“What do you mean?”
“The bar was struggling, and I wanted to help you, but I knew you’d never take it if you thought it might be monetary.”
She just stares at me. “So you’ve been sweeping my floors for two months with no pay, when you could have bought the whole damn bar without breaking a sweat?”
I shrug. “Basically.”
Her mouth hangs open, stunned. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you right now.”
“I vote for kiss. Our marriage isn’t fake anymore. I have the scratch marks down my back to prove it. I’d hate for you to go to jail for murdering your very real husband.” I fake a grimace.
She throws her head back and laughs. I live for that fucking laugh.
“So you don’t hate me?”
She snorts. “Because my oopsie husband happens to be a millionaire? Nah, I’m good.”
“I don’t love the term ‘oopsie husband.’ Can we workshop that?”
She laughs. “Sure, Daddy Warbucks. But I’m not letting you pay off Jace.”
“Pres—”
She holds up her hand. “No. You’re right. If we pay him off, he’ll just keep coming back.”
“So what do you want to do?”
She lets out a slow exhale. “I want to go to the police. I want that fucker to pay.”
By the time we return from the police department, Presley is emotionally drained but feeling confident in her decision. The detective assigned to the case, Stephanie Cortez, was extremely patient and knowledgeable, praising Presley’s bravery.
She told us it would hopefully prevent him from victimizing other women in the future. I think that meant a lot to Pres.
After we handed over the evidence, including Jace’s text and the bar’s surveillance footage, Detective Cortez asked Pres to describe exactly what happened last night since the security footage didn’t have sound.
Hearing her recount some of the things he said to her was…challenging. Having Presley back in my life has stirred up a lot of unfamiliar emotions in me. I don’t think it’s a bad thing, but sometimes I feel overwhelmed by them, like my need to protect her from her asshole ex.
I haven’t been able to find a new therapist since I moved to LA. Honestly, I haven’t made much effort to look. I’ve been so swept up in work and my new life that I put therapy on the back burner.
I think it might be time for that to change.
Because if there is one thing I refuse to fail at, it’s her.
Pres is quiet when we step into the apartment. She has been since we left the station. I set my keys down on the counter. When I turn, she’s standing in the living room, nervously chewing on her bottom lip.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Do you think I’m stupid for not seeing it sooner?”
“What?” My brow furrows.
“Jace was robbing me blind for months, and I didn’t even notice. How is that possible?”
I thought she had moved past this. I thought with the Halloween event approaching and things beginning to look up, she’d given herself a little grace.
But I should have known better because when things go wrong, she always feels responsible. She considers herself the family fuckup, so of course, everything is her fault.
“Did I ever tell you why my mom’s relationships never worked out?”
