When the Truth is Done

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by Aleelah Dixon & Emily Madison

In the quiet town of Little Bluff, Ruby Fisher wakes up in a hospital bed with fragmented memories and a growing sense of dread. After a car accident on a deserted road leaves her injured and disoriented, Ruby finds herself at the center of a murder investigation she doesn’t understand. As she drifts in and out of consciousness, two homicide detectives—the compassionate Francine Temple and her more skeptical partner Scott O’Reilly—begin questioning her about events she claims not to remember.

Ruby’s situation becomes more complicated with the arrival of Diane Emerat, who introduces herself as Ruby’s best friend and emergency contact. Diane, who claims to be a medicolegal death investigator, quickly inserts herself into the investigation, alternating between fiercely protective of Ruby and oddly controlling. Their relationship seems charged with unspoken tension that neither woman fully acknowledges to the detectives.

As Ruby’s memories gradually resurface—or perhaps are constructed—she admits to knowing Clive Benning, a coworker from Peachtree Fabrication who was found stabbed to death in his home. Ruby initially denies any connection to Clive but eventually confesses they had been seeing each other. She claims they met at The Grab Bar the night of his death, where Clive became paranoid about someone watching them. After sharing a kiss, Clive abruptly left, and Ruby followed shortly after.

During her drive home, Ruby insists she was run off the road by a mysterious blue car and lost consciousness after hitting a telephone pole. She describes a strange encounter with what she first calls an “angel” but later describes as a bearded man who broke her window and disappeared without helping her. When the detectives mention a hunting knife found in Ruby’s car with what appears to be blood on it, her confusion seems genuine.

The dynamics between Ruby and Diane grow increasingly strained as the investigation continues. When Ruby reveals they were actually in a romantic relationship for three years before Diane left her for her secretary, the tension escalates. Ruby suggests her loneliness after the breakup led her to seek comfort with Clive, while Diane’s obvious jealousy raises questions about her potential involvement.

The hospital becomes a psychological battleground as the detectives piece together contradictory evidence. The blood in Ruby’s car doesn’t match her minor injuries. The damage to her vehicle appears older than she claims. A witness near Clive’s home reports seeing someone matching neither Ruby nor Diane’s exact description leaving the crime scene. When Ruby experiences a mysterious poisoning incident, suspicions shift dramatically.

As Detectives Temple and O’Reilly dig deeper, they uncover disturbing inconsistencies in both women’s stories. Ruby’s car was ticketed near Clive’s home at a time she claims to have been elsewhere. Diane’s blue Amery Falcon matches paint traces found on Ruby’s vehicle. Long blonde hairs at the murder scene could belong to Diane, but were also found in Ruby’s purse.

The investigation reveals a history between the two women far more complex than either initially admitted. Ruby’s mother describes their relationship as unhealthy and all-consuming since they were children, suggesting they created an elaborate fantasy world together. Meanwhile, Diane’s elderly mother Eunice is strangely absent, with mail still arriving at their shared home but no sign of the woman herself.

As evidence mounts and theories multiply, the detectives face a disturbing possibility: could Ruby and Diane be working together, each playing a carefully choreographed role in this deadly drama? Or is one framing the other in an elaborate scheme of revenge? Perhaps most disturbing of all—what if one of them is manipulating the investigation itself, crafting a narrative designed to implicate the other while concealing their own guilt?

With each revelation, the truth seems both closer and more elusive. The detectives must untangle a web of deception, jealousy, and possible delusion to determine who really killed Clive Benning—and whether his murder might be connected to other secrets buried in the twisted relationship between Ruby and Diane.

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When the Truth is Done – Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

The room is white and sterile, the harsh fluorescent lights casting a clinical glow on the walls and ceiling. The bed is small and uncomfortable, sheets taut and scratchy against my skin. The machines beep and whirr, their screens displaying flashing numbers and lines.

