Page 33 of Killing Emma

Emma

I run my fingers delicately over my throat, the spot tender to the touch. I’m not stupid. I know he was trying to kill me—unless he gets off on almost killing women. Up until that moment though, it had been the best sex I’d ever experienced… But now that I’m stuck in nothing but his shirt knowing he almost took my life?

I feel sick.

Wrapping my arms around my knees, I stare into the dimness. The light from the stairwell illuminates the basement, but not enough to stave off all the darkness. I lean my head back, resting it against the wall. I take a deep breath, my mind dragging me down into memories I don’t want to relive.

“You can’t just lock yourself up in here and grieve forever.” Jared’s voice is strained as he leans against the doorway of our bedroom. “Your mom wouldn’t want this. I miss the Emma I married.”

“Then get out,” I snap at him, my bottle of wine at my feet.

“Drinking fucks with your POTS.”

“Get out.”

“Emma, you’re killing yourself—it’s been almost six months. I can’t stand to see you this way, please. Just come downstairs with me. Please.”

I shake my head, anger rolling through my body. “Leave me alone.”

I hear the door close in my head, and I wonder what would’ve happened had I gotten up and gone with him. Would he still have fallen in love with his secretary? Or would he have given me a chance to heal and get back to being myself? But could I have ever gotten back to being myself?

Maybe I owe Jared an apology for the way I treated him—for the way I locked him out and refused to ever let him back in. He tried. I had to give it to him, he tried really fucking hard. I just kept slamming the door in his face. Who even am I anymore?

I let a faceless man fuck me in a shower, and then try to kill me.

Maybe I should’ve opened up to Lydia about what I was going through, beyond just Jared seeing his secretary. She offered to come and see me, and I blamed Jared. But it wasn’t Jared. It was me. I didn’t want her to see me because she’d see me. But now I wish she would’ve.

The sound of the basement door opening catches my attention, and I suck in a breath, trying to gain my composure, readying myself for whatever is to come. I don’t know what time it is, but I know I’m starving.

“Food,” a deep voice announces his presence at the bottom of the stairwell. I don’t look up, but I recognize the boots on the feet approaching. “Had a dinner party tonight, so you get something better than the shit I make.”

“Great,” I mutter as I eye the small glass Tupperware sitting in front of me. It’s some kind of casserole, reminding me of the chicken, bacon, ranch recipe that Lydia always swore by. My eyes land on the fork. Maybe I should stab him with it.

“You should eat.” His voice grates my nerves as he steps away from me. I expect him to leave then, taking his dog with him, but instead, the sound of a chair being drug across the floor fills the room. He parks it right in front of the daybed and takes a seat.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Why won’t you look at me?” His sharp question catches me off guard, but I shake my head.

“You tried to kill me.” I drag the Tupperware toward me, the smell causing my mouth to water.

“And?”

“And that’s pretty fucked up to do to someone after—” My words cease as I look up, meeting a pair of dark, golden eyes. They’re not hazel by any means, but the chocolate iris is such a deep and dark brown, the light hits them and turns them gold. My lips part as I take in the rest of his face. The shadow of stubble lining his jaw, his strong masculine nose, and the way his full lips are pressed into an unmoving line—it all serves to surprise me.

I look like a fucking rugrat in comparison.

Maybe once upon a time, before the extra fifteen pounds, and the lack of self-care, I could’ve caught the eye of a man like this, but not in my current state. No way. He fucked me to kill me, and that only makes me more determined to somehow get him back.

I stab the fork into the food, taking a bite. I nearly cry, the taste so similar to what Lydia always makes when we get together. Someone must’ve had the same recipe.

“Tell me about your husband.”

“What?” I nearly choke on the bite. “Why?”

He shrugs, and watching his lips move is a strange phenomenon. “I just want to know. Tell me what broke you, Little Red.”

I can’t tell if he’s being serious, but I don’t want to talk about it. “Tell me what broke you, Big Bad Wolf.” His lips tick upward, and I realize I almost made him smile.

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