Wherever She Goes
Kelley Armstrong
Chapter One
I have made mistakes in my life. Mistakes that should loom over this one like skyscrapers. But this one feels the biggest.
This one hurts the most.
I lie in bed, massaging the old bullet wound in my shoulder as I try not to think of what used to happen when I woke in pain. One of those tiny things that seemed such an ordinary part of an ordinary life, and now I realize that it hadn’t been ordinary at all.
I used to wake like this, my shoulder aching, heart racing from nightmare, huddled in bed, trying to be quiet so I didn’t wake Paul. He’d still stir, as if he sensed me waking. He’d reach for me with one hand, his glasses with the other, and I’d hear the clatter of them on the nightstand, never quite where he expected them to be.
“Aubrey? You okay?”
“Just a nightmare.”
“The car accident?
I’d murmur something as guilt stabbed through me. The car accident. Yet another lie I’d told.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, I’m fine.”
The memory flutters off in his sigh, and I want to chase it. Go back there.
No, I want to go back to the beginning, before “Will you take this man,” before Charlotte. Back to the first time a nightmare woke me beside Paul, and he asked if I wanted to talk about it, and this time I will say, “Yes. I need to tell you the truth.”
It’s too late for that.
It’d been too late from the first moment I dodged a question, hinted at a falsehood; I placed my foot on a path from which I could not turn back. Those lies, though, hadn’t ended our marriage. I almost wished they had—that I had confessed my past and our marriage had imploded in spectacular fashion.
The truth was much simpler: water wearing down rock, the insidious erosion of secrets untold. All the things I should have said from the start, but the longer it went on, the more I couldn’t say them. A vicious cycle that pushed us further apart with each revolution.
Pushed us apart? No, that implies action and forethought. In the end, I’d felt like we were on rafts in a lazy river, Paul drifting away, me madly paddling to stay close, telling myself he just didn’t realize he was floating away from me and then . . .
Well, there comes a moment when you can’t keep pretending that your partner doesn’t notice the drift. It had gone on too long, my floundering too obvious, his unhappiness too obvious.
I’m going to take Charlie to the company ball game. Give us some daddy-daughter time while you enjoy an afternoon alone.
I can’t go away this weekend after all. I’m in court Monday, and I need to prep. We’ll do it another time. Maybe in the fall.
I think we should stop trying to have another baby, Bree.
Even the ending had been so . . . empty. I told Paul that I could tell he wasn’t happy, and it was better for Charlotte if we realized our mistake now. I said the words, and I waited for him to wake up. To snap out of it and say, “What are you talking about? I am happy.”
He did not say that. He just nodded. He just agreed.
So I set Paul free. I took nothing from him. It was all his, and I left it behind. He asked only one thing of me—that I leave Charlotte, too. Temporarily. Leave her in her home, in the life she knew. We would co-parent, but she would live with him until I was settled and we could agree on a long-term arrangement.
I agreed.
The mature and responsible decision.
The naive and unbelievably stupid decision.
Chapter Two
As I hang from the exercise rings, two women turn to stare. I could tell myself they’re wowed by my enviable upper-body strength, but their expressions are far less complimentary. That may have something to do with the fact that the rings are in a playground, and I’m dangling from them, knees pulled up so I don’t scrape the ground.
It’s Sunday. The end of my weekend with Charlotte. It’s been six months since Paul and I split, and he’s still not ready to discuss joint custody. I’ve begun to realize he never will be ready. I’m going to have to push him—with divorce proceedings and a custody battle. I’m not ready for that fight yet. But I’m getting there.
As I dangle from the rings, Charlotte hangs in front of me. “Ten, eight, nine, seven . . .”
“You keep going,” I say.
“No! Mommy stay! Three, two—”
I drop onto my butt, and Charlotte lets out a squeal of laughter, her chubby legs kicking so hard one sneaker flies off.
Then she lets go. I catch her, and she giggles, wrenches out of my arms and tears off.
“Charlie, wait!”
As I race after her, scooping up her abandoned shoe, I hear the women behind me.
“Recapturing her lost childhood?”
“I’m not sure she ever left it. Look at her.”
I let Charlotte braid my hair this morning, the result being exactly what you expect from a three-year-old, complete with crooked plastic barrettes. She also picked out my shirt, a ragged Minnie Mouse tee I only keep because she loves it. I brought a jacket for camouflage, but I’d discarded that when the blazing sun heated up a cool May day, with only a hint of Chicago’s legendary winds blowing into our suburban city.
As I’m trying to remember where I left my jacket, Charlotte runs for the slide. I take off after her, and I help her onto the rungs. Then I climb behind her, mostly because it’s the only way I can ensure she doesn’t fall off the top or slide down backward. I sense eyes on me, I see bemused head shakes, and I feel the prickle of embarrassment.