“It might be better for you if I could come in,” she suggests, looking pointedly at the bags on my arms.
I shake my head. That’s not happening.
The charge will be murder if the papers are telling the truth.
I’m not interested in hearing from anyone other than my husband. He hasn’t been formally charged yet, but for it to be in the papers, there’s a fifty-fifty chance they have enough to arrest him as far as I can tell, and I’ll be damned if I let her inside, and … More shame consumes me at the thought of making sure I don’t give them any evidence that could help convict him. As if he really did it. There’s no way he did. My husband’s not a murderer.
“Ask me whatever you’d like, Detective, but make it quick.”
“I know you two are getting a divorce,” she says and the article from two days ago flashes in my memory. “I’m sure you’ve heard he’s going to be charged with murder, given your position in the social circles around here.”
A deep inhale of the frigid fall air chills my lungs to the point that it’s painful. The article was all about how Evan lost his job, his wife, and now he’s about to be charged with murder. My heart thuds dully just the same it did when I first read it, as if it’s lifeless.
“I wanted to know if you had any information that you’d like to give us,” Detective Nicoli says and I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.
“Look, I know this is hard, but anything at all you can give us would be appreciated.”
I stare straight into her eyes and I hope she feels all the hatred in my gaze. He’s not a murderer. I don’t care what they think.
“I don’t have anything I’d like to tell you other than that these bags are heavy.”
The detective frowns. “If we have to get a warrant and search your place, it’s not going to be pleasant for you.” She softens her voice and adds, “I’m just trying to spare you that.”
I’m not stupid and her good cop routine isn’t going to work on me.
I’ve had to talk to cops before, years ago. I never said a word. I’m sure as hell not going to now.
“Did you know Tony Lewis?” she asks, and I shake my head. Again, not wanting to speak, but she waits for me to confirm it out loud. The pen in her hand is pressed to the pad as she stands there expectantly.
“Never met him.”
“Do you know where your husband would go to acquire cocaine?”
My expression turns hard as I tell her, “My husband doesn’t do coke.” Any more almost slips out. He’s done it before. He’s done a lot of shit that I’m ashamed of, but that was before me. Before us. For a moment, I question it. Just one small moment. But then it passes as quickly as it came.
Detective Nicoli smirks and flips the page over in her notepad then says, “We’ll have the warrant for a sample from him soon.”
Absently my hand drifts to my stomach to where our baby is growing, as if protecting this little one will protect Evan, but I’m quick to pull it back as one of the heavier bags slips forward on my arm.
She doesn’t need to know, but I want to tell her. I want to tell the whole world that the Evan I know could never do what they’re saying. But I don’t tell her a damn thing and I’ve given her enough of my time.
“Good for you,” I tell her and walk past her. I shove the key into the lock and turn it, but before I can open the door, the cop leans against it and waits for me to look at her.
“Please move out of my way,” I say as I seethe, my anger coming through. Anger at Evan, anger at her.
“Someone’s going down for Tony Lewis’s death.”
“Someone should, but my husband is not a murderer,” I snap. I grip the door handle tightly, feeling the intricate designs in the hard metal press against my skin. It’s freezing and the lack of circulation in my arms hurts. But I can’t let go. I don’t trust myself.
“I have nothing more to say, so I’m going inside,” I tell her, and every word comes out with conviction.
“I’ll leave my card,” she responds after two long seconds of her hazel eyes drilling into the side of my head. She slips a card into one of the bags dangling from my right arm.
I watch her walk away, biting back the comment on the tip of my tongue for her not to bother.
“What a bitch,” I spit out the second I open the door and get inside, then let the bags fall to the floor.
My body feels like ice and my arms and shoulders are killing me. My legs are weak as I lean against the door to shut it and stare absently ahead, my gaze drifting from the empty foyer to the stairs.
I want to cry.
I want to give up.
Mostly I wish I’d been a better wife. I wish I’d kept Evan from whatever the hell he did.
I know him. He didn’t do this. I don’t know what he did, but he didn’t kill anyone.
Chapter 2
Evan
Every second that ticks on that fucking clock makes me want to break it.
I haven’t felt like this since the first time I was brought into jail. It wasn’t here; that place was in a small town, somewhere in the bumfuck boonies outside of Chicago. This restless need to get the fuck out and handle all the hell I created is the exact same feeling I had that first night.
Tick, the clock’s minute hand moves again and I peer to my right, staring down the woman at the front desk who’s processing the paperwork for my release.
My neck cracks as I stretch out my shoulders. I haven’t slept a wink and I’m exhausted, but pure adrenaline is pumping through my veins, keeping me awake and fighting.
I need to get the hell out of here.
I knew something was off from the very beginning. James tried to fuck me over. It had to be him.
The only reason I can think of is because of Samantha, though, and that doesn’t make sense. It’s been years since we had that affair. Years for her husband to get over it. Shit, all he’s been talking about for months is how he wants their divorce to be finalized.
I lean back on the metal bench as I force myself not to look at the desk sergeant, and not to look at the clock either. My eyes focus on the abstract patterns of the cheap linoleum tiles and the sounds of the police station fade into the background as my thoughts take the forefront.
