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  A Thousand Doors

  Copyright © 2018 by J.T. Ellison

  Cover design and interior formatting © The Killion Group, Inc.

  First edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and

  retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or

  mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018907283

  For more works by J.T. Ellison, visit TwoTalesPress.com or JTEllison.com

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Day She Died5

  The Murder9

  What Could Have Been26

  The Happily Married Wife and Mother27

  The Author49

  The Lawyer75

  The Archaeologist104

  The Homeless Woman128

  The Spy149

  The Actress170

  The Suicide196

  The Primatologist220

  The Senator’s Wife245

  The Professor265

  The News Anchor290

  The Seeker311

  The Singer/Songwriter334

  The Widow357

  What Is377

  All Her Lives378

  How It Ends383

  Mia. Just, Mia384

  A Note from the Editor387

  Contributors389

  “Death hath a thousand doors to let out life.”

  —Massinger

  The Day She Died

  J.T. Ellison

  The day Mia Jensen died dawned cold and harsh under a brittle sun that barely warmed the streets. Clouds like frothy ash never released their hold on the sky, and people were angry with each other and the world. It was that sort of day, the kind when nothing is right, everything is wrong, and people long for evening, for the gentle cradle of their beds and dreams. Ah, well. Tomorrow is another day, they said to one another, nodding, everyone a sage, everyone holding out that small bit of hope that yes, tomorrow would be a new day, tomorrow can and will bring something new and better and good to our lives.

  This was not the case for Mia.

  For Mia, there was no warm, soft bed and chirpy dreams, no reading of the latest chapter of the latest book, no brushing of teeth or braiding of hair or relaxing soak in the tub before slipping into pajamas. No glass of red wine with dinner, pot roast started in the slow cooker before she left the house, with multicolored carrots and potatoes because eating the colors of the rainbow will make her healthy. No trip to the gym after work to burn off the calories of lunch and the frustrations of her day. No texts to friends about cocktails, no kisses, no hugs. No sex on the desk. No shrugging off camel-hair coats in the green room, no powder and pancake before the 3 p.m. promo slot.

  None of it, because at 8:03 p.m., after unexpectedly quitting her lawyer’s office and fleeing to the ironic safety of her home, Mia Jensen was stabbed to death in her kitchen.

  The question, outside of why did this happen, obviously, is thus: Does Mia even care that she won’t experience these things? That her day was interrupted by the edge of a knife? You might even ask her: Mia, if you knew you were going to die today, what would you think?

  A good run?

  Too much left to do?

  You blew it, sister?

  We are rarely ready to leave this world, but when the sameness rears its awful head, one may wonder, is it even worth it? The existential crisis that comes for us all at one point or another—what is the point of this life?

  Mia was experiencing that very crisis the day she died.

  There was a sameness to her days that bred a desultory disinterest in her surroundings. Her habits, her work, her friends and family, her life was repeating itself, touchstoning again and again: wake, prep dinner, go to work, the gym, cocktails, eat, bathe, sleep. Mia was bored. Dissatisfied. Unhappy.

  She thought it was Keats who said sameness breeds jealousies, but lately she’d been seeing it as sameness breeds mediocrity, in those memes that float around on the social media networks and showed up in her email from well-meaning friends who think they’re intellectual but are really just boring proselytizers who don’t even know what mediocrity means without right-clicking and looking it up and certainly haven’t read Keats, though they have a point. Mediocrity is what she’s been feeling for quite some time, and she’s too embarrassed by this to discuss it with her friends who do understand her lassitude and might even counsel her in how to shake her self-imposed constrictions.

  All the decisions of her life, all the what ifs, the what about this, the if only I had, the I should; the missed flights and near miss accidents; loves and deaths and tears and joy; the opportunities lost and found, the chances taken and not; the smile on the train that led to the date that led to the ring; the sense of being trapped, of running, of drowning; every moment of every day since she was born has led her to this moment, the moment of her death. There but for the grace of God go I––Mia thought too many times to count, seeing the homeless woman on the street, the tattooed teenager sulking on the stoop, the over-Botoxed Klingon forehead drinking wine across the table, the bedraggled gray-rooted woman with no ring and four screaming children in the grocery line—all the things she’s grateful not to have become. And just as often, the wishes—the graceful author whose book she’d had signed last week, the witty astrophysicist she spoke with last year who’d developed a new interpretation for black holes, the blond archaeologist with her booming laugh that she met in a hotel bar, the delicate actress, bones like bird wings, who was trying on clothes in Barneys.

  Regrets. Joys. Mistakes. So many lives to lead, to have led. So many lives to lose, and so many to gain.

  At 8:03 this evening, the seesaw of Mia’s years of could have, should have, would have, did finally collided.

  The day Mia Jensen died, she finally got to live.

