Gone (Deadly Secrets #2)(43)
Light from the hall spilled past his feet, and his heart pounded hard and fast as he scanned the bookshelf still stocked with all of Emma’s favorite stories, the rocking horse she’d spent hours playing on beneath the window, the basket in the corner she used to drag to the middle of the floor, dump the toys out of, and climb inside. Everything was the same—the stuffed animals, the books, the pictures on the lavender walls—everything except the bed. Gone was Emma’s white crib, the one he’d spent two days putting together when Raegan had been pregnant, replaced now by a twin-sized big-girl bed with white trim, covered in a new pink-and-green-checked comforter.
In that moment, standing at the threshold of his daughter’s quiet room, he realized why Raegan hadn’t moved out of this apartment. Not because she was stubborn or couldn’t face reality, but because she needed to believe that Emma would one day come home. Needed to believe it the way she needed air to breathe. Needed it because that belief was all she had left to keep her going.
Whatever was left whole inside him shattered right in the doorway of his daughter’s darkened bedroom. Because in that moment he also realized that his father wasn’t the real threat to Raegan’s safety. He was.
All because he was a selfish son of a bitch who’d only ever cared about protecting himself.
Half a beer should not leave a person feeling hungover and wrecked, but that was how Raegan felt as she pulled herself out of bed late the next morning, paused in the doorway of her bathroom, and pressed her fingers against her throbbing forehead.
Her back ached, the palms of her hands were scuffed and sore, and while the bruise on her right cheek was no longer swollen, it hurt like a bitch.
Grabbing the glass from the bathroom counter, she filled it with water, pulled open a drawer, and downed two acetaminophen. Then she looked up at her reflection and wished she hadn’t. The bruise wasn’t bad. She could cover it with makeup easily enough. It was the dark circles under her eyes she’d have trouble hiding. Especially from Alec.
Irritation swept through her, followed by a good dose of mortification. The way she’d yelled at him last night tumbled through her mind. And the way she’d kissed him. Rolling her eyes, she moved out of the bathroom and pulled jeans from her dresser drawer. Why the hell had she kissed him?
Because you were mad. Because he kissed you first. Both correct answers, except she knew he hadn’t kissed her because anything between them had changed. He’d kissed her because—she peeled off her sweats and jerked on her jeans—because she’d been wearing nothing but a towel and he was a guy. Because she’d been yelling and he’d been ready to do anything to shut her up. Because he’d been frustrated at the fact she wouldn’t tell him what had happened to her, and he wanted to make that point known.
But those weren’t the real reasons. The real reason hit her as she snapped her bra, pulled up the straps, and grabbed her brown cable-knit sweater from the drawer. The real reason he’d kissed her was because, after that miserable interview yesterday, he’d been feeling angry and self-destructive. And what better way to self-destruct than to make a pass at the woman who reminded you of the worst moment of your life and who you never wanted to be with again?
Her mood dipped even lower as she moved back into her bathroom, slapped on some mascara and lip balm, used powder to hide the bruise, and fluffed her hair with her fingers. She didn’t feel like styling her hair. Didn’t feel like making much of an effort, period. She knew Alec was still in her apartment because she could hear him moving around in the other room, but all she wanted was for him to leave. She didn’t need his help anymore, he really didn’t want to give it, and the sooner they both stopped pretending, the better off they’d be.
Knowing she’d spent as long as she could in her room and that it would soon be noon if she didn’t get moving, she squared her shoulders, turned out of her bathroom, then crossed to the bedroom door and pulled it open. Only to falter when she smelled breakfast sausage and freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air.
Her heart picked up speed as she stepped into the hall, rounded the corner, and moved into the living room. Sizzling sounds echoed from the kitchen, and when she looked across the open space toward the island on the far side, she almost tripped.
Alec stood at her stove, cooking. Something he’d never done, not once in all the time they’d been married. Watching as he moved eggs to a plate, grabbed the toast as it popped up, and then buttered it, she realized he wasn’t doing it like a guy who was just trying to be nice. He was doing it like a guy who’d done it dozens of times in the past.
An irrational burst of jealousy hit her hard. Who had he made breakfast for in the last two years? And how often was he doing it for that person that he’d gotten so good at it?
He must have heard her because he glanced her way. “There you are. I heard your shower running. This is just about ready. Why don’t you grab some coffee?”
She told herself not to be stupid. It didn’t matter who he cooked for. They weren’t a couple, and it was none of her business anyhow. But her already bad mood took another header.
Clenching her jaw, she moved past him into the kitchen, pulled a cup from the cabinet, and reached for the carafe. Then she watched from the corner of her eye as he moved a plate to the table near the windows that looked out over the city and then came back into the kitchen to stand at her side.