by Leigh, Tara
God, I wish I was dead.
Almost as much as I wish Tucker was.
The only thing keeping me alive is the hatred running through my veins.
So I sit in the beautifully upholstered chair inside my quiet nursery with two empty cribs and walls the color of the winter sky, lit by sunshine and a dazzling crystal chandelier.
I rock and I rock and I rock.
And, one day, I will have my revenge.
Part III
Chapter 42
Florida
Five months later, present day
I wake to the sound of silence. Well, almost. Hospitals are never quiet, but the low hum of activity beyond my door is infinitely preferable to the riot of beeping and buzzing from earlier. Cautiously, I open my eyes. The room is less bright than before, just a hazy glimmer of late afternoon sunlight filtering through the window. Sadie is curled up in a chair tucked into the corner. For a brief moment, the sight of my sister cheers me. But it also makes me realize who isn’t here. Tucker.
Where is my husband?
I open my mouth to call out to Sadie but stop short. I don’t want to wake her.
Tucker is probably working. Like always.
The blood in my veins is thick with irritation. Things haven’t been good between us since the last time I was admitted to a hospital—the day we lost the lives we’d created together. And every breath of ammonia-scented air, every crackling page of the intercom, every check of my vitals and beep of a health monitor makes me ache for the perfectly formed babies I’d held for mere moments. Babies that didn’t cry or fuss. Babies that didn’t breathe.
Tucker and I are still married though. Not in any real sense, but legally. The least he could do is make an appearance at my bedside.
Releasing a quiet sigh, I attempt to crawl back into an unconscious cocoon for another few hours. But it’s no use. My head is pounding, half the skin on my body feels as if it’s been flayed open, and closing my eyes only makes it worse. And there’s something else gnawing at me. Something Sadie said, just before the drugs injected into my IV took effect.
Something about…
The thought disappears before it’s fully formed, like fog evaporating inside my fist. I swallow a howl of frustration, resenting both my injuries and the treatment necessary to heal them. If I can’t rely on my own mind, what else is there?
I reach for the television remote control on top of the chest beside my bed. If I was in an accident, maybe there will be a report of it on the local news.
I hold my breath as the screen comes to life, quickly muting the volume before scrolling through channels. Weather. CNN. Infomercial. Infomercial. Cartoon. Infomercial. Tucker. Sports Center. Infomercial.
Wait—what?
I jab at the down arrow of the remote.
Suddenly my husband’s face fills the screen. Coolly appraising stare, strong nose, perpetually boyish grin. Not a hair out of place.
Really? Tucker’s pandering to the media while I’m in a hospital bed?
But… that doesn’t make sense. Although he’s given the occasional interview to a financial news network, Tucker has never exploited his personal life to get on TV. Since his parent’s death especially, he’s preferred to keep a low profile and focus solely on work.
And then I notice the word beneath his face, covering the knot of his tie. Bright red letters, all caps.
MISSING
My chest squeezes as I immediately turn on the volume, needing to know more. Roused from sleep, Sadie pops her head up. “You okay?” she asks, clutching the arm of her chair for support and pulling herself upright.
I point a finger at the screen but I’m too late. Tucker’s face has been replaced with a commercial for constipation laxatives. A sense of foreboding leaches into my bloodstream as I turn toward my sister. “What happened to Tucker?”
“I’ll bet you’re thirsty,” she says, bouncing over to the table holding stacked plastic cups and a pitcher of water. “Let me pour you a drink first.”
I gratefully suck it down before wrapping my fingers around Sadie’s bird-like wrist. “For God’s sake, stop protecting me. I need to know. What is going on?”
“You really don’t remember?”
My head hurts too much to try. “No, I don’t.”
“Really?” Her lips purse. “Nothing?”
I thrust the remote control at Sadie. “Turn it off, please.” The volume is on and the flickering screen over her shoulder is making me nauseous.
She does and I take a moment to appreciate the sudden, blissful quiet before refocusing my attention on my sister. “Nothing that explains why I’m in a hospital, or how I got hurt. If I did, I would tell you.”
There is a hint of doubt in her familiar eyes, shadows that make me wonder whether the secrets I’ve kept from her over the years are really so secret after all.
Eventually, she blinks. “He’s gone.”
“Gone,” I repeat, choking on a gasp. “What do you mean, gone? Where did he go? Was there an accident? Is he—” I swallow the word on the tip of my tongue just as the one Sadie used just after I first woke up pushes its way back to the forefront of my mind. Murder.
Oh my God. Is Tucker dead?
But, like a balloon popping, I recall not just the word she used, but the context in which she’d used it. No one is going to accuse my sister of murder until…
I turn a horrified gaze on Sadie. My sister has been my rock for months, rarely leaving my side since the last time I’d been admitted to a hospital. She knows, more than anyone, how bad things have gotten between Tucker and me. How angry I’ve been. “Were you— Did I— I couldn’t…”
I don’t even bother finishing my third attempt at a sentence, because the truth is, I could.
Since the day I gave birth—or death, as I often think of it—I’ve fantasized about killing Tucker a million times, in a million ways.
