“Peter, if you really believe your wife is dangerous, you should call the police.”
“Oh, I did. But there’s no proof. You know they always side with the mother on these sorts of things.”
“Well, I’m really sorry it’s come to that. Is there…is there anything I can do?”
“Actually, there is.” I gathered the medical supplies and shoved them back into the first aid kit, not bothering to put anything back in its place. Ainsley would hate it. “Could you give me a ride somewhere?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Peter… I really don’t want to get involved. I just wanted to apologize because it’s been bothering me—”
“It’s nothing crazy. I just need to get our car from downtown. I had Ainsley meet me for coffee and we rode back here together, but, like I said, she took my SUV. Her car is downtown, so I just need to pick it up.”
“I’m not going to, like, get arrested for helping you steal her car, am I?”
I laughed. “No. Of course not.”
“Okay, fine. Where should I pick you up?”
I rattled off the address.
“GPS shows I can be there in an hour.”
“Okay, I’ll be here. And thanks, Gina. This means a lot.”
“I told you to get your shit together, Peter. Sounds like you finally are.”
Just under an hour later, Gina’s gray Camry pulled into the driveway. I jogged out to the car to meet her, waving my injured hand at her in the fading daylight. When I opened the door, she leaned over, trying to get a better look at me.
“What happened to your hand?”
“Ainsley.”
“She hurt you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Peter, if she hurt you, you have to call the police. Men can be victims, too. There’s no shame in—”
“I’m fine, Gina,” I said gently. “I promise I’m fine. It’s complicated with my kids. And I appreciate what you’re saying, but tensions are already high. I just want to protect them.”
“How are you going to do that?”
I gave a dry laugh, looking down at my hand hopelessly. “I have no idea.”
“Have you talked to anyone else about this? If not the police, maybe a therapist? A friend?”
I looked up at her, knowing I was winning her over by the way she was staring at me. This was a new side to our relationship. One I didn’t know existed before. “I’m talking to you.”
She swallowed, her eyes darting back and forth between mine, and then looked away. She gripped the steering wheel. “I want to help you.”
“You are helping me.”
“I mean…I want to help you find your kids.”
“No,” I said quickly. “No. I can’t ask you to get involved.”
“You’re not asking. I’ve seen the way you talk about your kids. I’ve seen the pictures on your desk. I’ve been with you on business trips when you stop to pick something up for them from the gift shop or when you order their favorite desserts from a restaurant to bring home after a work dinner. I don’t know anything about your marriage, Peter, and I won’t pretend to. And I know we aren’t exactly friends. But if I’m all you’ve got, I want to help you. However I can.”
“Why?” I couldn’t make sense of it.
“Because, despite all evidence to the contrary”—she chuckled—“you’re a pretty good guy. And you don’t deserve this.” She gestured toward my hand. “So let me help.”
I nodded slowly, contemplating. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m not,” she admitted. “But it feels like the right thing to do, and I need a clean conscience walking into my marriage.”
“Thank you, Gina,” I said, buckling in as she pulled out of the driveway.
“So, where to?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
AINSLEY
I’d finally worked up the courage to color my hair with the box dye I bought at the store. It felt strange—like staring into the face of a stranger. I only had nail scissors in my purse, but I knew I had to cut the length, too, so I worked slowly and diligently, chopping off strand by strand until my hair was chin length all the way around.
It was a terrible job—the cut was uneven and the color made me look washed out and lifeless—but it would have to do until I could get into a salon. My phone chimed, and I dashed across the room, opening up my email and staring at it in disbelief.