Yes. I’ll miss my friend Faye more than ever.
In honor of our sister, let’s bow our heads in prayer…
From the corner of my eye, I see him shift his weight. It doesn’t matter how much I try to ignore his presence. Trust me, I’m trying. I knew I’d see him today. He not only loved his mother, he revered her the way we were preached to honor our parents every Sunday morning. His mother deserves it—she’s a saint.
Was.
She was a saint who was put through hell by her ex-husband and his family—but not by her son.
Trig.
Short for Trigger—a nickname for Easton Barrett. He was known to have the gentlest trigger finger, resulting in the best shot in North Texas when he was young. He grew up a mile from our land, but unlike my family’s ranch, his was a compound of nothing but filth—and not the kind made from dirt. When I was young, we were told to stay away because nothing good happened on Barrett land.
My dad was right. I had no idea just how right until after I turned eighteen … but he was also wrong. Faye was a gentle soul and loving friend. I asked her a couple weeks ago during one of my clandestine visits why she never left that godforsaken man that was her husband.
She looked away like she was in another world and shook her head, explaining, “I had my Easton.”
That was before she took a turn.
I’ve wondered what horrors she lived through, but never got an answer because that was my last conversation with Faye Barrett.
I loved her.
I loved her so much I came here today to say goodbye, even knowing I’d see the man who haunts my heart.
During the service, I tucked myself away in the back of the little church. It was easy to ignore him then. Now, not so much, but being here to say goodbye to Faye is worth it.
Ring out the welcome and swing open the gates.
Trig shifts again. It’s easy to sense. I hate that I’m still attuned to his every movement after all these years.
Those who went before her are waiting.
Fuck. I bite the inside of my lip so hard, I taste copper.
One more soldier enters our Kingdom.
I thought I could do this. After all that happened with Robert, I thought I was at a point in my life that I could handle anything.
Her trials are past.
Trig slips his hands into his pockets.
He’s nothing like he used to be, outfitted in a custom-tailored black suit—hiding the wild side I fell so hard for when I was still a girl. My insides twist and feelings I’ve worked hard to bury begin to float to the surface only to snake around my neck.
I fight for my breath.
Shit. I was wrong.
It doesn’t matter what I’ve lived through, being this close to him is still painful.
And they sing “Amazing Grace.”
I can’t help myself. I barely shift my head and slide my eyes as far as they’ll allow behind my shades only to find his icy blue ones set on me.
Ring out the welcome.
Not looking away, he clears his throat—deep and guttural. That shouldn’t send a shiver down my spine, but it does.
Dammit.
She’s home at last. Amen.
“Amen.” I utter the word, echoing the pastor’s as I make eye contact for the first time in a decade with the man I didn’t think I could live without.
Trig is forced to look away when someone steps between us to offer their condolences.
This is my chance and I need to take it like I need my next breath. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. I hate funerals. First, Patrick and now Faye.
Robert’s parents had a service for him. I wanted nothing to do with it. The sack of shit cheated on me, tried to frame my sister for insider trading, and would’ve killed both of us had my sister’s now-fiancé, Eli, not put a bullet through his head first. He didn’t deserve to be remembered, let alone honored. I haven’t uttered this aloud—not even to Jen—but I was happy to see Robert lying dead on the cold, hard floor of my studio.
How many times over can one person be a mistake? I hate myself for regretting the day someone introduced me to Robert backstage when I was performing on Broadway because, without him, I wouldn’t have my son, and Griffin is my whole world.
These are the things that keep me up at night.
Regrets … guilt … guilt for having regrets. It’s a vicious cycle.
I didn’t think my heart could be hardened any more than the day I internally celebrated the death of my husband. There are moments it rattles around in my chest like a lonely stone. I think Faye saw it. She encouraged me to find happiness even though I never mentioned how miserable I was. Every time I would visit, she turned the focus on me and I took it all.
Missing her is selfish. She fought tooth and nail, suffering more than anyone should. The poison ate away at her slowly, efficiently, and the doctors couldn’t get ahead of it. She suffered in life and she suffered all the way to her death.
I move to my car parked at the edge of the dirt road. When I touch the handle, it unlocks on contact.
Even though he works for my family’s company now, I don’t plan on seeing Trig again. I don’t know what Jen was thinking when she offered him a job at Montgomery Industries. She obviously wants to torture me and make sure I’ll never step foot in that building again. Still, I can’t help myself—I peek over my shoulder for one last look.
The pastor might be talking to him, but Trig’s focus is on me. Over the moss covered and crumbling gravestones, our eyes lock.
And my stone heart cracks.
I had no idea it could break twice in one lifetime. And for the first time in forever, my mind wanders to the life I had wanted.
It’s not lost on me that the first time I see him in ten years happens to be in the middle of a cemetery.
Fitting.
I open my door and climb inside. I need to get the hell out of here.
* * *
“There’s my little man.”
Griffin grins when he sees me, and despite the ear infection that’s been nagging him for the last two days, he crawls to me across the kitchen floor at the speed of light.
