Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“So what if we had?” Water sloshes over the edge as I turn off the tap and swing around to face him. “If I’d asked you who you’d slept with before me, we might never have made it to the altar.”
“Strange how you never mentioned it. Never mentioned him. It must’ve been a bad breakup. Heartache and mess.”
“Unlike our separation,” I answer witheringly.
“I bet it was you who ended things, wasn’t it?”
I laugh, but he just carries on.
“I asked you to help me”—I send him such a look—“for you to take that meeting, and the next thing I know, those Russian fuckers are shaking my hand and extending my credit.”
“You should be thanking me, then, shouldn’t you?” He should be on his knees, not quizzing me.
“You didn’t marry him for me, babe. But don’t try to tell me those things aren’t connected.”
He’s right, and he’s wrong, and this watery sensation in my stomach feels like truths about to reveal themselves. I agreed to marry Niko because I could see no way out, because he said it was the only way to protect my family. That’s the truth but not the whole truth because by the time I picked up those flowers and walked across the cooling sand, I wanted him. I wanted him more than anything.
But if he’s behind this—behind the start of this—what then?
“I want you to leave.” I slam the glass down and grab Tom’s jacket from the island, thrusting it at him. I can’t listen to this. Tom has connected dots that aren’t in a straight line. Niko didn’t murder Giles.
“I’m going, but I have one more thing to say. When those goons took me to that warehouse to threaten me, you weren’t my first hope. I went to him—to Van—your new husband. I told him the horrible things they’d said they’d do to you, to his best friend’s sister. And do you know what he said? That he couldn’t help. He couldn’t help me, but then he helped his fucking self. And you let him!”
“Get out.”
“You married the man who set me up.”
I married a man who is an expert at manipulation.
I feel ill, and I hate how much of what Tom said seems plausible. But why? How can you profess to love someone, to show someone love, yet have such origins? I can’t think. I can barely breathe. As far as I can tell, there is only one thing left to do, and that’s hear those answers from the source.
My ribs ache as I carry myself from room to room, as I pull out my laptop and reserve a seat on a flight later this afternoon, but not before I make a call. I consider speaking to Sandy first to ask him if he murdered Giles, but I think I’m afraid to hear the answer. What if he did, and I involved him in this needlessly? I call my second lifeline. I call his wife.
“You’re sure it’s okay? It is Friday,” I remind her in a forced, bright tone. “Sandy might have made plans.”
“Sandy’s plans probably include falling asleep with a glass of whisky in his hand, and all before the clock strikes nine,” Holland replies with a laugh.
“Do I need to have a word with him?” I ask before realizing I need to get to the bottom of my own marriage before I go interfering in theirs.
“No,” she says with a laugh. “It’s just been a long week. We’ve had film scouts here for the past few days, traipsing over every brae and glen.”
“That doesn’t sound like fun, especially given the rain this week.”
“You got that right,” she agrees. “I gave up following them, but you know Sandy.”
“He’s a good host.” A good brother. The thought feels like a bruise being poked by a finger.
“He’d say it was less about being a host and more about being a good steward of the land. But seriously, you know we’d love to have the boys over for the weekend. You newlyweds deserve a little time alone,” she adds saucily.
“I… thank you,” I settle on.
“I’ll get them from school, swing by and pick up Gertie, then head to the pizza place on the way home. And while I’m stuffing my face with all that cheesy carb-y goodness, I’ll think of you sitting in some fancy London restaurant, staring down at your oversized plate with a tablespoon-sized lamb noisette, a sliver of carrot, and two of those tiny new potatoes.”
“You’re so kind.”
“Am not, or else I’d save you a slice.”
The flight to London is short and uneventful, though I can’t say the same for the cab ride in from Heathrow. Rush hour is an understatement as rain lashes England’s capital city, making it cold, wet, and miserable. Not that I pay the weather much attention, my thoughts like an old hair tie full of tangled strands.