Page 97 of Cruel Love

I’m so fucking sorry I was a shitty husband.

Fuck, I’m just sorry…

I’m not sure how far or how long we walk. Dark clouds hover overhead, blocking out the sun. My ears pound with every stomp of the man’s boots behind me.

“Stop,” he finally says.

I slow down. Everything stops. Bugs go silent. The cold breeze falls away. I smell a storm in the air. There are worse places to die, I suppose.

I close my eyes and wait for the bullet.

“Where did you get this?”

I frown. “Get what?”

“This gun,” he says. “Where did you get it?”

I furrow my brow. This guy is about to kill me and he’s wondering where he can get an old fucking revolver?

“Just keep it, man,” I say. “It’s all yours.”

He grabs my shoulder and spins me around to face him. His eyes are dark and green. He wears a heavy scar down his forehead that ends along the upper bridge of his nose.

“Where did you get this gun?” he repeats.

I shrug in confusion. “It’s my wife’s,” I answer.

“Your wife’s?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s her name?”

What?

Why the fuck does he care?

What makes him think I’d tell him anyway?

Why hasn’t he killed me yet? Not that I’m complaining but I’d rather just get it over with…

“Her name,” he growls again. He burrows the gun under my chin, digging the barrel in until it hurts. “What is your wife’s name?”

I flinch. “Caleb.”

He blinks and takes a quick step back as he lowers the gun to his side. “You’re Bartholomew Carson?” he asks in disbelief.

I search my memory, trying to pinpoint where I must know him from, but I don’t. I don’t know this man, but he sure seems to know me.

“Yeah,” I answer.

His shoulders droop. “You?”

A rush of familiarity twinges my gut. I take a closer look at his green eyes and his stiff brown hair and that stare of impatience laced with curiosity and — holy shit.

I know who he is.

But it’s not possible.

---