“I...I’m sorry. I won’t—”
“Is everything okay here?” Corinne demanded.
Both of them shifted their attention to her. And she suddenly remembered Garrett Harrington. He’d been a few years ahead of them in school, one of the golden boys of Wishful High Athletics. He’d gone on to college on a football scholarship. Those big hands were still curled around Whitney’s arms, hard enough to bruise.
Surprise and embarrassment flickered over Whitney’s face. “Everything’s fine.”
“This is no concern of yours,” Garrett said.
Remembering how it felt being caught in such a punishing grip, Corinne fisted her own hands and took a step closer, conscious of Malika flanking her. “Take your hands off her.”
Garrett released Whitney at once, lifting his hands palm up in the universal gesture of mean no harm. She saw the mask slip into place, the genial guy everyone liked, hiding the monster beneath. “There’s no problem here. Is there, honey?”
“No problem,” Whitney repeated dutifully. “I’ll be right along home as soon as the competition is over for the night.”
That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Garrett’s face rippled as he tried to control his reaction in front of an audience. “I thought you’d ride with me.”
“No sense in that. My car’s here. We’d just have to come back and get it later, and you’ve got too much going on tomorrow to have to mess with it.” Placate. De-escalate.
Clearly sensing he’d lost this battle for the moment, Garrett nodded. “Right after the competition is done. I n
eed your help packing.”
“Of course. It sounds like the next performance is starting now, so it shouldn’t be long.”
Faint sounds of the emcee rousing the crowd floated down the hall.
With one last look at his wife, Garrett plastered on a smile that might pass as charming to those who didn’t know better and headed toward the lobby.
Silent, Corinne watched him go, not relaxing until he’d rounded the corner.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Whitney demanded.
Corinne turned back to her. “He was hurting you.”
“Why on Earth should you care?”
“No man has the right to manhandle his wife.”
“He wasn’t manhandling me.”
“Then why are you wearing long sleeves in August?”
Whitney reflexively reached for her forearm, before she fixed her sneer back in place. “Oh, because you’re in such a position to be handing out fashion advice.”
“Lashing out at me is not going to work, Whitney. I know his type. You don’t have to stay with him.”
“He’s my husband.”
“He’s a bully. And if he hasn’t escalated to full on violence yet, he will. Let me help you.” Corinne stepped toward her.
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“Look, Whitney, I know we have a bad history but trust me when I say—”
“Trust you? Trust you? Why the hell would I make that mistake again? I trusted you once, and you turned on me. You were hateful and horrible, tearing me down at every turn, exactly like your mother.”
The words hit Corinne like a blow, so hard she almost stumbled back. Like her mother?