Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“What did you tell HR?” I ask.
“I denied everything,” he says. “I hated doing it.”
“No. You did the right thing.” I squeeze his hand. “If they ask me about it, I’ll say the same.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want you lying for me.”
“You lied for me.”
“I lied for me, Angie. Nothing will happen to you if this gets out. But I could lose my job.”
“If you go to Switzerland, you’ll have to leave your job anyway.”
He doesn’t reply.
I’m not sure what’s going through his mind. He finally mentioned Switzerland, but it was in the context of him being debt free. Not in the context of getting the surgery, which he was so excited about just days ago.
“Are we still going to Switzerland? Will you still get the surgery?” I ask him.
Jason looks at me, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes nearly breaks my heart. “I don’t know. This HR thing has thrown me off balance. I’m not sure if it’s still a viable option.”
His uncertainty rings loud in the silence that follows, and my chest tightens. I’m not frightened, exactly. Not frustrated. Just…suspended. Like I’m standing still while the rest of the world keeps moving.
Because I see it in his face.
He’s not telling me the whole truth.
“Jason…”
He huffs. “What?”
“I love you,” I say. “But this will only work if we’re completely honest with each other.”
Chapter Eight
Jason
She’s right.
She no doubt knows about my past. Not from her aunt, of course. Dr. Melanie Steel is way too professional to divulge anything we talked about.
I’m not active on social media, but a simple search of me will bring up Lindsay and Julia. The accident. Lindsay’s Facebook memorial page.
Damn. I haven’t looked at that thing in a long time. Not for two years at least. Maybe longer.
It just became too painful.
Not only did my actions contribute to the death of the woman I loved—the woman I committed my life to, had a child with—but her death devastated so many others. Her family, friends. I could have handled it if I had just received condolences at her funeral. But an online forum is permanent. A constant reminder of my failure as a husband.
She slashed her wrists, but I put the razor blades in her hands.
At least, that was the going theory until I finally read that fucking suicide note.
“I know, Angie,” I admit, my voice barely a whisper. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
She looks at me then, her eyes softening as she reaches out to take my hand. Her touch is gentle, comforting, a lifeline in the storm.
“I know about Lindsay and Julia,” she says quietly. “I looked you up. After we met.”
I take a deep breath and brace myself for what always comes next.
“Whatever happened wasn’t your fault,” she says.
Her words are kind, and I’d give anything to believe them.
But they’re a falsehood. A fucking lie.
Everything was my fault. I was behind the wheel. I’m the one who made sure Julia was secured in her car seat.
Except that she wasn’t.
So yeah, it was my fault.
And my wife? As much as she said she didn’t blame me, her eyes and her actions said differently.
God, my wife.
That handwriting that wasn’t hers.
So much to deal with.
So much.
“I appreciate that,” I say, trying to keep the darkness of the past from seeping into my voice.
But a fresh surge of guilt tightens my chest.
Julia’s car seat…
Lindsay…
“But I don’t think you quite understand,” I continue. “The guilt isn’t just about the accident. It’s about everything that happened afterward.”
Angie looks at me, her eyes wide. She squeezes my hand tighter.
“You can’t change the past,” she says softly. “None of us can. But we can try to make the future better.”
The hope in her voice sparks something in me. A small flame in the darkness. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough. For now at least.
“Switzerland,” I whisper, looking into her eyes. “I want this surgery. I want it so much. But I can’t go. Not now.”
“Why not?”
“The thing with HR.”
She frowns. “What did they say?”
“They said they tried to email the person back, but it bounced.”
“See?” she says. “It’s nothing. They know it’s nothing.”
I sigh.
To be honest, HR knowing that I kissed Angie is the least of my problems.
My wife may have been murdered…and I need to find out who wrote that damned suicide note.
And that…
That is my fault.
If I’d had the courage and the balls to read the damned thing when it happened, I’d have known then that the handwriting wasn’t hers.
“But—” Angie starts, her eyebrows furrowed.
I shake my head, stopping her mid-sentence.
“I have to figure things out.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s something I need to do on my own.”
“But you don’t have to face it alone,” she says. “I’m here, and I love you. I want to help.”
She looks at me with such resolve that for a moment I’m tempted to take her along this dark journey. But reality comes crashing down.