He moved so fast that she had no time to react, his hand swinging around in a great arc that sent her glass spinning off the edge of the bath. Wine spread like blood into the water, and Skye gasped as a piece of broken glass sliced into her thigh, another catching her ankle. She tried to collect the pieces, only to cut open her hand and then her wrist, each of the wounds trailing red-ribbon streams. With a cry, she lurched upright and out of the bath, only for her foot to slip on the torn magazine. Martyn caught her as she fell, but she wrenched herself away from him.
“Get off me,” she cried, pawing desperately for a towel.
“You’re injured,” he said, all trace of anger gone, color draining from his face as he took in the state of her. There were tiny slashes everywhere, eyelash-thin nicks on her chest and arms. Skye picked up a roll of toilet paper and pressed squares of it against the deepest cuts while Martyn hovered, biting his lip.
“I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I love you.”
Skye ignored him and pushed her way from the bathroom into their bedroom before slamming the door behind her. The full-length mirror on the wardrobe door caught her, dripping and pale, hair slicked to her scalp, thin trails of blood running down her legs.
Martyn knocked on the door.
“Can I come in?”
“Go away.” Skye turned from the mirror.
“I didn’t mean it.”
She sighed.
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine, but what choice did she have? What was the point in prolonging the argument? All she’d heard growing up were arguments, her mum snapping at her dad, him biting back, the vitriolic exchanges, the clunk of the whiskey bottle against a tumbler, the tearful promises followed by days of silent resentment. It wasn’t how she wanted her marriage to end up.
Skye unlocked the door and let her husband take her in his arms. She did not move away when he unknotted the towel nor when he laid her down on the bed and kissed every injury he’d caused. She believed him when he told her it would never happen again.
But it had.
So many times.
Each one worse than the last.
Thirty-two
Joy used the sleeve of her turquoise beach shirt to dab at her eyes.
They were still in Skye’s bedroom, sitting side by side, the sunlight a fallen sail across the stripped wooden boards.
“Bloody hell,” Joy said at last.
“I know.” Skye put her face in her hands. “The whole situation is such a mess. You probably think I should’ve stayed, stood up to him, and—”
“No.” Joy put a steadying hand on her knee. “I think you did exactly what you had to, exactly what that bastard forced you to do. I could kill him,” she added harshly. “I would, given half a chance.”
Skye lowered her hands and let out a helpless laugh.
“I was weak,” she said. “I am weak.”
“Stop that,” Joy scolded. “You’re here, aren’t you? You escaped. That must’ve taken guts.”
Skye glanced down at her friend’s hand, still resting on her knee. She wore rings on every finger, including her thumb, a jumble ofsilver, amethyst, and amber surrounding the plain gold wedding band. Skye’s own band was somewhere in the depths of the Aegean. She had kept hold of her diamond engagement ring, though, fully prepared to sell it if or when her funds began to run out.
“I didn’t tell Martyn about this place,” she said. “The house, the island, the lottery—he doesn’t know about any of it, or at least he didn’t. But now, with the story being in the newspaper, it’s only a matter of time before he tracks me down. He could be on his way here already, and if he does come and finds me, then he—he’ll be so angry. That’s why I have to go.”
She got up from the bed. Restlessness had taken hold, and it felt as if the room was shrinking around her.
“You might hate me for saying this,” Joy began, “but if you leave, he wins.”
“Finding me is the only way he wins,” Skye argued. “If I stay here, I’ll only lose.”
