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I tilt my head. “That was vague.”
Then it dawns on me. “Aurora as in—Aurora McGovern?” The author. “What the fuck, Knox?”
He rubs his hand down his face. “Yeah.”
“Legal papers—what, did you plagiarize her book or something?”
Knox bursts out laughing. “You think I’d do that?”
“No.” I narrow my eyes. “But if it’s not that, then…”
He lifts one shoulder. He seemstired. And a little beat up. Which might explain the defeat in his voice when he says, “Well. There’s a little issue of us being married.”
I choke.
“And her wanting tonotbe married anymore.”
Holy.
Shit.
“You—how—?”
He waves his hand. “That doesn’t matter. The thing that matters is that she served me with fucking divorce papers and expects me to just roll over and sign them.”
I stare at him. “You can’t just…”
“Not sign them,” he finishes. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. In fact, I already did it. I sent back the documents with my reply, which is all that was required. A big, fat,no thank you.”
He sits back and glowers at his coffee mug.
And me? I don’t knowwhatto do. Because bits and pieces of the fight to get Henry to sign my divorce papers come back to me—and it wasn’t pretty. It was an all-out brawl via our lawyers. Because of the restraining order, I didn’t have to step foot in the same room as him.
“Knox—”
“Can we just drop it, Melody? Please.” He looks at me with what I can only describe as fucking puppy-dog eyes. Batting his lashes at me.
Ugh.
“Fine,” I snap. “But I reserve the right to bring it up again.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “And I reserve the right to ignore it.”
I snort.
The front door creaks open, and I shoot to my feet. I don’t spare Knox another glance as I hurry to Jacob. He barely gets the door closed before I fling myself at him.
“Hey.” He catches me easily. “Hey, we’re okay. We’re good.”
Doubtful.
“Your mom was arrested for killing Henry,” he says in my ear. “You’ve been here all night. Okay?”
He framed her. He shot my ex-husband and framed my mother for it. It wasn’t planned—it was an opportunity that he seized, and in doing so he eliminated the threats from our lives. My life.
There’s just my dad sitting in prison. And maybe one of them can still access the tracker Mom put my neck. It draws my attention as soon as I think of it. It could be a figment of my imagination, a way my brain wants to work me up, but it does the trick. Panic rises swift and sure in my chest, until I can barely breathe.
“You need to get the tracker out of me,” I say. “I can—I canfeelit. Jacob. She put it there when I was doped up in the hospital. What kind of sick joke—”
