Turning my back, I pull the towels off myself andtoss them onto the counter.
“I know you don’t want to hear what I’m saying, but you need to.”
I hurry from the room, quickening my steps as he follows me. Opening the door, I find a landscape that matches what I’m feeling—dark clouds, violent wind, driving rain lashing at the earth. A maelstrom. I pause for only a second before entering the fray.
“Cassidy!”
Casting a last look in his direction as I unlock my car, I spot a terrified-looking Dylan Walker clinging to the threshold. He shouts to be heard over the storm.
“He kept arguing with me about her. Trying to convince me that she wasn’t all bad. Trying to make me agree with him. When I wouldn’t, he got angry and left.”
Tearing my eyes from his, I yank the driver’s door open and throw myself behind the wheel. But before I can get it shut, I hear one last thing.
“Think about the blood that’s in his veins. Her blood. My blood. I just want you to be careful, is all.”
Cranking the engine, I ram the car into gear and speed off down the driveway. But once the trailer’s out of sight behind me, I stop. Opening the door, I spill out onto the ground on my hands and knees, my body lurching as my stomach empties.
Collecting myself, I perch on the sill of the car, opening my mouth to the rain and spitting to rid my mouth of the acrid taste of vomit. It’s not the alcohol that made me sick—my whiskey bottle had been filled with tea, a ploy to make Dylan drop his guard. It’s my newfound knowledge.
Jake only went to visit his dad to ask about his mom. To try defending the woman who murdered my parents. The woman whose legal defense he’s now paying for.
As badly as I’d hoped that I was right and Jake’s change in behavior was caused by fear, I now have to at least consider that I was wrong. Which means I need to speak with him. And this time, I have to do whatever it takes to get answers.
CHAPTER 16
When I was little, I remember how time took forever to pass. The weeks between Halloween and Christmas seemed like a lifetime. Even the hours between morning and night felt like an eternity. Time feels a bit like that again now as I pace the kitchen, waiting for Jake to get home.
I worked so hard to prepare myself. Organize my thoughts. Gather my nerve.
But he’s late.
Now, the inner calm I struggled so hard to find has been replaced by alternating waves of worry and anger. What if he hasn’t called because something bad has happened and he can’t? Or what if nothing bad has happened and he’s simply chosen not to call despite knowing that his silence would send me on a collision course with panic?
My feet ache from pacing, but every time I make myself sit, I hop right back up to look out the window, sure that I’ve heard his truck pull up. Checking the timeon my phone again, I hold it up toward the ceiling where it gets an extra bar of reception. Open up the text thread between us, making sure that I haven’t somehow missed his response to the last message I sent a half hour ago. I haven’t.
But he has read the message, which means he’s choosing to ignore me. Just like he’s choosing to send my calls to voicemail. It doesn’t necessarily mean that his loyalty is now with his mother over me, but the longer he remains silent, the stronger the thought takes hold.
Maybe he’s not even coming home. Or at least not this one. For all I know he’s at his condo right now. As impossible as I would have found all this to believe even this morning, now, I just don’t know. I’m not sure I can trust myself to see my reality accurately anymore.
It makes my heart feel like it’s been ripped out of my chest and shoved down a garbage disposal, dull, slimy blades mixing the organ with rotting food waste. Because as much as I want to love fiercely and blindly and with unwavering trust, I don’t know if I can. I might not be capable.
I’ve spent my entire career faced with the harsh reality of what happens to women in this world. Women who turn the other cheek. Who only see what they want to. Who let their guard down for an instant.
As much as we all want to believe that it’s strangers who pose the most danger, statistically, it’s not. And while I could never imagine Jake ever doing anything to hurt me, that doesn’t mean it’s not possible.
A dull thud sounds from outside. I hurry to compose myself, using the camera on my phone to check my reflection. My eyes are tinged red and my skin is a bit blotchy, but it’s not completely obvious that I’ve spent the last several hours fighting off tears. Forcing myselfdown into one of the chairs at the table, I wait.
There’s a series of beeps from the keypad on the door, followed by the clunk of the deadbolt turning. Footsteps carry inside. A moment later, Jake appears.
“Hey.” He hovers in the doorway, avoiding my eyes. He looks wrecked. My resolve to confront him wavers. “Sorry I’m late. I was in a meeting that ran over.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.” Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, he fills it with water, takes a long sip before setting it on the counter by the sink. “I just want to grab a shower and get in bed.”
I nod, weighing my options. Do I put off this conversation until tomorrow night, knowing that my thoughts will be torturing me the entire time? Or do I force the issue now, when he’s obviously already in a bad mood?
Before I decide, the cup clinks, followed by a splash. Jake curses. Turning, I see the glass on its side, a puddle of water on the floor.
