The Atonement (The Arrangement, #3)(5)

I was disappointed—no, not a strong enough word—I was furious with myself for ever letting a man—a monster—control me. For ever letting him make me think my only choice was to do whatever it took to keep him in my life. For ever letting him believe I was something less than whole without him.

I was a whole person before Peter.

I could be whole again without him.

I would be whole again without him.

The sight of the end of our long gravel driveway caused my chest to grow tight. I swallowed, trying to collect saliva in my too-dry throat.

He wasn’t going to be there.

He was probably still trying to figure out where we were.

Nevertheless, I reached for the chef’s knife I’d stolen from my mother’s house, sliding it out of the passenger seat and gripping the handle firmly, eyes peeled for any sight of him.

I eased the car up the driveway slowly, my breath catching in my throat. I had no idea what to expect.

Would the house still be standing?

How much damage had the fire done?

Had he managed to put it out before it took down everything?

Do I hope he did?

The thought appeared as if it were smoke—displaying in my mind for a brief moment and disappearing just as fast.

Did I hope the house was still standing? If I managed to get Peter out of our lives for good, could I ever see moving my children back into it? Could I live there without him, with all the memories we made within those walls?

Would I want to?

The question brought unexpected tears to my eyes, and as I rounded the corner, laying eyes on our home—untouched by any signs of the fire I’d started—an odd mixture of terror and relief spread through my chest.

So, it was still standing.

The garage doors were shut, all the lights inside turned off, and I saw no sign of life anywhere, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Peter was a rabid dog I’d backed into a corner. For once, I had no way of predicting his next move. I had no idea how far I’d pushed him, how far he’d go to get his revenge.

Slowing the car to a stop, I sat, knife in one hand and phone in the other, waiting to see if he’d appear. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention, every nerve in my body on high alert. I checked the rearview, then the side mirrors.

When I’d convinced myself he was, in fact, not there and not coming to get me—not yet, anyway—I opened the door to my car and stepped out. I shoved my phone into my pocket and passed the knife to my left hand long enough to wipe my sweaty palm across my jeans.

Then, regripping the weapon, I moved toward the front porch with cautious steps. It was half the size of what it used to be, and I couldn’t help thinking of what had caused that.

Better yet, who had caused it.

It wasn’t so long ago we’d had to work together to solve what I thought would be the biggest problem of our marriage. I thought back then that Stefan would be the end of our issues. That I would force Peter to tell me the truth about everything, that I would tell him I accepted him for who he was and loved him in spite of it all, and that finally we’d break through the wall that had kept us separated.

I had no idea what I was doing back then.

It was nearly a year ago now, but it felt like a lifetime. Two lifetimes, in fact.

Peter was never going to change. Joanna made me realize that. And, when he wouldn’t change, I had to. So, I had. And I would continue to. As soon as I’d cleaned up my mess.

Turning back to the task at hand, I slid my house key into the front door, held my breath, and pushed the door open abruptly. I jerked the knife into the air, ready for an attack.

One.

Two.

Three.

Nothing. No one jumped out. No one screamed. No one grabbed me.

I stepped into our house as if I’d just popped out to the grocery store for an hour. The smell hit me instantly—our smell. The scent that had welcomed me home for so long.

I closed the door behind me, moving through the living room with silent footsteps. When I neared the hallway, a new scent hit me.

Smoke.

Or, rather, ash.

Soot.

The bedroom.

I flipped on the hallway light, running a hand along Maisy’s door. I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Couldn’t bring myself to reminisce about the life we’d had in this home just days earlier.

When I reached our bedroom, I held my breath—both because of the strong, smoky scent and my fear of what I’d find—and pushed the door open.

The sight brought tears to my eyes in an instant. The bedroom had taken the brunt of the damage, it was obvious. Everything that had been white—the bedspread, the walls, the ceiling—was now stained black and gray. As if the room had shriveled up and died along with our marriage.

I made my way across the soot-covered floor, still processing the sight of it all. It was unbelievable. Though I’d expected it to be much worse—expected the entire house to be gone, taking my husband with it—looking at even this amount of damage was excruciating.

Had I really expected I’d be okay with destroying my memories? Had I really thought the demolition of my life—the smoldering of everything that had ever mattered to me—would be okay?

That I’d walk away from it unscathed?

The answer was yes.

Yes, at the time I had.

That was what Peter did to me. He made it so nothing in the world mattered. Nothing else but him.