Page 132 of The Viper's Wife

He shouts at me as I shove past him into the apartment.

At the kitchen bar, Lacey looks up from a big bowl of artificially-bright cereal. She drops her spoon in with a splash and crosses her arms over her chest.

“He just barged in. Should I call the cops?” her roommate asks, hovering behind me like a fly.

“It’s fine,” she says with a heavy sigh. “What do you want, Nico?”

I can see why Valeria likes her so much.

I toss the package I brought across the kitchen counter. “This is for you.”

She hefts the big, black bag in her hands and grimaces. “Is it going to be some weird shit?”

I shrug. “Depends on what you think is weird.”

With that, I turn, wink at her roommate, and walk out of her apartment. I’m almost to the elevators when she rushes after me, dressed in pajamas and a huge coat.

“Nico!” She grabs my shoulder, and I let her wrench me toward her. She leans in close. “What the fuck was that for?”

“It’s a gift. Valeria’s about to go through a… difficult time. You need to be able to support her.”

“There has to be thousands of dollars in there,” she whispers.

“Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“What’s going on? What’s wrong with Valeria?”

At the look of open concern on her face, I pause. She loves Valeria too—that much is clear.

“She’s safe.” That calms me, a little. It’s what matters the most. “She’s not in any danger, but…”

I can’t seem to force the words out loud.

Lacey looks at me closely, her eyes narrowing. “You’re leaving her.” It isn’t a question. She frowns and reaches out to gently squeeze my wrist. “For what it’s worth, she loves you too.”

The rain has stoppedby the time I get back home.

My soaked coat slides from my shoulders, landing with a damp thump on the floor. As I bend down to untie my boots, rustling comes from the bedroom.

I stand, walk to the doorway, and she’s there, in the middle of a big pile of folded clothes. Her hair is pinnedback from her face. She’s wearing shorts and one of my black hoodies.

For one perfect moment, it’s a bubble of quiet domesticity.

Then I notice she doesn’t just have the clothes from our trip—everything she owns is on our bedroom floor, next to a row of her suitcases. And her cheeks are wet with tears.

My chest caves in.

She’s packing to leave. Some part of me had hoped that she would fight this more, but I should’ve known better. The only thing she ever fought was me.

“Val,” I say.

The T-shirt in her hands stretches. When the stitching begins to pop, she seems to realize what she’s doing and drops it from her hands.

“Nico,” she says carefully. She pushes herself to standing. For a breath, she’s so completely alone in the center of the bedroom—a boat in the middle of the ocean—that it takes everything in me not to go to her. She swipes at her eyes. “Lacey said you gave her money…”

And I’m leaving, I finish in my head. Blood pounds through my head, my chest. My hands hang limply against my sides. “Everything is going to be taken care of for you?—”

She sucks in a breath. Raw pain flashes across her face before shuttering into nothing. She crosses her arms across her waist like she has a bellyache, but the only emotion on her face is apathy.