65. Chapter 65
Cate
Present
Trevor kept his hands on me like he was afraid I might vanish.
Not tight or rough. Just… constant. A palm at my lower back as he guided me into the house. Fingers brushing my hip as he closed the door behind us. A quiet pressure that said stay here without ever using the words.
I told myself it was normal.
I told myself I’d wanted this, wanted him, for years.
But my body felt different than it had yesterday. Less foggy. Less willing to float.
Trevor turned the lock.
The click echoed through the entryway like punctuation.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time, like he needed to reassure me, to make it real. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I shouldn’t have reached for your phone.”
I slipped my jacket off slowly. “You didn’t just reach for my phone.”
His eyes held mine, steady and intense. “You’re right.”
That was the thing about Trevor. He was a master of evasion, only conceding what was strategically necessary - never arguing a point that would expose him to criticism.
“I panicked,” he said. “When Marshal started talking like you weren’t safe. When he tried to get you to leave the house like you were… I don’t know. A witness he needed to move.”
I didn’t correct him.
I hung my jacket in the closet, then turned back. “Were you scared for me?”
His answer came quickly. “Of course I was.”
I walked into the living room, not because I wanted to sit, but because I needed space between us to think. The couch looked perfect - pillows aligned, the throw blanket folded into a clean rectangle. The room always looked like a magazine spread.
Like no one lived here unless Trevor approved of the mess.
Trevor followed.
Not directly behind me. Not looming. Just… there.
He stopped at the edge of the rug, hands sliding into his pockets, and for a moment he looked like the man I’d married. The man who planned vacations and remembered my coffee order and kissed my forehead before work.
“I don’t want you to feel like you can’t breathe in your own house,” he said quietly.
My own house.
The phrasing felt wrong, but I let it go.
“I need boundaries,” I said. “Real ones.”
He nodded once. “Okay.”
I held his gaze. “I need you to stop making decisions for me.”
Another nod. “Okay.”
“And I need you to stop treating Seth like he’s a threat.”
Trevor’s expression tightened, just a fraction. “I don’t treat him like a threat.”
“You do,” I said. “You always have.”
A beat passed, then Trevor exhaled and softened his face again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If it came across that way. Seth is… protective. I understand it. I just don’t love the idea of him undermining you when you’re already overwhelmed.”
My stomach turned.
Undermining me.
That wasn’t what Seth had been doing.
But Trevor said it like he was concerned, like it was his right, his duty, to guard his wife from other people’s opinions.
I crossed my arms lightly, not defensive, but grounding. “He wasn’t undermining me. He was listening.”
Trevor’s jaw worked once, the muscle ticking. “Good,” he said, like he was deciding to accept that. “Then we’re on the same page.”
He stepped closer, careful, and reached for my hands. I let him take them because part of me still wanted to believe in the version of us that had felt real last night.
“Do you want to eat?” he asked, gentle. “I can make something. Or we can order in. You didn’t really…”
“Trevor,” I cut in softly.
He stopped immediately, attentive. “Yeah?”
I swallowed. “I want to know what happened to John.”
The air changed.
Not dramatically. Not in a way someone on the outside would notice.
But I felt it - like the temperature dropped two degrees, like the house itself had leaned in.
I knew the moment John was confirmed dead, he went looking into the case, and with his connections, he could have easily gotten his hands on all the case files.
Trevor’s fingers tightened around mine and then loosened again.
“Cate,” he said carefully, “you don’t need to…”
“I do,” I said. “I’m not asking for gore. I’m not asking for crime scene photos. I’m asking for… the truth.”
He looked at me for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was calm enough to be convincing.
“Seth shouldn’t have told you everything,” he said.
Heat flashed in my chest. “He didn’t tell me everything.”
Trevor blinked once. “He didn’t?”
“No.” I pulled my hands free gently. “He told me what he knew. And he told me he would tell me more when I asked. That’s the difference.”
Trevor’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I just don’t want you retraumatizing yourself.”
“There it is,” I murmured before I could stop myself.
His brows drew together. “What?”
“That word,” I said quietly. “The way you talk about me, like… like I’m a case study. Like I’m something fragile you have to manage.”
Trevor’s expression softened again, fast and practiced. “That’s not what I meant.”
I nodded, slow. “I know.”
And I meant it. That was the worst part. I didn’t think he was doing it to be cruel.
I just wasn’t sure he knew any other way.
Trevor rubbed his palms together once, like he was steadying himself. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. We can talk about John.”
I waited, but he didn’t continue.
Seconds stretched. His gaze drifted, not away from me, but past me, toward the wall as if the right answer might be hanging there.
Finally, he spoke.
“They believe he was attacked,” Trevor said. “The day he disappeared. They believe it was… targeted.”
My throat tightened. “How?”
Trevor’s eyes flicked back to mine. “Cate.”
“Trevor,” I returned, voice quiet but firm. “Don’t do that. Don’t use my name like a stop sign.”
Something flashed behind his eyes - irritation, maybe. Or fear. Then gone almost immediately.
“They think it was personal,” he said instead. “They think it was someone who knew him.”
Someone close.
That phrase had followed me all day like a shadow.
“And what do you think?” I asked.
Trevor’s face was blank for half a second.
Then, with a sigh, he said, “I think the police like simple narratives. Close suspects. Clean motives. It makes them feel like they’re doing something.”
That was the first time he’d sounded like himself tonight. Not husband-soft. Not protective. Just… sharp. Like the lawyer he was.
I stared at him. “Why are you angry?”
“I’m not,” he said immediately.
I lifted my chin slightly. “Yes, you are.”
His nostrils flared. Another controlled inhale. Another careful recalibration.
“I’m angry that they’re dragging you through this,” he said, voice smooth again. “That’s all.”
I wanted to believe that. I really did.
But my mind had started collecting things like a woman gathering evidence without realizing she’d become an investigator.
The way he’d corrected my name in front of Marshal.
The way he’d insisted on being present.
The way he’d tried to take my phone.
The way “safe” seemed to mean “quiet.”
I swallowed.
“I want to meet with Marshal again,” I said.
Trevor’s expression stayed calm, but his body went still. “We already met with him.”
“I want to meet him again,” I repeated. “Alone.”
A moment passed. Trevor’s smile was slow and careful, like he was picking up a glass he didn’t trust himself not to break.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.
“I didn’t ask,” I replied softly.
For the first time tonight, something real flickered across his face - surprise.
Then it was gone.
“Okay,” he said, too gentle and far too easy. “Then we’ll schedule it.”
“No,” I said. “I will.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Cate…”
“I’m not shutting you out,” I added quickly. “I’m not trying to punish you. I’m trying to… come back to myself.”
The silence stretched again.
Trevor nodded once. “Fine,” he said.
Fine.
Not I understand.
Not I support you.
Just, fine.
He stepped forward and brushed his knuckles along my cheek like a peace offering. “Let’s eat,” he said. “You need fuel. You need sleep. Tomorrow you can make calls. You can do whatever you want.”
Tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.
He turned toward the kitchen like it was settled.
I watched him for a moment, the shape of him moving through the house with effortless ownership.
Then I picked up my phone.
My hands didn’t shake this time.
I opened my messages, scrolled to Seth’s name, and typed.
Me: Can you send me Marshal’s direct line? And… can you stay close tomorrow? Just in case
I stared at the text for a heartbeat, then hit send.
In the kitchen, Trevor opened a drawer. Metal clicked softly.
I didn’t move, didn’t announce what I’d done.
Not because I was hiding, but because I was learning, slowly, what honesty cost inside this house.