I think I am somewhere between awake and dead. Usually there is “asleep” somewhere in there. But when you’re in a hospital, and I think I am, there is only awake and dead. I think I…

Sorry about that. I think I wasn’t alive, whatever that is. I have an idea it is morning. The voices around me sound chipper and full of energy. That’s a morning thing. If the voices were higher and exhausted, I would think it was evening or night.

The faint yet distinct smell of disinfectant and sickness lingers in the air. The sheets and pillows carry a faint hint of bleach, and the overpowering scent of liniment fills my nostrils.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been here. Only a few hours, I hope. It had been dark. Now it was light. So maybe more than a few hours. I can’t…

I keep falling asleep. Or dying. Not dying. I think the doctors would be much more concerned if I repeatedly died. I must be sleeping.

My mouth is dry and chalky, the taste of medicine and sickness lingering on my tongue.

For a minute or two, I can make out words, so I am now sure I am in a hospital. The words, spoken by different voices, were “organ, spinal, glass, dislocation, ligament, contusion.” There were more words, but I stop listening.

I am not sure exactly what happened, but it sounds bad.

I am taken for tests and scans, which the doctors perform on me diligently. The machines beep and thrum as they analyze my body. They take pictures of my insides and measure the myriad of wounds I apparently sustained. As they work, they talk in hushed tones with each other, comparing notes and taking guesses at what needs to be done in order to help me. I keep my eyes closed. It’s better that way.

The doctors come up with a plan of action that involves inserting screws into my bones to keep them together and wiring up my organs to get some kind of stability within my body. They also stitch up any open wounds or abrasions I may have suffered from the fall I took before coming here. The whole process takes hours, but eventually it is all done and I am wheeled back into the room where I had woken up earlier that morning – or perhaps it was yesterday – when everything was still dark outside.

Maybe I made that up, because it’s still light out. I don’t remember falling. What kinds of drugs are these people giving me?

“Ruby? Ruby Fisher? Can you hear me?”

They are blurry shapes above me, white coats with blurry faces. Fluorescent lights illuminate the room, making everything seem harsh and cold.

I could hear them, but it seemed like I couldn’t answer. I must have grunted.

The metallic taste of blood coats my tongue, a reminder of the wounds I couldn’t see. It makes my stomach churn, but I can’t do anything about it.

“She needs some smelling salts.”

“We don’t use those anymore, Officer.”

Officer? Was that a title or a last name? Either way, it wasn’t a medical person, or they would have known. I grunted again. I think it was me, grunting. No one else would have a reason to grunt. Would they?

The air was antiseptic, stinging my nose as I struggled to take small breaths. Underneath, there was a faint scent of blood. Whose blood? Is that mine? I don’t know what my blood smells like.

“Ruby. You are at Little Bluff Hospital.”

That made sense. I lived outside Little Bluff. There was suddenly a blinding light in my eye, and I grunted again.

The voices around me are muffled and distant, like they are speaking through water. But there is a sense of urgency and concern in their tones.

“Ruby? Ruby? Can you hear me?” It was a woman’s voice, and I could hear her. But I couldn’t answer, didn’t answer. Could I move?

“Dr. Galliano? She’s moving a finger.”

“Ruby, can you open your eyes for me?” Now, his voice was deep and resonant. I bet he’s Dr. Galliano.

I thought about opening my eyes, but it all seemed too bright. Too much.

“Ruby, open your eyes.”

Nope. I’m going back to wherever I was. Bye…

Hello. That didn’t last long. Or did it? It was a different woman’s voice now, asking me to open my eyes. I refused. I listened instead to the symphony of sounds in the hospital room.

Beeps and whirrs, hums and clicks of the machines that are plugged into me. They are like my orchestra, each instrument playing its own part in the song of medical care. A continuous bass line from an ECG monitor, a fluttering melody from the pulse oximeter, punctuated by the occasional beep of the ventilator.

