I press my lips together as I try to align my thoughts. “I guess I never thought about that, Doc.”
Kelly smiles, putting down her ink pen. “Well, that sounds like homework for next week, then. Short-term and long-term goals are so motivating and can give us a sense of determination and fulfillment even on the bad days. A lot of people define themselves by the goals they set and achieve.” She clicks the end of her pen. “You have a brilliant mind, Shae. You should choose yours wisely.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Go easy on him,” I breathe, tapping Bishop’s cheek in the predawn light. We’re standing just around the corner from Dean’s building a few mornings later. Bishop hasn’t told me what his plan is, but I think it’s because he doesn’t have a plan. I haven’t asked a lot of questions because, frankly, I don’t want to know, just in case things go south.
I’m not sure what the best possible outcome is exactly, but it feels good to know that Dean will soon hurt like he’s hurt me.
“I’ll go as easy as he deserves.” Bishop slips his palm around my neck and pulls me to him in an urgent kiss. “Don’t watch. Meet me back at the hotel room, okay?”
I nod, knowing I absolutely will not leave. I plan to witness every moment that passes between them.
“There he is.” Bishop nods over my shoulder.
My glance follows to find Dean’s garage door opening slowly. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Tingles climb from my toes up to the tips of my fingers. Adrenaline chugs through my veins and stiffens my muscles. I can’t speak; the ball that’s lodged in my throat stifles my words and my thoughts. It’s gotime.
Bishop blinks once and then turns and darts off across the street. In the early morning light, his jaywalking goes unnoticed, and because I’m as curious as a cat, I follow him but do my best to stick to the shadows of the buildings. I’m wearing a sweatshirt with a hood, and I’ve got the hood pulled as low over my eyes as I can and still walk a straight line.
Before I can even stop to find a hiding place, I hear the first punch-and-yell combo land. I squint, suddenly feeling like my heart is squeezing out of my chest every time I hear the solid thunk of fist meeting flesh. I inch forward, both enthralled and afraid of what is happening. Moving slowly along the wall of the building, I pause when I reach the edge of the open garage door and heave a breath. I can hear Dean moaning, and it’s then I can hear Bishop muttering, “Give back the money you stole. Give it all back, you worthless bastard.”
“You have the wrong guy!” Dean manages to gurgle. “I didn’t steal anything. Please, you have the wrong guy.”
“I’ll be in touch, asshole,” Bishop threatens and then spins, backing out of the garage as quickly as he came.
“Jesus, there’s so much blood.” I choke as Bishop comes into the light. Bishop only shrugs, wiping at a trickle of my husband’s blood that’s trailing down his cheek.
I watch in horror as Dean rolls into the fetal position and moans, uttering something I can’t hear before coughing.
“I think he needs an ambulance,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes. I want to go to him, tend to his wounds and make him feel better until he realizes it’s me he loves, it’s me he needs, not her.
As Dean’s Audi idles in the garage, he chokes on his own blood on the ground. Revenge feels silly now. The man I pledged to love in sickness and health needs me, and I’m horrified because I’m the one who’s caused his pain.
“Maya, come on.” Bishop yanks on my arm. “We gotta split.”
I nod, hot tears melting my cheeks. I love him. I still love him. It’s clear to me now, and it’s not he who deserves my wrath. I’ve been aiming my revenge at the wrong target this entire time. It’s her I’m after. It’s she who deserves to hurt for the pain she’s inflicted.
Can I really kill Mia Starr? Because every piece of me desperately wants to.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ihaven’t been up front about what’s been happening in my life.I start my caption.I’ve suffered so much since losing my husband. I lost more than I realized that day. More than just you. I lost a life I didn’t even know I was carrying. The future we made together lost before life could bloom. I miss you, little peanut, and your daddy too.I add a broken heart emoji, hashtag it with words like#miscarriageand#grief, and then hit submit on my latest Instagram post. It’s a photo of my hands holding on to a soft pink teddy bear.
I’ve been flirting with the idea of this post for a while now. I figure what Jesika has is mine, and just because I didn’t end up pregnant with Dean’s baby doesn’t mean I couldn’t have. Hearing Jesika struggle over the weeks with her own pregnancy has me feeling empathetic pains. It’s not exactly that I’m jealous of the gift Dean has given her; it’s that…I want to know what it feels like myself. I want to be the one to carry Dean’s child.
I know it’s a lot of darkness. My newsfeed lately plays everypart the grieving widow, but this is it. This is the final straw. After this last devastating loss, Mia Starr will move on. I’ve even thought about announcing to my followers that Mia has moved to Chicago—but then, I wouldn’t want Dean to stumble across my profile and start harassing me again.
Speaking of Dean, it’s been six hours since Bishop paid him a visit, and I haven’t heard a thing. At first, I waited for a text from Jesika—something alarmed announcing Dean’s accident—but then I realized she’s probably too busy to think about updating me. I thought about sending her a text myself, just a friendly good morning message, but then I thought it would be too obvious…or something.
So I’ve resorted to distracting myself on social media. My favorite addiction, the one that pays my bills now that my husband has bailed on our vows. Notifications begin lighting up my home screen, and a quiet sense of satisfaction heats my veins. This is why I do what I do, because the community I’ve built online is so strong and supportive. I’d die without them.
I open to my newsfeed, and the first post that pops up is the latest from Jesika. It’s time-stamped ten minutes ago, and it’s a photo of her and Dean holding hands, his California bronzed skin in stark contrast to her own alabaster shade, and around his wrist is wrapped a hospital ID bracelet.
My pulse flares, and the blood in my veins heats as I realize that Bishop put my husband in the hospital. Was he really hurt that badly? I skim the caption and find out that he has a broken nose and a mild concussion. My heartbeat pounds against my skull as I realize what I’ve done, what repercussions my actions have had on other lives. Jesus, he could have died.
Jesika’s post is minutes old and already has three thousand likes and almost as many comments. I check my measly miscarriage post to find that it’s struggling with a few hundred likes. I think my followers are getting sick of all the doom and gloomcoming out of my feed lately. Tragedy sells, but only for so long, I’m finding. I skip back to Jesika’s post and realize she’s posted multiple photos. I slide to the right and find a selfie of Jesika, still looking a little pale and sick, and in the background of the photo is another person talking to Dean while he’s in his hospital bed. I squint and then zoom in on the blurry background. It’s definitely not a nurse. No, this person is wearing a dark uniform, complete with hat. This person looks like a police officer.
I cringe when I realize there’s a chance this could lead back to Bishop and me. Bishop says he walked that section of the street in the days leading up to the attack—he surmised that the only place not covered by a security camera would be in the dark depths of the garage. Bishop had this moment choreographed, so I don’t think the police will be able to trace it back to us, but I’m not foolish enough to think it’s impossible.
