Page 83 of Our Little Secret
He was nodding. “A significant check.”
Brooke visibly cringed. “Ten thousand?”
“That would hardly get you into the door of a good divorce lawyer.”
“So?”
“Twenty-five.”
“What?” She sucked in her breath. “Twenty-five thousand dollars? Are you nuts? Where did you find that lying around?” she asked, trying and failing to keep her voice down. Her thoughts zeroed in on Marilee’s college fund and her insides went cold.
“I can borrow. Against my retirement. I just have to pay it back soon.”
“With what?”
He looked weary but managed a tight smile. “I’m working on a big case.” When he saw her about to protest he held up a hand to stop the tirade he expected, “I know it’s a lot of money. Don’t worry about it. This is the last time.”
“It had better be.”
“I swear. And she signed a note.”
Brooke leaned against the counter and slid him a disbelieving glance. “Another one?”
Sighing, he nodded. “Seems as if we’re collecting them.” He wrapped an arm around her. “It’ll be all right. She’ll divorce Sean and maybe be more careful before she walks down the aisle again.”
As they mounted the stairs together, she threw him a glance. “People don’t change, you know.”
“She might, after this one.”
“Wishful thinking.”
“I talked to her.”
“Oh good,” Brooke said sarcastically. “And she actually listened? It sank in?”
“I think so.”
“Wanna bet?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Don’t think I can. I just loaned away my last dollar.”
“Fool,” she said, teasing, her lighthearted mood a mask as they entered the bedroom, and he snapped on the TV before kicking off his shoes and stretching out on the bed.
Brooke spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom, washing her face, brushing her teeth, and changing into a nightshirt. By the time she returned to the bedroom he was sleeping, softly snoring, his hair falling over his forehead, eyelashes visible on the blades of his cheeks.
She took the throw from the back of the chair near the dresser and tossed it over him. He didn’t stir.
Quietly, she slid under the covers and snatched the television’s remote from the bed near his hand. As she pointed the remote at the flat screen, intending to shut off the television, she froze and stared at the screen.
Neal had been watching the local news, which he’d recorded earlier, and Brooke recognized the people on the screen. Elyse and Tony Carelli were huddled together in front of the local police department. Tony’s arm was around his ex-wife, and Josh McKrae, Elyse’s son from her first marriage, stood a little behind to one side of his mother. Wearing a jacket with the Steadman Auto Parts logo emblazoned on it, Josh was tall and thin, the hint of beard shadow covering his jaw. He fidgeted, avoided looking at the camera, and appeared uncomfortable, as if he would rather be any other place on earth.
A detective from the police department stood front and center, fielding questions from several reporters while blond Elyse, in a long jacket and jeans, battled tears. Tony’s stoic stare was betrayed by a wobbling, whisker-stubbled chin. He was a stocky man with a thick neck, and in his plaid jacket he appeared as destroyed as his gaunt ex-wife. The opposite of Jack Sprat and his wife of nursery rhyme fame, Brooke thought oddly as she sat on the foot of the bed and watched Elyse swiping at her eyes, her mascara running.
The questions came fast as a machine gun’s spray.
“Are there any suspects?”
“None at this time.”