  The Murder

  J.T. Ellison

  The room where we’re meeting is far from silent. You’d think a divorce lawyer’s office would be quiet, grave, but this place is as bad as the newsroom where I work. In the newsroom, there are varying degrees of noise at all times, from the clacking of keyboards to the shouts of the reporters fighting with editorial, copy, sources, each other. Even after hours, in the dark of the night, the whine of the heater is a mosquito in my ear, the buzz of the fluorescent lights that are never turned off.

  The lawyer’s offices too are pulsing, buzzing. As if they know what is about to happen. As if they know who is sitting in that glass conference room. They can’t, of course. Only Roger and I know the whole truth about why we’re here today. But when the story comes out…

  We are going to be celebrities, of a sort. Our names and faces will be splashed across the newspapers and evening news. I’m taking a leave of absence from work to prepare for the onslaught. I’ve filed for divorce, trying to get ahead of things. And if I’m asked, I will absolutely agree to testify.

  Which is why I’m here, at Core and Core, giving my deposition in order to secure the decree of divorce. Trying to, at least. The fervor outside the conference room doors has grown so loud my lawyer, Ch
ris Core, sends his paralegal a look that has her scampering out the door to implore the masses to quiet down.

  I spin in my chair and stare out the window. The conference room, on the twentieth floor of the Pinnacle Building, has a nice view of the Shelby Street Bridge and the AT&T Building—fondly referred to as the Batman Building. The clouds are low; there is fog around the spires. Nashville is a lovely town, a growing town, but I’m probably going to be bailing, because once the trial is done, and he goes to jail, or is forced to make reparations, or whatever, I am getting the hell out of Dodge and never looking back.

  So many mistakes I’ve made. So many people hurt. How did I come to this point? How did I screw up so magnificently? I mean, I’m here, giving this deposition, in the hopes that down the road, I won’t have to do jail time. I will agree to testify against my husband—can’t call him my ex yet, the paperwork won’t be final for another few weeks—which will be seen as the ultimate betrayal. I am the ultimate betrayer. Roger is furious with me for not helping him cover his tracks. He can’t believe I’m divorcing him instead of helping him.

  I could have. I’m good with money. When I discovered what he was up to, I could have very easily concocted a few stories, opened a few accounts, moved some things around, and gotten the company back on its feet. I would have had to use my entire life savings to pay back the coffers and get Roger someplace safe, then follow him in a year or two, but I could have done it.

  But I’m not.

  Because I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t have the heart to make things right for him. He hasn’t had my heart for a very long time, and when all this happened, I felt like I’d awoken from a very long nap to realize not only am I no longer in love, I don’t like my husband very much.

  Turns out my college sweetheart, Roger Bannon, handsome, preppy, never-met-a-stranger Roger Bannon, is running a massive Ponzi scheme inside of his company, Focus for Friends. FFF’s mission is to deliver donated home and housing materials to poor and indigent families after disasters abroad. Earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, fires—FFF trucks show up alongside the big boys and pass out donated items. You know how it works: They take in clothes and home goods, ship them to places people need them. The company is doing good work. Important work. Work I was proud to be associated with, even tangentially, through my husband.

  Except...as I discovered last week, a lot of donations come in the form of money, which Roger, the jerk, has been stealing, investing, and promptly losing, so he had to “help” the company bank accounts along with regular supplements from the company kitty to the tune of over $5.4 million last year alone.

  My beautiful car, my beautiful house, my beautiful clothes—empty and meaningless in the face of FFF’s mission, honestly—are no longer mine. Yes, the irony of me having all these lovely things while people across the world starve, live without shelter, is not lost on me. I justify it—Roger justifies it, too––by saying we have to keep up appearances, even though I have a creeping sense of hypocrisy every time I slam closed the door of my Mercedes.

  I honestly had no idea Roger was embezzling from the company. Thankfully, I’ve never been involved in the day-to-day, only show up at events when asked, and do interviews or photo shoots as needed. I’m a reporter, I have my own job. That’s what’s saved me, why I’m giving this deposition today. There is no proof I had any knowledge of Roger’s actions. If we’re officially divorced, I can testify. And then I can write the real story behind the collapse of my marriage.

  But of course, since it’s my husband who will be dragged through the mud, everyone will assume I was fully cognizant of his wicked ways. They will assume we shared a bed, confidences, bank accounts. They will look knowingly at the house and the clothes and the Mercedes, and think I was complicit in his actions.

  I’m not. And we don’t share anything. Haven’t in ages. Thank God I listened to the priest who counseled us before we married who told me to keep my money separate from Roger’s. It pissed him off to no end when I insisted on separate accounts, but it’s going to save me now.

  Hence my leave of absence from the paper, and my presence here at Core and Core today, facing off against the stranger who’s shared my bed for the past fifteen years.

  The paralegal comes back in, face ashen.