But now, facing it as an actual possibility, I feel only horror and sadness. Horror that I may have taken a life when I know exactly how precious each breath is. And sadness that Tucker might really be gone. For all his faults, and there are many, I loved him once. Deeply.
“Don’t, Poppy.” Sadie is pale, her voice high-pitched with strain. “The doctor says you hit your head, badly. And that you may never recover your memory of the actual incident. If you push yourself, you’ll only get another headache.”
I grab at the hand resting on her hip. “I need to remember what happened.” She tries pulling away but I hold firm. “Please, help me.”
My sister flicks a tongue over her lips, and I catch a slight tremble in her chin. Even after all these years, we still could pass for twins. Her hair is slightly lighter than mine, and her eyes more hazel than green. Beyond our looks though, we are a study in opposites.
And we’re at opposite sides of this argument now. “Poppy, I don’t think you should try to remember. Can’t you just leave it?”
“Leave it—are you kidding me? How can I?”
I loosen my grip and Sadie takes advantage, stepping back. She gnaws at her lower lip, deciding how to handle my questions.
I hate waiting, hate being dependent on my younger sister for information, but I keep myself in check. If I push, Sadie will clam up and I’ll get nothing at all.
In the end though, that’s exactly what she gives me. “Can’t you see? If you don’t remember anything, then the burden of proof is on the police. The less you remember, the better.”
Chapter 43
Florida
I’m pulled from sleep by a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. There is a crispness in the room that reminds me of fall. An odd, unsettling awareness of old things ending and new things beginning that, for the moment, are jumbled together.
Almost… an intuitive sense of wrongness.
Outside it is dark, the lights overhead dimmed. It must be the middle of the night. My attention slides to the chair in the corner, expecting to see Sadie curled into a ball, dozing, e
ven though I’d told her to go back to the hotel and get a decent night’s sleep in a real bed.
But it’s not my sister in the room with me. And the man in a dark suit with blazing blue eyes certainly isn’t sleeping.
“Gavin?” Confusion rattles inside my head like an iron chain. There is an FBI Agent waiting outside. Special Agent Gavin Cross. He said you know him. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey.” Gavin stands up quickly, his hand closing around mine, the sweep of his thumb over my wrist like the stroke of a magic wand, taking me back in time. Back to our enchanted forest, back into the arms of a boy I loved with my whole heart.
So much has happened since then. I’m not prepared for the onslaught of memories and emotions, all of them trampling over raw, exposed nerves that are flayed open by too much hurt, too much heartache.
“Gavin.” I say his name again as tears overflow my lashes, running in sheets down my face. He doesn’t hesitate, gently gathering me into his arms and holding me to his chest. My sobs are soundless, the kind that break from my body in a torrent of release. My tears drench my skin and his shirt and the skin beneath his shirt. And still they keep flowing, like a tidal wave of grief and fear and shame and even love that keeps crashing over my head, ripping through my body.
I don’t know how long I cry, how long Gavin holds me, whispering nonsensical words into my hair, gently rocking me in his embrace. It feels like days have passed before my tears slow and finally cease altogether, before I draw a breath that’s not just a hiccup of air. “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I finally say, my throat hollow and raw.
But Gavin just looks down at me, his expression tender. “Does that mean I have to let go of you?”
I give a little shake of my head. “Please don’t.”
He presses a kiss to my very damp temple. “Then I won’t.”
We fidget with the buttons of the hospital bed until it’s almost like an extra-wide La-Z-Boy recliner and he can squeeze in beside me. The atmosphere of the room is oppressive, weighed down by our past and my present, heavy with hidden memories, unspoken truths, and overlooked lies.
I don’t even know where to start, so after a few moments of strained silence, I reach for the lowest hanging fruit. “So, you’re an FBI agent now?”
“I am,” he says, flashing that crooked grin I remember so well. “Financial Crimes Unit.”
A thought crouches in the back of my mind for a split second before leaping off my tongue. “You’re investigating Tucker.”
It’s not a question, and it doesn’t even make any sense. Why would my husband be the subject of an FBI investigation? But Gavin nods. “Some of the business practices he implemented at Stockton Capital raised a red flag. We opened a case file on him and I asked to be assigned to it.”
The last time I saw Gavin was the week before my wedding, five years ago. Is he here because of me, or Tucker? Because of Tucker’s crimes, or his disappearance? “And that’s… That’s why you’re here now?”
He pushes out a deep sigh. “It’s how I knew to be here, but not why I’m here.”
I nod, although I’m not entirely sure what he means. “Am I in trouble?” I whisper, keeping my question deliberately vague.
“Not unless you were involved in your husband’s money laundering operation.”
Serves me right for not getting to the point.
What I really want to know, and I’m too afraid to ask, is whether Gavin suspects, or has any proof, that I’ve done something a hell of a lot worse than conspiring with my husband to commit white-collar crimes. I pluck at the tape securing my IV to the back of my wrist, deciding I’m in no rush to confirm my worst suspicions. Maybe, if I beat around the bush long enough, I’ll have an answer. Or maybe, like Sadie said, I’m better off not knowing. “Tucker was really laundering money?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been watching the news reports. There’s been no mention of that.”
