But still.
“Well—”
“I’ll tell you what’s working for me. I got a woman in my bed who lights up every time I touch her. I have a strong woman who has a mind of her own. She has drive and passion. She cares deeply for the few people she lets in. She gives it to me straight. She can take care of herself, and she doesn’t leech off me. She takes care of the space we share. She cooks me good home-cooked meals. We bicker, and, sweets, I fucking love it. I love that you’re strong enough to do it.”
Every word punches the fortress around my heart, but I don’t let it crumble. I bite my lip. “Okay, but—”
He takes a step in my direction, but I don’t move because the couch is at my back.
His voice is soft and gentle but firm when he says, “Becca, you fit so well into my family. My mom adores you, my sister thinks you’re the shit, and I’d bet my left nut that Anna admires you. Christ, Becca, you with those kids? You’re going to be the best mom. I want that woman. I want that woman to give me kids.”
I shake my head back and forth. I’m not that woman. I’m not someone to be admired. Christ, no.
I square my shoulders. “We’re two different people.”
His head jerks back. “What?”
“My mother was a drunken prostitute.” I hold my posture perfectly.
“So? My mom did home daycare.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Exactly.”
His brows furrow. “Babe, seriously?”
I throw my hands in the air. “What is so difficult to understand? You grew up like The Brady Bunch, and I grew up cleaning up my mom’s vomit after she came home from spreading her legs to pay the rent.”
His face relaxes, and his lips part.
My heart squeezes. He gets it.
Then, he busts out laughing as he doubles over with his hands on his knees.
My eyebrows pull together, and I tilt my head to the side. I expected disgust, maybe understanding so that he’d let me go, but I can’t say I expected this.
He moves to me, and I tip my head back to meet his eyes. He brings a hand to my face and swipes at my cheekbone. “You’re not your mom, sweets.”
I jolt my head to break contact with his hand, but he lifts his other hand to my face, holding me where I am.
“You’re not your mom. You’re Becca. You’re the woman who got handed a shit hand in life and took the whole pot home. I’m not my father. He’s a great man, but I’m not him. I’m my own person. We’re all our own people. Your actions define you—not your mom’s, not Matt’s, not mine. Yours. I don’t care if your mom was a homeless crackhead or the President of the United States. It’s you I care about. It’s you I want by my side.”
I blink back tears, my chest heaving. I scramble to find a defense against his absolutely fucking beautiful words.
Your actions define you.
He has that right—my actions define me. I planned to screw him over and laugh in his face. That’s the kind of person I am. That’s not the kind of person who belongs in The Brady Bunch.
“This should be good,” he mutters.
My head jerks, and my eyes narrow. “What?”
“Whatever bullshit excuse you’re drumming up in your head.”
My jaw drops, my head still in his hands. “Are you telling me my feelings are bullshit?”
He sighs. “No, I—”
My voice is laced with steel. “I was screwing you over.”
His body jolts, and his eyebrow shoots up. “Screwing me over?”
“Yeah, payback.”
His face clears, and his eyes widen. “Bullsh—”
I’m getting somewhere. “I wanted to watch you suffer like I did.”
His hands fall to his sides, and he takes a step back. “You’re telling me—”
I lean forward. “I’m telling you, I don’t give a shit about you.”
He shakes his head. “That’s complete bullshit. I’ve—”
Knowing I’m getting there, I push. “Last night, when you said you were falling, did I say it back?”
He flinches like he’s been struck, and my stomach churns, but I set my jaw and my face.
“No, I didn’t because I wouldn’t have meant it. I planned this the whole time. I let you fall for me, so I could watch your heart get broken, just like you did to mine.”
His eyes narrow, scanning my granite expression. “If you wanted to watch me suffer so bad, why did you wait till now? Why not last night?”
I don’t hesitate when I lie, “I wanted to have all my things out, so I didn’t have to pack with you bitching in my ear. The breakup was just going to be short and sweet, just like you did to me.”
