Of course.Chris.
She continued, twisting her fingers in her lap. “He reassured me that we didn’t need you. That”—her voice broke—“that he’d take care of us.”
The question threatened to burst from my vocal chords. I had to know, even though I didn’t want the mental images burned in my brain. Didn’t want the truth. My voice was taut, a painful rasp. “Was he there?”
“Where?”
“Chris. At the birth. After the birth. Was he there?”
Her long sigh was the only answer.
I jumped to standing and cursed. I paced toward the window, grinding my fist into my palm, stringing his name together with some choice words.
“I’m so—so sorry, Jack.”
I stood, blinking against the sting. My head spun. I was shaking. “I—I need some space. I…” My words dropped off because I didn’t know what I needed.
A time machine, that’s what.
Something, anything to take us back.
She stood, her head tipped toward the floor. “I understand. Me too.”
She silently slipped up the stairs and I watched her go, the weight of loss pressing into my chest deeper, more constricting with each passing second.
I glanced at the clock. 11:30 p.m. If Bree still had the same schedule, she showed up at the downtown Nashville agency around 8:30 a.m.
I’d be waiting.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jack
B&G insurance sat right smack in the downtown hustle and bustle. I got there a little early, dressed for work, in case it took a while. Had to be at work by ten.
The receptionist on the ground floor of the high-rise building directed me to floor sixteen.
About twelve people crammed in behind me. I backed into the corner. Didn’t like small spaces. Made me feel larger than I already did.
A loud hum filled the lift. I took a few deep breaths, gathering my thoughts once again. My eyes stung a bit—was dead tired. I wore ruts into my bedroom floor last night, not dropping to sleep until well after two in the morning.
My anger had cooled a smidge and been replaced with hurt. With a deep insatiable need to understandwhy. To make sure Bree comprehended what she destroyed. There wasn’t a way to get justice. Nothing could ever be done to make things right.
I needed confirmation of what Miranda said. Tangible evidence it was true. That my son hadn’t beenhiddenfrom me, butstolenfrom me. I needed to hear it.
From Bree.
And I wanted that letter. If she had destroyed it, they might have to call on-site security to haul the rogue officer out of the building.
Tension radiated through my body. I wanted to slam my fists against the close-door button. Dumb elevator stopped at every freaking floor.
My watch read 8:37 a.m.
When I exited the elevator, I found a receptionist who helped me navigate the maze and directed me to Bree’s office. I was glad she had her own space and not a desk inside a common area. Maybe she’d been promoted.
She had her head bent over a schedule on her desk, chewing on the end of her pen. Fresh anger rekindled in me at the sight of her auburn hair. Beautiful, but only skin deep. I imagined her, tousled and sleep-faced, smirking at my heartbroken Miranda. Taunting my pregnant wife.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come. If I didn’t flip her desk, it’d be a miracle.