He’s got my eyes, my light hair, and my fair skin, but he’s built like his father—sturdy and solid. That will be the only thing he gets from the sperm donor if I have anything to do with it. I’ve decided to do everything in my power to make sure Griffin knows as little as possible about Robert.
I pick him up as my babysitter starts tossing the mess of toys into a basket in the family room. Chloe is almost twenty-six, considerably older than my last sitter. I found her through an agency when my last one refused to come back after the police showed up at the house to check on Griffin the night Robert tried to kill Jen and me.
I kick off my heels, talking to her but my focus is on Griffin’s tired eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping well. I’ve been home with him all week and he’s even on antibiotics, but I couldn’t miss Faye’s funeral. I’d never forgive myself. “Please don’t worry about the mess. He’s just going to drag it out again. I’ll pick it up tonight.”
She peeks over her shoulder and smiles as she tosses the last of the blocks into their bin. “I don’t mind, Mrs. Ketteman. I don’t want to leave you with a mess.”
Griffin snuggles into my neck as I sigh. If it weren’t for him, I’d change my name back to Montgomery but I can’t tell my babysitter that I hate my dead husband and every reminder of him turns my stomach. “Please, call me Ellie. No need for formalities, right? You’re not that much younger than me.”
She walks into the kitchen with a soft smile on Griffin and rubs his back. “Sorry, habit. He slept for a little bit this morning but only ate about half of his lunch. Poor little guy. You can tell he doesn’t feel good. Let me know when you want to get back to a normal, daily schedule.”
I shift Griffin to my other arm as he fusses. “I need to take him back to the pediatrician for a follow-up appointment since this is his third ear infecti
on. I have meetings with my contractors later this week and I’m getting ready to interview instructors and staff. Maybe the day after tomorrow? I can’t bear to leave him while he’s feeling like this. I just couldn’t miss the funeral today, you know?”
Chloe grabs her purse from the counter and heads to the front door as I follow. “I’ll wait to hear from you. I feel bad not working since you’re paying me full-time through the agency. You’re sure I can’t stay to help with anything?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m drained. I just need to focus on this little guy.”
“I might hit the pool since I have some free time. Maybe I’ll see you later in the week.”
I give her a smile. “Enjoy your afternoon.”
I walk back into the kitchen and plop a kiss on top of Griff’s head before I set him down and open the cabinet with the plastic bowls I let him play with. I go to the fridge, though I’m not sure why. I know for a fact there’s only homemade baby food and the stuff Chloe likes that I keep here.
I should probably start cooking again. Between spending time alone in my studio, preparing lesson plans for when I open, and not having anyone to cook for, I’ve lost weight.
After I choke down two hard-boiled eggs, I grab a green juice and sit on the floor next to Griffin where he’s banging plastic lids and bowls in a way he’s made it his passion.
My precious boy looks up at me and states, “Da-da.”
I do what I always do—give him my smile while cringing internally. I take three plastic bowls, stack them high, and hope that he can’t hear the plea in my response when I correct him. “Ma-ma.”
He knocks over the bowls—one of his favorite games—before faking his surprised face that always warms my heart. “Uh-oh!”
“Again?” I ask.
He bangs his hands together in baby sign language, telling me he wants more before tugging at his ear.
I set my green juice down and start stacking the bowls even higher. This distracts him for about thirty seconds before he starts fussing and crawls onto my lap. Just like the last couple of days, his fusses turn into cries. Nothing makes me feel more hopeless than when he’s sick and I can’t fix it.
I’m about to give him ibuprofen when the doorbell rings.
“Shh, it’s okay, baby. Hang on and mama will get you something.”
The ringer is impatient. I shift him in my arms and hurry on my bare feet, still in my black sheath dress from the funeral. It’s odd that security didn’t call from the gates.
Too focused on Griff, I don’t bother to look out the sidelight and come to a standstill after I swing the door open at the sight in front of me.
Standing there are two uniformed police officers, one male and one female, with another woman in a floral dress, an ID hanging around her neck and clutching a set of files.
What the hell?
“Can I help you?” I ask over my crying son.
With full authority, the woman in the dress asks, “Twitchell Grace Ketteman?”
My jaw hardens the way it always does when I hear the horrid family name my crazy-ass parents hexed me with at birth. We were all given surnames—Cam, my oldest brother is named after my maternal grandparents, Campbell. Jen got a decent one, Jensen, after our grandmother on our dad’s side.
But no—not me.
I got Twitchell and I fucking hate it. Who names a girl Twitchell?
It was some family name buried deep on my father’s side. At least they had the decency to call me Ellie since the day I took my first breath in the world.
“Twitchell Ketteman?” the female officer repeats since I haven’t answered and it’s not lost on me the woman in the dress won’t take her eyes off Griffin.
“Yes, but call me Ellie. Can I help you? I really don’t have time for whatever this is, my son isn’t feeling well.”
