What on earth was Matt mailing to Shelley Monroe? What could he possibly have to say to a girl who’d let him lose two years of his life sitting in a prison cell?
She picked up the envelope, intending to ask him about it, then abruptly put it back down. She recognized what had been clearly visible through the thin white envelope.
A check.
Matt was sending Shelley Monroe money.
“She’s only twenty-three years old.”
She hadn’t heard him come in. But when she swung toward him, she could tell that he knew he should have told her.
Phyllis’s heart sank. She wasn’t surprised. Not even a little bit. He didn’t trust her, not completely. Not enough to tell her something this important. She knew the feeling well. Her ex-husband had held out on her, too.
“She has a nine-year-old son and she’s trying to get a college education so she can give him one.”
“You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”
“I’ve been sending her money since the beginning…”
“Must’ve made it harder for the jury to believe you when you said you weren’t guilty.”
He shrugged. “Maybe, but I couldn’t let that stop me from being responsible for my actions.”
“You didn’t sleep with her. The child isn’t yours. You have no responsibility.”
“I led her on. I encouraged a fourteen-year-old kid to think of herself as a desirable woman.”
“Someday.”
His eyes were piercing when she finally looked at him again. “She missed that part,” he said.
“It’s not the money that matters, anyway,” Phyllis told him honestly. Her stomach was churning. She didn’t know if she should go out and get some fresh air or prepare to make a dash for the bathroom.
Matt, coming up behind her, took hold of her shoulders, gently turning her to face him. “What, then?”
Although Phyllis struggled against her tears, she didn’t quite succeed.
“The fact that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about the ‘guilt’ payments,” she told him. “You didn’t want to hear what I thought of them.”
“I—”
“It’s okay, Matt,” she said, pulling away from him. She’d left her purse in the living room, hadn’t she? Next to the trash bag they’d emptied. “Brad and the couple of guys I was serious about before him couldn’t give themselves wholly to me, either. They were afraid of what I’d do with the things I learned about them. Or more accurately, what I might try to make them feel.”
“You’ve got it wrong this time.” Matt sounded just sure enough to make her turn around.
His gaze was forthright, completely open. And so understanding.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“I did deliberately withhold the information,” he admitted, and her heart, which had picked up hope, dropped it again. “But not for the reason you assume.”
She was still listening, trying to suspend judgment long enough to hear what he had to say. Still listening because she couldn’t do anything else.
“I didn’t tell you because I was afraid that if you knew, you’d assume just what the jury assumed—that if I was paying her, I must be guilty of the claims she’d made.”
Phyllis stood there for a full minute, digesting what he’d said, replaying his explanation in her mind, analyzing it from every angle. Tone of voice. Body posture. Content.
He was telling her the truth. And it was about trust. About being afraid to trust. Not about her at all.