CHAPTER 3 #2
“No one comes in here.”
“Not even the women the media linked you to?”
His gaze moved toward me.
“There were no women.”
I folded my arms.
“Lars.”
“There were photographs. Events. Team arrangements. There were no women.”
“You expect me to believe you have been alone for three years?”
His jaw tightened.
“You were not alone.”
“That was different.”
“Because you never loved them?”
My chest went still.
I had dated two men after leaving Lars.
Neither relationship lasted more than a few months.
Neither man had known I was married.
I told myself the omission was temporary.
Then I ended things before the truth became necessary.
“I never slept with anyone while we were together,” I said.
“We were always together.”
“We were separated.”
“You left.”
“That is what separation means.”
“No. Separation means both people agree the marriage has stopped.”
“You told me not to expect you to beg.”
“I was angry.”
“I was leaving with a suitcase.”
“I thought you would stop at the door.”
“I thought you would stop me.”
The room fell silent.
Three years collapsed into that sentence.
I had stood in our Minneapolis apartment with my suitcase beside me and waited.
Lars had stood near the kitchen counter with both hands clenched, waiting for me to prove I would stay.
Neither of us moved.
Neither of us asked.
I left.
He let me.
The worst decisions of our marriage had always been made in silence.
Lars looked toward the photograph.
“I waited for you to come back.”
“I waited for you to call.”
“I called.”
“After four months.”
“I called every week before that.”
My head snapped toward him.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“I never received them.”
His face changed.
“You blocked my number.”
“I blocked the team line because Graham kept sending people to pressure me into signing a confidentiality agreement.”
“I used the team line.”
My stomach dropped.
“You never called from your cell?”
“I changed numbers during the trade.”
I stared at him.
For four months, I had believed he had accepted my departure without a fight.
He had believed I ignored every attempt he made to reach me.
It was too late for that revelation to matter.
It mattered anyway.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” I asked.
“I did.”
“When?”
“Your apartment in New York. Your first week at the Ledger.”
I searched my memory.
A bouquet of white roses had arrived at the front desk.
No card.
I had assumed they were from the editor who hired me.
“I sent flowers,” Lars said.
“There was no note.”
“I included one.”
“What did it say?”
His gaze held mine.
“Come home.”
My throat tightened.
“I never saw it.”
“I stood outside for two hours.”
“What?”
“You left with a man.”
I closed my eyes.
My editor.
Rebecca had taken me to dinner with the investigative team.
“You thought—”
“I thought you had moved on.”
“So you left?”
“What would you have had me do? Drag you away from him?”
“You have never struggled with dragging me anywhere.”
“This is not funny.”
“No. It is stupid.”
His eyes flashed.
“We wasted three years because you saw me leave dinner with my editor?”
“We wasted three years because you packed a suitcase rather than tell me you needed me to choose you.”
“I should not have had to ask.”
“And I should not have had to guess.”
The argument rose between us with frightening ease.
Old wounds never truly healed.
They waited.
His hand began to tremble.
Just slightly.
I noticed because I had been watching for it since the cracked helmet arrived.
He curled his fingers into a fist.
“What happened to Derek Cole?” I asked.
The anger left his face.
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“It has everything to do with this.”
“No.”
“You signed a statement defending the medical staff.”
His eyes narrowed.
“How do you know that?”
“I’m a journalist.”
“You are suspended.”
“I did not stop being a journalist because Rebecca took my email access.”
“Where did you get the records?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Aaliyah.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“If someone sent you confidential medical files, they are using you.”
“Or they trust me.”
“No one inside that organization trusts without wanting something.”
“You do not get to lecture me about sources.”
“I get to warn my wife when she is walking into danger.”
“And I get to decide whether I listen.”
His hand closed around my wrist.
Not hard.
But firm enough to stop me from walking away.
“You are not publishing anything about Derek.”
I looked down at his hand.
Then up at him.
“Take your hand off me.”
His fingers loosened immediately.
I did not step back.
Neither did he.
“You do not control my work,” I said.
“I am trying to keep you alive.”
“You keep saying that like it excuses everything.”
“It excuses enough.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
He moved closer.
I could feel the heat of his body.
“Someone broke your window.”
“Because our marriage was leaked.”
“Because of the investigation.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
My breath stopped.
He realized what he had admitted.
“Why?” I asked.
His face closed.
“Lars.”
He turned away.
I caught his arm.
He faced me again too quickly.
My back struck the wall.
Not painfully.
But the sound cracked through the room.
His hands landed on either side of my head.
He did not touch me.
That restraint was worse.
I could feel the violence in him.
Not directed at me.
Never me.
At the room.
The league.
The invisible threat closing around us.
At himself.