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Denver’s smirk fades as he shifts his attention to Frankie again. Acid burns the back of my throat. I don’t like him looking at her, and that’s a problem. I shouldn’t care. It’s critical that I don’t feel anything when it comes to her.
Sliding off his backpack, he removes a bundle of leafy green stems sheathed in plastic and paper.
What the hell?
He uses a knife to cut away the wrapping, revealing a spray of fuchsia roses.
My stomach bottoms out as he strolls through the kitchen and offers the bouquet to Frankie like a romantic gesture.
In the eight drama-filled years Gretchen lived here, he never brought her flowers. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I saw a bouquet in person. Maybe never.
Frankie stares at the bold pink-purple petals, her body rigid and expression scrunched with disdain. He wants her to accept the gift, and she doesn’t give him an inch.
An alarming sense of pride thrums through me, followed by a chill of unease.
“What is this for?” She doesn’t reach for it, doesn’t blink. “I don’t want anything from you.”
He continues to hold out the gift, patiently waiting for her to change her mind.
Doesn’t he know by now how willful she is?
“Very well,” he says eventually and places the bouquet on the table. “I have something to show you.”
32
Denver
—
The things I do for her…
You don’t know, Frankie. You don’t know the lengths I’ve gone to make this easier for you.
She’ll blame me for it. For all of it. But it must be done, so we can all move forward.
“Wolf.” From my pocket, I remove a tiny memory card.
With the full weight of his attitude, he slowly slides a cigarette between his lips and stares at me through the curling smoke.
“Load this on the TV.” I narrow my eyes.
“Sure thing, Daddy dearest.” He takes his time following my order, putting as much effort as possible into annoying me.
I’m too distracted to care. Frankie needs me right now. She’s going to need all of us.
“What’s going on?” Her gaze shines with panic as it darts over my face. “Is it Monty? Did you see him? Is he okay?”
I extend an arm toward the sitting room, motioning for her to follow Wolf.
Her need for answers propels her to the couch, where she stiffly perches on one end.
Leo and Kody amble after her and take up posts on either side of the room with views of her and the TV.
Wolf loads the memory card, displaying a single video file on the screen. I give him a nod, and he launches it.
Frankie’s breath hitches as the footage begins, showing an executive office. Plush leather. Glossy wood. The sky dark beyond the window.
She recognizes the space. Of course, she does. She recognizes the man sitting behind the desk, too.
The last time she saw her husband, he was in that very chair. Different video.
This time, he’s not drinking. Not avoiding a fuming, pregnant wife at home.
This time, he has another reason for lingering at work.
His attention shifts to the office door, which opens beyond the camera’s view.
I don’t need to watch the footage again. I’d rather watch Frankie with her small hands clenching the sofa cushion, knuckles turning white, and spine stiffening with shock.
A sharp breath whistles past her nostrils, alerting me which part of the video is playing.
There’s no sound. Not from the TV. Not from my boys. And not from her.
She’s no longer breathing.
Eyes wide and locked on the screen, she doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch a single muscle as her last connection to Sitka dies in one terrible moment.
I watch her hope die with an aggressive stab. I watch her love die with a vigorous thrust. I watch the life drain from her eyes as her husband impales himself inside another woman.
On the screen, his big-tittied, twenty-two-year-old office manager bends over his desk, face down, ass up, with her skirt pushed to her waist as he plows into her from behind.
The relentless drive of his hips and ruthless force with which he hammers the poor girl is punishing, verging on cruel.
He often fucked Frankie with the same ruthlessness. The first time I saw them together on the bedroom camera, I was surprised to discover how much she enjoys a savage hard dicking.
The young brunette doesn’t mind, either, given her heavy-lidded eyes and gaping mouth, no doubt squealing to the rafters. Thank fuck the video doesn’t have sound.
The two-pump chump lasts seven minutes before dumping his load, discarding the condom, and sending the girl away with a dismissive flick of his wrist.
Frankie’s chin quivers, and her face crumples with loss, longing, heartache, anger, and betrayal. All of it tangles in her expressive eyes before she squeezes them shut and draws her trembling lips between her teeth.
My boys study her intently. They’ve never seen her husband, but they’re smart enough to put two and two together. Wolf seems especially interested in her reaction, his blue eyes roaming over her, absorbing every detail of her pain before giving the same scrutiny to the man on the TV.