I heard someone in the corner fiddling with a syringe. I could still feel my body, but it was strangely disconnected from my mind. I wanted to stay here forever in this lullaby of sounds–listening to nothing but the music of medical machines.

Huh. I can feel my body. That’s good, isn’t it? My body feels heavy and numb, as if it doesn’t belong to me. I can feel cool, stiff sheets against my skin and the pressure of blankets draped over me.

“Ruby, wake up.” It was a familiar voice. The Officer? It was very demanding, so I have decided this is a cop. A copper. A law man. I think that with a southern drawl. A constable. Oh, that was with an English accent. Let me try… Fuzz. Ha! I am sure I heard a groovy bass line.

“Ruby!”

“Officer, stop yelling at her!”

“That’s a smirk. She can hear me.”

“Everyone on the entire floor could hear you. Shush.”

That was such a good shush. I wonder if she was a teacher once.

Am I being a petulant child now? Refusing to open my eyes or respond to the demands of a man child? Probably. Don’t care. I like it here like this.

But I’ve only now remembered. I don’t know why I am here. Someone said it was a hospital. That’s right, Little Bluff Hospital, near where I live. Why am I here? And quite frankly, why can’t I move?

The voices were like distant chimes, calling out to me from a foggy dreamscape. I feel myself being pulled back into consciousness, but it is a slow and arduous trip. Am I tripping? My mind feels like a tangled mess of wires, trying to make sense of the fragmented memories and sensations. I can’t speak, but I could hear them, their voices cutting through the haze like sharp knives. Did I tell you that already?

As a child, I once hid in the trees for three hours, not moving. I was outside, playing with the kids from my street. We were in the woods behind our houses and I had decided to hide in the trees. The branches were so large that I could climb up one of them and be completely hidden by the leaves. So, I didn’t move. Not so much as a leaf.

I won Hide ‘n’ Seek, but my parents were so angry. They’d called and called. I refused to budge. Three glorious hours.

I remember it smelled so amazing up there. Have you ever sat in a tree? You can smell the tree, the bark. Here, it stinks of cleaner and adulthood.

That’s when something else comes back into focus – an ambulance ride. I was in an ambulance. Recently, I mean. Not because of Hide ‘n’ Seek. A sudden shock runs through my body as if something is coming alive inside me again.

Are they shocking me?

No, I don’t think so. I am not going to open my eyes. They can’t force me. Well, I guess they could pry my eyes open. Like that old movie where some guy forces some woman’s eyes open so she can something something. You know the one.

“Doctor, how long until she regains consciousness?”

That must be the Officer again.

“Officer Pritchard, I’ve told you before. We don’t know. The brain is a complex machine.”

Yep, I was right. It was the cop. Officer Pritchard. Now what is a cop doing here? And why does he want me to wake up? I mean, I am awake. Maybe I’m going to lie here until he goes away.

Do cops go away? You’d think I’d know that. Not that I ever dated a cop, but I dated Diane, and she was always going to crime scenes. So, there’s that. But let’s not talk about her.

Someone pulled my sheet down. Now what? I hope it’s not rude…

Nope. Not rude. They are tapping my knees, and I feel my legs spasm in response. Now someone has my arm in theirs. Ouch! Ow! They’re hitting my elbows!

“Her reflexes are good.”

“Her vitals are stable.”

“But you still don’t know why she won’t wake up?”

That Officer Pritchard is very persistent. I don’t understand why. What happened that makes it so important I wake up?

Panic spreads through my body. I can’t stop it. Like that knee twitch, it’s happening without my input. I don’t know how I got here. My name is Ruby Fisher, I am 35, and I live alone in a little house outside Little Bluff, in Maine. So how’d I get here?

It’s like I ought to know, but I shouldn’t know. I can’t know. It’s like a door that I don’t want to open because bad things are behind it. Terrible, unspeakable things.

I am Ruby. I am 35, and apparently I am prone to drama.

“Ruby! Wake the fuck up!”

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