Chapter 8
Lynley
Right on cue, footsteps come stomping toward the kitchen, as heavy as you would expect an elephant to be.
When Ginny appears, her brown eyes wide and full of frustrated tears, her cheeks red and nostrils flaring with each rapid breath, I straighten away from the kitchen counter, setting my phone down.
“Mom, please,” she begs, voice shrill. “You have to make them take it off.” She lifts her arm, waving it around.
“My arm is better, I swear. It doesn’t hurt, so it’s not broken anymore.
And I promise to stay off the playground from now on.
I don’t need to play during recess anyway.
I’ll just sit and—and—and—” Her face grows redder, her eyes flicking around the kitchen wildly.
“Read!” she finally yells. “I’ll just sit and read! ”
Before I can say a word, Ginny’s face crumples, tears streaking down her splotchy cheeks, and I know my girl has reached her breaking point.
“Oh, baby,” I murmur, opening my arms.
She dives into them, her body crashing against mine. “It’s so itchy,” she wails dramatically. I bite back a smile, glad she has her face buried in my shoulder as she sobs, not wanting to risk her thinking I’m not taking the situation seriously.
“We just need to wait a couple more weeks, love,” I tell her, smoothing a hand down her back.
“I know how uncomfortable it must be, but a couple more weeks. That’s it.
And then everything goes back to normal.
” The words fall from me without much thought, and as soon as they hit the air, I flinch. What a whopper.
When I demanded to see the footage earlier, Grafton had been reluctant, only giving in when I had insisted—which is how I found myself watching Christopher railing some woman in a pencil skirt over his desk. Another clip had shown him getting a blow job.
“This is the most recent incident,” Grafton quietly said, right before pointing out the date. My stomach churned uncomfortably because I already recognized the suit he was wearing. I watched as he spoke on the phone—to me—before he fucked her.
I knew the truth, deep down, but I guess there was a part of me that was still hopeful I was wrong.
That the person I married would never do this to me.
My stomach threatened to revolt right there, and, unwilling to subject Grafton to it, I ran from his office, only slowing once the elevator doors closed. I had walked stiffly out of the building, barely breathing, terrified that Christopher would appear.
I wouldn’t have been able to stop the vomit if he had, or the nasty words bubbling up inside me.
I couldn’t risk it.
Not yet.
I was still getting every duck into a row, and I couldn’t move until I did. Until I knew the children were protected.
I freeze as something occurs to me, my chin resting on the top of Ginny’s head. I need evidence to give to the lawyer—undeniable proof that Christopher is cheating. But didn’t Grafton just hand that to me on a silver platter? My heart thumps erratically in my chest. Can it really be that easy?
Ginny sniffles in my arms, lifting her wet face to peer at me, her eyes lined with red. “Momma, some ice cream might make me feel better.”
I cup her cheeks, wiping the tears away with my thumbs, and give her a gentle smile. “You know what? I think it would make me feel better too. Why don’t you get Mase, and we’ll go out?”
She sniffles one last time, but her eyes have dried up like the tears were never here. She pulls herself out of my arms and stomps back up to the stairs. “Mase!” she screams out, and I wince. “Get your butt down here! It’s time for an ice cream heist!”
“Heist,” I mouth, making a mental note to keep an eye on whatever she’s been watching. She’s dangerous enough. I don’t think she needs any help or ideas about ripping off an ice cream parlor or, god forbid, a bank.
Less than ten minutes later, a sour-faced Mase slumps down in the back seat as I pull the car out of the driveway.
I eye him in the rearview mirror. “What’s the matter? Did something happen at school?” He’s been quiet since I picked him up. That isn’t anything unusual for my serious boy, but my instincts are firing as he turns his head to look out the window.
“No.”
“Come on, bud. What’s up?”
He lets out a sigh that seems far too weary for his nine-year-old body. “Jacob’s dad—”
“Harrison,” I supply.
“Yeah, Harrison. He broke his leg.”
My brow furrows. “He did?”
“Yeah,” Mase grumbles. “He’s a firefighter. Someone said a house got set on fire, and he fell through a porch or something.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “And this is bad because…”
“Moooom,” he drags out with a groan, throwing his head back. “Harrison coaches, but now he can’t.”
“Right, of course.” I knew that. Of course I knew that, but it feels like I’m trying to unravel strands of cobwebs, my brain just stuttering on the way my husband pressed that other woman up against the windows, her skirt hiked up over her ass—after he spoke to me on the phone.