He crosses his arms over his chest as he scans my face. He does it for a long time. Seconds turn into minutes. I don’t waver, not for a millisecond. It’s too important that I save myself the heartbreak later. We’re not right together, and even if I could let go and be with him, he’d eventually tire of me working so much. He’d finally see that yes, I’m not my mom, but I’m of her loins. I’m filth. What happens when he figures it out? My patchwork heart is cracking, splintering, and forming new scars already. I can’t do it a year or two years down the road.
He runs his tongue under his teeth, and then he drops his head and shakes it. He stares at his boots for a moment that bleeds into two, and then he lifts his head. His mouth is tight, and his jaw is tense, but his eyes are drawn and sad.
His expression and body language scream defeat.
My nose stings, but I swallow down the tears and hold my mask.
He sighs. “Right. Well, good job. At least I don’t have a reason to feel guilty anymore. I’ll let you pack. Leave your key on the counter.”
I clench my jaw to hold back the tears.
He turns.
A fist punches through my chest and squeezes my heart.
He walks through the room.
I’m light-headed.
He disappears around the corner.
I struggle to bring in air.
The door to the apartment slams shut.
Fuck.
God.
Christ.
My stomach convulses. Bile threatens to crawl up my throat.
I blink back tears.
Okay. Done. Over. Move on.
Pulling in a shaky breath, I kneel on the floor. Heart hammering in my chest, my stomach twisting and turning, my palms sweating, I gather my clothes one by one.
Flash—Zach’s thumb sweeps across my cheek.
No more.
A tear slides down my cheek as I put the red dress Zach and I fought about into the bag.
Flash—Zach interlaces our fingers, bringing them to his mouth, and with his full lips, he plants a kiss on our joined hands.
Gone.
Another tear joins the other when I put my dark green lacy panties on top of the dress.
Flash—Zach accepting me just as I come.
Done.
I ball up my jean shorts, shove my face into them, and burst into tears.
Flash—Zach caring enough about me to bust through the door and help me when I had that horrible, awful dream about my mom.
Lost.
A sob tears out of me, my whole body shakes, and my ears ring.
Flash—Zach holds me, and I’m curved into his safe, warm arms. He’s shielding me, protecting me.
Never again.
I tilt forward, my face still in the jean shorts, and I fall to the floor. With my ass in the air, the loss I caused myself slices through my heart, shredding it into two.
Flash—“Stay.”
Finished.
Flash—“I’m falling for you.”
No longer.
“Liar.” The soft words come from beside me.
I surge up, my eyes meeting a watery vision of Zach on one knee beside me. My heart hammers against my ribs as my bottom lip trembles. I clench my jean shorts to my chest, my mind a wild, chaotic disarray.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper.<
br />
His face gentles. “You gonna tell me I mean nothing to you again?”
I stare at him—the man who accepts me as I am, cares for me, encourages my dreams, holds me after my nightmares, protects me, makes love to me. I take in the man who took me in even when I was a raving bitch, who I said horrible things to, who I lashed out at, as he sits right next to me. He didn’t give up on me. He doesn’t see filth. He sees strength.
I swallow—sweat breaking out, my lungs frozen solid—and I do it. I take the leap.
I shake my head.
His whole body relaxes. “Thank fuck.”
He gathers me into his arms, and I climb on him, his legs rearranging so that I can crawl onto his lap. He holds me tight to his chest, and my arms encircle him, gripping him close.
“I’m sorry.” My voice cracks.
His body shakes. “Not complaining, seeing as this is the outcome.”
Laughter bubbles out through my tears, and I pull away to look at him.
He holds my eyes, a smile playing at his lips, as he cups my jaw with his hand. The gesture is so soft, so gentle. Just seconds ago, I thought I lost it forever because of my need for control, my need not to lose anything ever again. My eyes drift closed as he sweeps his thumb across my cheek.
