Chapter 25
Kat
A t what point did this become my life?
I’ve been asking myself that question all morning. I’ve showered, I’ve eaten and cleaned most of the townhouse. But my mind is fuzzy with disbelief.
A sigh leaves me at the thought as I hail a taxi just outside our townhouse. The winter weather has lightened up some, and I almost feel like I could wear a light jacket and not this heavy wool coat. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to the cold.
It doesn’t take long for a yellow and black cab to pull to a stop in front of me. Ushering myself in, my mind still fails to grasp all the details of everything that’s happened in only months.
If an author submitted my story to me as a manuscript, I’d tell them it’s too unbelievable. What’s that quote from Mark Twain? Something about how truth is stranger than fiction because fiction needs to make sense.
“Where to, miss?” the cabby asks me as I get in the back seat and close the door.
“Saks on Fifth, please,” I answer confidently, although my nerves creep up. Evan would kill me if he knew what I was doing, but it’s not going to stop me. I need this.
There are only two things I’m certain of.
I can’t afford to let Evan leave me again or else I’ll truly lose my mind.
I’m not going to stay out of this like Evan wants.
The car moves forward, taking me away from the empty townhouse.
He’s gone off to meet with Mason and tell him what we agreed on.
He’s staying with me, committing to me and our baby.
And he promised to move past this. I’ll listen to what he tells me to do, but every night he comes back to me and sleeps with me in our bed.
No more secrets and hiding. I have to help him, not let the fear of what might happen ruin what we have in the present.
I’m still pissed that Mason knew when I didn’t. It’s the second knife in my back, but I let it slide simply because it’s not his ring on my finger.
Instead, I focus on the real target here. Samantha Lapour. I’m not over her being with him when we were separated. The hate and jealousy are still there.
She loves Fifth Avenue. What rich New York socialite doesn’t?
I remember her bragging about her apartment above Saks when I first met her. She was so happy to keep it even though she and her husband were happily married. It wasn’t so much a humblebrag as it was just bragging.
That should’ve been my first clue we were never destined to become friends, but her smile was charming and her stories were alluring. I’ll admit, I was dazzled.
The cabby stops before I’m ready, my nerves getting the best of me, and it’s only then that the weight of what I’m doing makes my stomach churn.
I pay the cabby, slipping out and onto the curb to avoid the traffic.
My pulse races faster and faster, adrenaline surging as I make my way through the throngs of people and into the apartment foyer, disappearing from the crowd and readying myself to knock on her door on the fourteenth floor.
I don’t know the exact address, though. There are only so many up here, so if at first I don’t succeed, I’ll simply try again.
My legs are shaky as I climb the stairs; I should have taken the elevator. Some small part of me is quite aware that the decision was made to eat up time.
“Good evening,” a feminine voice says, and I have to raise my gaze to watch an older woman with a stylish white bob and a small Pomeranian in her arms close the door to 1401. There are only two other apartments on this floor, the one I’m sure Samantha told me about.
But that was years ago …
“How are you?” I greet the woman as if I’m supposed to be here, as if I’m visiting a friend and not a woman I have every intention of warning to stay the hell away from me and my family.
In an effort to be convincing, I open my clutch, keeping my eyes on her with a simper plastered on my face.
I’m sure it looks like I’m getting out a key or maybe my phone to call a friend.
The woman simply smiles tightly and nods then carries on her way, not answering the question. I hesitate, glancing between the remaining two doors and wondering which one I should knock on first.
This is crazy.
My heart races and a mix of adrenaline and anxiousness make me question why I’m even here.
The real answer, the absolute truth, hisses in the back of my head.
She was with him. In his family house.
Two confident strides and I knock, one, two, three times on 1402. I don’t breathe until I take a small step back and wait.
Silence. No response. The confidence threatens to leave with every second that passes, but the moment I take a step to the right, to knock on the only other option, the door opens.
In red silk pajamas and her hair in curlers, Samantha looks so different from any other time I’ve seen her. She wasn’t expecting company, that’s for sure.
Her expression is nothing but irritation at first, and then she recognizes me.
“Oh, hello,” she says, greeting me somewhat easily but with her lips pressed in a thin straight line as she stands up straighter. “Kat.”
I have to clear my throat before I can answer her. “Samantha,” I respond in the same stiff way. “I apologize for dropping by with no notice. I was hoping I could talk to you.” Clutching my purse with both hands in front of me, I add, “It’s about Evan.”
She crosses her arms, instantly on the defensive and I’m quick to add, putting on a bit of a show, “I’m worried about him.
About the loss of his father and how he’s handling it.
” The words are the truth and the emotion that comes with them is genuine.
But I just want an in so I can get a better grip on exactly who this woman is …
and maybe details on her estranged husband.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she responds tightly, still looking me up and down as she considers what to do with me.
“I know you’ve spent a little time with him and I was just hoping you could tell me how he is.”
She nearly flinches then has to take a moment before she can answer. As if she has no idea how he’s doing. Or maybe she’s shocked that I know she’s seen him, but it’s all over the papers, so why wouldn’t I?