The memory of that night comes back to me.
I flinch as I remember the feel of James’s hand on my shoulder, showing me where the new rec room in the renovated hotel was and asking me if I needed anything else. My eyes close when I think about him handing me the key card and looking to his left and right before telling me to make sure I showed Tony a good time.
My lungs still and my vision turns red as my teeth grind against one another while my fists clench.
I can’t fucking handle this. If that fucker set me up to die, he’s a dead man.
Even if it wasn’t him, someone laced that coke with enough fentanyl to kill. I’ll be damned if I rest until I know who did it. Whether they were after me or Tony, or it was a mistake, it doesn’t matter. They’re dead.
“Mr. Thompson.” A small voice to my right says my name and breaks my concentration. It takes every effort to raise my head and relax my body as if nothing’s wrong. As if I’m not envisioning beating in some unknown man’s face with my bare knuckles. I’m quick to get to my feet, eager to leave.
Each step smacks off the floor, the sound drowning out the steady ticking of the clock. My heart beats in rhythm to match my pace.
“Your belongings.” A weak smile forms on her thin lips as she hands me a ziplock plastic bag and review the contents one by one, going down the list in her hands.
It’s all standard procedure, I tell myself.
I shove my hands into my pockets and rock on my heels as I wait. Each second makes me more and more anxious to get out of here.
“And your keys,” she says flatly then finally meets my eyes again.
“Thank you,” I answer with a tight smile and grab the bag before she can change her mind. As I slip my black leat
her wallet into my back pocket, I wonder what James will say. Better yet, I wonder how I can get him to confess.
“Make sure you sign here.” I smile as I do what I’m supposed to.
Break his jaw.
“And here,” the woman adds, pointing to another line on the release forms.
Bash his knees in with a tire iron.
“You’re all set, Mr. Thompson.”
Put a gun to his head.
My lips tilt up as if I’m happy to be getting out of here. But my muscles are tightly wound and my stomach’s churning.
All because of one question: What if it wasn’t him?
No one can know about any of this shit. My heart skips a beat and I hesitate to walk out of the station. Kat.
My feet nearly stumble over each other at the thought of someone going after her. They wouldn’t. Not when she’s through with me. They can’t. No one better hurt her. No one touches my wife.
I force myself to move forward. I can’t go to the cops, not even to protect her. All they’ll do is go after me. I don’t have a shred of evidence other than a testimony that could lead them to convict me. I have nothing but my word. Inside these four walls, my word doesn’t mean shit. I’m well aware of that fact.
The sky’s gray as I glare through the glass doors, hating this place and what I’ve done. I have to tell her the truth and make sure she knows I’ll keep her safe and not to trust anyone; I shake my head. I’ll have to tell her I’m coming home first and with that thought, I take out my phone. Turning it on, I lean against the door waiting to see what I’m up against.
I bet she’s heard I’m locked up, but maybe there’s a small chance she hasn’t.
As the phone comes to life, a series of pings follows the messages popping up.
A couple from Pops, the first asking where I am and if Kat forgave me. The next asking me to call him when I get out of jail. A numbness creeps over my shoulders at the feeling of disappointment that runs through me. He’s too old to be dealing with my shit.
My body sags against the door, the chilly temps from the autumn night seeping through the glass.
I scroll through the messages asking all sorts of questions from people who don’t really give a shit about me, and vice versa. They don’t matter.
The one person who does matter, the only one I want to hear from and the only person I want to run to … hasn’t sent a single text.
It takes a second for my throat to loosen enough so I can swallow that realization. I check the missed calls to make sure Kat hasn’t tried to contact me, although hopelessness runs through my veins before I push the glass doors open with a hard slam of my fists.
I hate that she didn’t call me. That she didn’t care enough to let me know she heard. If Pops has heard, she’s heard.
The bitter cold air whips by my face as I move toward the corner.
I check my messages again, searching for her name like I could’ve missed it. One catches my eye. Samantha. I pause over her name and read her text. We need to talk.
My strides quicken at the thought of meeting with her. She might know something. She could be my way to get what I need from James.
I have to go to Kat first and knowing that, I text Sam back, asking when and where.
Glancing up at the next intersection and seeing the Don’t Walk icon flashing, I look over my shoulder to hail a cab. I’m going home, whether Kat likes it or not.
I’ve kept so many secrets from her.
My head hangs low as a cab pulls up and I step out into the busy streets of New York City. The door slams shut with a loud click, dulling the city noises as I tell the driver our address. It’s only after a few minutes of quiet, the rumble of the car almost lulling me to sleep, that I rub my tired eyes and think about what Kat would say. What she’d do if she knew the shit I got myself into.
She’s already so close to hating me.
She’s close to being over me and what we had.
I can’t risk losing her, but right now either choice—to come clean, or to hide it from her—feels like I’ve already lost her. She needs to know, though … I have to make sure she’s safe and she’s protecting herself.
