I suppress a groan. I hate that he always addresses me like one of his clients—careful, detached. I don’t have the mental capacity to navigate this on top of everything else going on today.
When I don’t respond, he continues, “Well, I was thinking about how much we’ve been through and that it’s probably not fair for me to hold you to such a high standard when it comes to mental health stuff—”
“What?” I say, shocked.
“Yeah—you know what I mean. I was talking to your dad about some stuff with your mom, and it made me realize—”
“You were talking to my dad about our fight?” I interrupt.
“Yeah, I mean, it came up—”
“So... that's it? I don’t even get a proper sorry then?”
“No... Is that what you expected?” His brows crinkle with confusion, as if the concept of saying sorry isn’t even in his wheelhouse. Actually, the more I think about it... Jackneversays sorry. Not once that I can recall in the five years since we met.
“I mean—yes. I did expect a sorry at some point.” I get up off the bed, cross my arms and face him fully.
“I don’t really think an apology is warranted—Jesus Ellie. You keep me up day and night worrying about if you’re taking care of yourself or... hell, if you’re even safe to be left alone.” He grasps my wrist, pulls out my arm and gestures to the faded bruises marring my skin.
I yank my arm back, clenching and unclenching my fists. “I can’t believe you came home to tell me this bullshit.”
“It’s a good fucking thing I did because here you are with an empty bottle of wine and pulling another all-nighter. What are you doing anyway? Having anotheremotionalaffair with someloser on the internet? Finding more ways to piss me off? I know we’re both busy with work but you could put in a little more effort to support me since I’m the one who carries the financial burden in this marriage.”
I grit my teeth, working my jaw back and forth. I choke back tears because I do not want this man to know that he’s getting under my skin. Not when he’ll only use it for emotional blackmail later.
“You know, I’ve even been wondering if you’ve been experiencing the early signs of a psychotic break.” His eyes bore into mine. I blink, swallow the anger down, then try to catch one of the raging thoughts moving through my head.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I seethe. Blood-red rage tunnels my vision. I can’t catch a single thought or form a word to express how I’m feeling at this moment.
“You should go,” I finally murmur, sliding back into bed and tucking myself into the sheets. I turn over, facing away from the man I vowed to share the rest of my life with.
“Go? Are you fucking kidding? I pay the rent on this fucking apartment you justhadto have.”
I don’t answer him. I may never answer him again. Expressing thoughts and feelings to Jack Taylor is a waste of time.
“Fine. Just wanted to let you know I won’t be home tomorrow. I have to go to the Jersey office for a few days.” He pauses, waiting for my reply. It doesn’t come. “I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom tonight.”
I still don’t reply as I fight the stray tears leaking from my eyes. The only thought running through my mind:how did we get here?
Twenty-Two
Ellie
Sweat drips from my skin as I plant my hands on the brick wall and wail. My anguish cuts through the silence, terror and frustration filling me.
“I’m watching you. It will all be over soon.”A thready voice shushes me.
I don’t know where I am, only that I’m trapped.
“Help.”I moan, thrashing, then realize that my wrists are bound.“Help me, please.”
A nurse opens the door of my room and then an alarm echoes through my ears. I wake with a jolt, sticky with sweat, my muscles tense and aching from the unnatural position I’ve been sleeping in. I gasp for breath, my heart racing as I push myself out of bed. The door alarm sounds again, the piercing shriek rattling my bones.
“Ugh,” I push a hand through my damp hair and glance at the clock on the nightstand. “Holy shit.” The time reads 4:30 p.m., in neon blue. I suck in another breath and then stand, moving across the room to open the curtains. Sunshine bathes the bedroom in light and makes my eyes burn. I move in thedirection of the bathroom and flip on the light; the first thing I notice is fresh bruises at my wrists. “Oh God.”
I slip my thumb along the shades of bright blue and purple, flashes of my nightmare coming back to me. My wrists bound together, my pained screams echoing around the small room. Locked in an asylum, left to rot. Just like mom.How’s that for a family legacy?
I push down a ball of emotion and then splash cold water on my face. My reflection, tired and drawn, stares back at me. I’m starting to look older than my thirty-two years, and the lack of sleep makes mefeelolder. I really should take some time off for a spa getaway. Or maybe I should just move out. The thought lingers in my mind unbidden. I never considered leaving my husband, but last night changed things. I can’t quite place my finger onwhyexactly, but suddenly my perspective shifted. Everything I thought I knew was turned on its head, as if a fog had cleared in the span of a single moment and I could see my husband for who he truly is.