  “There’s a fire on the fifth floor.”

  Chris stands quickly, papers spilling on the floor. “Why isn’t the alarm going off? Are we being evacuated? Is that’s what all the noise is about?”

  “No. They just want us to be aware. We’re fine to continue.”

  “I’m going to check. I’ll be right back. Excuse me, Mia, Roger. Don’t, ah…yes.”

  Chris leaves, the paralegal on his heels, and it’s just us. Me, and Roger, who turns to me with the most pleading, puppy-dog look I’ve ever seen in his eyes.

  “Don’t do it, Mia. Please. Don’t. Don’t do this.”

  “You shouldn’t have cheated all those people, Roger,” I say, primly.

  The puppy dog is gone in a flash, replaced by the growling junkyard dog I know lives just beneath the surface. “I’ll tell them it was you,” he hisses.

  “You’re such a prince. Go ahead. The FBI will believe me. A jury will, too.”

  “You’re a bitch,” he growls, leaning across the table. “Do you know that?”

  “I try.” I smile blandly and look out the window again.

  His tone changes, becomes wheedling again. “Honey—”

  “I am not your honey. I can’t do this anymore, Roger. Please stop. You screwed up, and you’re going to have to pay the price.”

  Still on his feet, his hand to his heart, he postures perfectly, as if he knows people are watching from outside the glass room. “What do you mean, you can’t do this anymore? I am your husband. This is too important for you to get on your high horse of morality. They could send me to jail. Jail, Mia. The company will collapse. Think of all the people we help, no longer clothed or sheltered because the company goes under.”

  “You should have thought about that before you bought that Porsche.”

  He kneels at my side. I can see the restraint it’s taking for him not to punch me. People are watching, I can see the reflections of bodies in the window. Roger looks for all the world like a grieving husband. I know better.

  “Mia, you can’t tell them the truth. Please. You have to help me.”

  “No.”

  He looks at me like I’m mad, then. Crazy. Insane. Ungrateful.

  This little morality play angers me, and I am suddenly furious, overwhelmed. I am the linchpin in this operation. Without me, without my accusations and testimony, the entire case against him could fall apart. But I refuse to lie. I refuse to play this game any longer. Let him crash and burn.

  I start from the room. He grabs my arm, and I yank it back.

  “Don’t you dare touch me.”

  “Mia, let’s talk. You’re clearly upset.” He is reasonable. I look like the villain. I don’t care.

  “No. It’s too much. I don’t want this. I don’t want this life. This isn’t me. I hate living like this. Lying to everyone. Lying to myself. I hate what you’ve done. I hate you, Roger. I hate everything about you.”

  I grab my bag and I’m out the door, heart hammering in my throat, ignoring the stares, the gasps. Tears burn in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I am not a crier. I can’t be seen as weak. I can’t.

  I ignore my ringing phone and drive around the downtown blocks until I calm down. Left at the corner. Left at the diner. Left at the church. Left at the Starbucks.

  If Roger looks out the window, he will see me driving in squares and think I’m even more stupid. Because he has to think I am an utter idiot to go along with him.

  I pull up in front of the Pinnacle again. The valet smiles hopefully. I shake my head and his brows collide, confused by my reluctance to depart my vehic
le.

  I can’t bear the idea of Roger’s cheating, his lying, how he’s been covering things up, a moment longer. I realize I’ve made the decision almost at the same moment my hand finds the burner phone I bought last week when I started contemplating what I needed to do to make things right. Without a second thought, I send the text to my editor at the paper. Words that will bring down a company, a marriage, a life.

  My life.

  Roger Bannon is embezzling funds from FOCUS FOR FRIENDS.

  Ding.

  It’s sent, and received.

  My heart is racing. I feel faint. What have I done?

  Home. Go home.

  Another place rife with emotion, but I can’t just drive around pissed all day.

  Waving away the valet, I squeal out into the street. Three blocks away, I wipe and toss the burner in a dumpster behind the new diner on Demonbruen, then drive west, out of downtown.

  Ten minutes later, I slam through the door from the garage into the kitchen of my rented cottage. I throw my bag on the counter, grab my laptop, and head to the living room. On the couch, I flip open the screen and start searching.

  Has it been announced? Does anybody know? Has the Justice Department raided the company headquarters yet?

  My heartbeat ticks down a notch as I look. No word has leaked. Nothing is out there.

  Don’t be silly, Mia. It will take them a few days to follow up. It was an anonymous text. It was a massive allegation.

  I take a deep breath. Shut my eyes. Shut the laptop. Blow out my breath hard and fast. Lion’s breath, my yoga teacher calls it. Strangely, it does help me feel better. Stronger.

  I look around the room. I moved in two months ago when I realized I needed to get as far away from Roger as I could, and it’s still sparsely decorated. It’s not home. Not really.