Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Marissa shakes herself, giving him a lost look before her face tightens into a scowl.
“Right.” She sweeps us with a look. “The only Marshall who was invited here was Clara. The rest of you can get off my property. Unless you want me to have security escort you out.” Her eyes flick to me like glinting knives.
Very fucking funny, throwing my words back at me.
“Let’s go.” Aunt Clara touches my arm lightly.
Deb catches my eye over her head. She doesn’t have to mouth any words at me for me to know what she’s saying.
I’ve known her my whole life, and despite our teasing and bickering, she’s still my sister.
We’ll talk later, she says silently.
Still dazed, I start moving, feeling like the entire world’s been ripped out from under me.
I escort Clara to my car and tuck her into the passenger seat, then climb in and wait for Deb to drive through the roundabout before I follow her car like we’re in a funeral procession.
It’s dead silent, though now and then I’m painfully aware of little things like Rick’s sunglasses clipped to the visor, a bottle cap from one of his lemon Italian sodas in the cup holder, all those reminders that—fuck.
I can’t even sort my feelings there.
Why? Why didn’t he just trust me enough to come for help, instead of letting Marissa goddamned Sullivan blackmail him against me?
Then again, when I refuse to trust anyone else—
Have I really been someone who anyone could turn to for help in their darkest hour? Even my driver?
Goddammit.
Fine.
Maybe after this is over, we’ll sort this out and we’ll talk. But it’ll be a long damned time before I trust Rick to do anything more than pick up my dry cleaning.
I’ll definitely hire someone to get that compromising info Marissa has, even if it’s by less-than-legal methods.
Aunt Clara sits silently next to me, staring out the window, her expression ghostly. It’s like she’s deflated.
Everything that makes her Aunt Clara has drained out, now that she’s given up the core of her life.
It’s not right.
None of this is fucking right.
And I don’t know what to do about it, as long as she’s keeping her lips so stubbornly sealed about why this is even happening.
I cast a few frustrated glances at her, start to say something, and stop.
I don’t know if I want to yell, beg, accuse, cry, or just fucking give up and let it be.
So I’m not expecting her to abruptly say, “You’re still angry at Charisma.”
“What?” I blink at her before turning back to traffic. “Of course I’m angry at Charisma. She tried to—”
“That’s not why you’re angry.” Clara smiles sadly.
“The hell it isn’t.”
“August.” She watches me knowingly. “You hate liars. Please don’t lie to yourself.”
“I . . .”
I recoil, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel as I stare at the taillights ahead of us. I’ve been so out of it I didn’t even realize we were no longer behind Deb. She must have merged into the turn back to Little Key a few blocks back.
Why am I so angry at my dead ex-wife?
There’s no point in it. I can’t even tell her if I knew—
Oh.
Well, that’s it, isn’t it?
“I’m angry at her for dying,” I admit. I feel like I’m spitting words at my reflection in the windshield. “There was no reason. No reason. We could have been normal divorced people. We could’ve said we were sorry it went wrong and gone our separate ways. I know I wasn’t husband of the year. I know. I know we weren’t right for each other. But instead of talking about it, she had to fucking go and get sucked in with those lunatics, and then—”
I cut myself off, pounding my fist on the steering wheel.
“I wish she was alive.” Why is there a knot in my throat? “I wish I’d handled it right. I wish we’d settled our shit and gotten on with our lives, but we didn’t. And I’ve been blaming myself for that, and that’s wrong. All because I blame her. I blame her for what she did, and she’ll never be here again for me to tell her to her face.”
It comes out in a snarling rush, leaving me winded.
Clara watches me with her usual patience.
I’m reminded of when I was a little boy and she’d watch me screw up my face, trying like hell not to cry when I was hurt and angry. And she’d always coax my feelings out until I was an angry little mess, ranting about how mean the kids at school were, when all I wanted was a friend.
“No, she’s not,” Clara agrees gently. “But you’re still here. You’re alive. You’re here to admit that to yourself. To heal, now that you’ve acknowledged your real feelings.”
“I don’t know if I’m capable of healing.” My lips twist bitterly.