Page 11 of The Bad Brother
“Pretty much,” Ethan confirms my suspicions on an amused chuckle. “And we didn’t even have to wait—that stupid pager of yours went off and you ran out the door, same as always.”
No way.
Nowayam I going to let him gaslight me into believing this is my fault.
“If you think I’m going to be the one to move out, you’re fucking crazy,” I hiss into the phone, doing my best to keep my voice down. “I’mthe one who drained her savings forthe down payment.I’mthe one who pays the mortgage. I’m?—”
“Not on the deed.”
My stomach rolls again. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not on the deed, Sloane,” he tells me in a calm, almost apologetic tone.
Why would he say that? For a second, I don’t understand.
But then I do.
“Of course I’m on the deed, Ethan—” Panic and denial push the words out in a hurried rush. “it’smycondo. I bought it.”
“Are you sure?” I hear Amy in the background, her tone sullen—forget about her, baby.Just hang up the phone and come back to bed.
Ethan’s not going to hang up the phone. I can hear it in his tone—he’s having too much fun.
“What did you do?” I hate the sound of my voice when I ask it. Small and broken and I realize that’s how Ethan likes me. Off balance and unsure. Half believing the bullshit my mother spews about how fortunate I am to have a man like him.
Instead of answering me, Ethan sends me a text. “You might want to look at that.”
Sure it’s another disgusting video of him and Amy fucking in my house, I reluctantly open the text. It’s not another video. It’s a photograph of the deed to my condo.
“Zoom in and you’ll see that my name is the only name on it,” he informs me, his tone clipped and formal like now that the death blow has been delivered, I’m not any fun to play with anymore. “If you come here, I’ll call the sheriffand have you arrested for trespassing and domestic disturbance—I don’t think that would play too well with your precious hospital, do you?”
Ethan hangs up before I can answer him.
Hand suddenly shaking, I use my thumb and forefinger to widen the screen on my cell phone, zooming in on the picture he sent me.
He’s right.
Undername of purchaserit saysEthan Pryce.
My name is nowhere on it. How did this happen?
How did Iletthis happen? And then I remember.
When Ethan came to pick me up at the hospital so we could meet the lender and sign the closing paperwork, we’d been swamped and I couldn’t, in good conscience, leave the hospital understaffed. Ethan, still playing the part of loving fiancé, kissed me on the cheek and said,don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of it.
And I’d been grateful.
My ears instantly start to ring and my scalp begins to tingle. A surefire sign that I’m headed for a panic attack.
Shit.
Dropping my phone, I dive back into my bag. Fingers fumbling with the side pocket, I pull out a cellophane wrapped candy and jam it into my mouth, the sudden sting of citric acid on my tongue so intense it burns my nostrils. Knowing it won’t be enough, I crack the small, sour disc between my teeth, releasing another flood of citric acid, this one enough to overpower my senses and pull be back from the edge.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I roll the halves of sourcandy across my tongue, sucking on them while I close my eyes and repeat my self-grounding mantra.
I am calm.
I am strong.
