Page 19 of Broken Halo
I get out and throw the door shut, but he’s rolled down the passenger window and yells for me. “Did they set your first appearance in court?”
I stop and turn, looking straight into his icy blue eyes that aren’t hard like they were in the courthouse. They’re guarded, blanketing emotions that seem to be smoldering below the surface. I itch to run back to him and touch him and uncover every one he’s hiding.
But he doesn’t want that—he doesn’t want anything from me. He made sure I knew that a long time ago.
I look down at my fingers that I’ve been torturing with my damn shoelaces since they were returned to me right after telling me my bail had been posted.
I shake my head and take a breath, doing everything I can to swallow back my screams of resentment with life in general, barely recognizing my own voice. “I’ll send you the three hundred dollars.”
And with that, I turn and walk past Jen’s Rover to my front door. I ignore him alternately calling my name and cursing because I won’t answer.
When I walk into my house, Jen runs to me and tries to pull me into her arms, but I stop her. “Where’s Griffin?”
She steps back and tries to reach for my hand but I shake her off. “I fed him, gave him a bath, and put him to bed. He was fine after…” she pauses before finishing, “everything calmed down. I just checked on him—he’s out.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep it together. “Whatever calamity happens next, I can find my own attorney. I’ll start looking tomorrow. Just don’t call him—not for me. Not ever. Do you understand?”
Her face blanks and she does that thing she does when she kicks ass, takes names, and gets business done in the process. “But he works for MI and you shouldn’t have to get another attorney. Part of his position is to represent our family, which is an extension of the company—”
“Stop it,” I snap and reach down to tear off my shoes. If they weren’t my favorites and broken in, I’d throw the damn things away since they’ve touched the floors of a jail cell. Tossing the shoe strings down next to them, I push past my sister. “He doesn’t want anything to do with me. With my life falling apart, I don’t need anyone else around who hates me—I’ve already got my asshole in-laws to worry about.”
“He doesn’t hate you.”
I let out a strangled, sardonic laugh. “Right.”
Her face turns soft and she looks at me the way she has too many times in my life, like I’m a lost puppy, wandering around the big, bad world in search of someone to feed me and rub my ears. She’s not entirely wrong and I hate myself for it. Today it feels even worse. “He doesn’t have to hate you. You can set it straight easily enough—enough to at least live in the same metroplex and not have to go through this every time your paths cross.”
I shake my head. “Been there, done that. Should I remind you that CPS has shown up on my doorstep two days in a row and I just spent hours in the slammer for the possession of drugs that aren’t mine? I don’t give two shits about Trig Barrett right now. I have way too many other things to worry about. I’ll say it one more time. I do not want him anywhere near me.”
Exhausted, wired, and jittery, I need to get away from everyone so I move past her.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
I don’t look back and keep moving toward the back of my house to the hall that leads to the master bedroom, a place I’ve rarely been since Robert died. I usually get what I need and get out. But right now, I can’t even go upstairs to check on my son—I feel filthy.
“Ellie, come back and talk to me,” she yells.
I don’t answer. I slam and lock the door to the bedroom I shared with my dead husband and go straight to his dresser. I haven’t gone through his clothes, his stuff, gotten rid of his car—nothing. I don’t know why, other than the sheer fact it disgusts me and I can’t bring myself to touch anything of his. After he died, I found out he had been cheating on me for at least a year, even before Griffin was born.
Not that our marriage was one made of bliss and white doves and sugary lattes. It wasn’t. But on top of everything else he did, I hated myself even more for trusting him. For being stupid enough to stick around in the sham that my life had become.
I yank out one drawer after another, littering them like a crime scene over the white, plush carpet. As repulsive as it is, I need it gone, all of it—his T-shirts, underwear, gym clothes, watches, cufflinks. His things feel dirtier than the jail cell I just sat in while the only thing I had to do was contemplate.
Jen bangs on the door. “What are you doing in there?”
I ignore her and kick everything into a pile before heading to his closet. My arms complain as I heft as many suits as they’ll take, throwing them on top of the pile.
“Open the door. I swear, Ellie. I’ll find a way to get in.”
I go back for more. Shoes, ties, sport coats, even his damn robe.
Who did he think he was? Obviously, Hugh Hefner. No self-respecting man lounges around in some ridiculous smoking jacket like he did.
“Open the damn door.” She’s not screaming, but I know she would be if it weren’t for Griffin.
I look at the mountain I’ve created in what was a perfectly glamorous and romantic master suite. If it wouldn’t burn the house down and possibly ignite the neighbors’ as well, I’d set fire to it. All of Robert’s shit deserves to scorch into a pile of flames, leaving nothing but a dusty shadow of ashes.
I don’t find it a bit ironic I’ve wished the same for him in the scorching pits of hell.
