Unseen Messages(183)

Only, I got there first.

He saw me bounding from the scene with bloody knuckles and smoking illegal weapon. He watched me throw the gun into a nearby bush, not thinking clearly, and witnessed a nosy neighbour run from her home screaming for the police.

I hadn’t had a silencer.

People had heard the shot.

I was seen.

The old man made a decision.

While I was chased by sirens and busy-bodies, he pressed his accelerator and wheeled himself toward the bush.

With what remaining strength he had left, he collected the weapon (still warm and laced with sulphur) and wiped away my fingerprints with his winter scarf.

What happened next was fate working once again against me.

While I was arrested and thrown, without bail, into the judicial system (breaking my father’s heart all over again), the old man replaced my fingerprints with his on the murder weapon.

He ensured his wheelchair tyres were visible to the porch and tracked mud on the carpet to the body.

He returned home and packed up the gun, wrote a letter to the police claiming he’d seen me throw a few punches, then leave. That he was the one who unlawfully entered the man’s home and shot him in cold blood.

He left medical records of previous instances when his wife didn’t receive the best care. He contacted elderly friends who’d also lost loved ones. And finally, a pattern emerged.

He implicated himself and gave enough evidence to prove Dr. Silverstein, cold-hearted bastard and devil, was not a worthwhile citizen. He was a sociopath; a serial killer.

All of that should’ve saved me from going to jail.

However, the postal system lost the evidence.

Lost it.

The package stamped and marked priority was misplaced in an archaic system that charged far too much and under-delivered.

I was found guilty.

Convicted.

For life.

And that was where I stayed for five long years.

Which I accepted.

Because I’d done it.

However, one day, fate finally decided to stop playing games and the postal system found said package. It was delivered. The documents were read. The gun was investigated.

And I was freed.

Just like that.

No apology.

No compensation.

Just a stern warning that they knew that I knew that I’d done it.

That just because the man who’d sent the letter died a week after sending didn’t mean they believed he’d done it. They hated that the widower’s voice carried beyond the grave to redeem me.

A complete stranger saved my life.

And I had no way to repay him.

Brady C. Marlton.

My hero.

.............................

The cell door clanging wrenched my eyes open.

“Oak...you’re free to go. We’ve arranged a taxi to take you to the apartment where Ms. Evermore and her child are staying.”

I wanted to burst into tears.

In fact....I’d been strong for so much of my life. So angry. So full of misplaced rage. That I did cry.

I silently let go and my cheeks remained wet the entire time I signed the temporary visa permitting me to enter Australia, swallowed my gratefulness the entire taxi ride, and collapsed to my knees as I knocked on the door of apartment 12F and Estelle fell into my arms.

I’d lived three lives.

An Englishman’s existence.

A felon’s incarceration.

And a crash wrecked survivor’s.

But none of those defined me.

Only one thing did.

This woman.

My wife.

My home.





Chapter Seventy-Four


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E S T E L L E

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DAWN WAS WELCOMED with an orgasm rather than a yawn.

When Galloway tumbled into my arms, contrite on his knees and heavily burdened with a past he could never shake, we couldn’t stop touching.

I hugged him and stroked him, and when I led him into the apartment, I kissed him.

That kiss turned into another.

And another.

And another.

The kiss turned into stripping on the kitchen counter.

The stripping turned to his lips on my sex and his tongue licking me deep.

And sunrise turned into him sliding possessively inside me, claiming me, loving me, solidifying our bond that no matter what happened, no matter who tried to break us, no matter the circumstances that tried to kill us, we were one, and together we could fight anything.

He didn’t tell me how his father had cleared him.

And I didn’t pry.

One day, I would.

All I knew was Mike Oak had emailed the documentation that’d given my husband his life back. Given him to me.

One day, I would demand the full story, not because I didn’t believe he was a good person but because a story such as his should be told. He would forever live with what he did. He didn’t take it lightly, but now, he had me and I would help him shoulder the burden of taking another’s life. Even if that life was justified to be taken.

“I love you, Estelle.”

I kissed his lips, arching my back and inadvertently pressing my breasts against his bare chest. We’d ended up naked on the balcony; hidden by smoky glass panels, we’d gravitated to the sound of the ocean and the comforting never-still breeze of open skies.