"She made concerning statements," I explain, my voice shaking. "About not knowing why she's still here. About what's the point. I don't know if it was manipulation or genuine, but?—"
"We'll send someone to check on her," Gray replies. “Don’t contact her again, Mr. Locke. Now go home to your wife."
I hang up and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.
I have a sinking feeling that things are only going to get worse.
I drive home, praying I'm wrong.
Chapter Thirty-One
JADE
Devon's hands won't stop shaking.
He's been home for twenty minutes, sitting across from me at the kitchen table. He tells me everything—meeting Mila at the coffee shop, her face when he called her bluff, the way her voice changed when she realized he was actually leaving.
I’m still pissed he went to see her behind my back, but I understand why. He feels responsible for this, so he’s on the edge.
We both are.
"She said she didn't know what the point was anymore," he says, and his voice catches. "Without me. Without—whatever she thought we had."
What they had?God, I know she’s not doing well mentally, but jeez…it’s so strange hearing her say things like that about Devon.Myhusband.
My stomach churns. We're dealing with someone who has untethered herself from reality.
“So, you called the police?"
"Officer Gray. She's sending someone to check on her." Devondrags a hand down his face. "I don't know if it was real or if she was manipulating me, Jade. I genuinely can't tell anymore."
I reach across the table and take his hands in mine. I barely recognize this version of him—the confident personal trainer who could charm anyone has been stripped down to nerves and guilt.
"You did everything right," I assure him. "You met her in public and recorded everything. Then, you walked away."
"But if she hurts herself?—"
"That's not on you." The words come out firmer than I expect. "She's been harassing us for weeks. She's been following me, sending threats, and trying to destroy my career. If she's struggling, she needs professional help. Not you.”
Something is niggling away at me, and I can’t help but voice it.
“What if she’s just playing the mental health card? What if…” My words fade as I frown. I feel bad for saying what I do, but I have a feeling I’m right. “What if she’s just fucking nasty, Devon?”
Devon stares at our joined hands.
"I keep thinking about high school," he whispers. "About all the times she smiled at you in front of me, and I never saw what was underneath. How could I have been so blind? You said she’s always been nasty to you.”
He’s right to ask this. I’ve asked myself the same thing a thousand times—how Devon never noticed the way Mila's eyes would narrow when he turned away, the whispered comments invisible to everyone but me.
"She was good at hiding it," I reply. "And you wanted to believe people were kind."
"That's not an excuse."
"No. But it's an explanation." I squeeze his fingers. "We can't change what happened then. We can only deal with what's happening now."
“But it makes your theory more plausible, doesn’t it? Mila pretends to be struggling mentally, but in reality…”
“She’s just nasty. Evil. Yup, it’s got my vote.”
