Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Jason
She’s right.
She no doubt knows about my past. Not from her aunt, of course. Dr. Melanie Steel is way too professional to divulge anything we talked about.
I’m not active on social media, but a simple search of me will bring up Lindsay and Julia. The accident. Lindsay’s Facebook memorial page.
Damn. I haven’t looked at that thing in a long time. Not for two years at least. Maybe longer.
It just became too painful.
Not only did my actions contribute to the death of the woman I loved—the woman I committed my life to, had a child with—but her death devastated so many others.
Her family, friends. I could have handled it if I had just received condolences at her funeral.
But an online forum is permanent. A constant reminder of my failure as a husband.
She slashed her wrists, but I put the razor blades in her hands.
At least, that was the going theory until I finally read that fucking suicide note.
“I know, Angie,” I admit, my voice barely a whisper. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
She looks at me then, her eyes softening as she reaches out to take my hand. Her touch is gentle, comforting, a lifeline in the storm.
“I know about Lindsay and Julia,” she says quietly. “I looked you up. After we met.”
I take a deep breath and brace myself for what always comes next.
“Whatever happened wasn’t your fault,” she says.
Her words are kind, and I’d give anything to believe them.
But they’re a falsehood. A fucking lie.
Everything was my fault. I was behind the wheel. I’m the one who made sure Julia was secured in her car seat.
Except that she wasn’t.
So yeah, it was my fault.
And my wife? As much as she said she didn’t blame me, her eyes and her actions said differently.
God, my wife.
That handwriting that wasn’t hers.
So much to deal with.
So much.
“I appreciate that,” I say, trying to keep the darkness of the past from seeping into my voice.
But a fresh surge of guilt tightens my chest.
Julia’s car seat…
Lindsay…
“But I don’t think you quite understand,” I continue. “The guilt isn’t just about the accident. It’s about everything that happened afterward.”
Angie looks at me, her eyes wide. She squeezes my hand tighter.
“You can’t change the past,” she says softly. “None of us can. But we can try to make the future better.”
The hope in her voice sparks something in me. A small flame in the darkness. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough. For now at least.
“Switzerland,” I whisper, looking into her eyes. “I want this surgery. I want it so much. But I can’t go. Not now.”
“Why not?”
“The thing with HR.”
She frowns. “What did they say?”
“They said they tried to email the person back, but it bounced.”
“See?” she says. “It’s nothing. They know it’s nothing.”
I sigh.
To be honest, HR knowing that I kissed Angie is the least of my problems.
My wife may have been murdered…and I need to find out who wrote that damned suicide note.
And that…
That is my fault.
If I’d had the courage and the balls to read the damned thing when it happened, I’d have known then that the handwriting wasn’t hers.
“But—” Angie starts, her eyebrows furrowed.
I shake my head, stopping her mid-sentence.
“I have to figure things out.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s something I need to do on my own.”
“But you don’t have to face it alone,” she says. “I’m here, and I love you. I want to help.”
She looks at me with such resolve that for a moment I’m tempted to take her along this dark journey. But reality comes crashing down.
I swing my legs off the side of the bed onto the floor, turning my back to her. “I don’t want to drag you into this mess. It’s not your burden to bear.”
“You’re wrong.” She sits up, rubs my shoulders from behind. “When we said we loved each other, that meant we would carry each other’s burdens too.”
“God, you’re sweet.” I twist my neck to meet her eyes. “So special.” I look back to the floor. “And fuck it all, you deserve better than me.”
“I disagree.”
I rub my forehead. “Don’t you understand? I’ve fucked everything up. I can’t go to Switzerland because…I just found something out.”
“The HR—”
“It has nothing to do with HR,” I say, exasperated. “My wife killed herself, Angie. She couldn’t deal with the loss of our daughter. And she blamed me, though she couldn’t ever bring herself to say it. If only she could have, maybe she’d have been able to heal. But the damned psychiatrist—”
I stop.
Is now really the time to tell Angie what I think of her chosen career path?
Angie clears her throat. “What about the psychiatrist?”
I swallow, squeeze my eyes shut. “She couldn’t help Lindsay. She couldn’t help me either, but I’m the least of my worries. Lindsay is gone because—”
Then I stop.
I’m repeating the same old line that I’ve known for so long. But Lindsay may not have killed herself.
Perhaps the therapy did help her. Dr. Morgan always said each patient has his or her own timeline when it comes to healing.
Maybe Lindsay just wasn’t ready to take the next step yet.
And someone else took it for her.
“Because why?” Angie asks.
“Because… She’s gone because it might not have been her choice to end her life after all,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
Angie’s eyes widen, her mouth opening and closing without sound. Silence looms between us, so thick and heavy that it’s suffocating.
“Jason,” she finally says, “are you saying that you think someone killed Lindsay?”
I run my fingers through my hair. I don’t want to believe it myself. Because if it’s true…
“I don’t know, Angie, but there are things that don’t add up.
The suicide note, for one. I never looked at it—I was scared to.
It was her final message to me. After I read it, there would be nothing left from her.
But just this morning, before the HR folks busted into my office, I finally opened it. And I read it.”
She lays a hand on my arm. “That must have been really painful for you, Jason.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand. The note… She didn’t write it. It wasn’t in her handwriting.”
Angie looks at me, her eyes filled with a mix of pity and confusion. “How can you be sure it wasn’t in her handwriting?”
I hold back a wave of emotion. “I know what my wife’s handwriting looks like.
It’s been three years, but I could tell in an instant that someone else had written the note.
” My lip trembles. “And if I’d only had the gall to read it then, I could have looked into it.
Brought the fucker who did this to justice.
Now he’s probably off the grid somewhere, and we’ll never find him.
The case has had three years to grow cold. But I couldn’t do it, Angie.”
I bury my face in my hands, willing myself not to sob in front of her.
She touches my arm, but I shrink away from her caress. As much as I yearn for her, I’m fucked up at the moment. I was a coward who couldn’t bear to look at his dead wife’s suicide note.
“Jason, it will all be okay.”
How I want to believe her words.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe it will all be okay. But not until I find out the truth. And that means no surgery, no Switzerland. At least not yet.
“I have to know the truth,” I say. “I have to find out what happened to my wife.”
Angie cocks her head. “Does this have anything to do with R. Lyon?”