When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(23)

“Did you love him?”

“He was perfect. How could I not?”

“So you didn’t love him.”

She hesitated. “I was happy.”

“Except when you weren’t.”

Except when she wasn’t. She slowed to keep from slipping on a patch of shale. “I knew it bothered him that I was at a place in my career he couldn’t reach.” She was ashamed of how often she’d attempted to make herself smaller so she didn’t hurt him. She’d turned down a role she should have taken, and when a rehearsal or performance had gone especially well, she downplayed it. But he always knew. He’d grow silent. Occasionally, he’d snap at her for something inconsequential. He’d always apologize and blame his bad mood on lack of sleep or a headache, but Olivia knew the real cause.

They rounded a bend. “I don’t like to fail, and I got very good at self-deception. Even though I was growing more and more unhappy, I wouldn’t admit to myself that I’d stopped loving him.”

“Since none of those rings you like to wear have a diamond in them, I’m assuming you came to your senses.”

“Too late.” Thinking about it still made her cringe. “A week before the wedding, I called it off. One week! It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The worst thing I’ve ever done. I waited too long, and I broke his heart.”

“Better than condemning him to a bad marriage.”

“He didn’t see it that way. He was devastated and humiliated.” She couldn’t dodge this next part, and she finally looked up at him. “He killed himself two and a half months later. Exactly nineteen days ago.” Her throat caught. “There was a suicide note. A suicide email, really. Modern life, right? He told me how much he’d loved me and that I’d ruined his life. Then he hit ‘send’ and shot himself.”

Thad winced. “That’s tough. Killing yourself is one thing, but blaming it on someone else . . . That’s low.”

She took in the vista around them without seeing a thing. “He was so sensitive. I knew that, and yet . . . I should have been more careful. I should have broken it off as soon as I knew it wasn’t right, but I was too stubborn.”

“The phone call you just had . . . The note you got yesterday . . . There’s more to this story, isn’t there?”

Thad was so much smarter than he looked. “There’ve been two other notes.”

“The one I saw said, ‘This is your fault. Choke on it.’ Were the others like that?”

“The first one said, ‘Don’t ever forget what you’ve done to me.’ The morning the tour started, there was another. ‘You did this to me.’” A helicopter chopped overhead. “Until now, I thought he’d written the notes before he died and found people to mail them for him. But that phone call . . . It’s from a recording he made.”

“Obviously, he wasn’t the one who made the call.”

“Whoever he got to mail the letters must have done it. I don’t know. He was never vindictive.”

“Until he sent you his suicide email.”

“It was wrenching. And these notes . . .”

“Either he planned this before he killed himself, got someone to mail the notes and make that phone call, or you have an enemy on this side of the grave. Do you have any idea who that could be?”

She hesitated, but she was already in this far, and she might as well go the rest of the way. “His sisters were devastated, and they blame me. Growing up, it was only Adam, his mother, and his two sisters. He was the golden child. They all doted on him. Every spare dollar any of them made went toward his voice lessons. After his mother died, it was just his sisters. When I came into the picture, they weren’t happy.”

“They were jealous of you?”

“It’s more that they were protective of him. They wanted him with a woman who’d put his career first. Definitely not one with a big career of her own. If they found out he blew an audition or didn’t get a part, they blamed me. They thought I wasn’t supporting him in the way I should—that I put my career ahead of his. But I didn’t!” She looked up at him, pleading for understanding and hating herself for needing it. “I did everything I could to help him. I recommended him for roles. I turned down some opportunities of my own so I could be with him.”

He shook his head at her. “You women. How many men would do something like that?”

“He was special.”

“If you say so.”

She rubbed her arm and felt the gritty trail dust on her skin. “There was an autopsy, so the funeral was delayed. I don’t check my email regularly, and I didn’t see it until a week after he died.”

“The suicide email?”

“I should never have gone to the funeral. It turned into a scene right out of Puccini. Two sisters mad with grief publicly accusing me of killing him. It was horrible.” She blinked her eyes against a sting of tears. “Adam was everything to them.”

“That doesn’t excuse them for blaming you.”

“I think that’s what they need to do to work through their grief.”

“Very self-sacrificing. I’m traveling with Mother Teresa.”

“It’s not like that.”