The Life You Stole (Life Duet 2)

He tightened his grip. “Please calm down. I would never hurt you. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Don’t you remember all the things I did for you? I sent you flowers and wrote you poems. I bought you everything. I saved your family. You owe me something, Evelyn.” Anger escalated the emotion in his words. What started as a desperate plea ended in a very threatening tone.

I shoved him as hard as I could, dropping the journal to the ground. He came at me again. “You will love me.” He narrowed his eyes—eyes so dark and unrecognizable.

I jumped to the side, but he fell forward, tripping on the journal or maybe the edge of the runner rug. Before I knew what was happening, he tumbled down the marble stairs. All the way to the bottom.

Not a word escaped my mouth. I didn’t move for several seconds. My gaze stayed affixed to his limp body on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. A slow pool of blood oozed along the tile around his head.

No tears. Not for Graham.

No rushing to call 9-1-1. Not for Graham.

One breath.

Two breaths.

Three breaths.

Me. It was just my breath. Not his. Not Lila’s. Not Ronin’s.

Four friends, two lovers, one unimaginable tragedy.

I picked up the journal and smoothed the pages that were wrinkled. Then I hugged it to me and descended that long, hard, rigid staircase, being careful to not trip and fall. At the bottom, I stared at Graham’s eyes—fixed, vacant, dead.

“You should have loved Lila more.” I made my way to my purse that I’d dropped at the front door, and I called 9-1-1. “There’s been an accident.”

Completely numb from my heart’s reluctance to keep beating, I waited for the police and ambulance to arrive. They carried Governor Graham Porter’s body out in a black bag as an early morning media frenzy ensued around sunrise.

His parents.

Security.

People who worked close to him.

The house swarmed with people in shock, trying to figure out what happened. The location of his wife and my involvement. I gave my statement. Then I handed over the journal, knowing some very personal things about me and Ronin were in those pages. My only two requests: they find Lila (her body I feared) and they return the journal to me.

Too exhausted to drive home, I crossed town to my parents’ old house. The furnace had been turned way down, so I grabbed an extra blanket and slipped into their old bed, still unmade from my dad packing his single bag and moving to San Francisco. I chose my mom’s side of the bed, closing my eyes and remembering the song she used to hum to me when I was a little girl—The Beatles “Blackbird.” I hummed it softly until sleep found me.

Hours later, under sunny skies and improved roads, I drove to Aspen, taking note of buildings as I left Denver, their flags already at half-mast. The world knew.

I couldn’t avoid my home forever. If there was a body in my kitchen, it had to be dealt with before I brought the kids home. Seeing him would haunt me for the rest of my life. But I had no other choice. Parking in the driveway, I climbed out of the vehicle and took slow steps toward the front door. Before I could open it, I forced myself to focus on Anya and Franz. They were always my grounding point, my source of courage, my truest reason for living. Whatever waited for me on the other side of the door—I could handle it.

My gloved hand reached for the doorknob. I held my breath as tears waited on standby, and my heart worked its way up my throat. My hand shook. My lips quivered, and my body began to fold in on itself as I fell to my knees. Pressing my hands and my cheek to the door, I cried. Everything was my fault. Lila marrying Graham. Lila on the mountain that fateful day. Ronin feeling like a failure as a husband. Me … it was all on me. And then I just left him with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a gun in his other hand. Why did I leave my kids on Thanksgiving if I wasn’t going to save their dad?

“I’m sorry …” I whispered between sobs. “I’m s-so s-sorry …”

Ruff! Ruff, ruff, ruff!

Sucking in a quick breath, I slowly opened my eyes. I couldn’t … fucking … move.

Not a blink.

Not a breath.

I wasn’t even sure if I heard Mrs. Humphrey barking until she flew up the porch steps behind me and started licking my face.

Still, I couldn’t move. Did he set her loose before I arrived the night before? Was she just now finding her way home?

Snow crunched behind me. Steps. Each one getting closer, louder. I turned one tiny inch at a time. Trudging his way through the snow, red jacket popping against the white background, black hat, and a stick in his hand was … my husband.