This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(15)

I’m on the stair landing when I hear three hushed voices coming from Lupe’s room. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but their words are interspersed with shhhes and tears. I hesitate, torn between going in to comfort them and letting them be there for each other. I spent the last hour plying them with thin reassurances I’m not even sure I believe. It melts my heart a little that they’re together in one room. It’s what my sisters and I would have done. Hell, what we did do anytime something scared us or left us unsure.

I decide to leave them be for now and head down the stairs to survey the damage—displaced couch cushions, dirt from my plants carelessly strewn through the hall, and broken glass from fallen picture frames. Under normal circumstances, there’s no way I could go to bed with my house this trashed, but in the wake of adrenaline and fear, a bone-deep weariness takes up residence. All the possibilities bow my shoulders and strap themselves around my ankles like weights. I’m dragging myself up the stairs to pull the covers over my head and try to prepare for whatever tomorrow holds when the doorbell rings.

“I can’t.” I shake my head and pull my hair off my neck. “I can’t take one more thing.”

But I walk to the door and peer through the glass panes, half expecting Agent Spivey to be standing on my porch with another search warrant because there is some tiny corner of my life they forgot to upend.

It’s not the agent.

It’s my best friends.

I wrench the door open, so glad to see Yasmen and Hendrix illuminated under the porch light, worry etched into their faces.

“Yas,” I choke out. “Hen.”

They cross the threshold, pulling me into a them-scented hug that shatters the last of my composure. The tears come in a deluge that scalds my cheeks and leaves my throat raw from sobs.

“Hey, hey, honey.” Yasmen pushes the tangled hair back from my face. “It’s gonna be okay. Come in here and sit.”

I force one leg in front of the other until I reach the couch and collapse, letting my head fall back so I can stare up at the coffered ceiling I was so particular about when we were designing. I had to have Calacatta marble for the counters. Viking oven. Bifold doors leading to the patio. None of it seems important now because we could lose everything, and the only things that matter are my girls.

“This son of a bitch done fucked up,” Hendrix says, flopping into an armchair. “I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“Hen,” Yasmen chides, dark eyes wide and curly Afro moving with a quick shake of her head. “We don’t have the full picture.”

“Oh, I do.” Hendrix’s bold features—high cheekbones, slashing dark brows, and full lips—twist with disdain. “He done fucked up, but even I, who have never been this man’s biggest fan, didn’t think it would be of these here epic proportions. The FBI? Shiiiiiit.”

“How do you know it was the FBI?” I ask, sitting up. “Wait. I’m so glad you’re here, but how did you know to come? I was gonna call you in the morning.”

“It, um…” Yasmen runs her palms over the legs of her black jogging suit. “It’s already all over Skyland, Sol. I’m sorry. You know if somebody sneezes at night, Deidre from the bookstore is dropping off a box of Kleenex in the morning.”

“Well, and it was kinda on the news,” Hendrix adds, a subdued frown sitting ill at ease on her face.

“The… who… what…” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Did you say on the news?”

“CalPot is one of the biggest employers in the state,” Hendrix points out. “Six million dollars may not bankrupt them, but it’s still a lot of money to—”

“Six million dollars?” I squawk, bouncing an incredulous look between them. “What six million dollars?”

“On the news,” Yasmen says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “They said Edward is accused of embezzling upward of six million dollars from the company.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I launch myself from the couch to pace in front of the fireplace. “I mean, I get it. He’s not your favorite, but you know he’s not capable of something like this, right? There has to be a mistake.”

What if Edward goes to prison? We’ve been at odds lately, but he’s still my husband. Fear for him, for the girls and me, strangles a sob in my throat. I’m spinning in some alternate universe with zero gravity. If even half of this is true, then my husband is not who I thought he was. Then the father of my children is a liar. A criminal.

Untrustworthy.

Irresponsible.

Reckless.

And how could I not know? Nearly twenty years with him, and how could I not know?

Each question hammers at my temples. I need answers. I reach for the remote and aim it toward the television, only to have it snatched from my hands.

“No, ma’am.” Hendrix hides the remote behind her back. “Not tonight. We told you the highlights. It’s late. Tomorrow’s gonna be a bitch. You should get some rest.”

My phone rings, and my heart pounds when I see Brunson’s number.

“It’s the lawyer,” I tell them, accepting the call. “Brunson, oh, my God. What’s going on?”

“Sol,” he says, sounding as tired as I feel. “Sorry I didn’t call sooner. I’ve been trying to detangle this mess.”