Chapter 18
Jolee
Clay carries me out to the living room with Grant right behind us. My legs won’t be functional for days. Blankets and pillows are scattered across the middle of the living room floor. It looks cozy.
To be honest, I never wanted to leave their bed, but this is nice too. I am a little sore. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a reminder of what and who I’ve had inside of me.
Will I ever be the same? Why does this seem so monumental in my life right now?
“Hey, you good?”
“More than.” I cuddle into Clay’s chest. Warm and comforting. Still partially dazed by my orgasms.
“We need to talk about what I’ve found out. I was a bit distracted when I came home last night.”
“I don’t think anyone is complaining, especially not me. But talking about my dead fiancé and his crazy mother might ruin the mood.”
“I know, but, Jo, it’s not good.”
Shit.
“Better get this over with then. What did you learn?”
“Sherry is dead.”
Dead? That has me pausing, and I lift my head to look at Clay.
No.
I refuse to believe it. There’s no way.
"What? She can't be. She’s the only person who has ever sent me anything, and the only person who felt that I killed her son. Trust me, I know who was yelling in my face before I moved.”
“Jo, you didn’t kill her son. It was a car accident, and you weren’t even there, from what I read about him.”
“I know, but it’s always been painful. Her words and the accusation.
I couldn’t face it, and I haven’t had anyone in my corner.
The one person who cared about me was dead.
I don’t know why she started blaming me, but it was almost instant.
I thought she liked me. I thought his family loved me. I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“Sherry didn’t even want me at the funeral.”
“I’d love to talk to her. To ask her those questions, but she took those answers to the grave. It fucking sucks, but we have a new problem. There’s someone else clearly upset over his death.”
"I’ve never heard from his dad or his brother. That’s his family, and I can’t see them doing this. This doesn't make any sense, Clay."
“Well, I’m going to start there. I can at least try calling to see if they’ll talk to me. This can’t continue. If you think of anyone else, please let me know.”
“Trust me, if I had an inkling of who this was, I’d tell you.”
“Okay. That’s all I ask. Derrick is doing some more digging and will let me know if he finds out anything.”
“This is kind of starting to freak me out a little bit. It was one thing knowing it was Sherry, but knowing it’s not, is giving me anxiety I don’t know how to deal with.”
“We aren’t letting you do this alone. You have both of us.”
“You just need to tell us if there is anything else we can do.”
I want to ask how long. How long will they help me? How long will they be in my life? But I don’t. I know they’re happily married. This is just men being protective or whatever.
“Clay, did it say how Sherry died?”
“No, and I found that a little odd. Her obituary was very vague. It’s almost as if someone who didn’t know her had written it.”
“That is weird. She has a family and accomplishments. And knowing her, she would’ve written it herself.”
“And what’s more disturbing, she hasn’t been dead that long.”
“What?” I breathe out. Not wanting an answer to my question.
I can’t think about this anymore. I don’t want to.
This hurts in a new way. Deeper. Stronger.
Did I cause this? All of this?