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?