“No.”
“What if he offers to give up Brittney?”
Jill sighed. They were so far beyond the Brittney problem that she seemed almost like an afterthought.
“If your final answer is no, then he’s asked me to tell you that he’s sorry. That he wants to give you some money to help you start your new life.” With crisp efficiency, Cush pushed a folder and pen toward her.
“What’s in there?” Jill gestured to the folder without touching it.
“A check for $25,000.”
“Why?”
“Because Marc wants to help you move forward if that’s what you want.”
Jill pushed aside the pen and opened the folder. Inside was a check clipped to a legal document. She glanced at Cush for explanation, though she wasn’t sure she could trust what he told her.
“The paper is just a formality. A simple receipt.”
Jill drew the paper closer and skimmed the first few paragraphs. The language was complicated, and she understood none of it. “This looks like more than a simple receipt.”
“It’s a lot of money, Jillian,” he countered.
It was true, and it was more than Jill would make as a temp in a year. The reality was that she had a tiny bit of money in a personal account and not much else. All the credit cards were in Marc’s name. The investment accounts, the savings accounts, the household accounts: all in Marc’s name. She’d quit her temp job after he’d proposed and hadn’t held another in the three years they’d been married. Everything she had came from Marc.
“If you’re holding out for more, you won’t get it.” Cush misunderstood her hesitancy. “The prenup you signed before the ceremony was rock-solid. I drew it up myself.”
“I just bet you did,” Jill replied, returning her attention to the paper.
Although Cush insisted the document was a receipt, it didn’t look like one. It didn’t read like one. The money, however, was tempting. With it, she’d be able to pay rent to Ellie and share living expenses while she looked for a job. That kind of money would relieve a lot of pressure.
Still, something was off.
So she read it again.
The language in the document was heavily padded with lawyer-speak and Jill hadn’t had nearly enough coffee. Finally, she gave up and settled her gaze on Cush. “If Marc regrets… if Marc is truly sorry, then why do I have to sign this? We can stop pretending it’s a receipt, by the way, because it’s clearly more complicated than that. If he’s sorry, why does his check come with strings attached?”
Cush flinched at her directness but recovered quickly. “Because offering you this money goes against the prenup. Your signature says you won’t use his generosity now against him later, in court,” Cush said smoothly. “Standard practice.”
What Cush said made sense, but the oily earnestness of his tone set off every internal alarm she had. His explanation sounded rehearsed.
She hesitated.
Cush sighed heavily, sagging in his chair. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth, though you don’t deserve it. Marc wants his business protected so he can leave the company to his girls, intact. That’s all this document says—that you agree not to come after his business.”
That sounded more reasonable. Marc’s father started the business and Marc had always intended it to go to his girls.
“I have no intention of taking his business,” Jill said, because it was the truth. “It’s a family business and of course the girls should have it.”
Cush pushed the pen toward her, and she reached for it.
The chirp of an incoming text on Jill’s cell phone was startling. Three texts in quick succession, after days of silence. Thinking it might be from Ellie and that it might be important, Jill rose from her place and moved toward her phone, still plugged into the charger.
The messages were sent from a number she didn’t recognize. A number that wasn’t in her contact list.
Don’t sign anything.
I know Cush is there. Don’t trust him.
Don’t sign that paper.
Jill’s heart beat faster. She felt Cush’s stare as she read the messages on her screen, and her skin prickled in warning as goosebumps rose on her arm. Not knowing what else to do, she locked the screen and docked her phone. When finished, she looked up to see that Cush’s expression had changed again.
“Who was that?” His tone was wary.
“Reminder for the dentist.” Jill shrugged, with forced nonchalance.
Nothing in this situation made sense—not the visit, not the money, not the texts. Jill needed time to think. So instead of returning to the table, she collected the coffee mugs and brought them to the sink.
It was just the break she needed.
“Okay.” She turned from the sink to face him.
“Okay what?” Cush asked.
“If Marc is willing to admit that things may have gotten a bit out of hand, then I am too. I’ll go with you, right now, to wherever he is, so we can talk things through. Where is he? The Berkshires? We can leave now—right now.”
Caught unawares, Cush spluttered. “He’s not at the job site. He and Brittney are at the apartment in Greenwich Village.”
The information sizzled in the air like a lit firecracker.
“Really?” Jill mused. “It appears that he’s not quite as broken as you led me to believe, is he?”
Cush’s expression hardened as his face flushed with anger. He pressed his lips together in a thin white line, and when he spoke again, his voice was menacing. “Listen to me, Jillian. I’m finished playing games with you. You want this money, you sign the paper.”
“No,” Jill refused, though she very much wanted that check. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re being childish.”
“You need to leave now.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“I’ve made them before.”
He rose. “You’re going to regret this.”
“I regret a lot of things, Cushman.” Jill escorted him to the front door. “Add this to the list.”
He stepped outside and she closed the door behind him.
Eight
After Cush left, Jill rushed back to the kitchen to retrieve her phone. She pulled up the anonymous text messages and read them again, but they still didn’t make sense. Too detailed to be
