Chapter 37 #2
There’s a car parked outside, lights on inside. I figure she’s home.
Dario’s pistol is a lump inside my jacket. I didn’t take the silencer; I’m not planning to use it. It’s just to ensure I get taken seriously.
Or if Declan finds me. I’m not letting that bastard get his hands on me again.
I take out the gun and slide it into the back of my pants as I walk toward the house.
Still not entirely sure what I’m going to do.
Okay, maybe this is a little impulsive. But I want answers.
I ring the bell, hearing it echo inside the house. My hand’s on the butt of the gun at the small of my back, covered by my jacket.
He’s the toxic one. He’s the betrayer.
I need that reminder to do this. Ends justify the means. I’m not going to hurt this woman, just scare her a bit… if I have to.
Maybe I won’t need to. Maybe Declan’s been lying to her, too. She might even tell me what she knows as soon as I explain what he’s done.
Footsteps approaching, and the door opens. A half-second as she runs her eyes over me. “Yes?”
She’s in her late twenties, her blond hair tied in a loose pony, slacks and a shirt. Her phone held in one hand, the screen dark when I glance at it. An intelligent, kind face. Puzzlement growing while I still haven’t moved or said anything.
“I… uh…” I clear my throat. “I’m here about Declan. May I come in?”
Her face drains of color. A hand covers her mouth. Her eyes flick past me to the street, then meet my gaze. “Of… of course.”
A guilty reaction if ever I saw one. She knows I’m the other woman.
Points for courage for letting me enter. Points lost for the way her hands tremble.
And don’t I feel like shit.
She steps back, opening the door. I release my hold on the gun, and step over the threshold.
Into her house. Declan’s house. Whatever.
“Uh… kitchen is this way.”
She leads me through the house. It’s bigger than I thought it would be. Nicely furnished with a cream décor. Marble top surfaces in the kitchen. Tasteful. Declan’s doing well for himself.
It’s quiet. Just the two of us. All the privacy I need.
She walks to the kettle and flips it on, hands trembling still. I take a stool at the island counter, watching her. It takes her a moment to summon up the strength to turn and look at me. Waiting for me to speak.
Fine.
“A trade of information,” I begin. “I want to know everything you know, and I’ll reciprocate.”
She goes still. Blinks slowly. “What I know?”
“Yes.”
“About what?” Her question sounds genuinely curious, and not a little surprised.
“About your husband.”
For the second time in as many minutes her face turns pale.
It had barely recovered any color, and it’s all gone now.
She doesn’t say anything, just stares at me in utter shock.
Her hand twitches on her phone. The other grabs at the counter for support.
She carefully sets her phone face-down beside the kettle, then clutches her hands together.
“My husband?”
Her habit of echoing everything is getting irritating. “Declan.”
“Declan?” Astonishment tinged with… what is that… horror? “Please, I’m not going to cause any trouble.”
I frown, trying to work out what that means. It’s like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Have I somehow got the wrong goddamn house? “This is his house, isn’t it?”
“No,” she says.
“What?”
“It used to be,” she adds hastily, eyes wide with fear. “He gave it to me after the divorce.”
Strange way of phrasing it.
So they’re divorced. That’s… better, I suppose.
Doesn’t explain the jewelry. Or the happiness I saw. Getting back together again, maybe?
I still don’t trust anything. Especially not him.
“That’s not the usual language, honey,” I say, dryly. “Gave it to you? You mean you got it in the settlement.”
She stares at me in confusion. “Who are you?”
Fair question, but I’m done with this now. “Doesn’t matter. All I want to know is what you can tell me about Declan Hale.”
“Uncle Declan?” comes a high-pitched voice. A child is already halfway into the room, bare feet silent in the carpet. Both of us glance sharply toward her. She’s the same one I saw almost a month ago, wearing a little pair of jeans and a Bluey T-shirt. “Why are you talking about him?”
Uncle?
The word lands with the force of a wrecking ball. I grip the edge of the counter as the floor lurches.
He even told me he had a sister.
How did I not see it?
Because I convinced myself this woman was more than that. His wife.
I couldn’t see the truth for all the lies.
“Sara…” the woman breathes. Then her tone sharpens. “Go back to your play room. Right now, young lady.”
The child keeps coming, curious. “Is Uncle Declan here?” She regards me very seriously. “It's Mister Declan Maddox,” she says imperiously. “Declan Hale is a silly name.”
Uncle.
My mind is reeling.
Not her husband, after all. Not their divorce, either.
It used to be his house. He gave it to her. To his sister. After her divorce.
And Hale isn’t even his real goddamn name.
The woman steps quickly to her daughter, lifting her up, shielding her with her body. Looks at me with genuine fear in her eyes. “Please,” she whispers. “Please.”
“What is it, Momma?” the child asks. “Who is this lady? Is she a friend of Uncle Declan’s?”
No, I’m not his friend. A friend wouldn’t come here like this, intruding upon his family.
His wider family. His sister, his niece.
My guilt makes me physically nauseous.
I stagger to my feet. I need to leave. My limbs are heavy, my stomach’s squirming. I think I’m going to be sick.
What have I done?