Sweet Water(107)

Josh. What happened to him?

“And what my father said was completely out of turn. He apologizes,” Martin adds.

Fuck your father.

“Martin, what about the man who dragged my dad out of the house? Is he okay?” My vocal cords are aching, and I wonder if they’ve been permanently damaged from the smoke.

“Oh, the music teacher?” Martin lets out a snarky laugh. “Yeah, he’s in stable condition, a few minor burns. He did save your dad’s life. Your dad was attacked, knocked unconscious, and Vic is a great deal bigger than the kid . . .”

Ew. I hate how he says that—“the kid.” Like he’s nameless. Like he doesn’t matter, just like Yazmin never mattered. I treated Yazmin the same way—insignificant. Martin and I made for an awful pairing that needs to split.

“Cash,” I correct.

“That’s right. I guess your dad was on muscle relaxers for his back, and he’d had a few beers, and the combo diminished his reflexes.”

“Ugh.” I close my eyes and mentally punch myself for not telling Dad about the warning label on the muscle relaxers. I’ll never forgive myself if he doesn’t survive his hospital stay. I realize now more than ever that sometimes our greatest offenses are not in what we say but in what we don’t say.

“And the house?” I ask. Dare I ask?

Martin moves from the chair beside my gurney to the window, probably unable to look at my face.

He doesn’t need to say the words.

“Stonehenge . . . is . . . gone?” And my heart is broken. But the punishment seems to fit the crime. The Ellsworths’ symbol of wealth burned to the ground because of the secrets we’d kept to protect it. The windows were smashed out. The ones with the family crest.

I remember the way Yazmin’s face filled with horror when the light filtered through them, grabbing her attention. It wasn’t because she found them remarkable; it was because they scared her to death.

That symbol meant something to her. And it meant something to Cash. Something ugly. That’s why he bashed those particular windows out. William had everything emblazoned with that damn symbol. Cuff links. The hubcaps to his Bentley. The bathroom hand towels.

Where did Yazmin see the symbol? What did the Ellsworths do to her family? Whatever it was, William thought he could make it up to Yazmin with a measly scholarship. Just like them to try to smooth things over with money.

“When I went to move the car, the seat was pushed all the way back. Was the music teacher driving my car? That was some heroic move of him climbing into a burning building to save your dad. We’ll have to invite him over for dinner and thank him,” Martin says.

“Invite him over where?” I ask.

Martin’s shoulders slump. “We’ll rebuild.”

No, we won’t, Martin. There is no rebuilding Stonehenge. Or anything else between us.

I close my eyes, hoping he’ll just leave me alone. I don’t have the energy to explain the whole story to him. What leaving Yazmin’s body in the woods truly meant to the family who had already lost so much, but maybe someday, long after we’re no longer together, he’ll take the time to figure it out himself. The Veltris probably didn’t have the funds to have a proper burial, being so strapped for cash. That’s why there was no notice in the paper. If I’d known, I would’ve paid for the funeral myself.

But one thing is for certain: If we’d reported Yazmin’s death, none of the other horrible things to follow would’ve happened. There’d be no cover-up. No secrets. No journals stealthily stowed away in bookshelves.

A house to go home to.

I still don’t even know the whole story—the why—behind Cash’s actions. I have a feeling there’s more bad news coming, but Martin doesn’t seem to care about Cash’s motives for burning down our house. Just like he never cared about the consequences of leaving Yazmin’s body behind—he was too eager to cover it up. But we’re not done here.

Two police officers enter the room. “Mr. Ellsworth, we’re investigating the fire at your home. May we have a word?” The one with the spiky hair is too young to be under Alton’s regime. Monroe is with him, and even I’m smart enough to know that Monroe is part of the homicide division, which does not generally investigate fires.

“Sorry, gentlemen, but I won’t be speaking to you without my lawyer.”

I glare at Martin, his statement so smug.

“I will talk to you,” I say. I’m going to tell them everything. It’s time for the truth. If they want to wheel me from the hospital room to a jail cell, I’ll gladly go.

Enough of this.

Martin shoots me his mercurial look that goes from a tight smile to a dark grin. There he is—the real Martin who hides deep down below the surface until someone gets their fingers in his money. He knows I’m about to give him up.

“My wife’s on painkillers and is in no condition to speak to you, and I won’t allow it without a lawyer present.”

He won’t allow it.

When those words can no longer be spoken will be the greatest day of my life. The day the divorce papers are signed.

When the cops leave our room, Martin runs out without saying another word to make a phone call. I’m sure it’s to one of his lawyers or his daddy. I really don’t care which anymore.