“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Forget it.” I shook my head. “Never mind.”
“Why won’t you tell me what you did last night?”
“Does it matter?” I groaned. “You were busy doing your own thing.”
Holden’s stare didn’t waver, his fingers tapping on the open window. “Still waiting.”
“Tanner and I grabbed drinks.”
The lie was effortless, and at the moment, I didn’t feel bad. It seemed, I don’t know, minimal. Avoidance of a fight, maybe, when I was the wronged one. My husband had forgotten about me on my important day. I didn’t want this to become about my choice of plans instead of his failure as my husband.
“Hmm . . . that’s not what he said.” Disappointment was etched in the worry lines of his forehead.
My face flushed. “Then whatever he said I did, I did.”
“Why would you lie to me?” His blue eyes pierced mine with sadness. “Is that where we’re at now? The ‘lying and blame game’ stage?” He leaned closer to sniff my neck. “You smell like cologne.”
“I do not.”
“You wore that dress yesterday.”
I looked down. “So what?”
“What do you mean, so what?” He punched the door. “You didn’t come home last night. You smell like another man. You haven’t changed out of your clothes.” He peered at the gym bag lying on the seat next to me. “I hope it was a fun sleepover,” he huffed.
“If you don’t believe me, check the cameras,” I snipped.
But I was a drunk, and I hadn’t gone in the front or garage door, where the cameras were. I forgot I’d left my house keys in my car.
And I didn’t have an excuse for why I hadn’t gone through the garage entrance, because there was a keypad. Instead, I’d climbed through our unlocked window in the laundry room.
As an attorney, I understand reasonable doubt.
And Holden didn’t believe I was truthful.
It didn’t help he snooped through my phone and found a text from Nico checking to see if I’d gotten home okay.
After that, I became more than a booze queen. I became a cheater.
CHAPTER 47
Deborah
After Holden leaves, Deborah is exhausted but restless. Her footsteps pace the worn carpet in the bedroom. She misses the carefree times as a child when she would catch water on the tip of her tongue, so she goes outside to stand in the rain. Even though she gets absolutely soaked, it’s utterly freeing at the moment.
Shaking off inside like a wet dog, Deborah wipes her feet on the floor mat, not wanting to track mud through the house. She rubs her face with a hand towel in the kitchen, carefully drying around her eyes.
As she locks the front door behind her, chills run down her spine.
The house is deathly quiet except for the steady thump of the rain hitting the siding. It reminds her of patting someone on the back for doing a good job, except it’s uninterrupted.
Suddenly Deborah doesn’t like the noise. It’s annoying and constant.
She flicks on the television, but the chatter doesn’t help. She mutes the sound.
Music. That’s what she needs—some good old-fashioned music.
An old radio sits on the counter, and ancient and dusty as it is, it never fails to work. Moving the dial through static, she finds a station that fits her mood. As she hums along to an old tune, a jazz medley by Nat King Cole, she hears the unmistakable roar of an engine.
Tilting her head to listen, she turns down the volume.
There’s another clap of thunder, and guessing she’s wrong, Deborah cranks the music back up, louder this time, her hips jiving to the instruments.
Moving seductively through the kitchen to the living room, she looks out the window as another sliver of lightning splits open the clouds.
Mesmerized, she intently watches the storm. Deborah’s glad she’s safe and warm, tucked away inside, as her mother used to say during the bad weather. Her eyes seek out the barely visible barn in the distance.
Her daughter hasn’t returned. Eyes darting to the clock, she wonders if she should be worried. Even though the television is muted, she catches the red scrolling bar at the bottom of the screen, warning of possible flooding and a severe thunderstorm watch for the entire county.
The light flickers in the antique lamp, and her eyes move to the ceiling bulb, which taunts her by giving a final burst of energy before fading.
Out like a light, she thinks, giggling to herself.
She’s going to need candles, she suspects. The flashing screen announces power outages across the neighboring towns.
Combing through the disorganized junk drawer, Deborah is searching for matches when a pounding interrupts her concentration.
She ignores it, thinking it’s the rain.
As she sighs, she hears another thud.
Deborah spins around and, terrified of the noise, claps her hands over her ears. Why won’t it just stop?
The ding-dong of the doorbell slices through the downstairs. Licking her lips apprehensively, she tiptoes back to the kitchen.
A muffled voice outside commands her to open the door. “Deborah, open up; it’s me.” She’s relieved it’s a male voice and not a female one and obeys. Surprised to see Miles Fletcher dripping water, she hesitates before letting him in.
Faking a smile, Deborah makes room for him to come inside, but only because it’s pouring out. “What’re you doing out and about?”
“I came to check on you two,” he says. “You weren’t making sense last night. I figured you ladies were having a fight when you said Sibby was trying to hurt you.” He shrugs. “She’s not picking up her phone, so I wanted to stop by.”
“How sweet but unnecessary.” Deborah smiles at him like he’s a leper. “You shouldn’t be concerned. She left. It’s going to be okay now.”
“Sibley left?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrow arches. “Her car’s outside.”
Deborah shrugs. “Her husband came to get her.”
“I shouldn’t have called him.” Fletcher sighs. “That was wrong of me.”
“You called him?”
“I told him she was here.” He runs a hand through his thinning hair. “I let my emotions get
