CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MERRITT
The baby doesn’t sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, he decided to stop latching. It always starts with the same agonizing screams, his little face turning plum purple and bloodred. Sooner or later a nurse rushes in to save the day, insisting I send him to the nursery so I can rest and assuring me that a couple of Similacs here or there aren’t going to sabotage my breastfeeding efforts.
The instant they wheeled him away, I was flooded with a cocktail of guilt and relief with a pain garnish thanks to my incision.
I don’t remember Elsie being this fussy. We had our little health scare with her in the beginning, but after that she was content, as if she were simply happy to be here. Everett doesn’t seem to want to be here at all . . .
The clock above the TV reads 2:34 AM. Luca sleeps soundly on the foldout guest couch in the corner. At least I think he’s sleeping. It’s hard to know from over here, alone in my rock-hard hospital bed, too helpless to reach my water jug.
I texted Lydia a picture of the baby two days ago.
No response.
Yet another concern to add to the pile . . .
Tomorrow morning we’ll be discharged. The last few days have lacked an undercurrent of tenderness that should accompany these life moments. And Luca’s quietude has only magnified that. When Elsie was born, he called everyone he knew. He talked nonstop, manic almost. He sang to her. He came alive.
With Everett, he’s merely going through the motions.
He’s here, but he’s also a world away.
I need my husband back—the man he was before, the man I know he can be again.
CHAPTER THIRTY
LYDIA
The parking lot of sea bats is vacant Monday morning—save for the sous chef’s hybrid Honda, random Lexus, and Luca’s glossy Maserati.
I spent all weekend digesting Delphine’s advice, waxing and waning and changing my mind every five seconds. Some moments, I was overwhelmed with a sense of calm, certain that Delphine’s path was the right choice. Other times, that calm would be overridden with a burst of anger so hot my skin burned from the inside out. I promised myself I’d reach a decision by Sunday night—and now I’m here . . . but only because Luca still owes me two thousand from last Thursday and Friday, and I’m not about to let him skip out on that.
After he ponies up, I should have enough for an apartment deposit, some furniture, and a little something extra. It isn’t as much as I’d hoped to glean from the bastard, but after talking to Delphine over the weekend, I’ve decided to go to the police sooner than later. No sense in drawing this out or staying on his level any longer than necessary. All I’m doing is giving him more time to plan his escape.
I jam my master key into the back door and head in, passing my locked office and heading straight for his. The door is open halfway, a desk lamp spilling a triangular shape of light that stops just short of the jamb.
Steeling myself, I offer a loud, “Welcome back.”
He jolts. Not a lot, but enough to show he wasn’t expecting me. A week ago, I’d have laughed about it, but now Delphine’s words ring in my ears, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s all an act. The Luca I knew was never this jumpy. He’d have never rolled over and taken any of this.
There’s a definite possibility I’m being played like a goddamned fiddle, that the joke is on me.
Again.
“I know you’ve been busy having a baby and all, but I couldn’t help but notice the lack of funds on my desk last week.” I slide my hands in my back pockets, an irritatingly casual move, I’m sure. But I don’t want to tip him off that anything has changed on my end. As far as he knows, as long as he keeps shoving money at me, I’m keeping my lips sealed. “I’m short two grand.”
He gives me a death stare before sliding a drawer out, retrieving a thick manila envelope, and dropping it on the desktop.
I retrieve the cash and step back a couple of feet, not wanting to be closer to him than necessary.
“How much longer do you plan to extort me?” he asks, hovering over his mouse and shutting down his computer. It’s barely nine AM. He had to have just gotten here . . .
The wrinkled-polo-and-jeans outfit he’s sporting is a far cry from his usual designer-suit-and-tie ensemble. He’s on his way out. The only question: Where is he going?
“I don’t enjoy being in your life any more than you enjoy me being in it,” I say, giving him a roundabout answer.
He clicks off his marble-and-brass banker’s lamp.
“Leaving already?” I move toward the doorway, planting myself just outside the frame. Beyond his office window, the sky is almost as dark as night as another storm system rolls through.
“I’m going home to be with Merritt and the baby.” He makes his way to the front of his desk, then toward me. I step farther into the hall, and he tugs the door closed before sliding his key into the lock. Oddly enough, he doesn’t turn it. Maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe it’s the distraction of being in such close proximity to me, but he forgets to secure it. “I’ll have everything else for you soon.”
“Everything else?” I ask.
“The things you asked for last week . . .”
Ah, yes. The new identity.
“I’m also working on getting you a car. Something reliable. If I give you those things, will you leave us alone?” His coffee-brown irises dare to meet mine, intensified by the matching dark circles beneath his eyes. He’s a case study in fatigue—mental, physical, emotional. If those things are even possible for a sociopath to feel. For the first time, I almost feel sorry for him. But I could never. “You’re getting your life back. And this one’s arguably better than the one you had before.”
“Debatable,” I interject.
That’s not for him to decide.
“You’re bleeding me dry, you’re worrying my wife sick, you’ve tainted the birth of my second child with your petty bullshit games. I’m giving you everything you asked for—what more do you want?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I lift a palm and give an incredulous snort, keeping any hint of a smile at bay. Not sure whom he thinks he’s kidding or what alternate reality he’s stepped into. “Are you actually playing the victim here? Because I’m pretty sure you weren’t the one tortured and raped and starved and threatened for nine years of your life.”
Pots and pans clang from the kitchen. Whoever’s in there is far from earshot, but it’s a reminder we’re not alone.
Luca lowers his chin. “This isn’t the time or the place, Lydia.”
“Then name the time and the place, and I’ll be there. We’re having this conversation, we’re correcting this course. I’m not leaving until you make this right.”
“What the hell do you think I’m trying to do?” Spittle leaves his lips as he keeps his tone hushed. He closes the distance between us so tight I can smell his morning coffee. “What more do you want from me, Lydia?”
I want to see him suffer. Maybe not in the physical, vile ways I suffered. But he doesn’t get to buy my silence and ride off into the sunset with his stock-photo family. Monsters aren’t supposed to get happy endings.