Showtime.
Drake saunters into the visitation room like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and the final vestiges of my sanity fray at the seams. He knows he singlehandedly turned my life upside down and yet, he looks completely unbothered by the situation. It’s the final nail in the coffin.
Sadly, nothiscoffin.
It’s crazy how put together the man appears, even here, wearing a standard-issue jumpsuit. Not a damn hair out of place. Like he’s got a personal stylist on the other side of the door.
He drops into the chair across from me, offering up a smug smile, and I’m tempted to smack it from his face, but let’s be real. My life is hard enough. Bunking with my estranged husband in a cell is not a step in the right direction.
“Well,” he says, settling back in his seat, “you’re a surprise.”
I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him. “No the fuck I’m not.”
He makes a soft tsking sound and shakes his head, clearly amused by my temper. “Cursing right out of the gate. Feisty today, aren’t we?”
I am in no mood for this man. I swear to God, it is going totake every ounce of restraint I possess not to rip one of these bolted-down chairs from the floor and bash him over the head with it.
Best to get on with it and get the hell out of here.
I suck in a sharp breath, plant both hands on the edge of the table, and force my question through clenched teeth. “Why didn’t you sign the divorce papers, Drake?”
He steeples his fingers, still maddeningly casual, as if he’s not currently sitting in a federal detention facility awaiting trial for crimes so vile they make my skin crawl. “Because I needed to speak with you. The way I see it, I should be out of here soon. All charges dropped.”
I actually feel the blood drain from my face, my fingers tightening like a vise around the table edge. “How the hell would you manage that, Drake?”
“Simple.” He shrugs. “Because I’m innocent.”
No. That can’t be.
There’s no way they’d let him out, is there?
Don’t get me wrong. For the first few weeks after Drake’s arrest, I prayed this was all some terrible mistake. A ridiculous misunderstanding. That the man guilty of these unspeakable acts wasn’t my husband, but a stranger wearing his face, and if I held on, I’d awaken to find it all a terrible nightmare.
But little by little, day by day, the truth grew teeth.
Yet now here he sits, calm as you please, discussing his freedom as though it was all a mixup.
Nothing to see here, folks.
I shake my head, hoping against hope it might clear the fog setting up camp in my brain. “Well, bully for you. Still don’t see what that has to do with me or our divorce.”
“You remember the Rotary Club gala last fall, don’t you?”
Is he fucking kidding? Of course I remember that night. It’s the night my life fell apart.
Which part does he think I’ve forgotten? The elegant opulence of the gala or the flashing blue lights and heavy fists at my door at two in the morning? How about federal agents swarming my house and my husband being led away in handcuffs?
I fix him with a burning reproach. “Yeah, safe to say I remember that night.”
“Do you really though? You were quite drunk. How many glasses of champagne punch did you consume anyway?”
“A few. What does that matter?”
He leans forward, resting his arms on the table, staring at me like I’m the criminal mastermind instead of him. “Kiki, we both know how blurry your memory is when alcohol gets involved. Remember that New Year’s Eve where you wound up at Washington Square Park with no inkling how you got there?”
Look, I’m not denying it happened. I was a bit of a party girl in my twenties. I had money, good looks, and a killer group of friends, and it all came to a head one New Year’s Eve when I woke up freezing my tits off next to my girlfriend, on a bench in the park, dozens of blocks from the party.
Do I know how I got there? Not a damn clue. And Drake, a man I had gone on exactly two dates with, had the pleasure of picking my sorry ass up since I’d also lost my wallet somewhere along the way.
