That blush-colored throw blanket that Matthew thought somehow impacted his sperm count or something with how violently he objected to it? Yeah, it was draped over the back of my couch.
My throw pillows had been rescued from their vacuum-sealed preservation packs. They were sitting carefully at the ends of the sofa.
My art? Hung.
The closet? All mine. No stinky gym shoes or oversized hoodies taking up precious closet real estate.
No beard whiskers in the sink or all over the floor.
No feet or drinks on my coffee table.
The vanilla-scented candle that Matthew hated? Burning on the island as I made my coffee.
It was heaven.
Did I feel a twinge of guilt still at being so happy right after my husband’s murder? Of course. But each time those thoughts popped up, other ones now chased them.
About him letting me go years thinking something was wrong with me, that I could never become a mother, while he knew all along he wasn’t capable of making babies.
So many nights crying in the bathroom.
So many feelings of inferiority and insecurity.
All based on a lie.
And if those weren’t bad enough thoughts, I remembered that he let me wear a fake ring all these years. When I’d offered to invest in my own. When Nico had given him more than enough money to get a real stone.
There was nothing wrong with a fake ring. If both partiesknewabout it. I actually even knew several very wealthy clients who wore fake replicas of their real rings in certain situations, despite having the real jewelry insured.
The problem was the constant dishonesty.
The problem was he didn’t see anything wrong with stealing from his friend about what the money was going to.
What kind of person was comfortable with all their relationships being full of lies?
What else had he been lying about?
That second question was one that had been keeping me awake at night.
Paranoia had me chronically checking my bank and investment accounts, had me double-checking all my bills and my credit score. I’d even hired one of those companies that monitor your identity to make sure nothing weird popped up.
“Ugh,” I grumbled, putting my coffee cup in the sink.
My mind refused to stop focusing on the what-ifs that morning. I needed to get out. Get some exercise. Clear my head.
But just the thought of going for a run had my stomach clenching, memories rushing back.
The fear.
The adrenaline.
The fall.
The hand on my ankle.
I’d been using the gym around the corner from my old apartment since the whole incident. It just wasn’t the same.
And I couldn’t let that kind of fear win.
