I reply to Fin:
The $50K transfer? You didn’t tell me about it first. I didn’t even know you had a separate account. If you want a separate account and separate money until our divorce is final, then just tell me that. We can work that out. Don’t do it in the middle of the night without telling me. Money won’t be an issue.
He replies:Money may not be an issue for someone with a steady paycheck. But my work has never been compensated that way. So not so fun for me.
I almost laugh. His “work” hasn’t been compensated, period, for years.
Not that I ever cared about his money or lack thereof. We were a team. He could have contributed in many ways. Help more with Gray, take care of the house, cook the meals.
But by the time he lost his sales job, and I was now banking serious money in private practice, he’d grown accustomed to life in the upper class. No menial sales job would cut it any longer. A stay-at-home dad? Please. He was Finley Brice, hanging out at the fancy country club, a big talker with a three handicap, a backslapper, a player, a big deal.
But that’s water under the bridge. And if I’m going to get through this trial and Luke’s situation, I need as little drama as possible from Finley. So I send him a peace offering:
Go ahead and do the $50K withdrawal if that makes you feel comfortable for now. We will work something out later.
Within ten minutes, my phone buzzes with notice of the $50,000 withdrawal. This time, I don’t stop it. Hopefully, that will keep him happy for a while.
But I know better. The drama’s just beginning.
35
Allison
“It’s bullshit,” says Grayson through my earbuds as I return from my morning power-walk-slash-grocery-trip, the heavy Treasure Island bags thumping lightly against my thighs. “She’s acting like my interpretation is wrong. There’s no right or wrong when it comes to opinions. She can disagree with it, but she’s saying it’s wrong. How is an opinion wrong?”
“Then tell her that,” I say. “Defend yourself.”
“She’ll probably penalize me for it.”
“Not if you do it the right way, constructively. She’ll appreciate that you care enough to talk to her about it, right?”
“You don’t know this professor. This…is so unfair.”
“Sorry, kiddo. Life is unfair. Stand up for yourself. Nobody else will.”
The sun peeks over the horizon, slanting through houses as I near our intersection. I’m supposed to love this part of my day—the ritual, the cold air on my skin, the sweat cooling on my back, the produce shifting in the bags. But while Grayson talks, my brain is having its own debate:Tell him. Tell him about you and Fin. Don’t tell him. Not yet. He’s got classes, midterm exams next week. Don’t burden him. But he deserves to know. But not like this. But when, then? When?
I reach my driveway and pull the garage door opener from my jacketpocket to lift the door, the familiar grind, the interior light popping on, one side of the garage now empty.
“Gotta run, squirt,” I say. “Call me later?”
“Sure. Love you.”
I enter the garage and set down the bags when I sense something behind me, footsteps, heat—
A mountain of a person, an angry giant in a fluorescent orange vest and a red flannel, his eyes predatory and intense, moving so quickly toward me—
No, it can’t be—
I raise up my right hand, but he’s on me, arms extended, shoving me. I fly backward against the garage wall, tripping over storage boxes but managing to stay upright. Before I can say or do anything, his fist lands in my stomach. Pain screams sharp and hot. I fold forward, gasping for air that will not come, and land on the concrete floor.
He slams his hand against the wall. The garage door lowers again, the faint light of dawn narrowing to a strip and then disappearing with a conclusivethud, leaving only the dim light of the bulb overhead. I’m trapped inside. Trapped with this man, Stranger Danger, the road-rage guy.
I try to crawl away, but his foot connects with my ribs, whisking away what little air I had and toppling me over onto my back. “Goin’ somewhere, Allison Brice?” he mocks. “Didn’t think I’d find ya, did ya? I didn’t, either, gotta say. Turns out I’ve been working less than a mile from here on a job—that old mobster house on Cherry Oak?—and I had no idea you were the next town over. Not until you went and got your picture all over the newspaper.” He kicks me again, a hard thrust into the ribs on my other side, an explosion of pain, a lightning bolt through my body. “I said to myself, ‘I know that lady. That’s the stupid cunt that almost killed me.’ ”
I claw for air, for my voice, but all I feel is a searing pain in my ribs and rising panic.
I get to my hands and knees, an instinctive if fruitless attempt atescape. He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls up, forcing me to arch backward, half lifting, half throwing me onto my back, my head striking the surface, spots dancing before my eyes. He crashes down on top of me, his breath sour from cigarettes, those wide feral eyes and thick cheeks.
