You’re so stupid, Kat.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and cruel.
This was exactly what I’d done with Clay. Exactly what I’d done with Richard before him. I’d ignored the warning signs. I’d convinced myself that what I felt was real, that the intensity of the connection meant something.
And every single time, I’d been wrong.
My instincts when it came to men were fundamentally broken. I couldn’t trust my own judgment. Couldn’t trust theway my body responded, the way my heart opened, the way my mind rationalized away the red flags until it was too late.
I’d thought Derek was different. I knew he was dangerous, and I’d convinced myself that dangerous meant safe. Richard had been safe, at first. Clay had been safe, at first. Derek hadn’t felt safe, and somewhere in my convoluted brain, that meant he was good.
But I’d been wrong about that too.
Because good men didn’t beat their wives. Good men didn’t send women to the hospital. Good men didn’t hide violence behind intensity and call it protection.
And yet.
And yet I still wanted him.
Even now, standing in my kitchen with my hands shaking and my heart breaking, I could still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin. Could still taste him on my lips. Could still hear his voice in my ear, rough and possessive, telling me I was his.
I hated myself for it.
What kind of woman wanted a man who beat his wife?
What kind of man grew up seeing his mother beaten every day and still became his father?
I gripped the edge of the sink harder, my nails digging into the porcelain.
I didn’t know who Derek really was. I didn’t know what had happened with Sam, didn’t know the circumstances or the reasons, or the aftermath. I didn’t know if Jack had been there, if he’d seen it, if he’d tried to stop it. I didn’t know if Sam had forgiven him, if she’d left him, or if she’d pressed charges.
I didn’t know how Jack had ended up married to Derek’s ex-wife. Or why they let him live with them.
I didn’t know anything.
And the not knowing was eating me alive.
Because without the full story, all I had were the facts Zero had given me. And those facts painted a picture I couldn’t reconcile with the man I thought I knew.
I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Frankie standing in the doorway. She was still dressed, arms wrapped around herself, face pale and uncertain.
“Mom?”
I wiped at my face quickly, trying to pull myself together. “Hey, sweetheart. I thought you were going to bed.”
“I can’t sleep.” She stepped into the kitchen, eyes searching my face. “Are you okay?”
The question broke something inside me.
My twelve-year-old daughter, who had just watched her world implode at a Thanksgiving celebration, was asking if I was okay.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes.
“What happened tonight?” she asked quietly. “At the clubhouse?”
I closed my eyes, trying to find the words.
