Every Last Secret(70)

“You know . . . ,” he said carefully, “I don’t know why he did anything with her when he had you. It doesn’t make any sense.”

I swallowed a burst of emotion that threatened to bring on tears. “Thanks,” I said quietly. Thanks, but so what? It didn’t matter if I was prettier or younger. Sweeter. Less psychotic. He still went for her. If I hadn’t stepped in, how far would it have gone? What could have happened?

He withdrew his hand. “Have you talked to him about it? Found out how it started? Or why?”

“Yeah. He—” I took a deep breath. “He said it just happened. That it was a mistake. That he didn’t know how it got to that point, but it had.”

“Sounds like bull,” he growled.

“Yeah.”

He hunched toward me. “Did you suspect it? Anything between them?”

I made a face. “I haven’t been a fan of your wife for a while now. I thought they were spending too much time together, but he brushed off my concerns.”

The bartender paused by us. “Ready for the next on the list?”

Matt nodded, then glanced at me. “Are you staying with him?”

I had to lie. If I told him the truth, it might give him permission to follow suit. I hesitated, then slowly shook my head. “No.” I met his eyes. “I can’t forgive what he did. Do you think . . . that you would have forgiven her? If she hadn’t—” I waved my hand in the air as if to indicate his situation in general. “You know. Tried to kill you.”

He unexpectedly laughed, a contagious one that started as a chuckle and wheezed through his body, his chest racking, tears dotting the corners of his eyes. I joined in, and it was sad how much he needed my approval, his posture lightening when I began to giggle.

Then, as suddenly as he had started, he stopped. “I don’t know what I would have done,” he admitted. “But this wasn’t the first time she’s cheated on me.” He looked down at his drink, then downed half of it in one continual sip. “Last time I didn’t even confront her with it. I found out and never did a thing about it.”

“Wow.” My faux shock delivered well, but I wasn’t surprised. I had pegged Neena for a cheater from the very beginning. And while Matt played the clueless husband to perfection, no one was that dense. We all had our instincts. He had to have known, at some point in his marriage, that he was playing the fool.

“I have all of the text messages between them,” he confessed. “The detective is giving them to me. And the call logs. In case you want them.”

“That’s nice of you. And of the detective.” I glanced at him. “Is that normal? Sharing all that?”

“I don’t know. They—” He reached into the Chex mix and grabbed a handful, then offered me the bowl. I shook my head. “They are kind of putting this in my hands. They can’t—at least not yet—find proof of a connection between the shooter and Neena, especially since they don’t have any idea who the shooter is.”

I frowned. “What do you mean, they’re putting it in your hands?”

“The next steps. We have a meeting with the district attorney tomorrow to discuss my options.”

“You and Neena?”

“No, me and Detective Cullen.” He glanced at me. “I was wondering if you could come.”

I hesitated. “Would that be appropriate? I’m not sure—”

“It’d be nice to have a friendly face there. Someone I trust. I . . .” He paused, as if he were trying to find the right words. “You’ve been through this. Right alongside me. Maybe not last night, but with you going to the hospital for poisoning, I think we’re about even.” He gave me a weak smile, and I returned the gesture.

I wanted to be there when they decided her fate. Desperately. Still, I feigned apprehension. “Honestly, I’m not sure Detective Cullen would even let me—”

“Cat,” he chided, “if there’s anyone in town they’d bend a rule for, it’d be you.”

“Me or William,” I said quietly, my gaze floating around the bar as I killed a dozen seconds of time. “Okay,” I said as reluctantly as I could, “I’ll come.”





CHAPTER 48

NEENA

Ten hours after a police car took me from my own home, I stepped outside the cab and stared at our house. The porch light was on, illuminating the bright-yellow tape that stretched between each column and to stakes in the yard. I stepped forward, my tennis shoes crunching across the gravel as I hefted my purse over my aching shoulder.

It should be a crime to be this exhausted, my emotions and body stretched beyond reasonable limits. Ten hours of waiting, of questions, of explaining my story over and over again. Constant accusations and photos and speculation and lies. Ten hours that had convinced me that someone was behind all this and out to get me. As I trudged up the steps, my purse slipped off one shoulder and knocked against my knee. I managed the final step and staggered to the front door. I tried the handle, which didn’t give. I jabbed at the doorbell and considered finding my keys, buried somewhere in the bottom of my purse.

I peered in the door’s glass cutouts, the interior dark. Matt had to be here. I opened the top of my purse and flinched when the heavy door moved, swinging inward, the porch light spotlighting a thin sliver that revealed my husband.