The woman in the dress with the short brown hair who’s wearing interesting tortoise-shell framed glasses introduces herself right before she blows my mind. “It’s nice to meet you, Ellie. My name is Paula Watson and I’m with Child Protective Services. We’re here,” she tips her head to the uniformed officers, “because an investigation has been opened on you for child neglect.”
I had no idea today could get any worse after saying goodbye to Faye, seeing Trig for the first time in a decade, and Griffin not responding to the meds for his ear infection. But as I stand here in the double doorway of the house I’ve come to loathe, I cannot believe my ears.
If I weren’t holding my son, I might fall to the ground and give up on life.
2
A Green-Eyed Witch
When evil comes at you like the devil himself, you stand strong.
Ellie
“Excuse me?” I breathe. “I don’t understand.”
“A report was made regarding Griffin Ketteman and his care.” The woman is all business and despite introducing herself two seconds ago, I cannot for the life of me remember her name. It’s all I can do to digest why she’s here as I fight the urge to slam the door in her face. “If we could come in to speak to you, I can explain the process.”
My hold on Griffin tightens as he screams and my heart roars—the swishing of blood pumping through my veins echoes in my ears.
Child neglect?
What in the actual hell?
“You’re not coming in my house and you’re damn sure not touching my child.”
That popped out of my mouth before I had the chance to bite my words, but then again, I have issues with speaking before I think in the deli line at the grocery store on a normal day, let alone when someone is talking about my son. My grip on the heavy, ten-foot door tightens, and I’m about to slam it when one of the officers juts out a strong arm to stop me.
“Ma’am, this’ll be easier if you cooperate. We have a court order to examine your living conditions. You don’t want to make this worse than it needs to be.”
Tears spring to my eyes and I hate myself for being weak. I’ve never imagined this scenario. Everything I do revolves around Griffin.
All the while, he’s crying and fussing in my arms, his nose is running, and he’s inconsolable. My voice cracks as I wipe his face with my bare hand and swipe it across the front of my dress. “Who would make a report against me?”
The officer looks at the woman holding the files. “Paula?”
Paula. That’s her name.
Paula looks down at her paperwork. Just when I thought the chapter of my life with Robert was closed, it reignites itself into an inferno. “Carl and Teresa Ketteman.” She looks up at me and tells me something I know, and at the same time, despise almost as much as my dead husband. “The child’s paternal grandparents.”
Holy shit.
* * *
My in-laws hated me.
Wait. I stand corrected.
They still hate me and the feeling is mutual.
Robert grew up in Connecticut in an upper-class family. His father is a physician and his mother is a socialite. The older she gets, the harder she works at being a stuck-up, pompous, country-clubbing bitch. Sure, I’m not blind to the fact my parents have their issues—they do. Kipp and Hattie Montgomery are far from perfect, but standing beside the Kettemans, they look like an after-school-special, picture-perfect mother and father.
Robert’s parents were friendly enough until after Robert and I were married. Teresa was like a green-eyed witch from the west when it came to my family, to Montgomery Industries, and scrutinizing net worths. I know I grew up privileged, but I can’t help who my parents are, what they have, or the big, fat trust fund sitting in the bank with my name on it. I also can’t help that they couldn’t come close to providing the same for their son.
Robert and I were married for three years and I wonder every single day why I said I do. How could I have not seen him for what he was when everyone around me did? They even warned me of everything that made up my late husband.
And they were right. Every last one of them. In the months after our p
icturesque wedding at the Loeb Boathouse in Central Park, he changed and became what everyone said he was. A distant asshole who disregarded me in everything unless he needed me on his arm, especially around his parents. Since we lived in Manhattan, we saw them oftenish. When we did, Robert would turn into the perfect, doting husband I thought I married.
When he wanted to take a job in Dallas, it wasn’t hard to give in to everyone—Jen, my parents, even Cam, who, despite his own marital issues with his first wife, thought it would be a good idea for me to live close to my family.
Had I known… Robert was only interested in having an in with Montgomery Industries.
And the ill-will he planned to rain down on my family.
And that he’d cheat on me.
And—the biggie—that he’d turn out to be a murderer and almost killed Jen and me.
So, no, I haven’t had any contact with Robert’s parents, Carl and Teresa, since shortly after Robert’s death. They barely pretended to like me when Robert was alive—especially Teresa. Why would I put myself through her judgmental, passive-aggressive bullshit?
Jen’s fiancé, Eli, was the one who saved us by putting a bullet through Robert’s head—he was an FBI agent at the time. But it doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger. In the end, Carl and Teresa found reasons to blame me. It was ugly. I could barely function for weeks, let alone deal with my dead husband’s parents. I don’t know what I would have done without Jen and the rest of my family, who acted as a barrier between me and my in-laws.
That was only four short months ago. I’m consumed with my ballet and dance studio, En Pointe, and am focusing on my son. Basically, I’m faking it daily for everyone because life right now sucks.
So, as my dead husband is still finding ways to heckle me from the grave through his damn parents on the day I had to bid goodbye to Faye, I wonder if this is finally my lowest low.
Broken Halo: The Montgomery Series, Book 2 Page 2