He hung up.
I put my phone away and looked at the cart.
The local police would file a report. They would do wellness checks. They would be entirely inadequate against the threat that was currently moving toward a coral-painted colonial building on a quiet street in Paradise Island.
I knew that. Briggs knew that.
I paid for everything in cash, loaded it into the rental car, and drove back toward Camila’s street in the darkening evening.
She wanted me gone.
She could want whatever she wanted.
I was going to be in her garden when she woke up tomorrow morning, and I was going to put cameras on every corner of her perimeter, and I was going to make sure that if anything came for her, it came through me first.
Maybe I didn’t deserve her forgiveness.
I was going to earn her safety anyway.
CHAPTER 18
CAMILA
The lavender salts weren’t working.
I had put in twice the recommended amount, lit four candles along the edge of the tub, poured myself a glass of cold Sauvignon Blanc, and lowered myself into the water. I was determined to relax, no matter what.
I was not relaxing.
The water was the right temperature. The candles smelled exactly right. The wine was good. Everything about this bath was objectively correct and none of it was doing anything useful because my brain had absolutely no interest in lavender or candlelight or Sauvignon Blanc.
My brain was outside, in my garden.
Stop it.I took a sip of wine.He’s not your problem. He’s not your husband. He is a man who lied to you for the entire duration of your marriage, who fucked another woman while you waited for him to take you out on your anniversary dinner. And God knows since when he was fucking her. Maybe before you even got married? Don’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth.
I took a longer sip.
The candle nearest to me guttered slightly in a draft from somewhere.
I deeply resented seeing him. In fact, I deeply regretted ever meeting him. I had spent an entire year building something real here, something mine, and he had walked through the door of Dog-Eared at seven in the morning and everything I saw behind the closed doors of stateroom 546 on the morning of our anniversary was suddenly right at the surface again, fresh and raw and infuriating.
I did not want to feel this. I had not given him permission to make me feel this.
I gulped the rest of my wine, reached down, and pulled the stopper.
I changed into my bralette and tights, styled my hair out into loose waves, and put on my favorite lip stain.
I went downstairs.
The living room was dim, the lacy curtains filtering the last of the evening light. I stood to one side of the window and moved the curtain an inch to the left, just enough to see the front path.
Empty.
The garden gate was closed. The front step was clear. The little stone path that led to the street was quiet and unoccupied, the bougainvillea moving in the breeze.
He wasn’t there.
I let out a long, slow breath.
