Total pages in book: 190
Estimated words: 181992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 181992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
Leaning forward to rest my lower arms on my thighs, I flicked a look at his half-empty tumbler. “What’s got you sitting out here drinking whiskey?” Still nothing. “Okay, we don’t have to talk. I’ll just sit and stare at you until you feel creeped out. I might even throw in some heavy breathing or hum eerie tunes just to bump up the ick factor.”
His head very slowly swung my way, and he gifted me with a half-hearted droll look. “I meant it when I said nothing has happened.”
“You also said it’s ‘been one of those days,’ which means it was—at the very least—relatively shitty. Tell me about it. Offload it all.” I felt my brow pucker. “Everyone’s okay, right?”
“Yes.” Sighing again, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s the anniversary of my maternal grandmother’s birthday, so I spent most of it with my mom. This day is always hard for her.”
I felt my jaw drop and my gut twist. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“Because I knew you were throwing Marleigh’s baby shower.” He lowered his hand to his lap. “You might have arranged the party, but you were just as much a guest as anyone else. You were looking forward to it. I wasn’t going to spoil that for you.”
“That’s not how this works, Dax. I get to be there for you—”
“You would have delayed telling me if things were the other way around.” He gave me a pointed look. “Don’t say you wouldn’t have—that would be a lie.”
I snapped my mouth shut, annoyed I couldn’t disagree. “If you’d told me last week, when I mentioned that I’d settled on this date for the baby shower, I could have rearranged it.”
“For what purpose? There’s nothing you could have done. And you had already dished out invitations by that point.”
I went to argue … but then stopped. Because a dispute wasn’t what he needed from me right now. Softening my voice, I asked, “How’s your mom?”
“Not good. She and my grandmother had a complicated relationship, but they loved each other.”
I slanted my head. “What about you? How are you doing?”
He only made a noncommittal sound.
“That bad, huh?”
Another long sigh. “It’s not easy to get through to somebody that their feelings of guilt are unnecessary when they won’t even admit to experiencing such guilt.”
I frowned, trying to read between the lines. “Your mom blames herself for Clear’s suicide?”
“Not quite. But she does feel she could have done more for her.”
“In what way?” I prompted when he said no more.
His gaze resettling on the pool, Dax took a swig of his drink. “My mom always suspected that Clear would kill herself after Bale was executed. She had my grandmother under constant watch, brought her to live with us, got her professional help, but …”
But Clear had thrown herself in front of a bus and then died on the way to the hospital—I’d heard that much. I’d also heard whispers of there having been a suicide note in her pocket that had explained how she’d seen no point in life if she’d had to live it without the man she’d loved.
I swiped my tongue across my lower lip. “Did your grandmother genuinely love Bale?”
“She swore she did, but I don’t know if I’d really call what she felt for him ‘love.’”
When he again fell quiet, I reached over and gently poked the side of his knee. “I get that you’re not much of a sharer and that this has to be a really difficult matter for you to talk about, but if you won’t speak to me about it, at least call Caelan or Drey. I don’t like the idea of you bottling up all the stuff that’s right now flying through your head.”
His gaze cut back to me. “You really want to hear about this fucked up shit?”
“Not because I find it morbidly fascinating. I just want you to offload everything. You know I’d never repeat any of it.”
“I do know,” he softly confirmed.
The complete confidence with which he said that made my chest pang. “I never met Clear, but I saw her from time to time from afar. What was she like?”
He exhaled heavily and turned away again. I thought he might once more fall silent, but then he spoke.
“It’s easy to assume she must have been fucked in the head to marry a death row convict.” He scratched his chin briefly. “It wasn’t that. She was just a very wounded person who sought safety, protection, and love from the wrong kinds of people.”
I’d seen that behavior before in others. None of those people had gone on to wed a serial killer, but they’d gotten involved with partners who’d been bad for them.
Dax sipped at his whiskey. “She’d known abuse. Pain. Abandonment. Fear. But she hadn’t really processed anything she’d gone through. She’d dissociated instead. Lived in a bubble she’d created, where her world was exactly how she’d wanted it. Being in a relationship with a prisoner who would never be released meant she’d been was ‘safe.’ He could never harm her. Never cheat on her. Never dominate or bully or control her. He’d needed her—she’d been his only real link to the outside world.”