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21. The Coup
Cash
The uniform outside Monica’s room remains a stoic sentinel, though he lets me pass without issue. As soon as I enter, she lifts her head, red-rimmed eyes shooting accusation. Blackwell stands at my presence, and I gesture for him to reclaim his seat.
“Where were you?” Monica asks, a bite to her tone.
“I was here earlier. Don’t you remember?”
“How am I supposed to remember, Cash? The doctor put a bunch of crap in my system.”
“Better than the crap you put into your own system.” Part of me wants to take back the barb, but I’m too angry with her for what she did. Despite the way she’s been playing me since the moment we got married—before, if I consider her secret involvement with my brother—the thought of losing her to suicide shatters the pieces of my heart.
I take the vacant seat on the other side of her bed, opposite from Blackwell. “Have the police been back since she awoke?” Directing my questions at the attorney will get me further a lot quicker than trying to pry info out of Monica, especially since she’s still reeling from everything that’s happened.
With a grim face, he nods. “They’re charging her with murder.”
My breath hitches. Deep down, I anticipated this news, but I can’t deny a part of me hoped for a fucking miracle. “Jesus, Monica.”
“I’ve advised her to take a plea deal. She says Hirsch’s death was an accident. With no priors, coupled with her fragile emotional state, I think we can get the DA down to involuntary manslaughter.”
My gaze locks with Monica’s, and she turns her ice-blue focus on Blackwell. “I need some privacy with my husband.”
“Of course.” He rises from the chair and exits the room, leaving the two of us in tense silence.
Her full lips form a scowl, and she fights against the restraints keeping her arms flush with the mattress. “They have me strapped to the bed like a damn animal.”
“That’s what happens when you try to hurt yourself.”
Her dark lashes flutter against pale cheeks, and those chilly blue eyes turn glassy with the threat of tears. I want to kick myself for being so harsh with her even though she deserves it.
Even though I’m not entirely sure she’s not putting on a show for my benefit.
“Where were you?” she asks again, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Does it matter where I was?” I soften my tone, leaning forward, hands clasped between my knees. “It won’t change anything between us.”
“I needed you.”
“You were knocked out on sedatives. I needed to clear my head.”
“I’m not just talking about today.” If she weren’t strapped to the bed, I’m sure she’d cross her arms to accompany that sharp glare of hers. “You disappeared when I needed you most.”
The weekend I spent with Jules.
Settling back into my seat, I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” And I am. I don’t regret being with Jules at all, but maybe if I’d had my phone on and would have answered Monica’s calls, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe she wouldn’t be strapped to a hospital bed and facing a murder charge.
“What happened, Monica?”
She works her jaw for a few moments, and I wonder if speaking the truth has become a foreign concept to her.
I try to swallow a sigh but fail. “I need to know what we’re up against. I can’t help you if I don’t have the truth.”
“It was an accident.” She shutters her eyes, and there’s no mistaking the utter devastation in her expression. “We were arguing. She pushed me, I pushed back…I swear to God, Cash, I didn’t mean to…”
Didn’t mean to kill her.
Her words flit through my head as vividly as if she said them. “What were you and Lydia arguing about?”
