He was with her, protecting her and he didn’t want me to worry.
It’s like stepping into an ice bath remembering the message he sent. If I hadn’t been stopped at that red light, I swear to God I would have crashed.
“That’s why you backed away from me?” I ask her, finally taking a peek down at Delilah and finding those big brown eyes staring up at me. They’re bathed in insecurity and begging for forgiveness.
Her lips are parted and her breathing is staggered.
“It’s because he stepped in, not because of something I did?” Even as I speak the last part, I know that’s not all true. It’s because he told her first. I should have told her. The moment I wanted her in my bed every night. The moment he came into my place and scared her. I should have told her everything.
“Cody,” she whispers, emotion drenching my name.
“I can deal with that. As long as you still want me,” I admit to her and feel the ache of needing her, truly and deeply needing her to forgive me and care for me again. I waited so long to make a move and it’s because of my brother. The way he spoke about her … I thought he wanted her and if I kissed her …
I thought he’d moved on and I thought wrong.
“Cody. I did more than kiss him,” she says. Her confession is spoken in a tight voice and the nervous exhale that follows adds to her uneasy posture. She won’t even look at me, staring across the bar at an empty seat instead.
He did more than kiss her? The betrayal and jealousy are felt instantly, deep and primal. Licking my bottom lip, I stare straight ahead and attempt to take another swig of beer, but I can’t. I’d rather throw it at the back wall. Every muscle coils inside of me.
If he thinks I’ll let him use her like he used me, he’s dead fucking wrong. Brother or not, I’ll kill him for bringing her into this. He said he was protecting her. That doesn’t mean fucking her.
After a moment, I swallow thickly, take a drink and tell her, although I still stare at the back wall as I do, “If I had told you … you wouldn’t have.”
“You don’t know that and this isn’t your fault. I made that decision.”
She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. She doesn’t know the lengths that Marcus is willing to go to. Every warning screams at the back of my throat, yet there’s only ringing in my ears when I peer down at her.
“If you want me to go, I won’t. I’m not going to just let you go either,” I finally tell her and her reaction at my admission is everything. From the soft inhale and slight lean forward, to the way her hands seem to inch across her lap to get closer to me. I haven’t lost her yet.
“I won’t lose you,” I tell her and I promise myself. My pulse picks up and the heat between us is coming back. “I don’t know what would happen to me if I did.”
Delilah
Cadence’s place is small, but plenty big enough for the three of us. She’s got a corner lot for her condo and Mom’s been on the porch outside almost all day. I keep checking on her and so does Cadence.
Clicking send on the email, my stomach sinks and the sip of coffee doesn’t help the sickness that’s settled there. Claire’s agreed to let me stay here rather than come in for an immediate evaluation as the board demanded. I’m on leave and they can’t mandate that I be brought in on a whim when I haven’t been formally charged with anything.
I have two weeks and then I need to follow procedures. Starting with a psych evaluation.
Even Aaron, the secretary, sent an email asking if I was all right. I’m more than certain the office, and probably the whole courthouse, is buzzing with gossip of my father’s death and my possible involvement given the note that was left.
Miller and Judge Malden also sent their condolences via flowers to the office. Aaron provided me with pictures. The prick that travels along my arms as I close my laptop on the kitchen counter accompanies the questions. So many questions but the main one being, do they suspect I was involved?
Sometimes we let our minds get away from us, and I remind myself of that. There’s no way they suspect me. My mother, though? It’s almost always the partner when a husband or wife is murdered. Almost always.
“I swear, it never stops.” My sister’s already speaking, her voice coming into the kitchen before she’s even down the stairs. Her heels click as she rounds the banister. “I’ll only be gone for an hour, though,” she tells me even though she’s staring into her purse, digging for her keys most likely. She adds, “tops,” and like I suspected, her keys dangle from her hands.