Stitches

I search his impenetrable face for some sign of menace, some sinister flicker in his blue eyes, but nothing turns up.

Of course nothing turns up.

Fuck, I’m paranoid.

Well, maybe paranoid is the wrong word. Maybe I’m justified in worrying about this shit, if he’s guilty of what it looks like he’s guilty of.

“You’ll be fine,” he assures me. “When did it happen?”

I cut him a ‘come on’ look.

“Last night?” he questions, even though it feels like he already knows. “You have a solid alibi for last night. Gwen and Layla came over for dinner, Moira and I were there with you. Each and every one of us could attest, if we had to, that you could not have possibly killed Ashley because you spent the whole night with us.”

“Gwen is Moira’s sister,” I remind him. “Since I’m fucking Moira, it’d be easy to say maybe she’d lie for me.”

“Yes,” he allows. “But after Ashley showed up at our house, unhinged and attacking my wife, I felt she might be a danger to us and I put up surveillance cameras. The recordings are time stamped; they can verify our story.”

“Our story,” I repeat, a bit cynically.

“Let’s not be naïve; if there’s an investigation, yes, you need a story. As you said, you’re the husband. There may not even be an investigation, though. If it’s ruled a suicide, that’s that.”

“Please, this fucking reeks of foul play, Seb.”

Placing a hand I know he means to be reassuring on my shoulder, he gives it a squeeze and tells me, “Relax. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

I shrug his hand off, glaring at him. “You can’t fucking control everything.”

Sounding unconvinced, he murmurs, “Well, we’ll see. I’m sorry you’re upset, but this isn’t worth getting pissed off at me over.”

“Don’t tell me how to feel,” I mutter.

“I told you I would handle it and I did,” he says, firmly. “It’s over now. We can all move on with our lives. We can live our life with no obstacles in our way. Ashley wanted to suck you dry, Griff, and for what? You never did a goddamn thing to her. She was a shitty person.”

“That’s not your call to make. You can’t just play god like that, Seb. You’re not judge, jury, and executioner.”

“I didn’t execute anyone,” he says, mildly. “I had dinner with my wife, my best friend, and my sister-in-law; I spent the evening playing with my niece.”

“She was my wife, Sebastian.”

“She was a leech,” he replies, dismissively. “You wanted free of her and now you are. I know you love to wallow in your unhappiness, Griff, and by all means, if that’s what you need to do, fine, but I’m not going to play the bad guy here.”

A little laugh of disbelief shoots out of me. “Play the bad guy? I don’t know, Seb, I think you took it a step beyond playing. I think you owned the fuck out of that role.”

“All right.” His patience clearly at an end, he pulls the latch and pushes the car door open. “I’m going back to the office. I’ll tell Moira the news, since I think it’ll go down easier coming from me. I’ll see you at home for dinner?”

I don’t answer. I stare out the front windshield and wait for him to leave.

Now he hesitates, ducking his head back into the car and saying, “Griff?”

I turn my head to look at him.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” he says, simply.

29

Sebastian

It’s a long, stressful day after I leave Griff.