I squeeze the steering wheel, exhaling heavily. “Oh. So baseball is…?”
Mase’s voice is almost inaudible. “Canceled until they find someone else, I guess.” He sniffs loudly, his chin wobbling, but his eyes are dry. “I was just… I was really looking forward to it, you know?”
“I know, bud.” I keep my voice low, quiet. “It’s okay to feel that way, but you never know. They might find someone. And there’ll be other chances to play, right?”
His head swings around, dark blue eyes spitting fire as they lock with mine in the mirror. “Not this year,” he argues. “We only played one game, and now…” He breaks off, rolling his lips between his teeth, as if trying to lock down the reaction.
For several minutes, no one speaks. Even Ginny is unusually silent.
I park outside the ice cream parlor on the main street of Sterling Creek, getting out and heading for Mase’s door.
I open it, crouching down so we’re eye level.
He watches me with a furrowed brow, and I reach in, stroking away the lines and his still-plump cheeks.
“You feel this,” I tell him. “And then you let it go. You don’t let this affect the rest of your day.”
He stares at me, eyes filling with the tears he’s been bottling down. “I don’t know how to do that.” He presses a small fist to his chest, just as my own eyes start watering, hating this for my baby, wishing there was something I could do to make it better.
“I’ll help you,” I promise, even though I’ve got no clue how. This isn’t the same as Ginny’s agitation—easily swayed away with the temptation of a frozen treat. This situation is hurting Mase down to his bones, and I don’t fully understand why.
There is something else going on with him, something bigger than a baseball coach with a broken leg, but if I push too hard or too fast, he’ll snap his guard up faster than I can blink.
“We start with ice cream,” I whisper. “And we go from there.”
Mase spends the better part of the evening bad-tempered and sulking, refusing to eat his dinner and scowling whenever I risk eye contact. I keep my smile pinned to my face, refusing to let his attitude get to me, knowing it’ll only make his heels dig in deeper if I do.
By nine, both kids are in bed, asleep, and I’m perched on a barstool at the kitchen island, a full glass of wine in hand, the liquid cool and crisp against my throat.
It’s no surprise that Christopher isn’t home. My phone is dark where it sits beside my hand—a silent reminder that he never even bothered to let me know. Again.
It’s got me thinking of every other night he didn’t come home or walked in late without a single call.
Is it my fault for not asking enough questions? Did my passive agreement give him permission to just do whatever the fuck he likes?
Whoever the fuck he likes.
And then I pour kerosene all over those internal thoughts, setting them on fire and burning them to ash.
Nothing about this shit is my fault.
I didn’t ask for a husband who fucks everything that moves.
I didn’t ask for any of this.
I finish my wine and pour myself another, picking up my phone to call my lawyer, Ian. He answers after the third ring. “Mrs. Delcourt. As this is outside my office hours, I’m assuming it’s somewhat urgent.”
“Somewhat,” I agree, appreciating the fact that my husband’s last name gives me privileges, even if hearing it makes me feel ill. “I discovered today that Christopher installed cameras in his office and connected them to his company’s internet. The CEO showed me some of the footage.”
There’s a startled pause. “Well, that is interesting. He filmed his own, uh…indiscretions?” His disbelief at Christopher’s audacity matches my own. I fill him in on what Grafton told me this afternoon. “Do you have copies of the footage?”
Grafton’s face flashes through my mind—the way his eyes had tracked my every movement, the firm set of his mouth as he watched me flee from his office. “I believe the CEO would be amenable to give me access to the footage,” I say softly.
“And he’s aware of any possible legal ramifications?”
I go still, glass halfway to my lips. “What legal ramifications?”
“If he were to give you the footage without a subpoena, there’s a chance that Christopher could take the matter further, claiming an invasion of privacy or distribution of sensitive material. It opens the CEO—”
“Grafton Reynolds.”
“Mr. Reynolds. It could open him up to a lawsuit.”
I tap my nails against the glass. “Even though the footage technically belongs to the company?”
“Even so. However, it shouldn’t impact your divorce. Christopher installed the cameras himself, which means he had full knowledge of being monitored. You said he was also fully aware of the company’s policy, and what would become of the footage?”
“Yes.” I swallow a healthy mouthful of wine before murmuring, “I guess I’ll need to speak to Grafton.”
