute, she’d be ducked into a car, too, no matter how many times she turned and stuttered out she hadn’t done anything. She wasn’t even in the room. They hadn’t even asked. Despite her anger at Rose’s words, Rose’s implication of her, she pitied Rose. More than anything, June wanted her to be okay when she got downtown.
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S.E. Smyth is a versatile author putting words into the world. The stories she tells are never exactly how they happened. Elusive as she proclaims she is, you can usually find her nose buried in primary sources plotting a story. Despite persisting historical references, she wholeheartedly believes she lives in the present.
She resides in a smaller sort of town in Pennsylvania, carries heavy things for her wife, rubs cat bellies, and can often be seen taking brisk walks. The household is certain there is something odd going on. She and her wife travel when the air is right looking for antique stores, bike trails, and the perfect beach. S.E. rises unnecessarily early and usually falls asleep by 9 p.m.
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