I pull in a breath, and my body shudders when I let the air out slowly. When I open my eyes, his jaw works back and forth, his eyes burn, and his Adam’s apple moves up and down.
“Finally.” His voice is hoarse. Then, he dips his head and kisses me like I’m the air he breathes—slow, deep, long.
Yeah, finally, I understand that having a good man at my back isn’t a distraction. It isn’t losing control or losing myself.
No, having a good man at my back is everything.
One Month Later
“How’s she doing with the truck?” Matt asks from his desk.
I swing my chair around. My eyes burn from staring at my laptop screen for hours as I compiled information on a murder scene that’ll soon be turned over to a homicide detective.
“Awesome. Helped her put in the bigger window yesterday. She’s ecstatic. Seeing as she doesn’t work at Mario’s on Mondays, she’s painting the inside of the truck, and she’s looking into people to do the outside. She said she’s gonna file permit paperwork tomorrow.”
Matt grins. “Thanks, man.”
Knowing what he’s saying, I lift my chin. “Trust me, it’s my pleasure.”
The last month, my ass couldn’t have been happier with Becca. She’s still immature, still a bitch, but I fucking love it. Her smiles come more and more freely. Fucking her has gotten intense. We’ve grown closer. She trusts in me, in us, more. She is freer with her past. Last week, she dished more about her mom and her constant struggle to reconcile the mom who loved her with the mom who had her in a shitty place and forced her to do shit no little girl should have to do, see shit no little girl should have to see, and hear shit no little girl should have to hear.
It’s hard on Becca because other than what she witnessed, she has no idea about her mom’s past, where she came from, nothing. I offered to look up her mom’s file to see if I could find anything out, but she shut it down. If she has family out there, they obviously never gave a fuck, so neither does she. I can sympathize, but like she pointed out, we come from different childhoods. My family is tight, so I can’t empathize. I’ll go with the flow, seeing as she seems to be coming into herself.
She’s the same woman I care about but freer and less held back.
Fucking perfection.
“Hey.” Officer Parker pops his head in. “Mr. Pierce is here. Said he wants to talk to you.”
My brows draw together.
Matt says, “Bring him in.”
I lean back in my chair. “Wonder what this shit is about.”
“No clue.”
Mr. Pierce comes through the door, and after Matt motions to a seat next to his desk, the man sits.
“What brings you in, Mr. Pierce?” Matt asks.
His leg bouncing, he says, “I think my wife murdered Sharon Anderson.”
I pull in a breath, and my eyes grow wide as I glance at Matt. When his eyes hit mine, his eyebrow shoots up. Our eyes return to Mr. Pierce.
“Give me a second.” Matt grabs his notepad, and I grab mine. “Tell us why you think your wife murdered Sharon Anderson.”
He licks his lips. “I cheated on my wife.”
Seeing as we already gathered that information, neither of us blinks.
I say, “Can you tell us anything else?”
“Uh…yes.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It might be nothing, but I was so surprised when Sharon passed, that after the shock and grief wore off, I started thinking. The afternoon before Sharon died, I came home a little early to, um…get ready to meet Sharon. Erin, my wife, was running the water in the kitchen sink. The place smelled like smoke, like she was, I don’t know, burning something. Then, the weirdest thing happened. She looked at me, and her eyes were just”—his voice rises, and he gestures with his hands—“dead. Then, she asked me what time my plane left that night.”
He sighs and rubs his face with his hands. After they fall into his lap, he continues, “I haven’t loved Erin for a long time. She started changing. It was crazy. She would do things and say it was for good, but it wasn’t good at all. She was disbarred because she stole a client’s trust fund and donated it to a few charities. Once, she got thrown out of a restaurant for slapping a kid, saying someone had to teach him manners.” He throws his hand in the air. “Can you believe that shit? She said she did it for the good of the world. She—”
I cut in because he’s going off topic. If we need a character witness, we can ask more questions later. “Why was her asking about when your plane left unusual?”
