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“Brody’s case is in the trashcan. Catherine’s pulled her statement, and Melanie will too if she knows what’s good for her. Buffy’s next on my list.”
“So you just control everything, do you? Must be nice.”
“Hey, I know Brody wanted you to get me to confess to murder. I made a drug charge disappear for you.”
“Like you made Oswald disappear.”
He looks furious, but then he swallows his rage, his voice calm as he says, “I’m leaving now.”
“Yeah, come in, stir up some shit, and then fuck off. That’s you all over.”
He walks out without saying another word. I groan out loud. The only thing I can do is argue with him.
I was so scared of falling for another Oswald; I promised myself I’d never do it, but here I am. One more controlling asshole trying to run my life for me. I never should have gotten close to him. I certainly never should have married him.
I trust men, and they let me down. That’s a given. That’s been proven. I can’t be trusted to pick a decent man. I should just swear off them for life.
I walk out of the boardroom, ready to call after him and tell him it’s over. I can’t do this anymore.
He’s heading out of the office. I’m about to call over to him when a massive group of people jumps up from their desks, swarming around me, holding a sign saying Congratulations. They cheer as I walk out. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“We heard you got married last week,” Jo says. “We thought that deserved a celebration, you dark horse.”
A cake appears from nowhere. I catch a final glimpse of Hunter leaving over their heads.
45
Bex
* * *
“Get out!” Catherine yells.
I’m not even out of my car before I hear the shouting. I look across at Catherine’s front door. She’s pushing Melanie outside as I get out and run up to her. “What’s going on?” I ask as Melanie spins around and sneers at me.
“Look at the fuck toy,” she says. “Me out, Catherine fired. Buffy’s gone now. Really cleaning house, aren’t you?”
“Get out of here,” I tell her, stepping between her and Catherine, who’s openly crying.
“Oh, I’m going, don’t you worry.” She looks over my shoulder at Catherine. “Thought I could trust you. Guess I’ll have to tell our mutual friend how wrong I was.”
She walks away, laughing, climbing into her car and, hitting the gas, roaring off down the street.
“Come on,” I say to Catherine. “Let’s get you back inside.”
She holds her bump, wincing as I lead her back into the house. There’s a bassinet in the corner of the living room. A pram sits next to it, still in its wrapping. “Sit down,” I tell her. She lowers herself into the chair, still holding her bump. “You need anything?”
“This baby out of me?”
“How about some water?”
I fetch some from her kitchen. She takes a sip, sniffing loudly afterward. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“What are you apologizing for? You didn’t do anything.”
“I told myself I wouldn’t let her make me cry but look at me. I’m a wreck.”
“She’s an asshole.”
