Tucker dropped his head, shoving both hands through his hair and sighing. This was the same old shit. Guilt about her past was eating her up inside and convincing her she didn’t deserve to be happy. They’d been through this. What more did he have to do to convince her? And why the hell should Whitney’s opinion matter so much that it overrode everything he’d said, everything he’d done?
“Tucker?”
“Yeah?”
“Look, I know Corinne’s maybe not the easiest person to deal with. She’s got
some issues. I don’t know how much she may have told you about them.”
He straightened to look at her then. “Not nearly enough.”
Malika shrugged. “She hasn’t told me much, but I’ve inferred plenty. She’s had a rough road. I just…I came because I wanted to tell you I don’t think any of this is your fault and to ask you not to give up on her.”
Tucker didn’t want to give up on Corinne. He liked what they were together, and he liked the possibility of what they could be. But the things at the root of this whole mess were bigger than him, bigger than both of them, and he didn’t know if he had it in him to keep fighting.
~*~
Corinne sat in her car in front of the sprawling, two-story brick house, one of several McMansions peppering one of the nicest neighborhoods at the edge of Wishful. Her stomach twisted into a sick knot in her gut. It was so like the house she’d shared with Lance. The garage door was down, so she couldn’t tell if anyone was home. She hoped she hadn’t come all this way for nothing. It had taken most of the drive back from Tupelo to get up the nerve to come over here, and she wasn’t sure if she could do it again.
Bright seasonal flowers lined the long walk, bobbing in the hot breeze. The vast expanse of lawn was a healthy green, and huge, curving flowerbeds accented the house and the few young trees. In her experience, people who lived in places like this didn’t actually do yard work. The whole point was to have a showpiece of a yard and a service to maintain it, which served double duty in showing off the wealth behind it.
With a bracing breath, Corinne got out of the car. Even from thirty feet away, she could hear the sounds of shouting. She broke into a run, headed for the double doors.
“What were you thinking?” The angry roar carried through the wood and brick and had Corinne trying the knob. Locked.
She circled around the house, fumbling with the gate of the low, wrought iron fence and hurrying past the pool to the back door. It opened into the living room. Inside, off to the right, she could see Garrett looming over Whitney in the kitchen. Tears streaked her face as she cowered back against the counter, saying something too low for Corinne to hear. It wasn’t the right answer. Garrett drew back his arm, backhanding Whitney across the face, knocking her into a cabinet.
Corinne was through the door, into the living room, before she could think better of it. “Get away from her!”
Garrett turned, startled, and she used the instant of surprise to grab up the nearest thing that could be used as a weapon. He didn’t move, though she doubted it was because of the fireplace poker in her hands. A man like him didn’t see women as a threat.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“The police are already on their way.” Belatedly, it occurred to Corinne that she absolutely should have called 911 before she decided to play hero. Too late now. She tightened her hands on the poker and advanced into the kitchen. “Back away from her. Slowly.”
“She’s my wife. I’ll do with her as I choose. That’s no one’s business but mine.”
“You need to leave.” Corinne edged around the big center island, coming up behind where Whitney lay sprawled and dazed on the floor. Blood streamed down from her temple. Jesus. “Whitney, can you hear me?”
She groaned. “Corinne?”
Still conscious.
“You’re getting arrested, Garrett,” Corinne said.
He smirked. “I’m doing no such thing. She fell.”
“Not gonna work since you’ve got a witness to the contrary.”
“Who do you think the cops are gonna believe? A piece of trash waitress or a candidate for state senate?”
Corinne advanced on him, choking up on the fireplace poker like a baseball bat as she put herself between him and Whitney. “They’ll believe the evidence. Falling doesn’t give you a black eye on one side and a concussion on the other. You weren’t careful this time.”
He looked down at Whitney, where the side of her face was already purpling with bruises from where he’d struck her, and the first hints of doubt flickered in his eyes.
“Get the fuck out of here,” she demanded. “Or don’t. You could always stay. I’m sure plenty of your neighbors would love to see the senatorial hopeful get carted away in handcuffs. In these days of smartphones, I’m sure it’ll wind up on YouTube. That’d be great for your campaign.”
“You bitch,” he snarled.