“Our last fight was due to Archer’s celebration of life. His fiancée and Teddy organized the annual party to celebrate him. It was the fifth anniversary of his disappearance. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to celebrate our sixth month anniversary in fucking France.”
I scrub my face with both hands. “I called her a spoiled brat. I was supposed to drive her, but she picked up her shit and left saying, ‘I hate you, and I might never come back. If something happens to your—’” I pause because what’s the point of saying that out loud?
“‘I hate you’ were her last words.” I tap my head with the tips of my fingers then toss my hands up in the air. “Every night, I wonder if it’s my fault that she got on that bus. If I had done things differently or…”
“You didn’t kill her,” he says.
“It feels like I threw her under the bus.” I shake my head. “I never told anyone what happened before she died.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he assures me.
“Wasn’t it?”
“It. Wasn’t.”
My head drops along with my shoulders. After taking a couple of cleansing breaths, I straighten my spine and look at him. “Why does it feel like I did it? You should beat the shit out of me for killing your sister-in-law. I brought nothing but sorrow into this family.”
“As I said, I can’t pretend to understand that I know what you’re feeling. You didn’t bring sorrow to the family. I never met Callie, but I watched her being a bitch to my wife and her family. She wasn’t a nice person. I’m going to stop talking shit about her because she’s gone.” He points at his house. “My wife loves you like the little brother she didn’t have. You should reach out to her and ask for help. I bet she knows someone as kick-ass as her who might help you get through your grief. You have to let yourself grieve, or the pain will eat you alive.”
It sounds as if he wants to absolve me, but it’s impossible.
“You’re a good friend, Ford. I’ll text your wife later to apologize for being an asshole. It wasn’t my intention.”
An alarm begins to beep. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and grins. “It’s time to go and pick up my girl from preschool.”
At the mention of his daughter, I feel a pang. My heart hurts. I’ll never get to pick up my kid from anything. I think about Matilda, her quest to make her mom happy, and everything the two sacrificed because the man who was supposed to complete their family left too soon. There has to be a way to help them. I just don’t know how, but I’ll figure it out.
“Say hi to Leah. I’ll see you around, okay?”
“Take care of yourself.”
I get in the rental, and as I head to the airport, I wonder if Callie would’ve ever become closer to her family again. I order myself to stop thinking about the past and concentrate on the future.
Chapter Ten
Autumn
“Who did it?” I ask as I enter my brother’s house.
I expect to find Aiden and Miranda in the kitchen cooking or making out like teenagers in heat. After all, it’s Saturday morning. But nobody’s here. I put their spare keys back in my purse and check the shoe rack. It’s empty. Okay, so they left earlier.
I’m about to leave when I almost trip on Aiden’s tennis shoes. That’s so unlike him to leave clothes around. Not because he’s organized. The slob has a pretty organized wife who’d kill him if he left his clothes everywhere—like the T-shirt that lays on the coffee table.
The house is usually immaculate. I don’t understand the trail of clothes around the living area.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come today to confront them. In theory, my plan was perfect. I gave myself a couple of days to think about my conversation with Persy. My child’s actions. There’s a reason she felt the need to call a podcast to fix my life. I was too upset and riled up to bring that up with Matilda or anyone in my family.
I learned from Pax that when something upset me to the point that I wanted to destroy the world, I should take a deep breath, wait a day or two, and then look at everything that happened from a different perspective.
I did.
First, I have to figure out who the culprit was that helped my child. My brother and his wife are my primary suspects. I dropped off Matilda with Mom. I told her I’d pick her up around two. That gives me a little more than five hours to kill my brother and his wife, bury their bodies, and think about an alibi. Or, if they aren’t guilty, I might use the time to run some errands before I head to Mom’s and I make her confess her crime.
“Guys, you’re scaring me,” I say, concerned about the state of the house and their lack of response.
When I arrive too early on weekends, Aiden usually appears out of nowhere wearing his pajama bottoms, complaining about my timing, and offering me some coffee. Not this time. I walk toward the hallway to see if anyone is inside when I hear grunts and noises coming from the home office.
“Yes, more, Mr. Wick.” I hear Miranda’s throaty voice.
Heat climbs up my neck, and I don’t think twice. I turn around and run as fast as I can. Well, this was not only unsuccessful but totally gross. As I make my way to my car, I bump into a solid chest. I look up, and a pair of light brown eyes stare down at me. His gaze catches mine. His big hand holds the small of my back.
“Careful, sweetheart. Are you in a hurry?” Oh my God, that voice. It’s throaty and delicious.
I take a good look at the man who is either the reason I almost fell or the one who saved me from kissing the pavement.
The jury deliberates while I stare at his gorgeous, sculpted face. The five o’clock shadow around that chiseled jaw gives me an idea or two. Instead of planning my child’s sentence, I should spend some time at home with my toys fantasizing about this man and thinking how it’ll feel to have that face between my legs.
The things I want him to do to me.
He reminds me of Jesse Metcalfe if Jesse had darker eyes and was five inches taller.
Don’t get me wrong, I like Jesse a lot, but I prefer guys over six feet tall, like this one. Not that I’m going to give him my phone number or ask him to run with me to the Merkel Hotel down the street. It’d be nice, but I’m too busy dealing with my life to entertain the thought of having to add another person to it—even for a quickie. I don’t have time to think about sex, let alone get to know someone to have some fun.
Persy Brassard might be on to something about not making time for myself, but my life is too complicated to add fun to my routine.
“Sorry, I was…” I compose myself as I detach from Mr. Adonis. “Never mind.”
“Okay,” he says, reaching toward the doorbell.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t go inside. They’re…busy.”
He smirks. “Busy?”
“Yes. My brother and his wife are”—I press my palms together and rub them—“exercising.”
His brown eyes crinkle before he releases a big laugh. “How are you, little Autumn?”
I blink my eyes a couple of times and study him. Those brown eyes look familiar. I just can’t…“Zachary St. James?”