Chapter 22 #2
She pulled a key from her tote bag, her fingers fumbling with it for a moment before she managed to slide it into the lock.
She unlocked the door, pushing it open with a soft creak that seemed too loud in the silence.
The apartment smelled stale. Musty. Like it had been closed up for too long.
Like grief and abandonment had settled into the walls and seeped into the furniture.
Vivi stepped inside, her shoulders rigid, her spine straight, her movements careful and deliberate, like she was afraid something might break if she moved too quickly.
I followed, closing the door behind me with a quiet click.
The living room was small but tidy. A worn leather couch sat against one wall, its cushions sagging in the middle from years of use.
A coffee table in front of it, scarred and scratched but solid.
A bookshelf lined with paperbacks and framed photos—pictures of Vivi and Pence at rallies, at parties, at the beach.
Moments frozen in time when everything had been okay.
A blanket draped over the arm of the couch, dark green and soft-looking, like someone had been sitting there just yesterday.
Like Pence might walk out of the bedroom at any moment and ask what we were doing here.
Vivi stood in the middle of the room, her boots planted on the worn carpet, staring at the space like she didn’t recognize it.
Like she’d walked into someone else’s life.
“How are you holding up?” I asked quietly, my voice low and careful.
She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, her hands clenched white-knuckled around the strap of her tote bag, her jaw tight. Then she laughed.
A bitter, hollow sound that made my chest tighten and my stomach drop.
“How am I holding up?” she repeated, her voice sharp and cutting. “I’m holding up like shit, Monk. How the hell do you think I’m holding up?”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t try to placate her or tell her it would be okay.
I just stood there, my hands at my sides, letting her have her anger.
Letting her have whatever she needed to get through this moment.
She could scream at me, throw things, curse my name—whatever it took. I’d take it all.
She deserved it. She deserved so much more than that. She deserved a husband who hadn’t betrayed her in the worst possible way. She deserved a life that hadn’t been built on lies and secrets and deception.
“My husband,” she said, her voice rising, sharp and jagged like broken glass, “the man I loved, the man I trusted, the man I thought I knew—fucked an underaged club whore. He got her pregnant. He had a fucking son with her.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she turned away, her hands shaking.
I could see her shoulders trembling, could see the way she wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces together.
“And I didn’t see it,” she continued, her voice breaking into something raw and wounded.
“I didn’t see any of it. I was so fucking blind, so fucking stupid—”
“You weren’t stupid,” I said, my voice firm but gentle.
She spun around, her eyes blazing with fury and pain, red-rimmed and wild.
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare tell me I wasn’t stupid.
I lived with him. I slept next to him every night.
I cooked his meals, washed his clothes, listened to him talk about his day.
I kissed him goodbye every morning. And I didn’t see it. I didn’t see any of it.”
“He fooled everyone,” I said, stepping closer, closing the distance between us carefully, like I was approaching a wounded animal. “Not just you. All of us. The entire club. Kansas. Me. We all thought Pence was a stand-up guy. We all trusted him. We all believed in him.”
“But I was his wife,” Vivi said, her voice raw and desperate, like she was trying to make me understand something I couldn’t possibly grasp. “I should have known. I should have seen the signs. There had to have been signs. Late nights. Phone calls. Something. Anything.”
“There were no signs,” I said, my voice steady and certain. “Pence was good at hiding what he was. He was a liar and a manipulator, and he made damn sure nobody could see through his bullshit. That’s not on you. That’s on him.”
She stared at me, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, tears streaming down her face in hot, angry rivulets.
Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, her whole body rigid with tension.
“I hate him,” she whispered, and the words came out like a confession, like something she’d been holding back and finally couldn’t contain anymore.
“I hate him so much. And I hate myself for not seeing it. For being so goddamn blind.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to ease the guilt she was carrying, the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders.
Didn’t know how to make her understand that none of this was her fault.
So I just stood there, silent and solid, letting her feel it.
Letting her grieve. Letting her rage against the unfairness of it all.
After a long moment, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her cheeks, and turned away, walking toward the bedroom with slow, heavy steps. “I need to pack some things,” she said quietly, her voice hollow and exhausted.
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me.
“Take your time,” I said softly. “Take all the time you need.”
I stood in the living room while Vivi moved through the apartment, gathering clothes and personal items. The silence between us was thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the sounds of her packing.
I could hear her opening drawers, the soft rustle of fabric being folded and placed into bags, the occasional sniffle that told me she was still crying.
Each sound felt like a small knife twisting in my gut.
I wanted to say something. Wanted to offer some kind of comfort, some words of reassurance that things would get better.
But I didn’t know what the hell to say. What could I possibly tell her that would make any of this easier?
So I just stood there like a useless statue, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, staring at the photos on the bookshelf.
Vivi and Pence on their wedding day, both of them beaming with joy and hope.
Vivi and Pence at a club barbeque, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.
Vivi and Pence standing in front of this very apartment, smiling like they had the whole world ahead of them, like nothing could ever go wrong.
It made my stomach turn. The weight of what Pence had done—the betrayal, the lies, the danger he’d put her in—sat heavy in my chest.
After a few minutes, I cleared my throat, breaking the oppressive silence.
“Hey,” I called out, my voice rougher than I intended. “You know Lina’s back in town, right?”
There was a pause, long enough that I wondered if she’d even heard me. Then Vivi appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, a stack of neatly folded clothes in her arms. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying. “Lina?” she repeated, her eyebrows raising in surprise. “Lina Wilcox?”
I nodded. “Yeah. She came back a few weeks ago. Her dad got hurt.”
Vivi’s expression softened slightly, the hard edges of her pain momentarily easing. “I heard about David,” she said, her voice gentle. “Is he okay?”
“He’s recovering,” I said. “Lina’s staying at the farm with him. Helping him get back on his feet.”
Vivi nodded slowly, processing this information as she set the clothes down carefully on the couch.
“I always liked Lina,” she said quietly, a wistful note creeping into her voice.
“She was sweet. Kind. We used to talk at the Farmers’ Market sometimes.
She’d tell me about the honey her dad harvested, and I’d buy jars of it. ”
“Yeah,” I said, remembering how Lina had mentioned those conversations. “She mentioned you two were close.”
Vivi smiled faintly, the first real smile I’d seen from her since she walked into the clubhouse hours ago. “It’ll be good to see her again,” she said. “It’s been so long.”