This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(13)

“You meet this guy for ten minutes at my Christmas party,” Edward snaps, shoving his plate away. “You feel flattered because he watches your ass all night, then take his side even though he makes my life at work a fucking nightmare? That’s just great, Sol. Thanks a lot.”

Waves of shock reverberate over the table, all three girls watching us with wide, worried eyes.

“He was not—” I break off, refusing to air this in front of our children. “Let’s just drop it.”

“Yeah.” He pushes away from the table and to his feet. “Consider it dropped.”

“You didn’t finish your dinner,” I protest feebly, clenching my fists in my lap.

He stops beside my chair, looking down at me with a sneer. “I lost my appetite.” He makes quick strides to exit the dining room. “I’m going out back for a while.”

“Out back” is his man cave. When we bought this house, there was a small storage shed in the backyard. Edward said he’d make it his retreat for when the estrogen of four women in the house got to be too much. He found the furniture, chose the paint and carpet, the gargantuan plasma TV. And, of course, installed his “priceless” collection of Boston Celtics paraphernalia.

I stand and follow him, telling the girls, “I’ll be right back.”

I catch him in the foyer and take his arm.

“What the hell was that?” I demand with low-voiced outrage. “How dare you speak to me that way in front of our children? How dare you speak to me that way at all? Are you really so angry with Judah that you lose control like that?”

“Did I lie? You think I didn’t see the way he watched you? He wanted you.”

“Is that why you deigned to fuck me that night when we got home? Because the villain of the story in your head wanted me? Is that the only way you can get it up these days? The villain Viagra must have worn off because you haven’t been back since.”

He reaches out and grabs me by the arms, gripping so tightly I wince.

“Don’t push me, Sol,” he growls. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with. You wouldn’t take his side if you knew.”

“Let go,” I grit out. “You’re hurting me.”

His hands fall away immediately, and he runs his fingers through his hair, disheveling the neat blond cap.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately,” I say, rubbing my arms, “but you need to—”

The chime of the doorbell cuts into the tirade I had all queued up for him.

“Literally saved by the bell,” he says. “The last thing I want to hear is you lecturing me on…”

He opens the door and trails off. We both take in the small group of people gathered on our porch. Their jackets read FBI. A knot forms in my stomach, and even though I don’t know what they’re doing here, it can’t be good.

“Edward Barnes,” says the man standing in the front, flashing his badge. “You’re under arrest.”





CHAPTER THREE





SOLEDAD


There’s a hurricane tearing through my house.

“You’re making a mistake!” Edward shouts, straining against the cuffs around his wrists, his face mottled with rage.

“What’s going on?” I ask, splitting my question between Edward and the stranger who barged in with an army of ants crawling all over my house.

“It’s that motherfucker Cross,” Edward says, panic taking his voice higher. “I told you he was after me. I’d bet my life he’s behind this. It’s all a misunderstanding.”

“Officer,” I say, turning on the man who first presented himself at the door and seems to be in charge. “You can’t just come in here and tear our house apart and arrest my husband. Do you have a warrant?”

“Agent,” he corrects. “Agent Spivey, and yes, ma’am.”

He holds up a document that must be at least twenty pages, flips to the end, and points to the signature at the bottom. “Search warrant, and also a warrant for Mr. Barnes’s arrest.”

“It’s a load of bullshit,” Edward interrupts tersely. “That’s what it is.”

“Embezzlement,” Agent Spivey inserts, looking at Edward. “Your husband knows exactly why we’re here and what we’re looking for.”

On the page Agent Spivey holds up, words like affidavit, search, seizure, investigation, subpoenaed bank records, forfeiture swim like fish in an ocean of ink and confusion.

“Edward?” His name trembles on my lips because I’m so deeply afraid he does know what this is about. His out-of-character behavior. The late hours. All the “projects” he’s been working on lately that were never such a huge part of his job before. Could it all add up to this?

“Dammit!”

The curse comes from an agent struggling to catch my prized Cristina Córdova ceramic in the foyer as he flips my rug.

“If you’re not planning to pay for that when it breaks,” I snap, “I suggest you be more careful.”

Agent Spivey glances from the shamefaced agent to me. “We actually do pay to replace anything we break,” he says. “I know this is a lot, but we’re just doing our job.”