“Well...” I frown as I consider her words. “Yes. I think so. Does that make me weak?”
“No, I don’t think so.” She smiles softly, nudging my shoulder with hers. “Naïve maybe, but not weak.” Her gaze cuts away from mine, hovering out the window that overlooks 60th. “Do you think you’ll divorce him?”
I take a deep breath. “Do you think I should?”
“I think it doesn't matter what I think. But...” she holds my gaze again, “if it were me... being the pessimistic and pragmatic girl I am... I think you catch more flies with honey, and I think the best way to get revenge is to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
I nod, letting her words settle somewhere inside of me. “You’re going to turn me into you, you know that?”
“Here’s hoping,” she giggles.
“I just can’t shake the idea that he has more secrets hiding right under my nose,” I confess. Warmth from the wine, and from our connection, hums through me. Aubrey may say she isn’t capable of love or family, but for the first time I feel like I’ve found a sister—not just biologically, but in a real and supportive way. I can’t explain why I’ve been so quick to trust her, but despite the fact that we’re opposites in so many ways, I still feel a kinship with this woman.
“Maybe we should go all Nancy Drew on his ass,” she laughs.
I chuckle. “Yeah?”
She nods, enthusiasm lighting up her green irises. “Let’s conduct our own investigation. Starting in your apartment.”
My eyes widen at her suggestion. “I already did do some searching—that’s when I found the extra laptop and the security cameras and—”
“Ugh, of course he has security cameras. The bastard thinks he’s entitled to so much power and access.”
“I imagine he would say it’s for safety—so I don’t hurt myself.”
“Well, how does that land now knowing that everything you’ve been told about your mental illness is a lie?”
“Is it, though?” I muse.
“Of course it is—everything Jack and your father said was meant to undermine your confidence and independence.”
“But the bruises, the cutting, the sleepwalking—that’s not made up,” I say.
Aubrey doesn’t answer. What can she say? There is no answer. I did do those things to myself—the evidence is embedded in my skin. I carry the scars of my self-harm as plain as day.
“Maybe it’s the stress of being an abused woman that’s caused it...” Aubrey finally says.
“Maybe,” I say, but I don’t believe her.
“Well, we won’t know until we find out more about what Jack has been up to.” She finishes her glass of wine and then stands from the sofa.
A minute later we’re walking into my silent apartment. There’s no sign that Jack has been here since I left early this morning, but that doesn't mean he isn’t watching.
Waiting.
Ready to ruin me one poisoned arrow at a time.
Thirty-Five
Aubrey
“This guy doesn’t hang onto much,” I comment as I flip through a stack of work files in Jack’s home office. It isn’t the first time I’ve been in here, but Ellie doesn’t need to know that.
“He’s a minimalist.” Ellie confirms as she lifts another box from the closet.
“Minimalists aren’t sentimental. I appreciate that,” I say.
Ellie doesn’t reply, just continues digging through another box. We’ve been at this for an hour. I’m not sure what we’re looking for exactly, but I’m starting to think it isn’t here.
