Chapter 33 #2
He shook his head. “No, you shouldn’t be.
I had her longer than you had yours and.
.. Em, I changed my name when I was twenty-one.
I went to court, went through the whole legal process, because my father was really horrible.
He killed someone. And he framed me for it.
I was just this angry, dumb kid whose mother had just died, and I was heavily into alcohol and drugs because they made everything hurt less, and I stupidly believed him—that I blacked out and killed her.
I actually pleaded guilty, I thought I did it, and it wasn’t until I got out of prison—”
Her eyes must’ve widened at prison because he said, “Yeah, Em, I went to prison, but when I got out, I found all this evidence—so much absolutely irrefutable evidence—that he was the one who killed her. He was driving the car, not me. I wasn’t even in town that night.
I have proof that it wasn’t me. It was him. He hit her and drove away...”
Emily heard the words he was saying, but she’d stopped comprehending at his second use of her. Killed her. Killed her. Her ears started roaring and she heard herself ask him, in a voice that sounded tiny and breathy and barely there. “What was your name? Before you changed it?”
He didn’t tell her. Not exactly. He just stood there, looking down at her. Tears brimming in his beautiful eyes as he nodded. Yes.
“Oh, my God,” she breathed, just frozen in place.
Her life was flashing before her eyes—at least her recent life, with Mick, no wait, that wasn’t his name.
It was all a lie. The laughter, the shared pleasure from the books, movies, music, food she’d enjoyed even more because they’d enjoyed it together, the pleasure of his company on a quiet night when she had work to do and he was content to sit and read, the joy she’d felt just this morning as they’d gone for a run, as she’d tried something new, the laughter as they’d explored the art museum, the way he'd smiled at her at the pool, and kissed her in the elevator. The sex...
Oh, God, she’d had sex—lots and lots and lots of sex—with the man who’d killed her mother.
The buzzing in her ears increased in volume.
Except he’d just told her that no, he didn’t kill her mother, his father had.
“Bullshit.” Emily exhaled in a ragged gasp. She’d been holding her breath, but now she managed to inhale, too, filling her lungs with desperately needed oxygen.
“I should’ve told you in the grocery store,” he said. “When you didn’t recognize me.”
“You’re a liar,” she said. “You didn’t tell me because you’re a liar.” She got louder. “Because you’re.” And louder. “A fucking!” And louder. “Liar!”
He was glancing around them now, because yes, people were starting to look in their direction.
“Were you stalking me?” she asked because God damn it, she wanted to know, except out of everything ridiculously awful that she’d imagined—he was already married with a wife hidden in the attic of his Scottish estate—she’d never even dreamed it could be this.
He was Milton Devonshire Junior. The dinner she’d only half-eaten roiled in her stomach.
“No,” he said quietly. “I was just... I checked up on you from time to time.”
Emily exhaled her disbelief. “How is that not stalking?” she asked. “Isn’t that, like, the exact definition of stalking...?”
What was she doing, standing here talking to him?
She briskly started walking away, reaching into her bag for her phone—which, damnit, she’d left back in the hotel room safe.
So getting an Uber was not an option, she was going to have to walk.
Where was she? She oriented herself. North.
Their hotel was north and east of the restaurant where they’d had dinner. She turned to walk in that direction.
Mick—shit, Milt followed her. “Em, you met him, my father. He was awful. Because of what he did, I always felt like I had this... this... connection to you. When he killed your mother, he destroyed my life, too.”
She stopped short, and the pedestrian traffic streamed around them as she said, “I’m supposed to believe you when you say things like he killed your mother, except you’re a fucking liar—lying right to my face for months.”
He winced—a move that just a few minutes ago she would’ve described as being pure Mick. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“I have to go home,” she said, walking again. Where was the hotel? She should be able to see it from here. Yup. There it was. Too far in the distance, but at least she could see it.
“Okay,” he said, keeping stride.
She looked at him. “Not with you.”
“You can take my car. My keys are back in the room—”
“Nope.”
He nodded. “Can I at least find you a car and driver—”
“Not with you means not with you starting right now,” Emily told him. “In fact, give me your key card—to the hotel room.”
“Em...”
She held out her hand, gesturing impatiently as he dug for his wallet. “I need to get my stuff, and I don’t want you in there while I’m packing. You can wait in the lobby. I’ll give you the keys—both of them—when I leave.”
There were tears in his eyes as he handed her his key card. “Em, I’m really sorry,” he said.
“I don’t believe you,” she said and walked away.