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3. Everything Changes
Jules
Cash never came back last night.
For what seems like the thousandth time, I glance at my silent cell lying on the kitchen counter.
He never came back.
That doesn’t bother me as much as the absence of a text. Trying not to come off as clingy, I only sent him two messages. But he hasn’t replied—not last night, and not this morning—and that makes me nervous. He’s never ignored my texts before, and the fact that he’s doing it now, right after we spent the weekend in bed together, has me panicking.
My stomach is in knots, and I’m afraid I’m going to barf. A glance at the clock tightens the ball of apprehension in my gut. I’m supposed to leave for work in an hour. Usually, I fall out of bed after hitting the snooze button a few times, but I couldn’t sleep.
I’ve been up and dressed for a while now, and there isn’t a part of my apartment that hasn’t been a victim to my pacing. There isn’t a part that isn’t spotless either. I’ve made the bed, dusted, swept, and mopped. Even though it hurt like hell, I threw out the sunflower bouquet he gave me. I’m thinking about organizing the dinky space in my closet when a knock sounds.
My heart slams to a halt as I eye the door. Swallowing past the nervous lump rising in my throat, I pad across the room, and my hand shakes as I turn the knob. I have no clue what I’m going to find on the other side.
Gorgeous stormy eyes filled with regret because he changed his mind? Or possibly anger…if things didn’t go well with his wife. What I don’t expect to find is this ragged version of Cash. His eyes are bloodshot, and though he’s dressed in a suit, ready to face the day, he doesn’t look as if he slept more than a few minutes last night.
He leans forward, both hands braced on the doorframe. “Can I come in?”
Jesus. The gravelly sound of his voice does strange things to my stomach. I open the door and gesture for him to cross the threshold. He steps inside with bone-tired footfalls, and fear takes residence in the trenches of my gut.
Something is wrong.
I shut the door and turn to face him, but he’s got his back to me as he wanders into my living room, raking his fingers through dark mussed up hair. He’s the picture of disheveled. The epitome of despondent. I try to find my voice but fail. Just last night, he had me up against the wall by the door. Just last night, he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me.
Just last night, I told him I loved him.
“Cash?” A tremor steals my tone.
He comes to a stop in front of my sofa then sinks into the cushions, almost as if his legs can’t hold him up anymore. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your texts. I didn’t get freed up until three in the morning.” Raising his head, he locks eyes with me, and the needy glint in them coaxes my bare feet across the room. Before I question myself, I sit next to him and lace our fingers together.
“It’s okay. You’re here now.”
“It’s not okay.” Scooting to face me, he brushes his knuckles across my cheek. “I’m assuming you haven’t seen the news yet?”
I can’t speak, so I shake my head.
“I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. Monica is missing.”
My heart tumbles into a nosedive. Of all the scenarios tearing through my mind, leaving utter chaos in their wake, that wasn’t one of them. Still unable to find my voice, I wait for him to continue.
“The police were at my building last night when I got home.” He squeezes my hand as if drawing the strength to go on. “A woman was found dead in our penthouse. The police suspect Monica of being involved.”
His words slam into me like well-aimed bricks. I return the grip of his hand, and I can only imagine the shock and anguish that’s going through his head right now. “What happened?”
“There was a struggle. The police think it might have been an accident, but they’re not ruling out homicide.” He swallows hard. “She left a suicide note.”
I suck in a breath. Lord knows I’m not a fan of his wife, but while we were fucking the weekend away in my bedroom, she was going through something horrible that might have sent her over the edge.
But over the edge enough to kill someone? To harm herself?
“Do you think she…I mean, is there a possibility she found out about us?”
He drags his long fingers through his hair—fingers that touched every part of my body over the weekend. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible.”
“What can I do?”
