The Life You Stole (Life Duet 2)

“I … I …” Shaking my head, I searched for words to explain what she walked in on minutes earlier. Whiskey mingled in my veins, calming me, distorting reality. Taunting my judgment. “I think it’s best.”

I never imagined she’d be there, but I deserved to see her face—pure anger and complete disappointment. Once again, I had failed her. Being forced to face her felt like the proper reckoning—retribution for my sins.

“Then do it!” She clenched her jaw and fisted her hands at her sides. “But let’s be clear—” One of her fisted hands moved to cover her mouth as her words broke into pieces. “Y-you don’t love me. That…” she nodded toward the gun “…is n-not love. And I will spend the rest of my l-life knowing you didn’t truly l-love me.” Evie shoved her feet back into her boots and stood at the door with her back to me, her shoulders shaking as she held back more sobs. “And … you don’t love Franz and Anya either.” She drew in a shaky breath. “But … I do. I choose them.” She ran out the door without a final glance at me.

Evelyn

I drove to the shop and shut off my car lights, leaving the engine idling with the heat on. And I did the only thing I could do to keep from falling apart beyond repair. I called my mom.

“Can you keep a secret?” I whispered after the beep to leave a message—feeling numb like it wasn’t real. Not my life. Not my husband. Not my reality.

I told her everything. How I lived in fear of my husband dying from some otherworldly phenomenon and how I knew he was cheating on me before he ever said the words. I told her everything … but I didn’t tell her it was Lila. Nor did I mention I may have seen my husband for the last time in this life.

I think she knew.

“I love you, Mom. I miss you. And if you don’t have any connections to help my situation, don’t feel bad. I’ll figure something out. Just the possibility that you’re listening is enough. Today I miss you more…” the next round of emotions burned my eyes “…than I have in all the months you’ve been gone. Today I j-just really n-need my mom.”

Shutting off the engine, I traipsed through the snow to my shop. The streetlight filtered through the front window. The many herbal scents filled me with the familiar.

My comfort zone.

My haven.

I locked the shop door behind me, leaving the lights off while I just … stood in the middle of shelves and displays. How could I go back there?

How could he say that to me?

How could he take his own life in the middle of our home, where the kids could’ve seen their father’s brains and blood scattered everywhere?

“I hate you,” I whispered to his soul in case he already pulled the trigger.

“I hate you for offering me a chair in that fucking cafe!” I pushed over a display, sending products crashing to the floor. “I hate you for asking me to marry you!” Another display took the brunt of my wrath. “I hate your oatmeal.”

Crash!

“I hate having coffee with you!”

Bang! Crash!

I shoved everything from two more shelves.

“I hate when you sing in the shower!”

Crash! Crash! Crash!

“I hate you for saving Lila and TOUCHING her!”

Bang! Crash!

With nothing left on any of the shelves, I fell to my knees and buried my face in my hands. And I just … cried. “I … hate … you …”

Eventually, I picked myself up off the ground and made it back to my car. I couldn’t go home, so I made the insane decision to drive back to Denver. At that moment, sanity felt like an unreachable state of mine. After all, my husband was probably dead, slumped over our kitchen table—whiskey still clutched in his left hand.

Not my life. Not my husband.

I didn’t remember the curves, the times my car nearly slid off the road, or the slew of snow plows I encountered on the long drive. By the time I arrived at nearly two in the morning, I just knew that I needed Lila to explain how we got there. How she could throw away a lifelong friendship to feel my husband touch her?

Being a permanent approved guest, the guard opened the gate as soon as he saw my face when I rolled down the window. I pounded on the front door over and over and incessantly pressed the doorbell. The light over the door turned on just as Graham opened the door, half asleep in his signature pajama bottoms but no shirt.

“Evelyn?” He squinted his eyes, scratching his head.

“Where’s Lila?” I brushed past him.

“She’s not here. What’s wrong?”

Before I reached the stairs, I turned back to him as he shut the front door. “Where is she?”