Chapter 3
Kat
“I want to thank you for meeting me,” Jacob says in both a charming and professional tone—I’m not sure how that’s possible—as my keys clink on the coffee shop table and I take a seat across from him.
It’s been three days since Evan came back to the townhouse. And three days since he accused me of cheating on him and punching Jacob. That night I sent Jacob a message apologizing, but then I turned my phone off. Three days of me hiding away in our bedroom and pretending this isn’t my life.
At some point, I had to come out. What a fresh hell I walked into.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him again with all sincerity and my eyes closed tightly as I settle down into the seat. It’s a wicker chair with a dark red cushion and the smell of coffee from the café adds to the comfort. This coffee shop has a homey feel to it. Very different from my favorite spot in town, Brew Madison, but I can see why Jacob likes it.
My cheeks are practically frozen from the piercing wind whipping through the West Village, but even still, they burn. “I honestly cannot say—”
“Don’t.” Jacob stops me from saying more, holding up his hand and waving off my embarrassment.
I can’t believe how out of hand things have gotten. As a professional, I’m mortified.
“Please, Jacob.” I shake my head slightly then look up at him, staring into his eyes as I refuse to let him downplay everything, especially with a faint bruise hiding behind the five o’clock shadow along his strong jaw. “What happened the other day was ridiculous. Evan had no right to put his hands on you, and I want to thank you for not pressing charges.”
“I don’t blame him, Kat,” Jacob says and waves off my gratitude with an ease that catches me off guard. My heartbeat quickens and it’s the only thing I can hear for a brief moment while I take in his words.
“It’s fine, really. I mean it, I don’t blame him.”
I slowly take off my coat as I tell him, “I do. I know it looked a little off.” A feeling of confusion clouds my memory of what I’d planned to say.
I was going to thank him for not pressing charges.
Beg him not to hold it against the publishing agency.
And concede that I would not be his point of contact if he did choose go with us. Obviously, I can’t represent him after what happened. I’m prepared for that.
“Evan is in the wrong in every way, and I feel awful.”
“It wasn’t you who did it.” The comfort in his voice makes me slightly uneasy. The next words out of his mouth add to that nervousness. “I’m kinda glad he did.”
“Why?” I ask quietly, the nervousness changing to something else. I should stop this. I know that much. It’s a slippery slope I’m balancing on.
“You two split, right?”
“Yeah,” I answer him, and it makes my throat go dry. My chest feels hollow, with nothing there but the raw emotion I’m trying to ignore. What am I doing? I’m feeling something other than the agony that’s plagued me for weeks.
“He’s not acting like it, judging by the way he talks to you. He’s aggressive. He’s doing what my ex did to me. And I don’t like it.”
“I don’t know what Evan’s thinking right now, but this isn’t him. He isn’t like this.”
“Either way, I don’t blame him.”
I don’t know what to say back. There’s a tension between us that’s different from what I anticipated.
“I don’t like the way I saw him treat you,” Jacob states with a softened voice and then raises up his hands as if expecting me to protest. “I know I only saw a small piece.” He licks his lower lip and adds, “I just didn’t like it. So, if he’s going to take it out on me instead, I’ll take it.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, attempting to stop what he’s insinuating. “Evan doesn
’t take anything out on me.”
“It’s just something about what I see between you guys. It gets to me.”
“Between us?”
“How you obviously care for him, even though it’s killing you,” he answers with a sadness in his eyes that could rival mine.
“Either way,” he continues, “I’m sorry and you don’t have a reason to be, so … let’s just agree to let it stay in the past?”
“I didn’t anticipate you being the one apologizing today.”
Jacob shrugs and it’s then I get an even better look at the faint bruise on his jaw. With the rough stubble, it almost blends in, but when I catch sight of it again, I cringe.
Jacob smiles at me and a masculine chuckle makes his T-shirt tighten on his broad shoulders.
“Seriously, Kat,” he tells me and moves his hand to the table, turning it so it’s palm up. “Don’t worry about it. I can see where he’s coming from.”
Jacob’s gaze flickers to his white mug. I glance down at it; it’s chai, and a warmth flows through me at the thought of getting myself one.
“So, we’re all good?” I ask him.
He shrugs again and takes a sip from his drink. “If you’re okay?” he finally answers, and okay is not exactly the word I’d use to describe myself right now.
“For you, miss,” a woman to my right announces, startling me and catching me by surprise. The barista I barely noticed when I first walked in sets down a mug identical to Jacob’s in front of me. The warming aroma of cinnamon mixed with nutmeg hits me immediately and I welcome the scent.
“Thank you,” I tell her although my eyes are on Jacob.
“I thought you’d like it,” he says, answering the unspoken question with a grin. “I know the shop is new, but I’ve had their chai almost every day and you have to try it,” he tells me like we’re good friends. Like we know each other well. After a moment he adds, “Great place to write.”
“I can see that.” I swallow, feeling a stir of something else in my chest. It pulls at my heart. Guilt. I feel like I’m cheating.
You Know I Need You: Book 2, You Know Me duet (You Are Mine Duets 4) Page 2