Evan’s told me one side of this story, but there are always three sides … sometimes even more. In this case I’ll stay away from James, for Evan’s sanity, but I’m sure Samantha will have a thing or two to gossip about.
“Did you guys talk at all?” I ask her. My throat tightens as I add, “He doesn’t talk to me at all anymore.”
“Oh, God,” Samantha says, sounding exasperated and then tells me, “We didn’t talk about his father. I’m sorry.” She struggles to gather a response. “I’m sure it’s difficult and I understand you two are going through something, but I assure you that I’d like to stay out of it.”
With the creak of the heavy door, she attempts to close it, but I’m quicker.
My palm smacks against the door and I plead with her, “I just need someone to talk to. Please! If you could just let me in.”
My blood rushes in my ears as I wait, the door remaining right where it is, only slightly cracked. She opens it again cautiously, pursing her lips and appearing more irked than anything else. As she lets go of the door, it opens with my weight and she nods her head, letting me in.
“What is it that you want?” she questions as she walks with her back to me inside of the apartment. I close the front door myself and take the place in.
It’s a barren disaster.
I nearly ask her if she was robbed, but looking to my left at a cluttered kitchen I can easily spot a potential cause of the state of her place. Three small bags of white powder and a line wait for her. Right next to them is a colorful bag of pills. A mix of what could be Adderall and pain meds.
She turns with a smirk on her lips. “Like the place?” she asks sarcastically. “My prick of an ex made sure to sell all my belongings when I went out of town.”
“Oh my God,” I say, the words coming out in a whisper of disbelief and pity, neither of which truly resonate with me.
There’s only a sofa in the living room, a sleek gray contemporary sectional.
I imagine it would look beautiful if the living room itself wasn’t devoid of any other piece of furniture.
She settles down onto one end and I take the other.
Glancing up at the chandelier I tell her, “I’m so sorry. I’m sure it was beautiful …” my voice trails off and she doesn’t say anything.
“You could go to the cops,” I offer her, and she laughs with ridicule. If she weren’t so arrogant, I’d feel sorry for her. With her cheeks sunken in and the silk pajamas baggy on her slim frame, she appears far less beautiful and enviable than I remember her.
“He’s got them all on payroll, sweetheart. I’m barely surviving.”
“I am so sorry,” I say, at a loss for words and feeling so much more uncomfortable than I anticipated. I even feel bad for her to some degree.
“Divorce isn’t always a bad thing, love,” she says and then takes in my expression. “I’m sorry for you two, though, I really am.”
It’s hard to judge her tone, so I’m not sure how to take it.
“I actually had something to ask you about your husband.” I shift on the sofa, preparing to question her. Samantha reaches for a pack of cigarettes and slips one out.
She lights it then asks, “What’s that?”
There’s a glint in her eyes and her back stiffens slightly.
“Evan doesn’t like him much anymore,” I offer her, gauging her reaction and she lets out a small laugh that’s accompanied by smoke.
“I don’t much like the asshole either.”
“Can’t blame you,” I say, keeping my tone agreeable as I set my purse down beside me and feign a casualness I don’t feel.
“He told me weeks ago he thinks James is trying to hurt him.” I hold her gaze as I say, “I think he’s paranoid, but he’s worried about his reputation since leaving the company.”
Samantha takes a long drag of her cigarette, ignoring the question until I tell her.
“I was hoping that if I talked to you, you could tell me the truth. Evan’s just being crazy, isn’t he?”
Every nerve is on edge in my body. There’s something about how she looks at me. It’s as if she’s wondering what to do with me.
I don’t trust the look, and I don’t trust her.
“Evan told you what, exactly?”
“Evan told me that James tried to kill him, thinking he’d do coke left out for him.”
“Did he?” she asks condescendingly. “I’m surprised because from what he told me, he didn’t want you to know.”
I hate her in this moment. I hate the expression of disinterest.
I hate that Evan was with her when he should have been with me.
I hate that she knew he was keeping secrets.
More than that, I despise that she has any hold over my emotions at all. How could this woman affect me so much? My inner voice hisses, because you let her .
“It was a mistake on his part,” I lie to her, my fingers tensing as I grip my purse harder.
“He got drunk one night a few weeks ago and lashed out at me. It’s the last time we spoke.
” Her expression changes slightly, but only slightly, with a raised brow and the hint of a smirk. Amusement. I fucking hate her.
“Maybe it was a mistake to come here. I thought you’d know or maybe get a sense of how Evan’s doing since you were with him.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Leaning forward, she puts out the cigarette in a mug that’s sitting on her furnace. It’s then that I know she’s not going to tell me a damn thing. She’s far too stiff and closed off.
“My apologies for coming then,” I say, shrugging it off. There’s some piece of me that wants to confront her about the affair years ago. A part of me that wants to tell her I know.
She’s a liar, though. It’s so very clear. There isn’t anything I need from this woman.
“It was a mistake on my part,” I say then offer her a sad smile, taking in the room once again.
“I hope you get everything you want from the divorce.” I leave her with that false sincerity.
The only thing I hope is that I don’t have a reason to ever think of her again.
She’s nothing more than a waste of time and breath.
Every second I’ve wasted on her is one I’ll never get back and this woman isn’t worth my time.