My stomach coils into a knot. I scan the article and see my name. And then Jamie’s.
Fuck.
I scan further, my eyes roving over the print as fast as possible. Even though I’m not named specifically as a suspect—most likely thanks to some shred of decency in Flynn—the article does go into the fact that my prints are on the murder weapon and that I’m a person of interest. It also goes further than I’d like into the heady night of spin the bottle.
Reading it, I wince. The paper makes it sound as if Jamie and I slept together. The vague termrelationswas used, leaving the rest up to the imagination. And it hints at my obsession with Margot. “An unnaturally close friendship quickly formed between Mrs. O’Neill and Mrs. Banks.”
A picture of me, ripped from my Facebook profile, is parked next to a sleek shot of Margot in her signature, oversize sunglasses. I wonder if it’s even legal for the paper to have used my image without permission, but I decide I have too many legal problems already to care.
I look up at Graham. His jaw is tense and his fists clench and unclench. He’s shaking. “Did you know this was all over the papers this morning?”
“No, I’ve been outside all morning. I’m so—”
“Sothisis what you’ve been hiding all this time?” His eyes are darting over my face and filled with such hurt I can’t even hold his gaze. “Un-fucking-believable, Sophie!”
“Graham, you have to listen to me.” Tears fill my eyes.
“I’m done listening to you. You lied and lied to me, Sophie. And I forgave you over and over and bought all of your horseshit excuses.” He shakes his head in disgust. “I even apologized toyouonce! Here I was, trying to be the cool, evolved husband that lets his wife blow off steam with the girls, and all the while you’ve been playing me. Un-fucking-real.” He’s practically yelling at me now.
“Please, listen! This is so overblown; this isnotwhat happened.”
But he turns to leave. I catch his arm and my fingernails accidentally graze his skin.
“You have to believe me that this isnotwhat happened; what happened meant nothing.” My voice squeaks out of me. “I promise I can explain everything. I’ve been too afraid to tell you the truth, but I—”
“I’ll pick Jack up today. You have until then to collect your things and get out.”
“You’re throwing me out?”
The vein on his neck bulges and throbs. “Pack a bag and leave.”
“But you can’t just banish me! I need to see Jack!”
“Sophie, I honestly can’t think straight right now, so you just need to go. I need space.”
“But go where?”
“A fucking hotel! Or your fuck mate Margot’s house! I don’t know and I don’t care. I just don’t want to lay eyes on you right now; I don’t know what to think of you. You make me sick. Stay the fuck away from us for now. And if you don’t realize that I’m not fucking around here, you could push me so far that you might lose your son.”
He could’ve kicked me in the face and it would’ve hurt less than hearing these stinging words. My throat constricts and I feel like I might faint. I can’t believe he just said that about losing Jack.
“But you don’t think I hurt Abby, do you?”
“Of course not. But I also don’t believe that what you have going on with that kid, and with Margot, means nothing.” He grasps the handle on the door, flings it open, and slams it behind him.
Everything in me wants to follow him outside, to yell and plead for him to come back to me. But I can’t. I need to let him go for now.
My body is numb with shock. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from the look of betrayal pitched on his face. I go over to the sofa and lie down. Drawing my knees into my chest, I wrap my arms around them while I convulse with sobs.
Graham is gone.
52
AFTER AN HOURof sobbing on the sofa, I unlatch my knees from my chest and stand up. I can’t believe Graham is kicking me out, but I can hardly say that I blame him. And I know I need to do what he requests if I want any chance of salvaging things between us and saving our family. I can’t work him over anymore, I can’t fix this, and who knows what he could do with Jack if I push him. The termunfit mothercreeps into mind.
I walk down the hall toward our room, pausing at Jack’s door along the way. I step inside and go over to his unmade bed, lift his Thomas the Tank Engine comforter, and bring it to my face, breathing in his little boy smell. Juice and baby shampoo. Tears flood my vision, so I drop the comforter and make his bed, tucking his favorite stuffed bear next to his pillow before leaving. I need to do this quickly, before I lose my nerve and Graham comes home to find me here.
Even though it kills me, I go into our closet and pull down my pale pink duffel bag from the top shelf. I yank a few shirts off their hangers and stuff those in the bag with some shorts and pajamas. I swipe my toothbrush and toiletries from the bathroom and toss in a pair of sandals. I’m not packing a lot; I’m determined to get back home in a few days, no matter what I have to do.
