Chapter Twenty-One
From Mrs. Meredith R.
Ryan, January 6, 2012, Dallas, TX
Two Hours Earlier
It was as a weird day. Despite being knee-deep in work, Ryan couldn’t focus to save his life. He pushed away his laptop and studied the framed photo of Sie in her sky-blue summer dress: graceful shoulders adorned with the halter strap, gorgeous breasts nestled inside her V-shaped neckline, flowy skirt caressing her shapely, bronze legs. Christ, she looked good enough to eat.
Ryan compressed his lips. He should have never agreed to that long-distance bullshit. Maybe it worked for some couples, but not for them. And it had taken a toll on her. A big one. She just wasn’t the same. Her new blank stares in the middle of a conversation, her strained, absent-minded smiles. And sex. It wasn’t right—lukewarm at best, rushed at worst. Like she wasn’t fully present or didn’t want to be. He tried not to think about it, but the thing was becoming too big to ignore. What changed? It wasn’t the baby. They had mind-blowing sex when it was finally safe after the birth. Hotter than before.
The realization hit him like a lightning bolt—they needed a date night. They hadn’t gone out in ages. Yes. He’d get a babysitter, tell her to wear a nice dress, heels, no panties, take her out for a four-course meal, then take her home after the baby had fallen asleep. A bubble bath and a few of their long-neglected toys, the ones she used to love. He’d make it all about her, nice and slow. Meticulous. He’d bring her back.
He was searching for a restaurant when an admin knocked on his door.
“A messenger dropped this off.” She handed him a small, padded envelope. “A flash drive and a note inside.”
After the admin left, he threw back his head and released a long, satisfying sigh. You’re going down, asshole.
The printed label read:
“From Mrs. Meredith R.
To Mr. Ryan Casey.”
His breath quickened. A fake name. But holy shit, he’d pulled a lot of strings to get this flash drive. Key emails and records—all the incriminating evidence he needed to put Marshall Longworth away for a long time—was right here, in his hands. He chuckled at the vision of Viv jumping up and down, but she was in a meeting for another fifteen minutes. No way he’d wait that long.
He ripped open the envelope.
A yellow sticky note inside brought him up short. “I thought you should know. I am sorry.”
He frowned, studying the note. The handwriting was neat and swirly. A woman’s handwriting, no doubt. The paper smelled faintly of perfume. Something expensive.
He stuck the flash drive into his laptop. It contained a single MP3 file named “Siena.”
What the—?
He rubbed his eyes. Read it again. Then, he glanced at Sie’s framed portrait and clicked.
No.He dug his fists into his desk. No. Shook his head. Hell, no. A fake. Fabricated blackmail to halt his investigation.
He clicked the pause button, heart pounding like a jackhammer. It’s not her. His hand hovered over the mouse, stiff and cold. It can’t be.
“I don’t want to leave, Connor...”
The world shifted into a blur of advancing walls and crashing ceiling tiles. It couldn’t be anyone else. Her silvery voice came through breathy and slurring the words a little, but it was one hundred percent hers, complete with her sweet, soft timbre.
Something burned in his throat, behind his eyelids. He rubbed at his eyes again. His hands felt sluggish. Too big, too heavy.
“Connor...mmm...ah....”
She was moaning. Moaning—
His face was on fire. His whole body was on fire. He carved both hands through his hair. His office spun around him. How long had he been listening to this filth?
“Ohmigod, Connor...ohmigod!”
Ryan’s stomach turned. All those blank stares, absent-minded smiles. How long? How fucking long?
He grabbed the picture frame. She was smiling into the camera, long hair blowing in the breeze. At a park, not too far from their D.C. condo.
How many of these audios? Videos—?His hands shook like a madman’s as he pried her photograph from the frame. He crushed it in his fist. Crushed it again. Tossed it into the trash bin. Trash.
“Hey there!” Viv barged in, eyes dancing with joy. “Don’t you dare open this—” The words died on her lips. “Oh God, Casey, what’s wrong?” She approached him carefully, like he was a ticking bomb.
He was.
“I’ve got to go.” His voice was of a maniac, a demon. Rickety, rough, thick.
“Oh, shit...” Viv stood wide-eyed and frozen as he stuffed his laptop in its case and barreled past her.
He didn’t have a single thought as he drove. Odd how blank his mind was, seared with hot white pain. He only knew he needed to get home, where she was gazing, dreamlike, ahead. Smiling a little. He swallowed, rammed his hand into the steering wheel. He was going to be sick.
He parked in the driveway, killed the engine, got out of his SUV. He closed the car door instead of slamming it, pressed his head to the front door instead of kicking it in.
Not now, Guinness...
He placed his laptop on the table instead of burying it in its wooden top. How he hated her face, all scared and wide-eyed. Hated “Ryan” coming out of her fouled mouth, her tainted voice grasping at his name like she was drowning. You have no claim to my name now. Drown. How he hated her sniffling nose and trembling chin. Hated his berserk wish to shove her against the wall, his wild urge to shake her, his brutal need to fuck her to drown out the filth on the flash drive. How he hated her running after him, face red and swollen with tears, squealing his name.
Fuck you. Fuck. You.
He didn’t know how he got to the hotel. Didn’t know which it was. Hotel, motel, holding cell.
In the room, he threw his suitcase on the floor and sank down on the bed. He needed to sort his thoughts. His wife. Her—her! How did he miss it? His son. He buried his hands in his hair, throat tight, head pounding. His son would be growing up in a broken home. Weekends with dad, weekdays with her. Rage spread into his every corner, swallowing him whole. Selfish bitch.
He eyed the wall: gray wallpaper with white stripes, a print in the middle. Ocean, sea, lake. His breathing thick and rapid, he took down the print and placed it on the bed. Then he grabbed a pillow, pressed it to the wall, and punched it with all his strength. Punched it again. The pillow fell apart too soon. His knuckles scraped the wall. He stared at his hand, blood seeping through broken skin. He yanked off his wedding ring and hurled it into a corner. Then, he grabbed another pillow. It split open like the first one.
Panting and bleeding, he snatched something from the mini fridge. Whiskey, gin, vodka. He drained it in one go and reached for another. And another. Then, he leaned the poster against the bloodied wall and lay down, fully dressed, chest heaving like an ocean tide. He needed to beat the shit out of Connor Reat. Or fuck someone who wasn’t her. Or both. In that order. Or in reverse. He returned to the mini fridge and finished all the hard liquor.
When it finally hit his bloodstream, he came up with a tentative plan. He’d call in sick tomorrow, make a trip to the liquor store, and ask Jason for his divorce attorney’s number. The man had done a quick work of freeing him of that god-awful Lindsey.
And he’d be okay. More than okay. Most guys in his place would be celebrating. Dallas was full of beautiful, available women.
Trembling, he sunk his head into his hands. What have you done, my love? Every memory of her was poisoned. Every day with her had been wasted. How could you do that to me? To us?
He scrubbed a hand over his face and stared at the bloodied wall, his heart drumming a dull, heavy beat. Maybe I...wasn’t good enough.