“Well, like I said, I don’t love her, so other than telling her when I’m going away on business or other household matters, I don’t have anything to do with her.”
I run my tongue under my lip. “Why haven’t you gotten a divorce?”
He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling. “She’s a lawyer—or was. She would clean me out. I’ve worked too hard and too long to lose everything. I have no idea why she hasn’t left me. I guess it’s because she likes the lifestyle and wants to keep up appearances.”
“Anything else you can recall?” I scribble what he’s already said on my notepad.
“Just that, a few weeks before Sharon died, I met her at her house and noticed the key I had to her place was missing from my key chain, but it was there again a few days later. I shrugged it off, thinking I’d just missed it that night since it was dark. But now…I don’t know.”
“Do you have the key with you?”
Nodding, he pulls out his keys. I pull out an evidence bag. Once the key is free, he drops it in the bag. I tag it. Once we’re done, I’ll take it down to forensics.
“Anything else?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Right. We’ll look into this. Thank you for coming in.” I grab a card from my desk and hand it to him. “If you think of anything else, let us know.”
Taking the card, he lets out air through his scrunched lips. “Can you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“If it turns out that she did it, can you look into the death of Patricia Wilbanks?”
My jaw clenches, but I give him a nod. “We can review the files, and if it looks suspicious, we’ll hand it off to homicide.”
He nods. “And…”
Jesus, how many women has he fucked around with?
“Elizabeth Bailey.”
Every muscle in my body locks. I’m frozen motherfucking solid.
“What was the name again?” Matt asks, his voice sounding strangled.
My ears are ringing, but I see Mr. Pierce sigh as he runs a hand through his hair.
“I know it sounds crazy, and it’s probably nothing. Maybe I’m just cynical, but I find it strange t
hat three of my girlfriends killed themselves. I mean, Patty was seven years ago, and Beth was fifteen years ago. I understood Beth’s death. She was…troubled. Patty was a shock. But Sharon? No way.”
My hands ball into fists at the mention of who might or might not be Becca’s mom.
“I understand, Mr. Pierce. If there’s nothing further, we’re going to call Mrs. Pierce in for questioning. Do you know where she might be?” Matt asks, his tone professional with a hard edge.
“I have no idea. From the credit card bills, I’d say she’s probably shopping.” His tone is bitter.
Matt stands, and it takes a fuckload of effort to pry my fists apart and force myself to stand, too. Mr. Pierce stands as well. He offers his hand first to Matt and then to me. It takes herculean effort for me to take his hand.
After he leaves, I plop my ass back in my chair. I put my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands.
Matt speaks from my side. “Fuck, man, if that shit with Elizabeth is true…I don’t know. It’s a long shot, but fucking shit, if it turns out Becca’s mom was murdered…brace yourself, man. I don’t know how Becca is gonna take it.”
I look up at Matt, and he’s shaking his head.
He continues, “Shit is gonna come out, and I might lose her for not telling her. Fuck. Shit.” He pulls in a breath. “Right, let’s find this woman and see if we can get some answers.”
After units locate Mrs. Pierce at her home and bring her down to the station, she lawyers up. It’s not necessary since she’s technically only a person of interest. Seeing as Matt and me are general detectives, the case shifted from Matt and me to homicide detectives, Detective Hesston and Detective Smith.
Matt and I are standing outside the interrogation room behind the one-way mirror. We’re allowed to do this, considering this started as our case and our connection to Becca.
Once Mrs. Pierce and the fat, bald arrogant lawyer, Mr. Gregory, are seated, Hesston starts, “Where were you on June sixth and seventh between the hours of eleven at night and five in the morning?”
“Is my client being charged?”
Smith doesn’t skip a beat. “If need be. We have enough information on your client to make an arrest with reasonable suspicion. But if she can answer a few questions and we can clear her, then she can be on her way.”
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