“Before you ran away with Blake, I showed you where I kept that spare key for a reason. I hoped you’d never have to use it.” That is a lie. I’ve been checking that key-hider rock every day, praying Blake fucks up and she sees his true colors, wishing for this exact moment. I’ve fantasized about the things I’d do when she was finally alone with me, practiced the things I’d say, and yet here I am, tongue-tied, struggling to keep my heartbeat even. “Are you okay?”
What kind of stupid question is that? She wouldn’t be here if she was.
She simply shakes her head.
I sit in the chair across from her because the couch is not an option. Not with whatever emotions her blue eyes, her face, her presence, are stirring in me. Emotions I couldn’t fathom back then or have a name for now because I’m a fucking pussy. “Tell me everything.”
She does. She tells me about the control, the isolation, the abuse, the divorce he won’t give her because of her money, the violence after and before. She tells me about the strings he pulls every time she reaches out for the police to help. She’s beentalking for about ten minutes, and with every second, fury burns under my skin until it simmers my blood.
“I made a mistake, RJ.” She unfolds herself from the couch. “I walked into the same trap like a fool.”
“It’s not your fault, Reagan.”
“Yes, it is. I should have known. What did I expect from a man like him? After what he did? I knew he had no morals, and I still married him.” She leans forward, her face catches the light, and I can see the shadows under her eyes. “I married him because I was scared, and he was the only one there for me.”
He was there for her, and I wasn’t.
“I’m here now,” I whisper. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want, and I’ll deal with Blake myself. Do you want help with the divorce? I know good lawyers who can—”
“What I need is for you to transfer to Martha’s Vineyard.”
My brows hook. “What?”
“I think…” Her fingers rub over her lips. She shifts on the couch, and her gaze changes in a way that sets my entire nervous system on high alert. “I think Blake is going to kill me.”
My pulse spikes as my mind processes the accusation. Blake was my partner. I know his temper, the way he bends rules until they snap, but I also know fear can twist truth. Just like money. Just like secrets.
“You don’t believe me,” she mutters.
“I want to believe you, but when he texts me the same thing about you a day before you show up…”
“Blake texted you that I’d kill him?”
“We haven’t spoken in years, since the Abalo case. Last year, he called me out of the blue, wasted, and said…stupid things I dismissed and hung up on him. Then, yesterday, he called me again. I let it go to voicemail. But then he texted me this.” I show her my phone.
Please return my call. I need your help. The crazy bitch I married is plotting my perfect murder.
Her face remains calm, rather cold, and she just gives me the phone back. “Did you call him?”
“I did. I thought it was a sick joke of sorts or a way to get me to talk to him again that would maybe lead to an apology, but he meant every word. He said things like—”
“Like I’m the one who put him up to framing Mason for the Abalo case, and how guilty he feels about it he started seeing a therapist. Like Mason didn’t even hit me that night, and I staged the whole thing, and now I’m doing it all over to Blake.”
“Exactly. It sounds word for word.”
“Characters like Blake are very predictable.”
“Blake is a real man. He’s your husband, he thinks you’re a threat, and you think the same of him. This is not one of your stories,Birdie. This is a fucked-up situation that won’t end well for either of you.”
“Everything is a story, RJ. Anyone can write their own. People believe the version they want to believe. But the truth… That’s a different story.”
“I believe in evidence.” I have seen proof with my own eyes. I’m about to tell her about my trip to Vineyard Haven, thinking about how to say it without sounding like a creep.
She speaks faster than my thoughts. “Blake is doing drugs.”
“Drugs?”
“Ever since he was forced to retire. With his temper, it caused…more severe violent episodes.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, looking up with a sigh, blinking. “When his apologies and gifts fell flat, and I no longer had the patience, or rather the weakness, that made me stay in this marriage, I demanded a divorce. He said he’d quit, and he’d go to therapy. Silly me agreed, not knowing that it’d make things even worse.”
