Page 72 of Monk

“You weren’t stupid,” I said, my voice firm but gentle.

She spun around, her eyes blazing with fury and pain, red-rimmed and wild. “Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare tell me I wasn’t stupid. I lived with him. I slept next to him every night. I cooked his meals, washed his clothes, listened to him talk about his day. I kissed him goodbye every morning. And I didn’t see it. I didn’t seeanyof it.”

“He fooled everyone,” I said, stepping closer, closing the distance between us carefully, like I was approaching a wounded animal. “Not just you. All of us. The entire club. Kansas. Me. We all thought Pence was a stand-up guy. We all trusted him. We all believed in him.”

“But I was hiswife,” Vivi said, her voice raw and desperate, like she was trying to make me understand something I couldn’t possibly grasp. “I should have known. I should have seen the signs. There had to have been signs. Late nights. Phone calls. Something. Anything.”

“There were no signs,” I said, my voice steady and certain. “Pence was good at hiding what he was. He was a liar and a manipulator, and he made damn sure nobody could see through his bullshit. That’s not on you. That’s on him.”

She stared at me, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, tears streaming down her face in hot, angry rivulets. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, her whole body rigid with tension. “I hate him,” she whispered, and the words came out like a confession, like something she’d been holding back and finally couldn’t contain anymore. “I hate him so much. And I hate myself for not seeing it. For being so goddamn blind.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to ease the guilt she was carrying, the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders. Didn’t know how to make her understand thatnone of this was her fault. So I just stood there, silent and solid, letting her feel it. Letting her grieve. Letting her rage against the unfairness of it all.

After a long moment, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her cheeks, and turned away, walking toward the bedroom with slow, heavy steps. “I need to pack some things,” she said quietly, her voice hollow and exhausted.

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me.

“Take your time,” I said softly. “Take all the time you need.”

I stood in the living room while Vivi moved through the apartment, gathering clothes and personal items. The silence between us was thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the sounds of her packing. I could hear her opening drawers, the soft rustle of fabric being folded and placed into bags, the occasional sniffle that told me she was still crying. Each sound felt like a small knife twisting in my gut. I wanted to say something. Wanted to offer some kind of comfort, some words of reassurance that things would get better. But I didn’t know what the hell to say. What could I possibly tell her that would make any of this easier? So I just stood there like a useless statue, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, staring at the photos on the bookshelf.

Vivi and Pence on their wedding day, both of them beaming with joy and hope. Vivi and Pence at a club barbeque, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. Vivi and Pencestanding in front of this very apartment, smiling like they had the whole world ahead of them, like nothing could ever go wrong.

It made my stomach turn. The weight of what Pence had done—the betrayal, the lies, the danger he’d put her in—sat heavy in my chest.

After a few minutes, I cleared my throat, breaking the oppressive silence.

“Hey,” I called out, my voice rougher than I intended. “You know Lina’s back in town, right?”

There was a pause, long enough that I wondered if she’d even heard me. Then Vivi appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, a stack of neatly folded clothes in her arms. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying. “Lina?” she repeated, her eyebrows raising in surprise. “Lina Wilcox?”

I nodded. “Yeah. She came back a few weeks ago. Her dad got hurt.”

Vivi’s expression softened slightly, the hard edges of her pain momentarily easing. “I heard about David,” she said, her voice gentle. “Is he okay?”

“He’s recovering,” I said. “Lina’s staying at the farm with him. Helping him get back on his feet.”

Vivi nodded slowly, processing this information as she set the clothes down carefully on the couch. “I always liked Lina,” she said quietly, a wistful note creeping into her voice. “She was sweet. Kind. We used to talk at the Farmers’ Market sometimes. She’d tell me about the honey her dad harvested, and I’d buy jars of it.”

“Yeah,” I said, remembering how Lina had mentioned those conversations. “She mentioned you two were close.”

Vivi smiled faintly, the first real smile I’d seen from her since she walked into the clubhouse hours ago. “It’ll be good to see her again,” she said. “It’s been so long.”

I hesitated, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, then decided to just say it. “She’s got a kid,” I said. “A daughter. Tatum.”

Vivi’s smile widened, genuine warmth lighting up her tear-stained face. “That’s wonderful. How old?”

“Six,” I said. “She’s—” I stopped, my throat tightening unexpectedly, the words catching. “She’s mine.”

Vivi blinked, her smile faltering as confusion crossed her features. “Yours?”

I nodded, my jaw clenching as I forced myself to continue. “Lina was pregnant when the massacre happened,” I said, each word feeling like I was pulling it from somewhere deep inside. “She thought I was dead. Ran to San Francisco and raised Tatum alone for years.”

Vivi stared at me, her eyes wide. “Monk,” she whispered. “That’s—” And then she broke. Her face crumpled, and she sank onto the couch, her hands covering her face as sobs tore through her.

I froze. “Vivi?—”

“I’m pregnant,” she choked out, her voice muffled by her hands.