Ian makes a noise of agreement. “Yes. But as soon as you have the footage, bring it to my office.” There’s a weighty pause, and then he says, “And then we’ll get you your divorce.”
When I walk into the kitchen, Christopher’s standing near the coffee machine. He’s wearing a crumpled suit, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. He turns at my footsteps, and I take in his bloodshot eyes and the rough stubble covering his jaw.
“Where were you?” he demands hoarsely. He runs a hand through his blond hair, leaving the strands sticking up on end.
I stare at him impassively. “I slept in the guest room.” I touch a hand to my throat. “It feels like I’m coming down with something, and I didn’t want you to catch it.”
My expression doesn’t flicker at the irony of that, but the truth is I couldn’t stomach another night in the same bed as him.
Not after what I saw.
His mouth tightens at the corners. “I was worried.”
“Were you?” My tone is casual as I head to the fridge and pull out what I need for scrambled eggs and bacon. “What time did you get in?”
Out of the corner of my eye, he flinches, startled. When I look his way, it’s to find him watching me with narrowed eyes. I give him a guileless smile, reminding myself to carry on like I usually do.
It doesn’t seem to soothe him, his jaw clenching tighter. I squeeze my fingers around the egg carton, reassuring myself that I haven’t done anything for him to be suspicious of.
He didn’t see me yesterday. Grafton didn’t introduce me to the perky intern before she skipped off to Christopher’s office.
He doesn’t know anything.
He can’t know anything.
I set the eggs on the counter, shaking out my hand to hide the trembling. “Why are you wearing yesterday’s clothes?”
He looks down like he forgot what he is wearing. “Oh.”
“Christopher,” I start, voice gentle and sweet. “Are you okay? You seem”—I roll my lips inward, my eyes trailing over him pointedly—“out of sorts.”
“I’m fine,” he snaps. “Look, I was worried about you when I got in and you weren’t in bed. Next time, it would be nice if you could let me know your plans.”
I don’t even blink as I pull out the skillet and set it on the burner. “You want me to message that I’m sleeping in the guest room?”
His mouth closes with a snap. “Yes.”
I frown, tilting my head to the side. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Stop asking me that,” he grits out. He whirls away, grabbing a mug of coffee and filling it up for himself, his movements stilted. “I need to go into the office.”
“Okay,” I say agreeably. “Are you going to get changed?” I pause. “Maybe shower?”
His cheeks flush a dull red, but I pretend I don’t see, focusing on scrambling eggs. He slams his mug down on the counter, coffee sloshing over the edges, and stomps toward the door. Just before he leaves, I call his name.
“What?” he barks.
“I’m taking the kids to my mother’s place for a couple of days. She needs some help organizing a meal train for a neighbor who had hip surgery. Apparently, her children haven’t lifted a finger to help.”
His mouth works, like he’s chewing on his words. “What about school?”
“Mom’s only forty-five minutes away. I’ll still be able to drop them off as usual.” I plate up breakfast just as I hear footsteps on the stairs, stopping any further argument from Christopher in its tracks.
A sleep-rumpled Mase appears in the doorway, heading straight for me. He wraps his arms around my waist in a quick side hug, completely ignoring his father.
“Morning, baby.” I hug him back.
He grunts, taking a seat at the island, eyes fixed on the plate I slide toward him. I look up to find Christopher gone, his steps thumping heavily on the stairs, and I bite back a smile as I tell Mase, “We’re going to Nanny’s after school today. Pack some clothes, okay?”
He blinks at me. “Why?”
I shrug. “She needs some help. I can still bring you back to Sterling Creek for school each day, and I figure while baseball is—” I break off when his expression falls. “It’s just for a couple of days,” I finish quietly.
He lowers his chin, poking at his eggs with his fork. “Is Dad coming?”
“Nope.” I pretend I don’t see the way he relaxes. “It’s just you, me, and Ginny.”
He looks up, his smile full-blown, and then he’s digging into his eggs with gusto. If anything tells me I’m doing the right thing, it’s this, right here.
Ginny staggers into the kitchen, her eyes still half-closed as she comes to lean against me. “Morning, Momma.”
I press a kiss to her head before getting her set up with breakfast. As the kids are eating, I pick up my phone and find the number that Grafton gave me before I high-tailed it out of his office.
Lynley
We need to talk. Can we meet?