“We haven’t released anything publicly yet.”
“So, you know more than what they’re saying on TV.”
“About your husband and his business, yes. The incident that put you in here is still under investigation.”
Fear digs sharp knuckles into my ribs. “What incident? I don’t remember anything. I tried to get Sadie to help me, but she said it’s best if I don’t remember.”
Gavin’s tone is gentle, his stare compassionate. “First, answer me this. If I’m here in an official capacity as an FBI agent, is there anything that you wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell me?”
“What do you mean?”
“The charges against your husband are serious. And now, with the suspicions surrounding his disappearance—”
“What suspicions?”
“That it was staged. That he’s not dead but in hiding, somewhere without an extradition treaty, living off his stolen millions.”
I gulp at air. Gavin isn’t here because he believes I’ve killed Tucker. He’s here because he thinks I know where Tucker is.
If he’s right… Tucker is alive.
I didn’t kill him.
My head is pounding with this new information. These broken bits of knowledge I have to assemble into a coherent whole.
Tucker is alive… I didn’t kill him… He somehow staged his disappearance to evade criminal charges… And left me behind, holding the bag.
What. The. Fuck.
It sounds crazy. And ridiculous. Like the plot of a bad movie. And yet… it doesn’t feel wrong.
“So, I’m here,” I gesture wildly at my IV and bandages and machines, “trussed up like a mummy while Tucker’s living it up in the tropics, sipping mai tais? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Calm down,” he urges, which only inflames my temper more.
“Really? That’s the best advice you’ve got? How about we switch places, and every time you ask a question someone either tells you to stop asking or drugs you so that you can’t— Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you’re going to be okay.” Gavin’s grin brightens as he reaches for my face, cupping it reverently between his palms. “I was so fucking scared, Poppy. But now… Now I know you’re going to be just fine. Everything else, everything else, we can handle, okay? But I really needed to see that spark to know for sure.”
My small burst of energy and irritation burns away quickly and I collapse against his chest, exhaustion settling over me as the steady thrum of Gavin’s heart beats beneath my cheek. “I’ve missed you,” I murmur, the words so soft they’re barely more than a shuddering exhale.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Yeah. Me, too.”
We fall silent for a while, each of us lost in our own heads. I’m almost asleep when he asks, “Does he make you happy?” There’s an underlying note of reluctance in Gavin’s voice, like every syllable was a painful effort.
I answer honestly. “He did. I thought he did, anyway. But not—” Pain clutches at my heart when I think about my babies. “Not for a while.”
“But this trip, it was to celebrate your anniversary?”
“Celebrate… no.” There’s no reason to hide the truth from Gavin. “Things were over between us. It was really just a matter of filing for divorce to make it official.”
“The decision was mutual?”
“I don’t—” I rub at my throbbing temples. I may have wanted to kill Tucker, but eventually I would have come to my senses and done what rational adults do—hire a lawyer and move on with my life. Right? “I don’t know.”
“Okay.” Gavin seems to sense my inner turmoil, shifting our position so that we’re facing each other. “Let’s back up. You remember flying down to Miami?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember where you stayed?”
“The Delano.” There had been reporters broadcasting in front of the iconic oceanfront hotel.
“But do you remember it.”
I close my eyes and concentrate. After a moment, I feel a blast of hea
t on my face, the taste of coconut rum thick on my tongue. “Yes. I remember having drinks there, by the pool.”
“With Tucker?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“We just stayed the one night. And then we drove…” My words fade as I recall getting into a car beside Tucker, a white Mercedes convertible, feeling like Grace Kelly with a scarf over my head and oversized sunglasses covering half my face.
Images rush at me, so many of them it feels like my head is going to burst. Mirrored aviators obscuring Tucker’s eyes. A cloudless blue sky above an azure sea. Boats, hundreds of them. Then one in particular—an enormous, gleaming yacht, its flag silhouetted against the bright sky, hull riding high in the water. An immaculately dressed crew of eight lined up to welcome us.
I feel the gentle sway of the sea, relaxing and exhilarating all at once. The waxy surface of the gleaming teak deck beneath my bare feet.
“I remember the marina. I remember boarding the yacht and casting off. We sailed toward the Keys.”
“He was an experienced sailor?”
I open my eyes. “Tucker learned to sail as a kid, I believe. His parents kept a boat at the Greenwich Yacht Club, in Connecticut. But the yacht came with a crew. Tucker didn’t captain it.”
“Can you remember if Tucker left the yacht at all? Did you go scuba diving together? Or explore the islands on your own, away from the crew?”
I take a quick breath and look away from Gavin, burrowing inside my jumble of memories to recapture a distinct memory of Tucker and me, together.
But it’s like trying to punch through a veil as it dances in the wind. I’m only getting tangled up inside my own mind. Everything is blurry and confusing.
Not exactly everything. The emotion flickering to life inside me is the same one that has characterized much of the past nine months. Betrayal.
The thing about betrayal is that it has the strength to pervert logic, to turn rational people into zealots. Is that what happened between Tucker and I, in the warm waters just off the Florida Keys? Did I act to end our marriage, not by divorce, but by death?
