Chapter 50
“Grant. You need to let him go.” I’m aware of the light strain in my voice as I watch my husband and try to catch his attention.
I’m slightly more aware of Mom’s white face of horror as she gnashes on her hand, nearly weeping.
But I’m acutely aware of how even though strain was present in my voice, that my heart itself is devoid of panic. Of fear. Of caring.
The organ doesn’t beat harder as I observe Grant’s knuckles going pale and chalk-colored with his tightening grip.
I might actually be smiling at the sight.
My new husband has Pat pinned to the wall of our home here on Mercer Island while he nearly chokes him to death.
Pat did it to himself, really. It was a mistake to make threats saying that I could be brought under investigation for Will’s “unsolved murder” because he’s angry about Lonnie being killed.
I knew I shouldn’t have seen Mom and Pat—felt the error of this visit simmering in my bones about a half hour before their arrival. Something warned me to expect the passiveness I saw as a teen. Faint whispers played in the back of my mind, telling me that expecting an apology, or even a show of concern for that matter was a waste of time.
They won’t see themselves as the problem, due to them lacking the capacity to find fault within themselves.
Mom is too “perfect,” and Pat, far too important to ever be wrong. Therefore, accountability eludes them. They can’t change because they can’t see themselves.
Ten minutes in, and I’m right.
This reunion was a mistake.
A brief hello from Pat and Mom was followed by a squint from Pat. Then the words, “We’re late because of the funeral arrangements I’m having to set for my son,” hit the air.
You would have thought the room could be demolished by silence. That’s how thick, full, and stifling the sound of nothing was.
Grant’s body tensed like stone underneath my hand, but the real action started after I asked them to leave.
“Lonnie was tracking me down and trying to kill me, Pat. If you can’t see the problem with that, you both can show yourselves out the front door.” I’d said it calmly, betraying the blood boiling under my veins.
That same hot blood made my skin sweat when Pat had sneered and replied with, “You know, Will’s murder was never solved, and now that we found you…”
That was all he could utter before Grant flew from my side, gripped Pat by the neck, and rammed his body into the wall.
“Motherfucking piece of shit,” Grant growled, and the sound was like a melody to my ears. A twisted one that sings of death—it’s a song probably only I could enjoy since it’s meant for me.
I’m thinking of how wonderful the sound is when Pat gurgles once more and it rips the idea away from me.
Grant’s fingers look almost bloodless now, and I’m certain I love the sight. But I also don’t want Grant committing a crime over Pat’s sorry ass. He’s not worth it.
I start to brush past Mom but am stopped as she claws at my blouse.
“Vivian,” she sobs, “you have to help him.”
Pushing her hand off me, I stare down at her with a deadened stare. It reflects the lack of emotion in my heart for her. “You’ll kindly call me Olivia. Vivian is dead. And I’ll not be helping Pat. I’ll be helping my husband.”
She gasps, stumbling away like she’s been shot by my words.
I cock my brow, then direct my attention to Grant and move closer.
“My love.” With a gentle touch, I coast my hand down his silk dress shirt.
He stiffens against my touch, his large body trembling. For a moment I wonder if I’ll be able to get through, but then I remember that Grant is mine as much as I’m his, and we can always get through to each other.
“Darling,” I say in a near whisper. “You need to let him go. Trust me. He’s not worth it. Don’t complicate our freedom from Lonnie by possibly killing Pat. Let’s stay rational about our anger. Use it for when we need it.”
Something breaks in air, crackling down my spine while Grant’s body sags, and he huffs out a long breath. My fingers clutching into Grant’s shirt, my heart palpitating in my chest as the anger he has just let go of radiates off of him and seeps into me.
Grant’s hold must loosen since Pat takes a raspy, painful sounding inhale. He still can’t move, thanks to my husband keeping him in place, but he’s coughing, and sputtering, so at least he’s no longer being choked.
“You’re right, my love.” Grant addresses me while keeping his eyes trained on Pat, but I hear the small smile working in his voice. “He’s not worth it … yet.” The last word burns.
Pat takes a tight looking gulp, fighting hard to school his features and mask his wide eyes. “You can’t touch me.” His words are so raspy I strain to understand them. “I’m-I’m a police chief. I’m—”
“You’re the kind of man I put in my pocket and make fun of at parties,” Grant interrupts. “Weak, spineless, buy-able … you’re nothing, and I have dozens of men like you padded comfortably by my money. Men who will snuff you out and pick the meat off your bones if I so much as snap my fingers.”
A broken breath trails out of my lungs at how delectably beautiful that threat sounds.
Pat, on the other hand, nearly whimpers, his short fingernails scratching at the wall, making them sound like claws.
And Grant isn’t done.
He dips his head, almost brushing Pat’s lips, and his voice drops to a new low, an ominous octave. “And if you ever think about threatening my wife like that again, I’ll hack your limbs off and force-feed them to you.”
I’m dizzy with euphoria at his words. I love him so much, and he’s sexy as fuck like this.
Then I hear a light trickle, and my brows knit together, but I want to laugh when I see what’s happened.
Pat’s pissed himself right in our foyer. No doubt from the special type of terror that hits when Grant crosses over to the side of murderous and cruel. The stain at his crotch spreads as more of his piss trails to the floor.
My chest feels full and heavy with satisfaction at what has just occurred.