Page 17 of Ravaged With You

The people you care about aren’t safe.

Not until you tell us what we want to know.

Where is the package that Swift stole?

He texted back: I told you I don’t know.

Then I suggest you find out. In the meantime, perhaps we’ll ask someone else who might know. Don’t try to trace this number. It’s dead as of now. We’ll be in touch.

His brain was still slow, and it took a minute for him to process the message, but as soon as he did, he forced himself to his feet and yanked open the car door.

Jo. The fuckers were going after Jo!

Chapter Five

I drive home on autopilot, following the route from Hollywood to our cottage-like house in Studio City. I don’t know what to think or even what I am thinking. I’m just driving, lost in a storm of dark emotions, confusion, and guilt.

I know it’s not my fault that my husband killed himself. I know there must have been deeper issues going on. But surely I should have picked up on something? Had we really drifted so far apart that I had absolutely no clue how far into the dark my husband had slipped?

Yes, I think. Yes, yes, yes.

Tears prick my eyes, and I blink, trying to clear my vision.

I know I shouldn’t blame myself, but how can I not? He was my husband, and no matter how distant we’d become, I still loved him.

How could I have been so blind?

It’s a refrain that plays through my head over and over and over as I move past the familiar landmarks and finally pull into our driveway and park next to my Fiat.

I’ve never liked Mel’s new car, and I don’t understand why he wanted to buy it. He’d never been one for status symbols, at least I hadn’t thought so. But he’d snatched this up like a security blanket. Now, ironically, it’s my security blanket, because I don’t want to get out. In this car, I’m in a cozy little bubble where I can pretend that everything is okay and the world can’t touch me. But I know I can’t stay. I have to get out.

I have to face all of the guilt that goes along with losing a husband I wanted to divorce.

“You can do this,” I say, and even though I’m not at all sure that I’m right about that, I push open the door and make my way into the house. It’s small and clean and smells of vanilla, and despite the memories that I know will soon assault me, the simple act of stepping inside makes me feel more centered.

Sure, there were tears and arguments as I begged him to just sign the papers so we could both get on with our lives without having involve a judge.

But there were good times, too. Laughter and sweet memories that I will always cherish.

“Mel,” I whisper. “Why the hell didn’t you just talk to me? Did you think I wasn’t your friend anymore? That I didn’t love you? I still did—I still do. Just not the way you wanted me to.”

There’s no reply, of course. And considering I’m certain he was sleeping with someone else, maybe he no longer loved me. Maybe he got lost in his guilt about the affair.

So many maybes. And an utter dearth of answers.

I’m about to head into the kitchen for a glass of bourbon when there’s a sharp knock on the door. I shift directions, almost stumbling over Rambo, our fat and lazy cat, who’s magically appeared between my legs from wherever he’d been hiding.

He rubs my legs as I peer through the peephole. I recognize Abby’s bouncy curls and wide eyes immediately, and I pull open the door, then find myself engulfed in her hug.

“Renly called me earlier,” she says. “He said that Red had just told him that Mel was dead and he was on his way to the distillery. I was in Burbank, so I came here to check on you, but I didn’t see your car. So I thought I’d try one more time before heading home.”

“I’m so glad you did.” I usher her in, and we head to the sofa in the living area.

“Was it an accident? Renly didn’t know what happened, and I haven’t talked to him since. He left one voicemail, but all it said was that he’d tell me later when he saw me.”

I start to tell her that it was suicide. Instead, I burst into tears.

“Oh, Jo, it’ll be okay.”